Destinations

Carefree Comfort

Posted at July 14, 2008 10:08

Tucked in and around Branson with the King

By John Robinson

 

“Historic?” The chamber of commerce lady didn’t buy my logic.

I persisted. “If I were a vehicle, I’d have a historic tag. And Rock Lane Lodge was already historic when our family stayed there thirty years ago.”

She motioned down the narrow peninsula called Indian Point. “It’s near the end of the road, and now they call it Rock Lane Resort.”

Rock Lane Lodge holds special memories for my family. Our daughters grew up drinking out of big plastic cups with Rock Lane Lodge logos emblazoned on the sides, functional mementos of a fun family vacation. But alas, things change. The logos wore off the cups, victims of abusive dishwashers. The rock cabins are gone. The lodge still stands, though with all the changes, it bears scant resemblance to my memory. The resort features modern condos, swimming pools, and plenty of activities. I could see that the old “historic” lodge of my memories was gone.

Not to worry. I soon discovered that the path winding around Table Rock Lake reveals some real romantic hideaways.

I backtracked up the peninsula and crept past the parking lots for Silver Dollar City, the Ozarks theme park that sits atop Marvel Cave.

Intersecting with Route 13 at Branson West, I turned south on that twisty two-lane road. Detouring down DD, I passed Sho-Me Baseball Camp, where our oldest grandson Dylan—my retirement package—first learned the pitching form that will make him the next Walter Johnson. Along the way, I saw the physical embodiment of the phrase, “a man’s home is his castle.” In this case, the man’s castle is his private home, complete with turrets.

Not far from there, Skyview Lodge sits high upon a bluff looking down on the lake on either side. Skyview is a wonderful log structure that didn’t make it as a hotel and switched to condo life. At the end of the road, I discovered a quaint fishing village. Maybe it’s not quaint like a European postcard, but it’s quaint by Ozark standards. The cottages were tidy and clean.

Rejoining Route 13, I headed south and stumbled upon one of the truly great sculptures in Missouri. Forget that it’s an icon for a real estate company; this twenty-foot bronze balloon is a grabber.

I turned down Route RB. Most state road names have no real significance. They’re just numbers or letters. Not so with roads named RA or RB. RA denotes a public recreation area somewhere along the road, usually at the end. RB means much the same, (in my mind RB stands for recreation/boating access … and I can’t find a road that defies this). Sure enough, the end of this road delivered a Corps of Engineers waterfront park.

Once again I retreated from the water’s edge and headed back to Route 13, where I spied a handsome little log cabin doing business as Jill’s Ozark Bar-B-Que. My stomach said, “Yes,” so I took it in with me and sat down in one of the world’s coziest little two-top booths, a chess-match-sized wooden table framed by two wooden one-seat benches. Jill’s specialty is baby back ribs, but I had a pork sandwich. I couldn’t decide which of a dozen different sauces to try. They had Jill’s Pig Out Hot Sauce. And Liquid Stupid. I shunned Liquid Stupid … I don’t need help. As I left, I noticed Jill’s stand-alone outdoor, screened-in pig-out station to keep people from harming the bugs.

Rolling south, I entered the realm of the Lampe Litter Lifters. I know this because that’s what the Adopt-A-Highway sign said. Ha-Bob’s One Stop hails at the corner of Routes 13 and H, which leads to Bread Tray Mountain and the lake.

In my online research to find Table Rock’s most romantic spot, White River Lodge jumped out and kissed me. Lovingly built by Bill and Becky Babler, the lodge is a picture postcard of alpine purity, situated on the lake just north of Blue Eye. The lodge is hewn from huge pine logs. Such log structures became a theme in my travels that day. The great room has a large stone fireplace. Handcrafted log beds fit the homey ambience in rooms named Couple’s Cove and Foggy River Room. From the lodge’s ample back balconies, the lake view inspires the windows to your soul.

My car roller-coastered back to 13, and we rounded the horn at the southern end of Table Rock, on the approach to Big Cedar Lodge. In all of Missouri, there may be a handful of spots that can lure super-wealthy world travelers. This is one of them.

Big Cedar is legendary. And I can understand why. The property is charmingly woodsy, but it’s the staff that makes the difference. They attend to your every whim. Cookies delivered to your cabin. Firewood at your door every morning. Stuff like that. Cheryl and I stayed there years ago, and I remember the cabins bordered on rustic opulence, if there is such a thing. Big fireplaces. Showers with multiple nozzles resembling a balneal firing squad. Truthfully, Big Cedar is grand, but I’d be content with Medium Cedar or Moderate Cedar. Cheryl loved it.

I left the luxury of Big Cedar and reentered reality, driving along the southwest fringe of Greater Branson. It’s still amazing to me that you can be so close to glitter city and yet be enveloped in the woods. I passed Table Rock State Park and crossed the dam, with Chateau on the Lake framed in my windshield.

I must confess—I’ve stayed in some fine hotels over the years: The Waldorf-Astoria. The Conrad Hilton. The Fairmont. The Adolphus. The Grand. Four Seasons. The Fontainebleau. But the Chateau offered the finest suite I’ve ever occupied. Too bad I was there for only about five and a half hours—by myself. I’d driven late one night from an Ozark trout stream to reach the Chateau. I checked in well after midnight. My first meeting in Branson was at 7 am. But I had enough time to examine the exquisite furnishings, the leather chairs with iron and wood, the rich tile floors with thick throw rugs. A wet bar. A Jacuzzi I never used. A bed I barely warmed. Someday Cheryl and I plan to return and stay for more than a cup of coffee.

Next day, Thousand Hills waited. As Branson diversifies with a new convention center and a new airport in the works, folks are warming to the fact that Greater Branson is fast becoming a preferred golf destination in Missouri. And Thousand Hills plays a vital part. Tucked down in the crack of Branson, the course winds along a creek, manicured to rugged perfection.

I knew about Thousand Hills golf. I didn’t know about Thousand Hills cabins. How would I? The Cabins at Grand Mountain are hiding in the woods, right in the middle of Branson! Seriously. You could hit the outlet mall with a nine iron shot, and shoppers wouldn’t know where it came from. The cabins’ exteriors are pleasing enough, standing on steep hillsides amid the forest. Inside, they’re downright stunning. Last time I saw pine logs that big, I was in Utah’s Wasatch Mountains at the fabled Huntsman home. Because the cabins are individually owned, they’re decorated to the nines with beautiful appointments, tastefully done. It’s romantic and insulated from the neon noise.

This time around, I saw a different side of Branson. Driving downtown to view The Landing, I noticed the vibrancy that eight million visitors afford a small town. A thousand shoppers caromed between Dick’s 5 and 10 and Chick’s Barber Shop. Rocky’s Italian Restaurant, an original stand-alone, non-chain restaurant, seems to be doing a solid business.

Time for lunch. I’d sampled much of the Mexican cuisine around town, and it was good. But I’d never stopped at Casa Fuentes near the intersection of Routes 65 and 76. Strange for me, since I gravitate to Mexican restaurants that look like houses. It’s a sure sign that the food will be phenomenal. I wasn’t disappointed. From the beginning of the experience, I loved it—the thin, crisp, homemade white corn chips and a salsa with character. They even put romaine lettuce in their tacos. Nice touch.

I’m beginning to learn how to traverse Branson. They say if you live there, you’ll soon learn the network of back roads. A few months later, you’ll learn the third layer: the real network with the best shortcuts, many of them legal. Old bank robbers in the thirties called such shortcuts “the cat roads.”

And if I ever need to hide, I’ve picked out wonderful spots: secluded along the southern edge of Table Rock and tucked in the middle of Branson.


August 2008

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