I arrived at Frontier Park in St. Charles, Missouri, with the Missouri River lazily curling along its edge like a cat stretching in the sun. The air smelled faintly of mud and riverweed, the kind of scent that makes you think of Huck Finn and forgotten riverboats. The wind carried a cool bite, enough to hint at the lingering breath of winter despite the sun’s best efforts.
Frontier Park itself felt less like a manicured park and more like a natural pause in the landscape — a place where the river demanded enough space to force the town to pull back. The paved paths and benches seemed like compromises with nature rather than impositions upon it. The park sits quietly, with an air of reflection, as if it knows its role in the town's long history.
The Katy Trail cuts through the park like an artery, drawing cyclists, runners, and walkers in constant motion. Named for the Missouri-Kansas-Texas Railroad, the trail is a lifeline for those who prefer their adventures measured in footsteps and tire rotations rather than miles per gallon. The path feels both inviting and intimidating — an open road to wherever your stamina or curiosity might take you.
I watched a group of cyclists, their neon jackets flashing like signal flags, zip past me on the trail. They moved with purpose, heads down and legs pumping. A couple walked by next, arms linked, their pace slow enough to suggest they had nowhere in particular to be — and nowhere they’d rather be. I envied them.
The Missouri River, brown and restless, seemed to shrug at my presence. It’s seen thousands like me — settlers with wagons, traders with steamboats, soldiers with marching orders. Today, just a man with a camera and a notebook, trying to capture some sliver of its story. The river didn’t care, but I did.
Nearby, the cobbled streets of St. Charles whispered a different tune — shops with bright awnings, taverns promising warm meals, and historical markers pointing out where Lewis and Clark once lingered before their great expedition. I thought about those early explorers and wondered what they might say if they could see the families strolling the Katy Trail with strollers and iced coffees in hand. Would they marvel at the ease of movement, the paved trails, the electric bikes — or would they scoff, believing comfort weakens the spirit?
I lingered for a while, watching the shadows of leaves ripple across the trail. The Missouri flowed on, disinterested. The wind picked up again, and I pulled my jacket tighter. The Katy Trail stretched out before me — a promise of destinations unknown. I didn’t follow it far. Maybe next time.