Battle of Fort Davidson, Hike in Hawn State Park
I woke around 7 a.m. at the Bismarck Conservation Area (BCA), about 15 miles north of Pilot Knob, Missouri. It had been an absolutely quiet night—the kind that reminds you why these small, out-of-the-way places are worth finding. Around 8:30, after breakfast, I headed toward the town of Pilot Knob.
Fort Davidson
Fort Davidson was the site of one of Missouri’s most intense Civil War battles. The small earthen fort is preserved along with a modest but well-curated museum, all surrounded by the St. Francois Mountains. The rolling hills and trees were beginning to turn, making it especially striking in the fall light. Inside, the exhibits and displays detail not only the battle but also the divided loyalties that tore Missouri apart during the war.
I stopped at the visitor center, and the staff set up a 20-minute video for me. I was the only visitor there. The room was lined with restored Confederate flags, which gave the space a slightly eerie feeling—like stepping back into a time of deep national fracture. After the video, I wandered through the small museum, reading about the battle and its commanders. A group of third graders came in behind me, following a park guide. He switched on the large lighted battlefield display in the center of the room, which showed the troop movements of both sides using tiny LED lights. The kids were fascinated, though a few couldn’t resist poking at the glowing figures while being told repeatedly not to touch them. About a third of them were clearly paying attention. A few smiled and waved as they left, their energy filling the quiet museum with life again.
This is a state-run Civil War site, and the displays did an excellent job explaining Missouri’s unique position in the conflict. The state was deeply divided—both Union and Confederate sympathies ran strong. The federal government knew it couldn’t afford to lose Missouri, both strategically and symbolically, since control of the Mississippi and the western territories depended on it. Fort Davidson itself was built by Union forces in 1863 to protect the Iron Mountain Railroad and the nearby lead mines, which were vital to the war effort. Its small garrison of about 1,000 men was commanded by Brigadier General Thomas Ewing Jr., while the Confederate forces were led by Major General Sterling Price, who was attempting to recapture Missouri for the South in the fall of 1864.
Price’s army—nearly 12,000 men—approached the fort on September 26, 1864. His officers advised him to bypass the fort and continue north toward St. Louis, but Price, believing he could easily take the small Union post, ordered a direct assault. It was a critical mistake. Ewing and his men held firm behind the earthworks as the Confederates attacked from multiple sides. The deep moat surrounding the fort slowed the southern charge, and Union artillery cut down wave after wave of advancing troops. When darkness fell, the Confederates had suffered heavy losses—more than a thousand men—while the fort still held.
That night, Ewing made a bold decision. Knowing he couldn’t withstand another day, he ordered his men to quietly evacuate under cover of darkness. Before leaving, they packed the fort’s ammunition magazine with explosives. Around 3 a.m., the entire fort shook with a massive explosion that destroyed much of the structure and startled both sides. Incredibly, the Confederate commanders, confused by the blast and believing it might have been an accident, failed to pursue the retreating Union soldiers. Ewing’s force slipped away through the surrounding hills and eventually rejoined Union lines near Rolla.
After the battle, the grim task of burying the dead fell to the Confederate soldiers. More than 1,200 men—mostly Confederate, but some Union—were buried in a large mass grave at the center of the Fort Davidson battlefield. Today, that burial mound still remains within the fort’s earthworks, marked by a simple stone monument honoring those who died on both sides.
In the aftermath, Price’s campaign unraveled. The loss of men and time at Fort Davidson weakened his army and dashed his hopes of capturing St. Louis. His forces turned west, where they suffered further defeats before retreating to Arkansas. Fort Davidson became a symbol of how determination, discipline, and a few smart tactical decisions could overcome overwhelming odds.
I walked out to the fort after leaving the museum. The grass-covered earthworks have been restored, and it’s easy to see the outline of the old stronghold. The crater in the center marks the site of the explosion that destroyed the ammunition magazine. A shallow moat still rings the fort—a key defensive feature that Confederate soldiers later admitted made their assault nearly impossible. Standing there, it was hard not to imagine the smoke, the noise, and the sheer chaos of that day.
Lunch
Before leaving Fort Davidson, I picked up a brochure titled A State Divided: Missouri and the Civil War. It was a well-written, three-page overview explaining how Missouri’s loyalties were torn during the war—how families, neighbors, and entire towns ended up on opposite sides. It helped put everything I’d just seen at the museum into perspective: the confusion, the divided loyalties, and the sense that Missouri never really chose a side so much as it fought itself.
I drove into Farmington to grab some lunch and found a Starbucks. As I was pulling in, chaos erupted in the parking lot. A car had flipped onto its side in what looked like a high-speed collision. The driver was trapped inside. Police arrived almost immediately, followed by two fire trucks and an ambulance. It all happened so fast—one of those sudden, jarring moments that reminds you how fragile life can be. From where I stood, it looked like one driver had pulled out cautiously while another came flying through the lot at twice the 25 mph limit. I don’t know who they’ll decide was at fault, but it was clear both lives had just changed in an instant.
I drove into Farmington to grab some lunch and found a Starbucks. As I was pulling in, chaos erupted in the parking lot. A car had flipped onto its side in what looked like a high-speed collision. The driver was trapped inside. Police arrived almost immediately, followed by two fire trucks and an ambulance. It all happened so fast—one of those sudden, jarring moments that reminds you how fragile life can be. From where I stood, it looked like one driver had pulled out cautiously while another came flying through the lot at twice the 25 mph limit. I don’t know who they’ll decide was at fault, but it was clear both lives had just changed in an instant.
Inside, the shop was completely empty. I ordered a coffee and settled into a corner table to write for a bit. The contrast between the calm interior and the chaos outside wasn’t lost on me. I pulled out the brochure from the museum and read parts of it, still thinking about how divided the country once was—and how those divisions still echo in quieter ways today. The hum of the espresso machine and the faint sound of sirens in the distance made for a strangely fitting backdrop to that reflection.
Hawn State Park
After lunch, I drove to get gas and tried to figure out where I was going to stay that night. Hawn State Park was next on my itinerary for a morning hike, so I decided to try there. I arrived around 4:30 p.m. and stopped at the small entrance booth. Four people were squeezed inside, helping visitors check in. When I asked about a primitive site—no electric, no water—the woman smiled apologetically. “I don’t think we have anything,” she said. After a quick check, she confirmed they were completely booked. She suggested St. Francois State Park, not far away, and handed me a detailed trail map for Hawn. My notes indicated that the park is considered by some to be “Missouri’s most beautiful.”
Before leaving, I decided to do a short hike (park maps) while I was there. She recommended Pickle Creek Trail as the best for photography, so I drove to the White Oaks Trailhead, where I had the parking lot entirely to myself. Around 5:30, I started down Connector 1, a mile-long descent into the valley that meets the Pickle Creek and White Oak trails. At the bottom, I turned onto Pickle Creek Trail. The late-afternoon light was soft, filtered through the trees, but the surrounding hills blocked the golden hour sun. The creek itself was little more than a trickle—more boulders and polished rock than running water. “It’s really more of a creek than a river,” the woman at the booth had said, and she was absolutely right.
I took my time photographing the shadows and reflections on the rock, but I kept an eye on the clock. The sun was dropping quickly behind the ridge. By 6:45, I was back on the connector trail, hiking briskly to beat the darkness.
Overnight at St. Francois State Park
I made it back to the van with a bit of daylight to spare, grabbed a quick snack, and booked a campsite online at St. Francois State Park—about 45 minutes away. There were only three sites left, including one in the tent area for $12 a night, which suited me perfectly. When I arrived, three vehicles were checking in ahead of me. The ranger greeted me with a friendly, “Welcome to St. Francois State Park.” When he couldn’t find my name on the list, I explained I’d just booked site 92. He checked the system again and smiled. “Got it.”
As we chatted, he noticed my van and asked about the build. He said he’d converted a VW bus back in the early ’80s and had driven all over the U.S. and Canada in it. While we talked, an armadillo scurried across the road in front of the van. I got excited—I’d never seen one in the wild before. The ranger laughed and said they’re moving further north each year.
When I pulled into my site, a young couple nearby was struggling to set up their tent by flashlight. I offered to turn on my exterior lights to give them some help. “Sure,” the man said, a bit skeptical—until the area lit up like daylight. “Wow, that really makes a difference,” he said. An hour later, their tent was finally up, and they thanked me before settling in.
After a little writing and listening to a Boy Scout group across the way cracking jokes and telling stories, I called it a night. It had been a full day—Civil War history, a peaceful hike, and another night under the trees. I drifted off quickly, grateful for the quiet.