Wilson’s Creek National Memorial Park

I arrived at Wilson’s Creek National Memorial Park around 9 a.m. on a quiet Sunday morning. The visitor center was closed, which was a bit disappointing because I had been looking forward to learning more about the Civil War battle that took place here and getting a sense of the historical context before walking the grounds.

So, I went back to the van, made breakfast, poured a coffee, and pulled up the National Park Service website for an overview. It’s amazing how much history you can uncover with a few clicks and a hot mug of coffee in hand. Afterward, I drove up the road to a Maverik station to fill up on gas.

While pulling out, I noticed two teenage girls struggling to put air in their tires. I rolled down the window and asked if they needed a hand. The older one hesitated at first, but when I mentioned I had a compressor, she agreed. Their Toyota had low-profile tires—15 psi in tires that should have been at 50 psi. It’s a wonder the rims weren’t damaged. I filled the first tire, then showed her how to attach the nozzle so she could inflate the others herself. She kept thanking me for stopping, though she never really stopped texting. In fact, both girls were texting the entire time—while filling the tires, walking the dog, even talking to me. I couldn’t help but wonder how they managed to drive.

Battle of Wilson’s Creek

Back at the park, I started along the paved loop that circles the battlefield. I stopped at the first pull-off and set out on foot for a 2½-mile walk through the historic grounds.

This site marks the Battle of Wilson’s Creek, fought on August 10, 1861—one of the earliest and most significant battles west of the Mississippi River. It was often called the “Bull Run of the West.” Missouri was officially a Union state, but loyalties here were split down the middle. Governor Claiborne Fox Jackson, a Southern sympathizer, refused to send the state militia to suppress the Confederate uprising as ordered. Instead, he tried to align Missouri with the Confederacy, sparking a constitutional crisis and military standoff. Union Brigadier General Nathaniel Lyon, determined to keep Missouri in the Union, marched from St. Louis with federal troops to confront Jackson’s pro-Confederate forces near Springfield. What followed was a bloody clash between roughly 5,400 Union troops and 12,000 Confederate and Missouri State Guard soldiers led by Generals Sterling Price and Ben McCulloch.

One of the most fascinating sites along the trail was Gibson’s Mill. On the day before the battle, the Gibson family and their neighbors suddenly found themselves surrounded by roughly 15,000 soldiers—Union and Confederate alike. Before the chaos erupted, they had been grinding corn and oats into flour for the troops. Deep in the woods, an old grinding wheel still lies half-buried under leaves and moss, the last visible reminder of the mill’s existence.

As the battle began, the Gibsons took shelter in their cellar. Today, only the stone foundation of their home remains. The mill itself once stood beside the stream, powered by an impressive 3,862-foot millrace that Gibson and his neighbors dug by hand—with nothing more than shovels and the help of a few mules. The channel diverted water from the creek, running parallel to the stream for nearly three-quarters of a mile before emptying back in. The design raised the water level about nine feet, creating enough force to turn the heavy wooden waterwheel. Walking through the woods, I could still trace parts of that millrace by the subtle rise of earth and the indentation snaking through the trees. It was remarkable to imagine the sheer effort it must have taken to carve that channel out of the rocky Ozark soil with primitive tools.

There was very little signage, and the trail took me farther than I expected. At one point, I saw a couple on the other side of a tree line and called out, asking how to get back. They laughed and admitted they were just as lost. We both pulled out maps and chatted for a while in the shade before parting ways. I stopped to take a few photos on the way back and, ironically, made it to the parking lot before they did—they had taken the creek route to let their dogs cool off.

Ray House

My next stop was the Ray House, perched high on a hill overlooking the battlefield. From here, the Ray family could see the entire fight unfold across the valley below. John Ray stood in his cornfield as cannon fire echoed through the hills. A few cannonballs struck near the house, but somehow the structure survived intact. As the battle raged on, the wounded were brought here, and the home became a makeshift hospital. It was here that General Nathaniel Lyon, the first Union general killed in the Civil War, was carried after falling on Bloody Hill.

I sat on the porch for a while, imagining that August morning in 1861—the smoke, the shouting, and the thunder of artillery rolling through the valley. The hills that now seem so peaceful were once alive with fear and chaos.

Lacey and Eric were there too, and we sat talking for a bit about her famous musician stepfather, swapping stories as a soft breeze rustled through the tall grass.

Before leaving, I stopped to read about Franz Sigel’s attack, one of the more daring yet ill-fated maneuvers of the battle. Sigel, a German-born Union officer, led about 1,200 men in a flanking movement intended to strike the Confederate rear. He marched his column along a ridge south of the creek, hoping to surprise the enemy while Lyon attacked from the north. Initially, the plan worked—Sigel’s artillery caught the Confederates off guard and sent their lines reeling. But in the confusion of the smoky battlefield, Sigel mistook an approaching Confederate column for reinforcements. They were actually Arkansas and Louisiana troops under Colonel McIntosh, advancing under captured Union flags. By the time Sigel realized his error, his men were overwhelmed. Many fled into the woods or down the creek bed, abandoning their guns. The defeat left Lyon’s men exposed and outnumbered, sealing the Union loss at Wilson’s Creek.

As the day wound down, I walked back toward the van, the late afternoon light washing over the fields. It’s hard to believe such a tranquil place once echoed with so much violence. History lingers here—not just in the monuments and stone foundations, but in the quiet hum of the land itself.

I headed back to the same place I stayed last night.