Mark Twain-Hannibal, MO

I parked for the night at the Edward Anderson Conservation Area, just south of Hannibal, Missouri—a quiet patch of woods that offered a bit of peace after a long day on the road. There was only one other person nearby, a woman who seemed to be living in a tent behind me. I never actually saw her, but I heard her coughing through much of the night and occasionally talking out loud. At one point, I thought she was on the phone, though maybe she was just talking to herself. It made me think about how many stories quietly unfold in places like this, just beyond the glow of a van’s reading light.

It was Columbus Day, and a few places in town were closed. I’d hoped to find a coffee shop where I could write for an hour before visiting the Mark Twain Museum, but instead I ended up in a Walmart parking lot, topping off my groceries and making breakfast in the van. There’s something oddly satisfying about brewing your own espresso in the middle of a parking lot while the rest of the town is still waking up.

By 10:30, I headed into Hannibal. The town was quiet, with plenty of free street parking—a rare treat for a camper van. On my way to the Mark Twain Visitor Center, I passed a small brick house marked as The Birthplace of Molly Brown. Having lived near Denver, I already knew some of her story—the “Unsinkable Molly Brown,” who became famous after surviving the Titanic—but seeing her roots here in Hannibal gave me a new appreciation for how far she came.

The Unsinkable Molly Brown

There was a $5 entrance fee, but I hadn’t brought my wallet, assuming I could pay with Apple Pay. I asked the woman at the entrance if they accepted it. “I don’t think so,” she said. “We usually just take cash or credit cards.” Still, she was willing to try. “I think you just have to push a button,” I told her. She poked around the screen, found the right one, and the payment went through instantly. She looked up, smiling. “That’s faster than a credit card.”

A minute later, a guy walked in and pulled out a wallet stuffed with $20 bills—at least a thousand dollars in cash. I made a comment, and he laughed, explaining that his mother still keeps her savings “in a safe out back of the house.” She doesn’t believe in banks, he said (He had a large belt to hold the wallet). I’m still thinking about that—how in an age of crypto wallets, instant transfers, and tap-to-pay everything, there are still people who trust a steel box buried in the backyard more than the cloud.

Inside the small museum, I learned more about Molly’s early years. Born Margaret Tobin in 1867, she grew up in a large Irish Catholic family in Hannibal, just a few blocks from the Mississippi River. Her father worked at a sawmill, and her mother took in laundry to help make ends meet. Life was hard, and from an early age, Molly dreamed of something more. She left school at thirteen to work in a tobacco factory, determined to build a better life for herself. Even then, she showed the tenacity that would later define her—a mix of practicality, optimism, and grit.

Her life changed dramatically when she moved west to Leadville, Colorado, where she met and married James Joseph “J.J.” Brown, a self-taught mining engineer. They lived modestly at first, but everything changed when J.J.’s ingenuity helped uncover a major gold strike at the Little Jonny Mine, turning the Browns into millionaires. In Denver, Molly became a socialite but never lost her working-class roots. She used her newfound influence to promote education, women’s rights, and labor reform, often clashing with the city’s elite. Her home became a gathering place for activists, writers, and artists—a reflection of her bold spirit and independent mind.

Wealth, though, was never her ultimate goal. Molly traveled extensively through Europe and the Middle East, studying languages and art, and growing into an international figure known for her wit and generosity. When she boarded the RMS Titanic in 1912, she was returning from one of those trips. During the disaster, she took command of Lifeboat No. 6, urging the crew to go back for more survivors. Her courage and leadership earned her the nickname “The Unsinkable Molly Brown,” though she reportedly disliked the title. After the Titanic, she used her fame to champion causes close to her heart—raising money for survivors, advocating for maritime safety reforms, and later running for the U.S. Senate years before women had the right to vote. She even served as an American delegate during World War I, helping wounded soldiers in France.

Standing in that small Hannibal home where her story began, I couldn’t help but think how unlikely it all was—a girl from a river town who refused to accept her limits and, in doing so, became one of the most remarkable women of her time.

Hannibal, Missouri

Hannibal sits on the west bank of the Mississippi River, about a hundred miles north of St. Louis. In the early 1800s, it began as a small river port and trading hub, ideally positioned along one of America’s most vital transportation routes. The river brought steamboats filled with goods, immigrants, and ideas, helping Hannibal grow into a bustling gateway between the agricultural heartland and the expanding western frontier. Timber, tobacco, and livestock passed through its docks, and the railroad later strengthened its role as a commercial crossroads. Like many river towns of that era, Hannibal’s identity was shaped by the constant flow of people and commerce—but also by the stories that emerged from its streets, bluffs, and riverbanks.

Today, Hannibal still feels like a town built around stories. Its most famous resident, Samuel Clemens—better known as Mark Twain—left an imprint so deep that nearly every corner of downtown nods to his memory. The town has embraced its literary heritage with charm and pride. There are museums dedicated to Twain’s life, restored buildings from his boyhood years, and shops filled with river-themed souvenirs and books. Yet Hannibal isn’t frozen in time—it’s a living town with cafés, restaurants, art galleries, and even a chocolate and gelato shop where locals and travelers mingle. Walking through its brick-lined streets, you feel that blend of nostalgia and vitality—a place where the spirit of the Mississippi and the imagination of Mark Twain still shape daily life.

Exploring Mark Twain’s Hannibal

After visiting Molly Brown’s birthplace, I decided to have lunch before diving into the Mark Twain experience. I found Java Jive on Main Street and ordered the last slice of quiche and a small latte. Tip and all, it came to $10.88. The place had a large, eclectic sitting area with sofas, long tables, small tables, and single chairs. There was also seating outside on the sidewalk. I sat inside at a small table and looked around at the colorful art covering the large yellow walls. It was a fun, friendly place to have lunch, and the food was good.

I walked Main Street for about thirty minutes to let lunch settle, then made my way to the Mark Twain Museum. Out front is a gift shop selling all things Twain. The woman behind the counter asked if I had a ticket for the museum; the $12 pass gets you into all the Mark Twain historical sites in town. I bought one and started the tour. I’d been to Twain’s house in Hartford, Connecticut, when I lived in New England, so some of the displays were familiar—but the connection to the Mississippi made this visit feel different.

A Bat on Main Street

One of the stranger moments from my visit to Hannibal came as I was walking down Main Street, taking in the architecture. I was studying the upper part of a brick building when I lowered my gaze—and froze. There, hanging on the wall at eye level just three feet in front of me, was a bat.

He was completely still, wings tucked in, just hanging there in the middle of the day with the sun beating down on him. I leaned in close enough to take a few photos, fascinated by how out of place he seemed. A car was parked beside me, and I noticed two young women inside, their eyes wide, laughing and gesturing wildly—like they were warning me to run.

I smiled, knowing the bat had no interest in me. He was just chilling, probably more confused about the daylight than I was. Still, I couldn’t help but wonder why he wasn’t tucked safely away in the cool shadows of Tom Sawyer Cave, just a few miles away. Maybe even the bats of Hannibal feel the pull of the Mississippi now and then.

Samuel Clemens

I learned how Samuel Clemens came up with his pen name. While working as a riverboat pilot on the Mississippi, he often heard the call “Mark twain!”—meaning the water was two fathoms deep, safe for passage. He later adopted the phrase as his pen name, a fitting tribute to the river that shaped both his life and imagination.

Samuel Clemens was born in 1835, the same year Halley’s Comet lit up the sky—a coincidence he liked to claim would bookend his life. His father, a lawyer and judge, had big ambitions but little luck. After a string of failed business ventures, the family lost nearly everything. A kind neighbor, who was also the town doctor, invited them to live in the rooms above his drugstore. That simple act of generosity kept the Clemens family afloat during some of their hardest years and left a lasting impression on young Sam.

He left school at twelve to help support the family, finding work as an apprentice in a local print shop where he learned to set type by hand. Later, he joined his older brother Orion at The Hannibal Journal, writing short pieces that revealed his growing sense of humor and sharp eye for human nature. The Mississippi River flowed just a few blocks away, shaping his world with its rhythms and its people—the steamboat pilots, raftmen, and travelers who became the living material for his stories. Those early years in Hannibal, full of struggle, imagination, and observation, laid the foundation for the writer who would one day become Mark Twain.

A few blocks down Main Street, the same $12 ticket gives access to several other historic sites, including the Interpretive Center, Twain’s Boyhood Home, the Huckleberry Finn House, the Becky Thatcher House, his father’s Justice of the Peace Office, Grant’s Drug Store, and the main museum. At the end of Main Street stands a bronze statue of Tom Sawyer and Huck Finn, and above the town, a steep stairway leads to a non-functional lighthouse dedicated to Samuel Clemens—the town’s native son and literary giant.

By evening, most of the restaurants in town were closed, either for Columbus Day or simply because it was Monday. I ended up at Rio Grande Bar & Grill, where the service was great but the food was pretty mediocre. After dinner, I headed back to the Edward Anderson Conservation Area. The tent was still there, and another van I’d seen earlier in Hannibal had parked nearby.

I drove to the spot at the Edward Anderson Conservation Area where the woman in the tent was still camped. There was another campervan parked in the lot. I had seen it in Hannibal just two hours ago. An older couple that I had seen on tour a few times during the day. The crickets were loud, the woods dark, and the Mississippi just a few miles away—a fitting backdrop for a town built on stories and imagination.