52nd City

A Flagon of Sprite

I've heard many a North County native express shock after learning about the existence of Belle Fountaine Park. As a matter of fact, I was at Belle Fountaine today and heard a middle-aged woman, who claimed to be from Florissant, marveling at its existence. She said she'd lived in North County all her life, and never knew it was there. Her tone of voice suggested that perhaps she imagined it had magically risen out of the mists swirling off the surface of the Missouri River. But it's been there forever; it's the oldest military fort west of the Mississippi.

Yesterday, as my husband and I waited on new tires, choking on the rubber smell inside the mechanic's waiting room (we ran over a giant chunk of concrete that was, for some odd reason, just taking up two middle lanes on Highway 40) Thom spotted an announcement in the Post for the Fort Belle Fountaine Historic Encampment. We decided to go, but didn't make it down until one hour shy of closing time today. That means we missed the hawk-throwing, fire starting and the black powder shoot, but there was still plenty to see. We passed on the complimentary tractor ride to the re-enactment grounds, which meant walking down acres of stone stairs (said to be haunted) but it wasn't too hot today, and approaching by foot gave us a chance to see the camp as a whole from on high.

The rules of encampment state that "all lodges, clothing and accouterments [sic] must be in the period 1740 to 1840 in North America." The soldiers were all members of The Living History Re-Enactors, Inc., and they were spiffed out; they could have been extras in a History Channel special. The campers, though, bent the rules big-time. The tents looked period enough, and so did the campfires and the copper cooking pots. As we got a little further down the road, though, we saw ladies in Mother Hubbard bonnets, chemises and gingham overdresses and men in buckskin pants and belted tunics - and they were sitting on styrofoam coolers and smoking Camels. Some of them were even eating Cheetos. The Living History rulebook stipulates that you can't even wear sunglasses unless it's medically required, and that you must stuff all modern articles into your 1740s tent. It sounds draconian, but I can see why they insist on it. It's a mind-bender to see a fellow who looks like The Man Who Was Going to St. Ives, except that he's drinking a can of Budweiser.

The merchant's row, located at the very end of the trail (near some beautiful, crumbling, mossy bathhouses from the 30s) was a whole other matter, though. If you're going to sell leggings, hand-stamped tin buttons and clay pipes to re-enactors, you can't look like a fraud by having orange Cheeto dust all over your fingers when you're counting out change. But of course, these people had no interest in taking shortcuts; if you know enough about period dress to sell it out of a tent, you're one of the sticklers. When Living History Re-Enactors Inc. insists on "primitive camping," these folks show up with venison jerky and wildcrafted dandelion greens. But they get gold stars from me - even though it was the last hour of the camp, they weren't lazing it up, breaking character and breaking out the cooler of beer. And this after two days in wool underwear and leather knee-breeches.

One of the spiffed-out military officers revealed that the site will host re-enactors from around the country to celebrate the Fort's bicentennial next year. Cheetos aside, it was a lovely walk down the trail, and a fun, strange little event overall. Thom says he's going to pay the ten dollars to reserve a camping spot for us, and is thinking of recording a concept album, a la Sufjan Stevens, to commemorate the bicentennial encampment. The title of the first song: "A Flagon of Sprite."