I was aimlessly cruising around Google Maps a month ago when I stumbled on something unexpected just south of Pendleton- a ford. It looked like a real, drive-your-vehicle-through-the-creek kind of deal! A week of heavy rains had closed the road when I first visited, but my mom and I were in the neighborhood yesterday. With a Kia Sedona instead of a covered wagon, we set out on a good old-fashioned ford excursion.
Once pretty ordinary in the pioneer days, fords -shallow river crossings- are uncommon in the Midwest today. They’re still practical, low-cost alternatives to bridges out on quiet country roads, but a good downpour can turn them from a smart shortcut into an impassable mess. I learned that the hard way the first time I tried to ford Lick Creek: a flip-down sign warned me that the road was closed, but I plowed ahead anyway. Then a heavy-duty metal gate brought my adventure to an abrupt and undeniable halt.
I learned a little about the Lick Creek Ford after I shared my brief adventure across social media. First, I found out that there’s some confusion about how a ford differs from a simple flooded road. Fords are intentional low points in a road that allow vehicles to cross through a stream or creek; they’re designed for that purpose. On the other hand, flooded roads aren’t meant to be underwater. Fords can become impassable during rainy conditions, but they’re safe to cross under normal circumstances. As for flooded roads? I turn back.
The second thing I learned between my ford expedition and yesterday’s excursion is that locals call the crossing Murphy’s Ford. Unfortunately, just who this Murphy was remains a mystery. None of the old maps I found show someone with that name in the immediate vicinity, and county histories by Helm and Forkner don’t mention anyone either. Neither does a quick search of Madison County newspapers. Oh well, Murphy’s Ford it is!
I wasn’t thinking much about its history when I first spotted the ford on Google Maps. Instead, I was more intrigued by tracking it down. To reach Murphy’s Ford from Pendleton High School, start by heading east on State Road 38. Just past the old Fall Creek Meeting House, hang a right onto County Road 150 West at the old Spring Valley schoolhouse. The traffic thins as the road begins to twist and turn, but follow it southwest until it ends at 950 South. From there, it’s a short half-mile before you’ll find out if the ford is open for crossing or hiding under a raging current.
The first time I visited. I parked at the gate and stepped out into the water to test the flow myself. It surged around my ankles with more power than I expected. It was enough to make me pause! In that moment, it hit me: if it wasn’t for the flimsy fence that blocked major debris from flowing downstream, I might have eventually found myself in Geist Reservoir! I backed away, snapped a few photos, filmed a quick video, and stood there for a minute, letting the moment soak into my Crocs.
On yesterday’s visit, I jumped out to snap a few quick photos before hopping back into the car to make the crossing. My mom had reminded me of the time she tried a cartwheel at a similar spot during a camping trip, only to faceplant thanks to the slippery moss. That was enough to keep me from attempting any creekside gymnastics of my own, so I stuck to the Kia. We rolled through the water, and it was awesome. Not everyone can say they’ve forded a creek in 2025!
After we crossed Murphy’s Ford, Mom and I doubled back and channeled our inner pioneers by fording Lick Creek a second time for good measure. In this era of satellite navigation, high-speed highways, and GPS voice prompts, rolling through open water feels primitive and thrilling. Today, most drivers will never encounter a ford, much less cross one. Bridges have replaced them, and detour signs steer us away from anything uncertain.
For a moment, though, easing a modern vehicle down into a flowing creek connected me to a very different era. Air conditioning and a backup camera aside, I couldn’t help but feel a little bit like a settler as we crossed Murphy’s Ford again. People who live nearby will scoff at my sentiment, but the road loses its rules as it passes underwater. It was hard not to feel a flicker of pride as we crossed over Lick Creek! Thanks to Madison County’s lone remaining ford, Mom and I earned a small rite of passage rarely granted in the twenty-first century.
