Stealth Camping and Other Bad Ideas


Chapter 24: The Art of Sweating in Silence

Image credit: Arkansas Storm Tracker Zachary Hall

Our grand 'homecoming' began with stealth camping in a local park, which is a fancy way of saying “parking badly in the dark and pretending to be invisible.” Nelson, bless him, decided we needed to operate under submarine conditions: no windows, no lights, no talking. It was like playing hide-and-seek with ourselves, except instead of giggling we just lay there sweating, stuck to the sheets like two slices of cheese left on the dashboard.

By dawn, I hadn’t slept a wink, and Nelson was still convinced someone was about to knock on the van and cart us off to jail. If vanlife teaches you anything, it’s this: paranoia and humidity make an excellent team.

Chapter 25: Old Ladies in Straw Hats

We fled the park at 6 a.m., which is an absurd time to be alive, let alone driving. After errands and our first depressing encounter with the U.S. Postal Service (“your mail is here, but also isn’t”), we finally checked in on our overgrown land at Jurassic Lane. The weeds now stand at my height, and I half expect dinosaurs to appear.

The day’s highlight, however, was the pool at Kingsdale. Imagine a resort designed entirely for grandmothers with perfect lipstick and enormous straw hats, who enter the water with the express purpose of never actually swimming. The water was warm, the gossip was hotter, and I felt like I’d stumbled into a very glamorous bingo club. Still, it was 'our' pool, which meant that for a brief, glorious moment, I was living the high life. Then it was back to stealth camping in the heat, which I suspect is the universe’s way of keeping me humble.


Chapter 26: Salvation in the Form of Cold Air

Stealth camping was slowly killing us, so by Thursday we cracked and checked into Blowing Springs RV Park. Full hook-up. Air conditioning. I nearly wept when the vents came on. 

Dinner was pasta bolognese cooked in the thermal cooker, which normally would’ve been unremarkable, but with cold air blasting through the van it tasted like Michelin-star cuisine. Afterward we discovered the actual “Blowing Spring,” which turned out to be a tiny creek with a cave at the end that exhaled cold air like a subterranean air conditioner. I considered dragging our bed over and never leaving. Vanlife has lowered my standards so thoroughly that I now regard geology as a climate-control system.



Chapter 27: Hubert the Duck and the Economics of Bread

Friday morning we met Hubert the duck at Turnbuckle Farm. Hubert is a duck who believes he’s human, which probably explains why he ignored the other ducks and strutted around like he owned the place. If he spoke he would be doing so with a British accent.  Sadly, Hubert’s goodies cost more than my self-respect, so we left empty-handed.

We retreated to Horseshoe Bend campground, where the only real criterion was electricity hook-up. At this point, I’d choose a tent pitched on a landfill if it came with AC. Nelson swam in Beaver Lake while I stayed in the van like a Victorian invalid, nibbling salad and applauding myself for not perishing. This is marriage: one of you dives bravely into nature, the other refuses to move until the thermostat reads “civilized.”



Chapter 28: Heatstroke, Hair Dye, and the Hands of Thor

Monday marked Nelson’s return to office life and my battle against the Arkansas furnace.  By mid-week I was half-delirious and booked a massage at Kingsdale. Enter Melissa: a petite girl who looked like she’d snap if a breeze hit her. Instead, she dismantled my sore muscles with the precision of a blacksmith. By the end, I was so blissfully limp that I’d have signed over the deed to our land if she’d asked. Best $55 I’ve ever spent.

Revived, I tackled the van: laundry, cassette toilet, hair dye, and meatballs, all while congratulating myself for surviving without spontaneously combusting. Then came a minor heatstroke, which was, in hindsight, inevitable. Luckily, the AC was roaring, which made recovery feel almost decadent.

Dinner was a simple meatball bowl, but under the influence of cold air.  Vanlife has taught me many things, but chief among them: comfort is everything, and AC turns ordinary into divine.



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