One More Cast

Chapter 52: Downtown Adventures and Ice Cream Time

After months of ignoring Bentonville downtown, I finally braved it. First challenge: parking. Dave Peel Park had been hijacked by construction workers, blocking my exit like some kind of evil maze. I nearly cried in my van before a kindly worker moved a barrier and I scored a spot—right on the square, naturally, like a pro.

The Walmart Museum was a delightful surprise. It felt like stepping into a time capsule, complete with Lego people running their tiny Walmart lives and a “famous returns” exhibit that gently roasted customers. Who knew returns could be so artistic? I capped it off with a $1.30 ice cream scoop that was massive, delicious, and totally Instagram-worthy.

Downtown Bentonville is adorably gentrified, with stores so cool that I walked past this establishment that I can't tell if it is a barbershop or a bar... (I later found out it is a bar, called 'The Barber') I resisted the urge to set up my nomad barbershop next door, but the idea lingered. Afternoon concluded with a seafood risotto at Gilmore Park and a lesson learned at the Walton fitness center: don’t show up to swim too late.

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Chapter 53: Chores, Curry, and Creepy Crawly Paranoia

Wednesday: chore day, the highlight of my week (sad, but true). Laundry, cassette toilet cleaning, mail pick-ups, and slow-cooked curry beef at the picnic table—camping meets cooking show. I also swung by Beach BBQ for brisket, wings, and a pork belly burned ends taste test, because priorities.

This week brought a minor scare: mysterious itching. Was it bugs? Lupus? My imagination ran wild. Solution: hot laundry cycle for all sheets, because nothing says “peace of mind” like washing everything at 160°F. By Thursday, itch-free and blissfully rested, we took it easy at Blowing Springs with a baguette breakfast and no driving required. Life felt good.

Chapter 54: Roaring River, Fly Rods, and Midnight Trout Triumphs

Returning to Roaring River felt like coming home to a fishing-themed playground. The campground was lively, with kids darting around, campfires crackling, and the smell of smoky wood drifting through the air. Unlike the private RV parks where people keep to themselves, here everyone was out in the open, enjoying the weekend—and I loved it. The cooler temperatures meant long pajama pants at night, which made me unreasonably happy. Sometimes it’s the little things.

Fishing this weekend was slightly different from our usual routine. Because we are staying at the state park campground, we could just walk to a new part of the river, a “flies only” zone where my trusty spinner rod and worms were forbidden. Nelson disappeared with his fly rod, leaving me to enjoy a quiet morning with peanut butter toast and the crisp, autumn air. Eventually, I joined the proper fishing zone, which involved a bit of a hike, but the scenery made up for the effort. The fish weren’t overly cooperative; I did manage to hook a decent trout, only for it to make off with my worm and hook. A fellow angler, witnessing my misfortune, tried to gift me one of his catches out of pity. I politely declined—sometimes, the fun is in the chase, not the reward.

The trout that ran off with my lure still in his mouth.

Nelson, on the other hand, had an entirely different problem. The man turned into a trout snob. “One more cast,” he muttered repeatedly, refusing anything but the largest specimens. He became so obsessed that I half expected him to bring a measuring tape to the river. Meanwhile, I wandered between amusement and mild exasperation, watching his gambling-style obsession with big fish unfold.

Adding chaos to the idyllic setting was the group of kids camping across from us—Boy Scout Troop Broken Arrow, Oklahoma. Says so on their trailer. However Nelson became convinced they were impostors because they weren’t in uniform. His obsession with details reached a new level. He whispered conspiratorially, “Summer camp…maybe? Something’s not right here.” I couldn’t stop laughing, pointing out subtle clues that the boys were indeed Boy Scouts: flags, group activities, and that unmistakable air of mildly organized chaos. Nelson grumbled but finally gave up, though I think a small part of him will always wonder if a secret scouting rebellion is afoot.

After the park siren sounded at 7:15 p.m., signaling the end of fishing, we dragged ourselves to the cleaning station. Nelson efficiently filleted three trout, which became our dinner, while I prepared the seasoning and sides. Nighttime cooking under a single lantern, with Nelson hovering like a helpful-but-distracting sous chef, became an adventure in its own right. Taiwanese-style trout emerged from the pan, ginger, garlic, and green onions mingling perfectly with soy sauce, rice wine, and brown sugar. The air was crisp, and the hot-and-sour soup I made alongside felt like a warm hug in a bowl. We ate outside, under a sky filled with stars, declaring the day a total success. 

Sunday brought a slower pace, a bittersweet end to the weekend. We lingered over late hot dogs, tidied up the van, and did all the usual dumping and water refills. On the way back to Bella Vista, we stopped at Little Sugar Creek, a charming swimming spot next to a golf course. Nelson scouted for potential fishing spots while I nearly jumped out of my skin at a sudden snake appearance—nature keeps you humble. The juxtaposition of well-dressed golfers and free-spirited creek visitors made me laugh; it felt like the world’s quirkiest social experiment.

Finally, we made our ritual stop at Gear Garden for Chicken Lai Lai. Here, I discovered the hidden gem: half-outdoor showers for mountain bikers. Large, clean, with hot water and plenty of hooks, I shamelessly claimed one for myself. Stepping into the warm water, feeling like a nomad who’d conquered rivers, boy scouts, and runaway trout, I felt an odd sense of pride and belonging. Bella Vista, you’ve outdone yourself.