While He Fought in the War Room, I Fought the War Eagle

 

Chapter 66: The One That Got Away (Again)

It was meant to be a lazy Saturday at Lake Fort Smith — bagels, lox, and lounging — but Nelson’s “just a bit of work” turned into a full-day affair. By the time we made it lakeside, it was nearly dinner time. Naturally, Nelson decided it was the perfect hour to start fishing.


I humored him, even lent him my spinner rod since the lake wasn’t fly-friendly. He got a bite — allegedly a “big one” — but it got away before I saw it. He did, however, admit that my casting skills were impressive. (I told him precision is my hidden superpower.)

Then it got dark. Nelson refused to stop. So there I was again, cooking chicken fajitas by lantern light while my husband chased imaginary fish. They turned out delicious, but I still sulked. He apologized, swore he’d be “a new man” tomorrow. I’ve heard that one before.



Chapter 67: The Zen of Not Catching Fish

Sunday arrived with Nelson’s redemption arc. No crack-of-dawn fishing. No bait talk over breakfast. Instead, a calm morning — ukulele, barbering, and civilized conversation. I almost didn’t recognize him.

By afternoon, we made our way back to the marina. Nelson fished, I read in my camp chair beside the bait shop — the perfect division of labor. No fish, no drama, just peace. Fishing, I realized, is less about catching fish and more about catching your breath.


Monday passed quietly, notable only for me spotting a window-cleaning drone at Crystal Bridges. I may or may not have clapped in public.



Chapter 68: Bat Sh*t, Turtle Fights, and the Quest for the Two Dollar Hole

Exploration Tuesday took me and Don Don to War Eagle Caverns, a place more rich in history than cave formations. My private guide, Adam, doubled as a local historian and comedian. He told me about moonshiners using the cave during Prohibition, and how Confederate soldiers harvested bat guano for gunpowder. Apparently, bat poop helped fuel a war. Who knew? (Think about this next time you call someone bat sh*t crazy!)



I asked about the heavy rain last week — he said the cave flooded so badly they had to close midday. I decided then and there I’d rather face mosquitoes than flash-floods underground.

After the tour, I fed fish in the creek but accidentally started a turf war between a hungry turtle and a school of trout. The turtle’s frantic paddling and my awful aim made it the most ridiculous wildlife encounter I’ve had yet.


Still covered in bug bites, I chased local legend — the mysterious Two Dollar Hole, a fishing spot you can’t find on Google Maps. Directions involved “a sharp left turn” and “a road you can’t see.” After several wrong turns and a few miles of muttered curses, a kind man at War Eagle Mill finally pointed me to it — a private stretch of the War Eagle Creek where two dollars buys you a fishing day. I didn’t make it there before sunset, but I will. Someday.


Dinner was Gyudon (Japanese beef rice bowl), which Nelson missed hot because, of course, he was still working. He got the cold version, lucky man.



Chapter 69: Hash Browns, Haunted Skeletons, and Van Reflections

October at last! I’d been itching to decorate for Halloween, but I have rules. No decorations before October 1st. By the time I hit the stores, all the best skeletons were gone — apparently everyone else lacks restraint. Three stores later, I scored the last pack and nearly cried with joy.

I deep-cleaned the van, hung acorn fairy lights, and proudly displayed my three skeleton dudes: “Lucky Cat,” “Acrobatic Guy,” and “If I Don’t Move You Can’t See Me.” Domestic bliss on wheels.

"Lucky Cat"

While doing laundry (my happy place), I met a fellow vanlifer from Hong Kong. Unlike me, she hated laundry and regretted going full-time on the road. She asked blunt questions — “How much is your van? Your house? Why no kids?” — questions that would mortify most Americans but just made me nostalgic. That’s home-style curiosity right there.

Her story reminded me that vanlife isn’t everyone’s dream. For some, it’s the only option left. It made me want to appreciate my current joy even more, just in case one day I don’t feel the same.



That night, Nelson was stuck in a “war room” at work, so I had the van to myself. I watched the International Space Station streak across the Arkansas sky, had a laugh at my Fall décor, and felt entirely content… until my stomach turned on me. Let’s just say I was grateful for a proper campground bathroom.



When Nelson finally called at 1 a.m., I drove through empty highways to pick him up — my shift as Uber driver complete.

Chapter 70: Dumplings, Trout, and Domestic Fires

Roaring River weekend delivered: Nelson’s biggest trout yet, perfectly fried by yours truly. We roasted marshmallows by firelight, I introduced Nelson to the joys of molten sugar, and he serenaded the stars with his ukulele. It was, for once, a perfect evening — no bugs, no bickering, just smoky peace.


The next morning’s “perfect hash browns” nearly broke me (and my tiny kitchen), but they were glorious. We overstayed checkout, got eye-scolded by the sternly camp host, then capped off the weekend with a long walk through bug-infested Lake Bella Vista. Nelson scouted for fish; I scouted for sanity (and did not find it).




Back in Bella Vista, I took my slug-infested campground shower and decided: this life — smelly fires, lost roads, imaginary fish, and all — is ridiculous, but it’s mine.



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