The Week Everything Went Wrong

 

Chapter 74 : The Great Oil Change Expedition

They say adventure begins where comfort ends. Mine began at a mechanic’s shop in Lincoln, Arkansas.

The van’s generator was due for an oil change, and somehow that turned into a full-blown expedition. I drove past quaint towns, scenic farmland, and one too many “Jesus Saves” billboards before arriving - just in time for the mechanics to head out for lunch.

No problem. I had my house with me. I parked under the shade, poured myself a cold brew, and enjoyed banana-walnut bread while watching a man train a horse next door. Nothing says rural America like horsepower in both forms.

When they returned, I got front-row seats to the “Men Under Vehicles” show - three guys sliding, grunting, and emerging victorious with oil-stained arms. A cat that “wasn’t really theirs” kept me company, loudly demanding snacks I didn’t have.

Feeling proud of my productive day, I hit the road… until I realized the front and rear tire pressures weren’t supposed to match. Cue a 20-mile drive of regret and a pit stop at McDonald’s to Google the answer printed literally on my driver’s door. I called the shop, turned around, and returned like a boomerang of shame. They fixed it, I forgave them, and the van got another dose of love and oil.

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Chapter 75 : The Great Domestic Wednesday and Fishing Zero

Midweek in vanlife means cleaning day - the unsung hero of living small. I washed every sheet, pillowcase, and lingering doubt about whether the van smelled weird. It’s hard to believe this little home has rolled over 8,000 miles in four months, but it’s still the coziest thing I’ve ever lived in.

Dinner was supposed to be teriyaki chicken, my first attempt. Nelson derailed that plan by wanting to go fishing “just for a bit.” A couple of hours and zero fish later, I was cooking in the dark again. The dudes we met at the dock - transplants from Northern California - chatted about moving to Bella Vista, while I tried to ignore the sound of bugs and Nelson’s quiet defeat.

There’s something endearing about how fishing resets his mood, even when his catch rate is aggressively zero. I cooked under my headlamp like a campfire chef who moonlights as a marriage counselor: “You didn’t catch fish, but you caught dinner. You’re welcome.”

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Chapter 76 : Showers, Storms, and Suspicious Poops

The weekend began at Withrow Springs State Park - a peaceful little spot that became less peaceful once I stepped into the campground showers. Two very large, very naked women (a mother-daughter duo, as it turned out) were struggling to dress, chatting cheerfully (to me) the whole time. It was awkward, adorable, and oddly wholesome. I admired their spirit - showering at a campground takes courage, clothed or not.

The next morning, our Starlink connection failed thanks to nature (too many trees) , so Nelson joined his office “war room” from a Walmart parking lot. Few things are more vanlife than answering corporate calls beside a shopping cart return. I spent the day grocery-wandering and debating if Don Don needed a Halloween butcher costume (he did not).

No butcher outfit but how about a wig? (also no)

That evening, we hiked the War Eagle trail - beautiful, calm, and apparently bear country. We spotted three piles of poop full of seeds and later learned (thanks to ChatGPT) that they were black bear droppings. Cue panic. I spent the night jumping at every rustle, imagining claws against aluminum.

The next morning, a ranger told us they were raccoon poops filled with persimmon seeds. I was 70% relieved and 30% mad at AI. Turns out raccoons have digestive ambitions far bigger than their bodies.

How do such small animals poop so much?!

The storm hit that afternoon - rain pounding, wind howling. I made chili that turned out suspiciously mild. Nelson added jalapeños by the handful while I pondered whether “medium spice” is an American myth. Cozy in the van, listening to rain and our stomachs rumble, I decided this was peak comfort.

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Chapter 77 ; The Two-Dollar Disaster and the Midnight Knock

Sunday started optimistically enough: we were finally going to find the legendary Two Dollar Hole. The name alone sounded promising, like a roadside miracle with sparkling water and trophy fish. The reality? A bumpy, unmarked dirt road leading to a river with zero fish and one very large mistake.

On the way out, a loud CLANK! shook the van. I thought I’d killed the generator, but no - it was the running board, crushed and shoved backward by a hidden stump, now blocking our propane inlet. Nelson was calm and sweet about it, which somehow made me feel worse. Then he took over driving, immediately got stuck in the mud, and redecorated the van in brown. We laughed, mostly to avoid crying.

SAD!

Dinner at Monte Ne Inn saved the day. Endless fried chicken, mashed potatoes, and beans - no menu, no decisions, just pure gravy therapy. It was so comfortingly old-school that even the pea soup looked hand-drawn from a 1950s cartoon.

We parked for the night in a quiet Bentonville city park. At 1:30 a.m., knock knock knock. Two police officers stood outside—polite, freezing, and almost apologetic. The park closed at 11, they said, but we could stay till morning. It was the dreaded “knock” every vanlifer fears, and I couldn’t sleep afterward. Between the stump, the mud, and the cops, it felt like life’s gentle reminder: you can’t always control the road—but you can at least end it with fried chicken.