Baby Steps into Winter
Chapter 85: The Van, The Cows, and the Chili That Never Got Eaten
I started the week with two missions: check if “our trees” had turned postcard-worthy fall colors and swap my clothes at the storage unit. Mission 1 was a mild disappointment (yellow here and there, but no majestic reds, which good news for my future emotional stability when the bulldozers eventually come). Mission 2, on the other hand, was delightful. Digging out forgotten winter clothes felt like shopping but free, and everything actually fit me!
As I tried leaving, a moving truck boxed in the van and the unit owner offered to back it out for me. He proudly told me he lived in a van “just like this” years ago… except his didn’t have an electric parking brake, so watching him wrestle with it was like watching someone try to solve a high-tech escape room. (I can talk - I couldn't even back out of the storage unit driveway)
The next morning, armed with hot oatmeal (my cold-weather personality unlocked!) and my first-ever pair of joggers (don’t ask), I drove the van to Lincoln so Daniel could work his magic on the battered running board. I packed enough chili for a full-day siege, which Daniel found hilarious once he finished the repairs in under two hours.
While waiting, I went to go “play with” his cows… and they immediately filed a noise complaint. One old matriarch yelled at me like a PTA president who’s had enough. Later, Daniel himself had to leave mid-repair to round up cows that had escaped his farm. Nothing says “rural Arkansas” like a mechanic disappearing to chase livestock.
Prairie Grove Battlefield Park was supposed to be my little victory lap after the running-board triumph: a peaceful afternoon stroll, maybe a cute photo of Don Don, nothing too deep. Instead, it turned into an unexpectedly emotional history rabbit hole with cows, children, and identity crises.
The park itself is gorgeous, rolling hills, old fences, and golden afternoon light that makes even war look Instagrammable. Inside the Visitor Center, the exhibits felt different from Pea Ridge’s polished, neutral NPS tone. Prairie Grove has more of an Arkansas-proud flavor, like a hometown museum gently reminding you, “These were our boys.”
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| Civil war fashion |
Walking the mile-long loop made the reflections hit harder. One moment I was admiring the fall colors, the next I was contemplating humanity’s 200,000-year habit of solving problems by hitting each other with increasingly bigger sticks. Then a homeschooling group thundered by, kids shrieking happily and completely ignoring their poor guide who was trying to explain artillery positions. Nothing snaps you out of philosophical spiraling like a 7-year-old using a battlefield earthwork as a slide.
At the end of the loop, I took Don Don out for his mandatory photo op: it’s not a proper history site unless my stuffed bear has been photographed there. That’s when I noticed ladybugs everywhere. I squealed, delighted, and took way too many pictures… only to learn later that they weren’t ladybugs at all.
They were Asian beetles.
Who bite.
And release stink juice when threatened.
I have never been so betrayed by a bug’s branding.
Back inside, I chatted with the staff and discovered they host a free nature-journaling class every Friday with Jim, the Washington County newspaper cartoonist. Drawing trees with a local cartoon legend? Obviously I was coming back. It went straight into my mental planner, right next to “don’t let Asian beetles into the van” and “stop getting sentimental about trees we might have to cut down.”
I left Prairie Grove sun-warmed, overthinking war, feeling lucky to learn history with my own feet on the ground… and slightly itchy from imaginary beetle bites. A perfect day, really.
Chapter 86: Drawing Trees and the Culinary Rollercoaster of The Atlas
The next morning, I did the grown-up thing and prepared for a sub-freezing weekend by buying RV antifreeze at Bass Pro (before discovering Walmart sells it much cheaper… oh well). I also adopted a $4 kalanchoe from Fresh Market and decided it would be my tiny van houseplant until either I killed it or it killed itself.
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| Please grow up my cute little Kalanchoe |
That evening, we camped at Blue Springs RV Park. The bathrooms had bath mats. As someone who now measures luxury by softness underfoot, I was euphoric.
On Friday, we woke up early and drove all the way back to Prairie Grove so I could attend the drawing class with Jim, the local cartoonist. Nelson worked from the parking lot like a supportive but slightly cold employee of the month.
The class was delightful: Jim was kind but low-key roasting himself, Larry was watercoloring his feelings, and Keith spent an entire hour drawing one faint outline but seemed genuinely proud. The homeschool family arrived later, the girls were sweet and artsy, the boys immediately dumped a cicada shell in front of me, and baby Bear lived up to his name by rolling around adorably. It was the warm, easy inspiration I didn’t realize I needed to pick back up drawing.
Nelson and I walked the battlefield afterwards. Magically, the Asian beetles had vanished. They clearly knew the big freeze was coming and wanted nothing to do with it.
That night, we went to Fayetteville for an early birthday dinner at The Atlas. The appetizers were so good I briefly forgot we lived in a van… and then the entrées arrived and reminded me. And the fries. Oh lord, the fries. Let’s not speak of the fries. Nelson reported them like a responsible citizen. The server gave us free sorbet and took the fries off the bill.
It was so cold afterward that we changed into pajamas inside the van before driving away. Vanlife glamour at its finest.
Chapter 87: Bam Bam, Baby Lions, and My Grand Entrance into Eureka Springs
Saturday was a lazy morning, followed by a trip to Turpentine Creek Wildlife Refuge, a sanctuary for abused big cats, and now my new emotional support destination.
Bam Bam the grizzly bear was inside his night house, invisible… until he wasn’t. When my eyes adjusted and his enormous silhouette materialized, I jumped like someone in a low-budget horror movie. His claws alone warrants its own zip code.
The tram tour was wonderful: stories about rescued tigers, reminders that declawing cats is torture, and a tiger chuffing at us like a slightly congested baby dragon.
But the highlight was Nirvana and her cubs, Reggie and Archie. Watching the babies pile on mom while she desperately tried not to fall asleep was basically every overworked mother I’ve ever known. I felt sunshine in my bones.
After filling up on wholesomeness, we drove into Eureka Springs: the real downtown, on the trolley line. We’d passed the town a dozen times and somehow never realized there is a downtown hidden from the highway and how gorgeous it is. We hopped off at the main street and followed strangers up random stairs like moths to the light, emerging into a view of Basin Spring Park glowing in golden fall colors, flanked by whimsical stores and eccentric eateries.
Eureka Springs is stunning: steep streets, odd little buildings, people strolling around with drinks, all wrapped in perfect autumn. I wanted to visit the famously haunted Crescent Hotel, but it was getting late and the last trolley was waiting, so we reluctantly rode back to camp.
Then I realized I had left our surge protector at the previous campground. A true horror story. Fingers crossed the power grid behaved.
Chapter 88: Baby Steps Into Winter
Knowing temperatures were about to plunge below freezing, we drove back to Blowing Springs RV Park for the night instead of our usual Sunday stealth camping. We picked up the surge protector (hallelujah), then headed to camp.
You could tell the freeze was coming: nobody was outside, no campfires, no socializing. Just people walking dogs who looked like they were on urgent business.
We plugged in everything, unhooked the water, turned on the grey tank heater, and mentally braced ourselves. Dinner was hot, greasy, comforting van food - my improvised beef version of gai-larb, eaten while our tiny house-on-wheels warmed up against the cold.
After such an action-packed week... cows yelling at me, baby lions melting my heart, narrowly avoiding death by stinky beetle, and discovering real Eureka Springs, it was strangely nice to end the weekend quietly, in pajamas, in a warm van, feeling like we survived something mildly heroic.
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