We Drove West and Let Things Happen

Chapter 105: Progress, Measured in Ash and Envelopes

I drove out to our land midweek, partly out of routine and partly because at this point I needed visual proof that time was, in fact, moving forward. For months it had looked like Jurassic Park, dense, feral, and entirely unconcerned with our building timeline; but this time, something was different. The builders had been through. Trees were cut. Weeds burned. The ground opened up in a way that felt startling after so long.

There was still a faint campfire smell hanging in the air, the kind that lingers hours after flames are gone, and a small pile of ash sat right in the middle of the lot like a punctuation mark. The land now looked less like a future home site and more like a primitive campground: raw, exposed, and honest. I had no desire to pitch a tent there in December, but I stood around, absorbing the fact that something had finally happened.

The ribboned stakes marking the house and driveway had burned away entirely, which felt almost symbolic: even our plans had gone up in smoke and would need to be redrawn. Still, after waiting so long for permits, even this felt monumental. Progress, I’ve learned, doesn’t always look glamorous. Sometimes it smells like ash and looks unfinished, and somehow that makes it more exciting.

Later that day, I picked up mail and packages, expecting nothing of consequence and finding instead a small stack of Christmas cards. Handwritten. Stamped. Thoughtfully chosen. In a year so dominated by logistics, planning, and being adaptive, those envelopes felt almost extravagant. I held onto them, feeling the paper texture under my fingertips before opening them, grateful not just for the notes inside but for the friendships they represented.

Chapter 106: The Many Small Rituals Before Departure

By Thursday, the towns around Bentonville were fully dressed for the holidays. Grocery store staff proudly wore Christmas sweaters and openly commented on each other’s outfits with genuine delight. I hovered near the aisles, briefly tempted to impulse-buy matching sweaters for Nelson and me, before remembering that I am not an ugly-sweaters person, no matter how festive the mood.

We extended our usual Wednesday-night campground stay to two nights at Blowing Springs so I could prepare the van for the upcoming road trip. This meant laundry. So much laundry. Sheets, towels, clothes... anything remotely washable made multiple trips to the campground machines. There is something deeply satisfying about starting a big trip with freshly cleaned bedding. Clean duvet covers feel like optimism you can touch.

Christmas nails, bear cardigan... we are ready!

Friday arrived quickly. I dropped Nelson off at his work Christmas party at the bowling alley, apparently the chosen holiday bonding activity for much of corporate Northwest Arkansas (it's either that or golfing at a driving range...) and drove myself to Rogers for a late lunch at Local Lime. I ate slowly, alone, enjoying the rare luxury of not sharing food or making conversation.

Then I did what any reasonable person does before a long road trip: I bought excellent steak and fancy cheese. The fridge was officially overcommitted. After Nelson finished bowling, we pointed the van west and drove toward Oklahoma, landing for the night at a well-lit travel plaza attached to a casino near Broken Bow. Inside the gas station was a miniature casino: slot machines, real tables, and an ominous “18+ only” door, clearly designed for people who wanted to gamble without committing to walking very far.

We ate a questionable combination of leftovers: pizza (okay), vegetarian lasagna (bad), and my homemade chili (excellent), put up the privacy screens, and called it a night. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was comfortable. The road trip had officially begun.

Chapter 107 — Fishing in Unfamiliar Waters

We woke early and headed to Beavers Bend State Park, where Nelson wanted to check out the Lower Mountain Fork River. It was cold and cloudy, excellent fishing weather, terrible standing-around weather. I was grateful I wouldn’t be the one in waders (or outside).

Most access points were clearly meant for people willing to get into the water. We spotted a few fishing platforms but no visible fish. Eventually, a father-son duo mentioned success near the spillway by the dam, so we followed their lead. The spillway felt like a social event: families, coolers, optimism everywhere. Nelson suited up. I stayed in the van, tying flies and enjoying the strange peace of being parked near a river.

That peace ended when I looked up and saw a man climbing a tree directly in front of the van. He was wearing a jacket identical in color to Nelson’s rain jacket. I immediately took a photo, fully intending to show Nelson later and joke about this unhinged tree-climbing stranger who dressed just like him.

The orange colored speck... yes there is a man on the tree LOL

Then the man turned around. It was my husband.

I got out of the van to investigate, finding Nelson perched in the tree, visibly frantic. “I need eggs,” he said urgently. My brain immediately went to fly patterns. I was confused. Why eggs? Why the tree?

It took a few seconds, and a lot of gesturing, for me to realize he had said axe, not eggs. Which we did not have. He clarified that he meant the saw, which we did have, and that he needed to cut off a branch.

This was, objectively, a terrible look. There were families everywhere. I whispered urgently that this situation appeared spiraling and asked why the branch needed to be removed. The story emerged: his fishing line... fly, tippet, leader, and part of the neon green fly line, had become spectacularly tangled in the tree. This required fishing extremely close to the tree, which was not his finest decision.

I tried gently poking the branch with a dead stick while he pulled, I came back to the van to grab my hiking pole. When I went back to the tree, he was still pulling, somehow, miraculously, the line came free. Crisis resolved. No tree harmed. No authorities summoned.

Later, when his usual flies failed, I noticed bugs skimming the surface of the river and trout rising to eat them. I squatted by the water, went back to my vise, and created something vaguely bug-like using whatever materials I had. We called it the “Don Don fly.” Nelson took it back to the river and caught three trout in twenty minutes, including his first brown trout.

The Don Don fly - my first improv!!!

We left tired, proud, slightly sunburned, and deeply amused by how the day had unfolded. That night, after hot showers and episodes of Culinary Class Wars, we fell asleep feeling oddly self-sufficient and free. Texas awaited.

Chapter 108 : The Grand Canyon of Texas (Second Place, and Very Proud of It)

Our first visit to Buc-ee’s felt less like a pit stop and more like accidentally walking into a theme park disguised as a gas station. It was blindingly bright, immaculately clean, and absolutely packed with people who all seemed deeply committed to buying beaver-themed merchandise. I went in planning to grab something simple, maybe a T-shirt... and left mildly overstimulated, empty-handed, and full of respect for a place that sells everything, all at once, with total confidence. This felt very Texas.

Buc-ee, we finally met.

Our first real Texas stop was Palo Duro Canyon State Park, which bills itself, enthusiastically, as the Grand Canyon of Texas. Also the second-largest canyon in the United States, a fact that is mentioned often, prominently, and with the quiet insecurity of something that really wants you to know it’s still impressive. To be fair, it is impressive.

You enter the park from the top of the canyon, which feels dramatic in the way a proper reveal should. Even from the visitor center parking lot (closed, but still a perfectly good lunch spot), the view stretched endlessly: layered rock, deep cuts, and colors that felt suddenly foreign after days of highway beige. After three days of driving, chasing fish, and sleeping at travel plazas, this view felt like a reward.

We drove down into the canyon next, navigating steep, winding roads that made me grip my seat a little tighter while the van handled it all like a champ. The map instructed us to take “Park Road 5” to the campground, and we obediently crawled along at five miles per hour, assuming this was a deeply cautious park with strong feelings about safety. It took us two days to realize the road was named Park Road Five, and the speed limit was actually thirty. I felt dumb. But honestly, why name roads like that?

Desert camping!

The campground itself was lovely, quiet, open, and distinctly desert-y. We headed out for a short hike on the River Trail, where I became momentarily excited by a sign for “Big Cave.” Along the way, we passed an Indian family, led by a very grumpy dad who asked us, “Where is the river?” in a tone that suggested disappointment rather than curiosity. His wife later informed us that the Big Cave was “not very good,” shaking her head with finality.

The Big Cave

She was not wrong. The “cave” turned out to be more of an arch—collapsed ceiling, thousands of years of erosion, very educational, not remotely big. I quietly adjusted my expectations (everything can’t be bigger in Texas, apparently) and decided I was just happy to be outside.

The view from inside the 'cave'... actually not bad!

The only downside of Palo Duro’s beauty is that everyone else agrees. Even on this short hike, the trail felt crowded, groups shouting for photos, people narrating their every move, voices echoing off canyon walls. Nelson grew visibly edgy, and I realized that in just a few months away from city life, our tolerance for noise and crowds had evaporated completely. Apparently, I am now fragile.

Dinner redeemed the day. I cooked steak with pan-fried potatoes and vegetables, savoring the joy of cooking outdoors in a quiet campground. No crowds. No shouting. Just food, open space, and the feeling that we’d landed somewhere special.

Later, I dragged Nelson out into the cold to stargaze. The sky was shockingly clear, the stars sharp and plentiful in a way that made me stare with my mouth slightly opened. Dark skies don’t happen by accident, you have to go looking for them. Wrapped in layers, standing quietly in the canyon, Texas officially welcomed us.

The Lighthouse Trail next day felt like Texas deciding to show off. It was late December and somehow very, very hot, the kind of heat that makes you question your layering choices. The canyon floor offered no shade, just sun, rock, and the quiet threat of dehydration politely spelled out on signs every tenth of a mile. We drank water like it was a chore and kept going anyway, because the trail was beautiful and because turning back too early would’ve felt like admitting defeat.

Nelson took this photo... I chickened out before the last stretch to the 'lighthouse' as I am scared of height, and was tired haha.

And then there were the roadrunners. First one, then another: real, actual beep-beep birds darting across the trail with zero concern for us. One even lingered near the parking lot earlier, as if guarding the entrance and deciding who was worthy. Seeing them felt oddly grounding, like the canyon was reminding us that this wasn’t just a dramatic landscape, it was a living place with its own cast of characters. By the time we made it back, sunburned, low on water, and exhausted (okay, me, not Nelson), it felt like Texas had properly welcomed us: loudly, honestly, and without apologizing for the heat.

Thou shall not pass!

Beep Beep!

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