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| The Buffalo River valley from US-65 near Marshall, Arkansas |
Skipping out in the early AM, we easily made our way down to Sunrise Beach for brunch with friends. I was a little surprised there was not much traffic. It was the 4th of July weekend after all, and there should have been the usual massive convoy of pick-ups, mini-vans, SUVs, boats and every other type of recreational vehicle. Thankfully, these obstacles of torment were absent from the path.
We enjoyed some good company and good food at J&K Café. When it comes to breakfast, there is nothing better than a local small town café. These places are always on point with the basics, and typically require very little serious decision-making beyond how you would like a particular item cooked. Coffee comes in two flavors, regular and decaffeinated; tea, sweet or not; milk, white or chocolate.
This or that decisions help the brain warm up to the day, preventing one from missing synaptic gears and engaging too quickly. I have witnessed folks completely abandon the idea of breakfast all together, when confronted with a menu of 31 flavors of coffee. It is simply too much for them, and having exhausted all of their effort on choosing their coffee, they resort to simply choosing one of those terrible little cardboard cookies masquerading as Biscotti.
It really is best to leave multiple choice to later in the day, for things like ice cream, after the brain has had opportunity to stretch and flex through straightforward decisions associated with a simple breakfast.
Having happily consumed our breakfast, we left our company to dismantle the remainder of their day with the growing number of tourists entering the area. It was surprising how quickly things began to change around Noon. What had been a relatively normal Friday afternoon was becoming the congested roadblock we originally anticipated.
Continuing south what seemed at the time to be a rather simple route on Google Maps, we were soon making left turn after right turn down a seemingly endless alphabet soup of County highways. I checked with the paper map several times to make sure Google did not confuse my original request with Mammoth Cave.
Close examination revealed it impossible to reach US-63 without swimming through the soup. The path was relatively clear though. These are the roads less traveled. We made good progress, and were somewhat disappointed to have to return to the chaos of 4-lane travel.
The second destination of the day loomed on the horizon, but realizing we would likely need refreshments to counter the effects of the dry County of our final destination, we stopped in to visit Ray and his Noble Liquor Store.
Situated just one mile north of the Missouri-Arkansas State Line the location was perfect to gather those last minute supplies. Indeed, he seemed to be doing quite the business with other folks heading south; or coming from south and returning to the same.
The “Dry County” label is a bit of a misnomer, really. Most that I have had the privilege of visiting have been some of the wettest on record. More often than not, in the next County over a warehouse liquor store stands within inches of the County Line.
I suppose that it does make it more of a challenge to ensure a continuous level of moisture in said County, but it seems it could create a potential for higher rates of impaired navigation. When folks get deep in their cups and discover there is no immediate resource to replenish the same, as with all things when in in that state, the next County over appears very attractive, and the distance not all that great.
Most folks in these parts prefer to avoid the embarrassment of being caught out of context in that situation, and carefully prepare for such eventualities by stocking up. I know of quite a few down in the hills that make a weekly run to the next County over during such times, as sobriety is more prevalent. It is probably the wiser of the two options, and the route we followed, as well.
We reached Mammoth Spring State Park in no time at all. Some minor confusion ensued upon entering the park, as it appeared everything of interest lay on the other side of Spring Lake.
Doubling back to the main entrance and winding our way through to the Depot Museum, we arrived just in time for a final viewing of the beautifully restored Depot and associated museum.
Following the trail to the man-made dam holding back the lake, and further along to the actual Spring, and back to the car proved the earlier confusion related to parking to be wholly irrelevant.
We started off for our final destination only to discover a lack of mobile service would require paper navigation to determine the most expedient route. We failed somewhat, but it was not completely our fault. The individual at the Visitor Center knew very little of the surrounding roadways, and suggested continuing on US-63 as the safest route. It was not safe at all though.
Heading up out of the valley we immediately encountered Arkansas Highway Patrol coming down. He seemed less than interested in us, and we even less so in him. There was little cause for alarm. The posted limit was 88 kph and we were doing around 96 kph. His partner we had not previously noticed, found that very interesting and quickly slid in behind us, displaying the wrong sort of red, white & blue.
We were from out of State, and I was certain he would be very interested in providing me a personal invitation to an upcoming judicial gala.
Greeting us pleasantly enough, he informed us that his partner had clocked us at 112 kph. I tried to explain that I had looked at my speedometer the moment his partner passed us, to ensure I was in full compliance with the posted speed. Our uphill cruising speed at that moment, only 96 kph.
He assured me that particular speed was still non-compliant and requested our papers. Chaos and panic immediately ensued. We were prepared with two of the documents, but quickly discovered another to be missing. Leaving us to frantically search the vehicle, he retreated to his own to determine our relative criminal status.
Returning to our vehicle and inquiring on the status of our search efforts after a few minutes, he seemed somewhat amused at our failed attempt to locate the document among the disarray of our traveling amenities. Now I was certain that I would receive not one, but two invitations to the party.
We offered to begin dismantling the vehicle. Likely knowing that would create more of a mess on his highway than he desired, he decided a better use of our time would be to just move along, and sent us on our way with a warning to keep our speed within the posted limits. We were eternally grateful.
I am sure the local judicial benefit gala is quite an interesting affair, but it did not fit in well with our schedule, and we quickly abandoned his company; although, not so much so as to arouse further attention.
After musing over that situation for several miles, mobile service returned enough to let us know a different route would have been preferable. Better late than never, I suppose, but completely worthless information at the time.
We paused briefly in Batesville, to argue the finer points of dining there, but decided to press on. While there were not quite as many options, it was only another hour to Heber Springs. Indeed, a mediocre experience at one of the few establishments in that town was preferable to driving yet another hour after having consumed a solid meal.
Along the way, we stumbled across folks selling melons everywhere. We were tempted to stop, but decided it would be better to wait until the next day. One of our entourage noticed a person selling “tomatoes as big your head” near Drasco, but there was insufficient evidence for me to bring the journey to a screeching halt in the middle of the highway. It would need further investigation at a later date.
We did indeed set out in search of that location the next day too, and drove all the way to Batesville and back to discover these tomatoes. They turned out not so big as originally identified by our passenger, but at least enough to cover a slice of bread, so we acquired a couple, along with a melon. It seemed to be the right thing to do, with such an overabundance of the materials.
Arriving at our destination without further incident or distraction, we stopped in on Mack’s Fish House. It is just about the only place in town one can get something besides Franchise grease, yet still not one of best options, it proved itself out yet again.
A band we had seen play there previously was in full concert upon our arrival. It was a bit more than our senses were prepared for really, and somewhat obnoxious for such a small space. I did not recall their playing being as much of an issue on our last visit, but in our road weary condition, we had no interest in seeking out other means of sustenance; although, we probably should have.
After an hour of waiting for our order, we started to worry. Our server seemed challenged by the half-full dining hall, and was nowhere to be found most of the time. Additionally, there were rumors circulating that the cow was giving the chef trouble with the butchering process, along with whispers of a flight delay for the salmon.
The server offered the typical excuses, and even suggested unseen visitors in another part of the building equally as full. The band quit playing though, which was sufficient compensation, and we enjoyed our lukewarm salty meal without having to shout at each other. We considered dessert briefly, but did not want to delay an additional hour.
We spent most of the remainder of the weekend relaxing along the banks of the Little Red River, taunting the fish (or rather, they us) and enjoying good company.
While it rained at home, we enjoyed weather only someone from the deep south could appreciate. Temperatures hovered near 38 C, with humidity so high it seemed it could rain without the help of clouds.
Our return trip home was uneventful. Rain we had skillfully avoided throughout the weekend dogged us most of the way, discouraging any thoughts towards other diversions.
There was one other minor expedition during the weekend, in search of an ICBM site and a bridge, but that is another story altogether.
We enjoyed some good company and good food at J&K Café. When it comes to breakfast, there is nothing better than a local small town café. These places are always on point with the basics, and typically require very little serious decision-making beyond how you would like a particular item cooked. Coffee comes in two flavors, regular and decaffeinated; tea, sweet or not; milk, white or chocolate.
This or that decisions help the brain warm up to the day, preventing one from missing synaptic gears and engaging too quickly. I have witnessed folks completely abandon the idea of breakfast all together, when confronted with a menu of 31 flavors of coffee. It is simply too much for them, and having exhausted all of their effort on choosing their coffee, they resort to simply choosing one of those terrible little cardboard cookies masquerading as Biscotti.
It really is best to leave multiple choice to later in the day, for things like ice cream, after the brain has had opportunity to stretch and flex through straightforward decisions associated with a simple breakfast.
Having happily consumed our breakfast, we left our company to dismantle the remainder of their day with the growing number of tourists entering the area. It was surprising how quickly things began to change around Noon. What had been a relatively normal Friday afternoon was becoming the congested roadblock we originally anticipated.
Continuing south what seemed at the time to be a rather simple route on Google Maps, we were soon making left turn after right turn down a seemingly endless alphabet soup of County highways. I checked with the paper map several times to make sure Google did not confuse my original request with Mammoth Cave.
Close examination revealed it impossible to reach US-63 without swimming through the soup. The path was relatively clear though. These are the roads less traveled. We made good progress, and were somewhat disappointed to have to return to the chaos of 4-lane travel.
The second destination of the day loomed on the horizon, but realizing we would likely need refreshments to counter the effects of the dry County of our final destination, we stopped in to visit Ray and his Noble Liquor Store.
Situated just one mile north of the Missouri-Arkansas State Line the location was perfect to gather those last minute supplies. Indeed, he seemed to be doing quite the business with other folks heading south; or coming from south and returning to the same.
The “Dry County” label is a bit of a misnomer, really. Most that I have had the privilege of visiting have been some of the wettest on record. More often than not, in the next County over a warehouse liquor store stands within inches of the County Line.
I suppose that it does make it more of a challenge to ensure a continuous level of moisture in said County, but it seems it could create a potential for higher rates of impaired navigation. When folks get deep in their cups and discover there is no immediate resource to replenish the same, as with all things when in in that state, the next County over appears very attractive, and the distance not all that great.
Most folks in these parts prefer to avoid the embarrassment of being caught out of context in that situation, and carefully prepare for such eventualities by stocking up. I know of quite a few down in the hills that make a weekly run to the next County over during such times, as sobriety is more prevalent. It is probably the wiser of the two options, and the route we followed, as well.
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| Mammoth Spring State Park |
We reached Mammoth Spring State Park in no time at all. Some minor confusion ensued upon entering the park, as it appeared everything of interest lay on the other side of Spring Lake.
Doubling back to the main entrance and winding our way through to the Depot Museum, we arrived just in time for a final viewing of the beautifully restored Depot and associated museum.
Following the trail to the man-made dam holding back the lake, and further along to the actual Spring, and back to the car proved the earlier confusion related to parking to be wholly irrelevant.
We started off for our final destination only to discover a lack of mobile service would require paper navigation to determine the most expedient route. We failed somewhat, but it was not completely our fault. The individual at the Visitor Center knew very little of the surrounding roadways, and suggested continuing on US-63 as the safest route. It was not safe at all though.
Heading up out of the valley we immediately encountered Arkansas Highway Patrol coming down. He seemed less than interested in us, and we even less so in him. There was little cause for alarm. The posted limit was 88 kph and we were doing around 96 kph. His partner we had not previously noticed, found that very interesting and quickly slid in behind us, displaying the wrong sort of red, white & blue.
We were from out of State, and I was certain he would be very interested in providing me a personal invitation to an upcoming judicial gala.
Greeting us pleasantly enough, he informed us that his partner had clocked us at 112 kph. I tried to explain that I had looked at my speedometer the moment his partner passed us, to ensure I was in full compliance with the posted speed. Our uphill cruising speed at that moment, only 96 kph.
He assured me that particular speed was still non-compliant and requested our papers. Chaos and panic immediately ensued. We were prepared with two of the documents, but quickly discovered another to be missing. Leaving us to frantically search the vehicle, he retreated to his own to determine our relative criminal status.
Returning to our vehicle and inquiring on the status of our search efforts after a few minutes, he seemed somewhat amused at our failed attempt to locate the document among the disarray of our traveling amenities. Now I was certain that I would receive not one, but two invitations to the party.
We offered to begin dismantling the vehicle. Likely knowing that would create more of a mess on his highway than he desired, he decided a better use of our time would be to just move along, and sent us on our way with a warning to keep our speed within the posted limits. We were eternally grateful.
I am sure the local judicial benefit gala is quite an interesting affair, but it did not fit in well with our schedule, and we quickly abandoned his company; although, not so much so as to arouse further attention.
After musing over that situation for several miles, mobile service returned enough to let us know a different route would have been preferable. Better late than never, I suppose, but completely worthless information at the time.
We paused briefly in Batesville, to argue the finer points of dining there, but decided to press on. While there were not quite as many options, it was only another hour to Heber Springs. Indeed, a mediocre experience at one of the few establishments in that town was preferable to driving yet another hour after having consumed a solid meal.
Along the way, we stumbled across folks selling melons everywhere. We were tempted to stop, but decided it would be better to wait until the next day. One of our entourage noticed a person selling “tomatoes as big your head” near Drasco, but there was insufficient evidence for me to bring the journey to a screeching halt in the middle of the highway. It would need further investigation at a later date.
We did indeed set out in search of that location the next day too, and drove all the way to Batesville and back to discover these tomatoes. They turned out not so big as originally identified by our passenger, but at least enough to cover a slice of bread, so we acquired a couple, along with a melon. It seemed to be the right thing to do, with such an overabundance of the materials.
Arriving at our destination without further incident or distraction, we stopped in on Mack’s Fish House. It is just about the only place in town one can get something besides Franchise grease, yet still not one of best options, it proved itself out yet again.
A band we had seen play there previously was in full concert upon our arrival. It was a bit more than our senses were prepared for really, and somewhat obnoxious for such a small space. I did not recall their playing being as much of an issue on our last visit, but in our road weary condition, we had no interest in seeking out other means of sustenance; although, we probably should have.
After an hour of waiting for our order, we started to worry. Our server seemed challenged by the half-full dining hall, and was nowhere to be found most of the time. Additionally, there were rumors circulating that the cow was giving the chef trouble with the butchering process, along with whispers of a flight delay for the salmon.
The server offered the typical excuses, and even suggested unseen visitors in another part of the building equally as full. The band quit playing though, which was sufficient compensation, and we enjoyed our lukewarm salty meal without having to shout at each other. We considered dessert briefly, but did not want to delay an additional hour.
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| Sunset on the Little Red River |
While it rained at home, we enjoyed weather only someone from the deep south could appreciate. Temperatures hovered near 38 C, with humidity so high it seemed it could rain without the help of clouds.
Our return trip home was uneventful. Rain we had skillfully avoided throughout the weekend dogged us most of the way, discouraging any thoughts towards other diversions.
There was one other minor expedition during the weekend, in search of an ICBM site and a bridge, but that is another story altogether.
. . .
Further Reading
Trains, War, and Water at Mammoth Spring State Park
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