Category Archives: Travel

Meteor Shower Surprise in Springdale


Thanks again, Springdale. This morning, I walked along the Razorback Greenway on the north side of Backus, near AQ. It was a fortuitous choice.

I was incredibly lucky because not only did I have the entire trail to myself again this morning, but as I walked north, a portion of the Perseid Meteor shower put on a show for me. Frankly, I had forgotten about the possibility of seeing anything. As I reached one of the beautiful steel bridges crossing Spring Creek, the trees relented and the sky opened above me and I stopped and stared as a meteor slashed across above me. The moon was bright and behind me, but no other lights invaded the wide spot afforded by the bridge and the creek beneath me. At 5 a.m., it was a delight to assume it would be the only meteor. Two more brilliant flashes arced across the sky above me. I had the urge to turn and say, “Did you SEE that?” but all the sane people were in bed, dreaming of their own fascinating sights.

So, it came to pass that I stood alone in the midst of nature, watching the sky drop burning reminders of the vastness of space. As I walked back, happy to have been witness to it, I saw a cat on the edge of the trail, walking ahead of me. I picked up my pace to see if it would spook. I turned on my flashlight app on my phone and lo and behold it was Pepé Le Pew, bright white-striped tail now raised in alarm. I stepped back so quickly I think I traveled back in time, laughing at the idea of me returning home smelling of skunk.

When I returned to my car, I walked over to the new pavilion next to the old Heathman building and sat watching as the edges of the sky slowly brightened. Two more bright meteor falls greeted me. I wondered how many early risers might have witnessed these with me. Then again, I remembered that the city of Springdale had built all these places solely for me, to be discovered in singular succession. I will hoard these memories.

As I headed back east, toward home and my disoriented cat, a deep fog rolled in from the hilly terrain, blanketing my approach. As I write this, everything seems to have been draped by the most diaphanous of gauze. Had I not stood in the middle of the beautiful nothing and witnessed the meteors, I would have thought I had dreamed it.



Razorback Greenway Interactive

X Explore Springdale


I’m not quite sure how to take it. The Springdale Chamber of Commerce revised the horrid waffle-fry logo and made a variant for the Springdale Advertising Commission: Explore Springdale. It is a similar logo, except the crazy waffle-fry base has been morphed into two overlapping Xs. I’m really going to miss seeing the waffle-fry logo so often because those seizures it elicited were becoming my best friend. I’d apologize to Springdale for mocking the design logo, except that it was done on purpose instead of as a result of a lost bet, as I had originally speculated.

Here’s the FB page:

Here’s the website:

As a citizen of Springdale and the only resident legally named X, I give the double-X variant two left thumbs up. It’s phenomenally better as a logo than the crisscross polychromatic nightmare known as the waffle-fry.

Before I forget to say something useful, Explore Springdale is an informational page for tourism and goings-on in our fair city. These are the same folks who sent the last Mayor to Mars and also promised to give a free taco lunch to each resident of Springdale twice a year. I made those last two claims up but since I received a cease-to-exist letter, I can no longer pretend to be the spokesperson for any city official of Springdale. (They took my company car away from me, too.)

You can also follow Team Springdale:, Downtown Springdale:, and Springdale Stories:…/…

Keeping up with all the activities here is quite a task, even if you have two secretaries like I do.

Springdale is no longer the town I grew up in, thank goodness. It’s better by almost every measure. As much as I chide the logo debacle, it’s looking spectacular out there these days.

PS: The obvious “X” in this logo is much appreciated. I keep joking that you are building me trails and new sights – just for me personally. This logo variant certainly adds evidence to my positive paranoia.

An Early Morning Walk in Springdale


When I went to bed last night, I instinctively set both alarms. Dawn double-checked, both due to her infallible nervous condition and the fact that she has an allergic reaction to klaxons blaring at 4 a.m. on a Saturday morning. (She also dislikes bagpipes and trumpet practice at that hour, too – a lesson I learned the hard way.)

Regardless, the feline alarm started meowing at 3:30 so any concerns about the alarm clock accidentally waking us were misguided. As I was practicing my dedication to the slumbering arts, I foolishly attempted to ignore the cat the first few times he attempted to rouse me from my horizontal and stuporous state. Ten minutes later, Güino upped his game by adding involuntary massage via cat paws to his repertoire. He’s been known to gnaw on exposed toes if necessary. One of these days I’m going to coat my toes in cayenne pepper to surprise him.

I decided to get up and take a walk earlier than I wanted to. I drove and parked near Emma Street in downtown Springdale. It was sublime. Again, I had the feeling that most of the inhabitants of the place had been whisked away by an unseen hand, leaving me the entire run of the place. The new Walter Turnbow park by Shiloh Square is spectacular enough during the day; seeing it without people before the sunrise was both eerie and interesting. I walked the trail in both directions, and only toward the end of my long walk did I meet any other souls on the dark trail. A motley group of youths was long-boarding the long incline toward the rear of the fire station. I could hear the crescendo of the wheels on the concrete long before I could discern their silhouettes approaching against the distant lights. Their laughter and jabber approached and just as quickly swept by, retreating to a whisper.

If you’ve never walked the trails in the dark, they are spectacular, especially the portion running near Bluff Cemetery. It never occurs to me to feel unsafe, either for the unlikely presence of uneven pavement or from nefarious passersby. French fries are a greater danger to me than walking in nocturnal environments could ever be.

I stopped and took my picture by the Chamber of Commerce sign facing Emma Street as my backdrop. The hideous logo adopted by Springdale a while back openly mocked me as I did, its alien crisscross of bizarre tic-tac-toe still reminding me that there is no accounting for taste. (Note: Springdale has done an amazing job these last few years, one worthy of frequent mention. The logo, however, is as inspirational as getting one’s face spritzed by underarm perspiration on a languid summer day.)

So far, each time I’ve chosen to walk somewhere different, I’ve found a little corner of Springdale that had been concealed to me. I appreciate all these people working to make these new places for me.

Another Great Wisteria Lane Weekend


By some miracle, our favorite cabin was available this weekend. Two of our f̶a̶i̶r̶y̶ ̶g̶o̶d̶m̶o̶t̶h̶e̶r̶s̶  friends surprised my wife Dawn and me a while ago with a free weekend at Wisteria. (It’s north of both Eureka Springs and Holiday Island.)

While we were hoping for a rainy deluge similar to the last visit, we somehow managed to make a great weekend out of it without much rain. For anyone who hasn’t experienced the quiet serenity of no phone, no internet, no visitors, and no people, it’s not what you would imagine; it’s better. I’ve written before about sitting on the porch swing at the edge of the forest with no one nearby. Not only can you recite Klingon poetry without being interrupted (unless the squirrels start criticizing), but you can sing Bavarian folk songs on the roof if you want to.

During this visit, we investigated such questions as, “Should squirrels eat that much butter?” and “How much meat should a lazy vegetarian actually consume?”

For the friends who gave us the gift of a weekend away, I’d like to say “thanks” again. I’d also like to let you know that I’m available for an entire month of the same at some future point -if you are willing.

Civilization sounds like a truckload of banging pots and pans after being in the middle of nothing for a couple of days. PS: The other advantage is that I didn’t have to see or hear any politician’s names during my foray into the wilderness.

We were surprised when we found out there were open reservations this weekend, so close to the 4th of July. I’m so happy we followed through and checked. We had another great weekend at Wisteria.


One of the nefarious squirrels is in the middle of this picture, perched vertically along the trunk. I think he’s waiting for more butter and bread offerings.

1 porch

(Cabin #4, the edge of the forest, the best of them all…)



(Trying hard to act normal in this picture…)




Wisteria Lane Lodging Main Website


A Surprise


As a follow-up to part of my post from yesterday, I returned to the scene of the crime at Fisherman’s Wharf in Hot Springs. As is the case in some many restaurant experiences, the waiter made the difference last night. I didn’t catch his name, which is unusual for me to forget to do, but he reminds me of Ben Mendelsohn and Ray Romano merged. I’m not sure how many miles he walked, but rarely have I seen so much hustle in a person. After our meal, I got a good glimpse of who I imagine he is as a person. A younger mom was at the railing with her two children, watching the ducks troll for morsels. Our table’s waiter went and procured a massive handful of crackers and a bit of some kind of fruit for the birds. Meanwhile, I handed the mom all my change so that she could use the feed dispenser along the rail for duck food. (I normally avoid having any change on me, as I tend to fling it a mile in the air as I walk across a random parking lot, much to my wife’s continued chagrin.) The waiter then topped my gesture by running to get the young daughter a side dish bowl to use to collect the duck feed as it poured from the dispensing machine. We laughed at each other’s kindness.


The waiter also had some type of facial tic with his eyes, one that was difficult to avoid noticing. To my surprise, I recognized him somehow – and knew he had a facial tic before I even knew he was our waiter. It was the weirdest strike of déjà vu, so unusual that I commented to Dawn when he walked up. About 30 minutes later, another man walked past and I said he was the assistant manager and that his nickname was “Beds Are Burning,” after the Midnight Oil video so many years ago. It turned out I was correct about that, too. (To be fair, the assistant manager looked like he had just been told that someone set his bed on fire.) I’m sure you’ve had déjà vu before, which can be disconcerting – but it has been a long, long time since I’ve two bouts of it in the same day, much less so closely together. If a third bout had struck me, I would have jumped over the railing on the restaurant deck and into the lake just to escape the Matrix forming around me.

I have to admit that last night’s revisit to Fisherman’s Wharf was a pleasant surprise, one that accentuates the “hit-and-miss” aspect of this great location. It’s located directly along Lake Hamilton and if you so choose, you can sit on the outside covered deck extending across the water. This time, we were lucky enough to sit along the end that featured several large fans. Granted, the fans created more volume, but we were already animatedly chirping like excited magpies. (Also, it created problems with peppering one’s food, or sprinkling powdered sugar on one’s sweet potato fries.) When we went out on the deck, I immediately picked the ideal spot to prevent melting while dining – and it paid off.

For location, it is difficult to beat the ambiance of this place as the sun begins to drop below the horizon. The boats slow, drifting past and as staff turns on the dim overhead lighting, you can feel the mood shift down a notch or two. It’s a great environment to enjoy a meal, talk to friends, or arrange a mafia hit.

I’m not a seafood fan but at least Fisherman’s Wharf has a large enough menu to offer everyone a decent choice. My meal consisted entirely of side items and about 15 accumulated dipping sauces. They were all delicious this time, especially the baby potatoes. In regards to my own food, it was perfect.

Even though it darn near killed me to do so, I went to TripAdvisor and did another review, this time under my own name, and gave them four stars. (If this had been my very first trip, I would have given them five stars.) I also sang the praises of the waiter, as he deserves a pat on the back. It is such a pleasant surprise to be rewarded for going against one’s own instincts and trying a place again. My previous visit was truly a textbook example of everything to avoid doing as a business. However, the waiter redeemed it, along with the fans and great conversation.

No one threw me over the railing and no fights broke out over who was going to eat the crackers – which was a real possibility during my previous visit. It was a good night, and the experience reminds me to try places again if enough time has passed since I’ve had a terrible experience.

All commentary aside, though, the chance to banter with smart, creative people marks these occasions. I would be just as satisfied with a slice of pizza and a soda, as long as I’m also provided a megaphone to ensure that I get a word in edgewise.



PS: One of my annual traditions is to draw massive artworks on the paper-lined cafeteria tables at the conference. Yesterday, staff rolled it all up before I had enough time to decorate it. (In a clear violation of the Geneva Convention.)  So, I made do with what I had available and thus made a literal house of cards to beautify the lonely table.


Hot Springs: Fork You


Hot Springs is a town of aromas. While the tourism board would like to entice you with outdoorsy scenes of frolicking on the lake, the reality is that this town is one which holds its center due to the eateries. Forget the “National Park” logos; this place is a silhouette of a grill, surrounded by 2,000 forks trying to get inside of it. If you are trying to avoid eating like a newly-awakened 15-year coma victim, this place is not for you. Even the ambulances yield to people trying to make turns into the parking lots of the local places to eat.

Last night, people who for some reason like me invited me along for a culinary trip to the Back Porch Grill, a steakhouse on the lakeside. I, of course, balked at eating meat as I usually do and instead had delicious grilled asparagus, salad, baked potato, vegetables, and a napkin. I ate the napkin by mistake, as I thought it was some sort of crépe. I also had some avocado quarter fries, which are cardiac-event starter packs, if you’ve never had them.

Earlier today, I parked the car a couple of miles from where I’m staying and walked. Yes, there are ‘better’ places to walk recreationally, but my old habits often flare up and insist that I do some urban walking. Being in another place allows me to stroll through as if I’m a traveling dignitary, one whose mission it is to see as much as possible while not feeling self-conscious. Walking a trail might connect you to nature, but walking the streets gives you a window into the place you’re visiting. And, instead of bears, you might be accosted. Being the keen mind that I am, instead of walking when it was cooler, I instead waited for clearer skies to ensure that my head might catch on fire. (It’s a fact that the sun is at least a million miles closer to Earth here in this part of the state.)

It’s difficult to walk and focus when you’re distracted by almost visible waves of cooking aromas. If I were a food critic, I’d say my review would be this: “There’s too much of it.”

Within a block of where I parked, I could count 20 places to eat, ranging from Colton’s, BBQ, pupusas and Southern-Style. (PS: ‘Southern-Style’ simply means it’s been murdered with oil and/or suffocated in gravy, much like my arteries.)

When I walked past some older apartments, a man sitting on the stoop near the street raised his hand and offered a bit of wit about the heat. I, of course, asked him, “Are you saying I’m whiter than a set of bed sheets and will burn like my mom’s toast or are you saying I’m too old to be doddering around?” He laughed and slapped his thigh. He asked, “What’cha listening to?” and pointed to my headphones. “Il Volo,” I said and he nodded his head as if he had just seen the group live in concert in Amsterdam. “Keep your head cool,” he told me, as I walked away. I’m not sure if he meant for me to be cautious about the heat or adopt a lighter philosophical touch in life; one never knows in these situations.

When I doubled back to intersect with the main road near Oaklawn, a couple arguing in Spanish approached me from the other direction. I turned down my headphone volume to hear them. In an argument as old as time, they were arguing about where to go eat, with the woman objecting to walking so far when there was BBQ just five minutes away. To them, I was invisible. As we drew close, in Spanish I said, “Colton’s has BBQ and what he wants.” The woman’s eyes widened and she said, “¿Qué dice?” (“What?”) So, I stopped long enough to point them toward Colton’s, where they could both eat exactly what they wanted without walking two more miles. I felt like a tourism guide at that point. (A nosey one, too.) I’m sure they reminded themselves to not assume they couldn’t be understood, even if it was some white-legged guy wandering the streets who might be eavesdropping.

While I was ambling about the town, I received a couple of texts, informing me that we were scheduled to dine at Fisherman’s Wharf again. When my wife texted to tell me, all I could think of to reply was, “Til death do us part.”

I have life insurance where I work, so death while eating wouldn’t be a terrible way to go. In fact, I’d agree that it’s likely.

My initial reaction when I read the words, “We’re eating at Fisherman’s Wharf tonight” was one of shock. I felt exactly like a fallen soldier from the Battle of Gettysburg might feel if he were resurrected and forced to relive and die on the bloody battlefield. I decided the analogy was unfair, as the soldier at least would have been armed. It would be awkward for me to start shooting the lights and windows out at a restaurant for bad service or food. Entertaining, too – just illegal.

For me, it’s more about the banter and interaction than it is the food at group meals. Large groups tend to take longer than trimming Methuselah’s toenails and the truth that food and service vary wildly. I’m glad just to be included. Everyone who knows me also knows that I simply can’t get bored, not even when the place I’m eating at is willfully trying to poison me or get me to run from the establishment in tears. There are times, though, when we need to be able to go out and dine and throw penalty red flags at the waiters and or managers at restaurants. Trying to get 3 people fed is a Ninja Warrior Challenge; with 20 or more, it would be easier to shoot them all and hide the bodies.

It’s weird how people will stand over their sinks and eat raw hot dogs for supper but insist on spending 12 minutes discussing the subtlest differences in dressings for their organic Hungarian carrot casserole appetizer. (This is the “Nathan Rule” of eating, by the way.)

My last visit to Fisherman’s Wharf was so epic that I followed up on the visit with an Iliad-length review, one which I published under a pseudonym. It’s a good thing, too, because it literally started an internet war on Zomato (Urbanspoon) and another review site. This pleased me to no end, I must admit. When we went to eat there, the meal took so long that I established residency in 7 other states just waiting to finish it. Also, I invented a new time measurement standard: the FW. I packed so many jokes into that review that I thought Netflix was going to pick it up as a series. When we left the restaurant, it had taken so long that I quipped to the staff that I needed to see a breakfast menu. In short, that visit was the de facto standard for “terrible,” if terrible could be defined as “being tortured while both angry and amused.”

By the way, the restaurant is on a scenic arm of the lake. It’s beautiful. But beware. Most people eat outside on the deck, with “outside” being the key word. Hot Springs can be hotter than a Republican fact-checker at a debate. I speculate that even though it’s outside, the staff has a secret thermostat for the areas where large groups congregate to dine. They get irritated if you jump off the railing and into the lake, no matter how much you start sweating. They get really irritated if you throw them into the lake. That waiter Pete is still mad at me to this day.

For a few years, all of us have amusedly laughed at Fisherman’s Wharf for our last experience, if only because we weren’t allowed to purchase the business and bulldoze it in frustration. It’s located on the lake and could be one of the best places to eat in the state of Arkansas. It should be, but a commitment to quality is much more difficult to maintain, especially when available staff seems better suited to watch Mystery Science Theater 3000 than dealing with hungry miscreants like me.

So, in a town which memorializes great food, I’m going to instead return to the gastronomical scene of the crime and revisit my sins. While I’m optimistic that everything will be different, I can’t shake the foreboding that the Book of Life might be open there, awaiting my presence to inflict a new level of torment upon me. Perhaps I will get “time served” credits for being willing to return? I did try to arrange a revisit last year but was slapped and thrown into the trunk of an abandoned 1972 Dodge Dart just for daring to bring it up. Nevertheless, some anonymous sadomasochist decided for us all this year. I also can’t shake the idea that each time we visit this restaurant that we aren’t part of either a prank tv show or one of the reality cooking shows where the guests are fed pig testicles and sprayed with goat urine – and not the expensive brand of goal urine, either.

Joking aside, I would love to be proven wrong and have the best meal possible. If not, I’m taking my snorkel mask with me.

PS: ‘Concealed Carry’ in these scenarios means you have a bag of snacks hidden in your purse, even if you are a man. It would be embarrassing to die of starvation at a restaurant, don’t you think?

A Totally Untrue But Probable Story


A quick creative home and garden story to brighten your day…

Last week, my friend Marilyn drove all the way from Oregon to Springdale, Arkansas to attend a h̶o̶t̶b̶e̶d̶ ̶o̶f̶ ̶c̶r̶a̶z̶i̶n̶e̶s̶s̶ work reunion for Springdale Hospital. (Oregon is allegedly a ‘state’ of the United States, although this information cannot be confirmed.)

Also, if it is so great there I can’t imagine why she’d leave, even for a vacation. 🙂

On the way back, a snowstorm stopped her cold in Wyoming. Marilyn became so enamored of the frigid temperatures and snow that she’s decided she doesn’t need a house or living room any longer – she’s going to take the idea of an outdoor space to a new level. Naysayers will warn that it’s dangerous to live outdoors or that it’s even more unsafe to reside in an ice-covered intersection. Marilyn didn’t get to her age without considerable risk to life and limb, which explains how she survived working with the crazy folks from the Springdale Hospital.

According to sources, it is possible that she will literally be stuck in Wyoming until August 2017. If you have dinner reservations with her, you should either cancel them or take a snowmobile to meet her there.

As you can see by the signs to both her left and right in this picture, her new space is conveniently located near parking lots, which will satisfy the exacting vehicular requirements of her husband, Larry.

Please wish her well in her new living space.

Hogeye Marathon and Water Balloon Extravaganza

The Hogeye Marathon is today in Springdale. Last year’s male winner ran the 26-mile course in 2 hours and 59 minutes – which is great, considering that I hit him with 4 water balloons along the route. (He can run fast but a car always wins.) I almost got into real trouble until I pointed out that they shouldn’t issue ID numbers for the runners, who conveniently place them on their chests for us to pick them out of the crowd. Since the marathon is passing extremely near my house this year as it runs along Friendship Road, I thought it might be amusing to move the route one block the wrong direction. (My idea to place winner’s tape across the route at each mile marker also failed to earn any accolades.)

One tradition I’m definitely doing again this year is dressing like a runner and going out to do the post-interviews that local TV stations insist on doing. It usually takes them a couple of minutes to realize that I didn’t actually compete in the race – most often about the same time they look at my stomach fighting to stay confined in spandex shorts. One of these days I’m going to make it onto the news, because you can only show the same clichés a few hundred times until they become stale. “A marathon is a race against oneself,” and “Running is a lifestyle” sound great, just like “Ice, Ice Baby” until your ears start bleeding from repetition.

“Running is a mental sport and you’d have to be mental to run a marathon.” This was the motto I submitted to the Hogeye team this year. Instead of using it, I got a cease-and-desist letter, wrapped around a brick, tossed through the living room window. They didn’t even consider the new logo I proposed: a chalk outline of a body on the sidewalk.

The Hogeye Marathon is supposedly a boon for local tourism and since it moved from Fayetteville to Springdale this year, I hope this is true. Most of the folks on the east side of town only see people running when a large animal is chasing them; I’m afraid they’ll wrongly assume that some sort of apocalyptic event is underway if they see a mass of white people running through the streets.

I used to run when I was younger and I appreciate the stamina needed to run 26 miles. Please keep that in mind if the water balloons start flying this morning. The flyer says to ‘stay hydrated,’ and it should have been more specific as to the methodology.

Springdale did well in snagging this event and I hope everyone has as much fun as possible while they are out there demonstrating a strong masochistic tendency.

Runner’s Video

Another Great Trip to Wisteria Lane

Isn’t it crazy that Dawn trusts me to cook, much less to grill? I’m the worst cook with the most enthusiasm you’ll ever meet. I suppose the lesson learned is that as long as no one literally dies from my cooking, I can be trusted to continue doing it. Edit: I was doing my best to have a horrible duckface in effect when the picture was taken.
A quip I left to let the owners know I broke a glass. I can only assume they knew I was joking about juggling the glassware.
For my friend, who knows who he is, who just LOVES these clichés.
Dawn is writing some sort of propaganda regarding my culinary skills. Weirdly enough, it was a comment of praise, which proves that clean air makes even normal people go crazy sometimes.


This is the most normal picture I could manage.
PS: sometimes I secretly joke that I’m going to switch this stained glass window with something totally crazy, just to see how long it might take for the hosts to notice I’ve done so.
Sunday morning early, after surviving a rain-filled Friday and Saturday. Few views are more relaxing than that which one experiences from this porch and swing at the edge of the trees.


This is the tree I traversed, wondering if I was going to hear a huge ‘crack’ as I plummeted to the water below. Assuming I would not have been impaled on the broken trunk, it would have been a hilariously good story.

My wife and I spent the last couple of days at our favorite cabins at Wisteria Lane. Much to our delight, the impending torrential rains waited until our arrival to unleash. Most people prefer the serenity of calm weather, but not us. There is no better place to be when the rain falls and the creek roars below the expansive front deck, adorned with the grill and porch swing.

The creek below our cabin rose as high as I’ve ever seen it, re-routing the bottom of the valley, with the creek widening to 25 feet at one point. I didn’t get any pictures of the stream at its widest, as the winds were howling and the rain was blowing up and down, in and out, and washing anything which ventured outside far enough to see it. But the volume was a delight to fall asleep to.

The next morning, I of course ventured out into the mess wearing flip-flops. I even climbed onto the fallen tree over the receding creek and traversed it. Dawn, of course, was playing different versions of “What Could Possibly Go Wrong,” in her mind while I was enjoying the frigid water turning my toes into little icicles. I managed to turn over an older tree without falling in the water.

My wife, being female, wasn’t keen on having her picture taken 47 times, but she took mine at least that many. I didn’t care how I looked, being intent on setting a new world record for eating “all the things” in the cabin. I failed in that quest but succeeded in enjoying being in the midst of nothing. Dawn, who usually ignores my crazy notes on the cabin’s welcome board, joined in a little this time, while I made all manner of quips, including one for my friend who hates the phrase, “at the end of the day.”

At the end of this day, though, I can only hope that most of you enjoyed a time comparable to the one I had this weekend.