Edie hiking to eagle viewing spot (Warner Shedd photo)

No, we aren’t entering our second childhood, nor do we expect you to start working on Boy Scout merit badges! We’re talking about the real thing – looking for those magnificent birds that are our national symbol. If you’ve ever seen a bald eagle in person, you know it’s an experience you won’t soon forget.

So it was during a vacation to Prince Edward Island (PEI) in June that we went looking for bald eagles and adventures for seniors. We discovered that there would be plenty of both on PEI, which is decribed as a magical place by everyone we know who has been there.  Yes, we’re aware that we headed to another country to see our national bird, but they’re allowed to take vacations in Canada as much as we are!

We left the mainland and crossed the eight-mile-long Confederation Bridge one morning, driving over what is considered one of Canada’s great engineering and construction feats.  It’s almost worth the trip just to cross it; it’s truly impressive!  Then we turned northeast in order to visit The Cheese Lady’s, where utterly delicious Gouda cheese is made (let’s face it, there’s no escaping good food when we go to Canada; it’s a trial, but we persevere). The Cheese Lady and her helpers sell many different Goudas, some flavored with various herbs and others aged for different lengths of time. We bought three different goudas to sample (splitting the cost between us so that it would be a true “Dutch treat”), and we can tell you it was money well spent!

Then we headed for Mount Stewart where, every year in June, bald eagles gather on Hillsborough Heritage River to feed on the annual run of alewives.  Apparently, it’s not just people (like us!) who “road trip” to Canada for the food.  For the record, alewives have nothing to do with either brewed beverages, spouses, or even spouses who have consumed brewed beverages. They’re a kind of fish, very abundant and, apparently, very tasty to eagles (which are a kind of fish hawk). The town, however, ignores the alewives and simply calls it an annual Bald Eagle Festival with events galore and opportunities to watch the eagles and learn about the Canadian Maritimes ancient cultures.

Because we are confirmed eagle scouts — they are one of our favorite excuses to go exploring — we drove past the Hillsborough River Eco-Centre in Mount Stewart, across a little bridge, and then parked just off a road named Pigot’s Trail that led through fields and along woods beside a lake.  Armed with binoculars and rain jackets, we hiked about a half mile on a wide and flat trail to an eagle observation area. The walking was easy and along the way we stopped to watch a highly trained Labrador retriever perform; it was fascinating to watch him respond to a variety of hand signals and voice commands — especially when he had to retrieve two widely spaced dummies (no, not us…REAL dummies). Then it was on to see the eagles.

Closeup of mature bald eagle. (Ellen Shedd photo)

Soon we came to a side trail, apparently without a name, that turned left and led out onto a long point. In our estimation, it was the best bald eagle observation spot because it juts farther out into the lake than the rest of the shoreline and provides almost a 270 degree view. When we reached the viewing area, we were very glad to have our rain jackets, for the wind was blowing a near gale, and the temperature was somewhere in the upper 40s!  Raingear does great double duty as a windbreaker, luckily for us. We didn’t mind, however, because we tolerate cold far better than hot weather and the wind kept the hordes of mosquitoes that normally infest the area at bay.  At the end of the point we met a man with a spotting scope, and he pointed out some of the regal birds that we might not have seen otherwise.  If you’ve got the extra funds and space in your backpack, a spotting scope can be a great addition to your binoculars; after this experience, we may look into one for ourselves!

We immediately began to see bald eagles, both mature, with their snowy white heads and tails, and the brown or mottled brown immatures. Rest assured, one does not have to be a dedicated birder to appreciate these magnificent creatures. Huge and impressive, they are a feast for the eyes! We hoped we’d see something spectacular, like watching them catching large fish and soaring away with them, but no such luck. Still, we got to watch two adult eagles sitting in the tall grass with a couple of immature eagles. The latter, judging by their solid brown color, were evidently fledglings testing their wings. Half-hidden in the tall grass, they would periodically flap their wings, fly up for a short distance, and then land again in the tall grass. Mom and dad eagle didn’t seem to be mightily impressed with the kids’ efforts, but they were fun for us to watch!

As a bonus, we saw quantities of great blue herons, which are almost as impressive as the eagles.   There’s something prehistoric about them…they almost look as if they could be flying dinosaurs with their long beaks and long legs trailing behind them. At one point we saw five of these great birds flying close together overhead like the Blue Angels! We ended up with a total of 12 spotted on this trip.

There were lots of smaller birds, too. We saw ruddy ducks, ringneck ducks, and flocks of red-winged blackbirds. We could also hear a variety of smaller birds in the alders along the trail and in the woods as we walked back out to the car. Unfortunately, our identification of bird calls is somewhat sketchy, and we could never see the birds, so they remained unidentified. Clearly, though, if you want to take the time, there are lots of birds to be seen; you may want to take a folding chair when you go so that you can relax, enjoy, and expand your life list!

Both mature and immature bald eagles. (Ellen Shedd photo)

Following this adventure, we stopped in St. Peters for lunch at Rick’s Fish and Chips. We were treated to a huge and absolutely delectable meal of the famous PEI mussels, raised at a mussel farm just across the highway from Rick’s. We can’t recommend these mussels highly enough; they’re a rare treat. On the other hand, forget the fried clams on PEI. While not the fault of  Rick’s (the batter was outstanding and the clams were perfectly cooked), visitors who spend a great deal of time on PEI confirmed that clams there are flavorless when compared to Maine clams. Stick with the mussels, and when you leave PEI, head south to Maine for  real fried clams!

Finally, it was on to our oceanside rental, happy with our eagle and heron sightings. We arrived in the mood for more adventures, which we knew we could find in abundance on Prince Edward Island. Our next adventure includes a trip to see the dunes in the Greenwich section of the PEI National Park. 

We should also mention the Confederation Trail, which follows an old railroad bed spanning PEI. There are side trail entrances to this trail, with two of them located in Mount Stewart.  The Confederation Trail offers many fine opportunities for both hiking and biking. A good source of information is the Visitor’s Guide, available at www.tourismpei.com or phone toll free at 1-800-463-4PEI.

If you go:
If you travel to PEI and go out to the prime eagle observation area, be sure to take a windbreaker and plenty of insect protection like a Thermacell, InsectShield clothing, or even a full mesh bug suit, as well as a high DEET insect repellent. If the wind is blowing hard, and the weather is cold, you’ll be glad of the windbreaker. If it’s still, or there’s only a light breeze, the bug protection is vital to ward off the hordes of fierce mosquitoes; without protection, the mosquitoes may carry you up and away until you find yourself flying with the eagles – until the skeeters have drained all your blood, that is!  Take some snacks and something to drink; if you find yourself surrounded by eagles, you won’t want to leave because of a growling stomach.

The CAT ferry service out of Portland Maine brought Nova Scotia close enough to bike to. Bringing your bike on board was easy, and much cheaper than taking a car. (Tim Jones photo)

Ferry boats and bicycles combine to make a GREAT Active Outdoors getaway as we’ve discovered on Martha’s Vineyard, Nantucket, and Cape Cod. Our first such adventure happened back in 2007:

The people in their cars looked like they felt sorry for us as we waited with our tandem-bike-and-BOB trailer in the pouring rain to board the high-speed CAT ferry in Yarmouth, Nova Scotia. We were headed back to Portland, Maine following a much-too-short visit. It hadn’t rained the whole time we were in Nova Scotia. It hadn’t even rained most of the time. It had just poured whenever we were out riding our bike. So what? We went riding anyway and felt sorry for the people who let the rain spoil their fun. It had  been raining constantly before our trip – enough to shatter monthly rainfall records and flood the hardest-hit spots. Rain like this could keep you indoors – or not..

The weather reports looked truly horrible as we left Portland. We could have cancelled our getaway, but why? We cleared Canadian customs quickly in the gloom of a misty, foggy evening, and pedaled the mostly-level two miles to Harbour’s Edge,  a perfectly marvelous Bed & Breakfast in a restored mansion overlooking the water. Our plan was to leave the trailer with our luggage at the B&B for two nights and explore the Yarmouth area by bike.

Even in the rain and fog the Yarmouth Lighthouse at Cape Forchu is a welcoming sight. Decommissioned in 2001, the light is now a museum and historical site, and a beautiful 10-mile bike ride from the ferry terminal in Yarmouth. (Tim Jones photo)

The next morning, as we ate a huge, absolutely delicious breakfast in the parlor overlooking the water, a squall blew in. Watching the rain cascading against the windows and tree-branches dancing wildly, we lingered over tea and coffee. By the time we’d donned our raingear, the winds had calmed and the rain had slackened a bit.

We started with a loop through the village of Yarmouth – looking for places to explore later. Then we headed out of town for a ten-mile ride out to the historic Yarmouth Lighthouse at Cape Forchu.

This southern tip of Nova Scotia is perfect bicycle country. Most roads have relatively little traffic and small hills. The coastline is uneven so each turn of the road offers new, often sweeping views of the harbour, the sea, and the coastal marshes. We saw deserted beaches, lobster boats tied up at wharves. The roadsides were lined with lupines and beach roses in full bloom. Even in the rain the views were spectacular, and the pace of a bike gave us time to enjoy them.

We saw the sea, we saw the boats going by, the only thing we didn’t see on our bike trek to Nova Scotia was the blue sky. Didn’t matter. We had a wonderful time riding in the rain.(Yarmouthonline photo)

By the time we reached the lighthouse, it was raining hard again. So we ducked inside for a museum tour and a tasty lunch (try the lobster sandwich and Patricia’s pumpkin chocolate-chip muffins for dessert) in the tearoom. When we came out again, it was raining even harder, so we pedaled a looping route back into town, explored the local visitors center and a wonderful used book shop before heading back to the B&B. There, we showered, warmed up and dried out before walking back to town on a pleasantly dry evening (how unusual—if we’d taken the bike it would have rained) for a great dinner (Digby scallops!) at the lively Rudders Seafood Restaurant and Brewpub .

The next morning we rode our bike in another downpour back to the ferry. In total, we’d biked about 25 soggy miles—just enough to justify some of the great food we ate. If we’d taken our car across instead of the bike, we’d have spent a lot more money, seen more miles of road—but not as well—and we’d have probably gained weight. So what if it rained?

Here in the northeast, we’re being forced to learn the lessons that our Active Outdoors cousins learned long ago in the Pacific Northwest: Enjoy sunshine whenever you get it, but don’t expect it. Rain is the new norm. Life isn’t a (dry) spectator sport. Get out, get wet, and enjoy!

Rain Riding

Look on the bright side! You don’t have to worry about sunburn, sunstroke or dry skin while riding in the rain!

A high-quality waterproof, breathable rainsuit is pretty much essential if you’re out for a day on a bicycle. If the jacket has a hood to wear under your helmet and the pants legs zip closed to keep them out of your bike chain, so much the better.

For safety’s sake, you definitely want to be seen through the rain and gloom. Our tandem is outfitted with super-bright LED head and tail lamps by Princeton Tec . These lights shine long and bright on regular batteries.

Even for short trips you want to carry your wallet, a camera, possibly a cell phone, and a few other essentials including of course, the all important maps all dry and safe. After lots of looking, I found a “Tour Guide” handlebar bag from Topeak that snaps off the bike for use as a shoulder bag, and has a fully fitted rain cover. Topeak also makes cool biking tools, pumps and other necessities.

Arriving at your lodging with wet gear wouldn’t be any fun at all. We saw other bikers using all kinds of improvised stuff to keep their gear dry, including trash bags inside ordinary stuff sacks and bike bags and panniers. We put all of our gear in a dry bags in our BOB trailer, which we also use for going to the grocery store back home. The trailer pulls along with little additional effort. Worked perfectly. If we’d had more time, we could easily have explored Inn-to-Inn traveling 30 miles or more a day.

Nearby Nova Scotia

We pedaled this same road and saw these same boats, but the blue sky was nowhere to be seen on our visit. (Yarmouthonline photo)

Sadly, the  CAT ferry service from Maine to Nova Scotia was suspended in 2009, so you  have to drive all the way out to St. John, New Brunswick to  cross to Digby,Nova Scotia.

Still, it’s worth it. A bike is the perfect way to explore southwest coast of Nova Scotia. Rain or shine, I could easily imagine spending a week or two here enjoying great biking, good food, uncrowded beaches and wonderful people.

Let’s hope the ferry service comes back soon!

If you want to read this Ozarks story in its chonological progression, Part 1 begins with our initial impressions of Arkansas and first  hikes in ‘The Natural State”; and Part 2 explains how the Ozarks got their name, finding good eats, a great man who made peanuts famous, and hikes that lay out before you the geology of the Ozarks region and the great Arkansas River.

Chapter Five: Guilt and The Buffalo National River

Looking up a stacked bluff on the Lost Valley Walk, representative of rock formations along the Buffalo River. (Barbara Thomke photo)

I have a confession: I made a big mistake. Initially the focus of our Arkansas trip was to be the Buffalo National River – a preserve of a free-flowing stream void of dams, an escapee from civilization.  But. . . when I made the condo reservations I hadn’t considered distances carefully enough.  Sure, the Buffalo River has tons of hiking trails, canoeable sections, and scenic landscape formations, but the round trip from our lodgings would require more travel time than we could comfortably afford in a day and still be able to hike or paddle.  Aargh!

What to do?  We decided to keep the rooming arrangements and  corral our range of interests to points closer to our base, which didn’t turn out badly as you’ve learned from reading about all the fun hikes and adventures we uncovered.  But still, we were drawn to see this river, and so one day we ventured to the section closest to our vacation home, Lost Valley.

We picked a sunny, warm day and set out early for the Lost Valley Trail.  At the trailhead located within a campground, we parked and suited up for the two mile easy-moderate rated hike. We swung sure-footed along the level trace next to the creek, which was  flowing in sections and dry in others (remember the tricky streams from chapter two?) and soon came upon Eden Falls. It was a pretty spot and we skirted around the edge of the pool to avoid getting wet and to obtain a view of the natural bridge.

Jonathan hopping rocks in front of the Natural Bridge at Eden Falls on the Lost Valley Walk. (Barbara Thomke photo)

After the brief respite at the falls I pressed my hands to my knees to aid my leg muscles in the high-stepping required for the climb up to the cave. Just a few feet opposite a trail marker we found an Arkansas wonder staring at us. . . a large snake. It was coiled on a flat stone and looked an awful lot like a rattler. We examined this creature from a respectful distance and took his picture.  “Nice boy,” we cooed, and slunk away on tippy toes. Thankfully, Mr. R. didn’t budge.

After that encounter I was a little unnerved and found myself looking alertly everywhere for dangerous reptiles. But my mind soon got tired of that game and gave it up.

Now eager to enter the cave and find the large room with the 35-foot-tall waterfall inside as mentioned in the notice on the trailhead bulletin board, we climbed on until we reached the opening. We resorted to all-fours to negotiate the slippery rocks.  When our eyes grew accustomed to the darkness we helped each other edge our way inside sharing our single mini-flashlight beam that one of us had luckily brought along in a backpack. That old hauntress Claustrophobia was getting her grip on me as we approached a narrowing that looked cramped and leading to nowhere.  “I think this is far enough,” announced Peggy, at the head of the pack, and I breathed a deep sigh of relief.  We turned around and crept back out the 100 feet to the entrance.  Just entering were three teenage boys dressed in shorts and flip-flops swiftly moving forward,  sure-footed and confident.  Peggy and I looked at each other in wonder. “Youth and big flashlights,” Peggy announced with a grin.

In the afternoon we explored more of this verdant valley by driving along the Buffalo River to the burg of Ponca. A bit further along, in Compton, after consulting with the post mistress for directions to the trailhead, we added another peaceful two-miler called Hideout Hollow to our growing repertoire of Ozark hikes.  It led to a stream and waterfall cascading over flat sheets of ledge.  It would have been a perfect place to spread out our picnic if we hadn’t already eaten at the campgrounds. I was liking these two- and three-mile jaunts to waterfalls, vistas, caves – they held your interest and let you get a feel for the area and its biological diversity before you tired out and stopped caring.

Before exiting Boxley Valley we stopped for a cold drink at one of the rafting outfitters.  It was too early in the season to float the river, but the brochures and maps we picked up made us long for the opportunity. “This would be a great place to come back to in the fall,” Jonathan remarked, eyeing the gorgeous pictures in the Buffalo National River Official Map and Guide of canoeists negotiating the river with bluffs towering over them and elk grazing in a meadow surrounded by colorful autumn trees.  “We could rent a cabin right on the river, paddle the rapids, watch the elk come down to water. . .”  There was a hum of agreement from the rest of us.

The Last Chapter: Hikes and Soaks at Hot Springs National Park

A week had passed; time to leave Bella Vista.  We departed in a downpour early on a Saturday morning for Ft. Smith National Historic Site that was on our route south to Hot Springs. When we were ready to stop for lunch, we had reached the fort at Arkansas’ western border with Oklahoma and the sun was shining. Fortuitous!

Teenage outlaws in the Wild West, Cattle Annie and Little Britches, applied themselves to horse stealing and whiskey trading in the Indian Territories in the early 1800s.

This was the place I had wanted to see where pioneers had launched themselves West and where lawlessness abounded. The first Fort Smith was built in 1817 at the junction of the Poteau and Arkansas rivers; it was later abandoned, re-built, changed. During its last incarnation the fort became the location of the Federal Court for the Western District of Arkansas which handled criminal jurisdiction over the Indian Territory as well as western Arkansas. A famous and fair judge, Isaac C. Parker, presided over the court for 21 years!

My favorite part of the exhibit was the story of Cattle Annie and Little Britches, teenage girls who wore men’s pants, rode their horses astride, carried rifles and married into the local bandit gang. During the day they did domestic work in town and by night they rustled horses and traded whiskey with the Indians. They were wanted by The Law. After two years of banditry the young women were finally caught by marshals and sentenced to attend Reform School (jail for women). Their history after that is murky, but probably their lives weren’t dull!

Now it was on to Hot Springs where we would spend the next day, Sunday, before returning the rental car and catching our early Monday flights.  But wait!  Peggy had researched a hike for us in the Ouachita National Forest the previous night on the laptop.  Whoo hoo!  The trail was right on our drive to Hot Springs and we found it easily.  A couple of families were enjoying the afternoon sun, playing frisbee on the campground lawn and cooking hot dogs. It had gotten warm. We headed gently uphill on the Big Brushy footpath.

This turned into our longest hike in Arkansas, six miles.  We just kept going and going, adding several miles to the original Big Brushy because we felt so fit and the afternoon was so sunny and breezy. We could see the clouds scudding by overhead through the trees, and we caught glimpses of the surrounding hills from breaks in the canopy.  My companions took advantage of the clear footing by giving their long limbs full stretch. There was a kind of group energy moving us forward through the forest.  When we did stop to munch on apples and granola bars there was some talk about adding yet more length to the hike, but I nixed the idea. I knew I would fall prey to Mr. Low Blood Sugar and his partner, Ms. Lack Energy because I hadn’t brought enough food along to stoke my engine.  My companions didn’t mind. . . too much. . . and so we reached our car by five o’clock.

For the first time since we’d arrived in Bella Vista we put away the paper map and programmed the hotel address into TomTom (our GPS).  He guided us directly over the 55 miles to the Park Hotel on Fountain Street in just under forty-five minutes. Our hotel rooms were a modest suite, clean and priced very reasonably for our one night stay.  We showered and opted to eat at the hotel restaurant, happy for the convenience and proximity to bed!  However, we didn’t say goodnight before our ritual tableside questions were answered and plan-maiking for the next day was completed.

Peggy, Jonathan, Barbara and Bob posing at the Grand Promenade in Hot Springs National Park. (Barbara Thomke photo)

We arose early to bright sunlight and walked the couple of blocks down Bathhouse Row to one of the prominent old bathing places.  The Buckstaff is the only spa that has been in continuous operation since it opened in 1912.  It still provides the elaborate bath ritual in a traditional setting, and we were intent on trying it out! We laid down our $55 each.  Bob and Jonathan were led away to the men’s section for treatments while Peggy and I rode the old operator-controlled elevator up to the next floor where we were escorted into a changing room.  We left our modern clothes and shoes in a locker. An attendant draped each of us in a sheet and when we saw one another we giggled at our images: two women in Greek togas!  Then we were whisked away to the treatment routine:  a 20 minute soak in a whirlpool tub with loofah scrub (think claw footed bathtub with an eggbeater swishing the water around near your feet); a ten minute sitzbath that is supposed to relieve low back pain; five minutes in the steam cabinet which I called the ‘cooker’ because your body was encased in steam but your head was sticking out; 15 minutes for a lie down on a a chaise lounge with towels heated by the hot springs wrapped around your feet, shoulders, and any other places on your body that you requested; five minutes in a needle shower (this was my least favorite because it kinda hurt my skin); and lastly a 20 minute massage!  When finished and dressed I met the gang on the porch outside where I collapsed on a chair and closed my eyes.  Heavenly!

The day room at the Fordyce Bathhouse Visitor Center where guests enjoyed light entertainment or could sit and visit or play card games. (Barbara Thomke photo)

Our next stop was food and lots of it – stacks of pancakes with syrup and fruit. Now we were truly feeling fit and ready to conquer just about anything, so we headed to the, you guessed it, Visitor Center. The Fordyce Bathhouse, restored to its 1915 original splendor, serves as the park’s visitor center and museum.  Here you can see the antique equipment we just used, plus what I would call the day spa rooms: fancy changing rooms with a bed and dresser that you could rent for the day, a gymnasium (for the men only), a roof top garden, a beauty shop, a sitting room with grand piano for light entertainment.  In the basement you can see where the Fordyce’s hot spring (there are 47 sources altogether in Hot Springs) enters the bathhouse at 140 degrees.  Luckily for all of us the federal government set aside much of this land in 1832 and took active control in 1877. The Hot Springs Reservation became a popular destination for those seeking cures for their ailments with treatments often prescribed by their physicians. When the use of water therapies as a medicinal treatment began to decline in the 1950s and people no longer traveled to a single destination by train, business fell off and the bathhouses closed. In the 1980s the National Park Service began the revival of the vacant bathhouses to their function and original splendor, making them available for lease.  Some have become day spas, one an art museum. Strolling along Bathhouse Row and the brick-lined Grand Promenade on a hill just behind it is a lovely nostalgic trip to “the Golden Age of Bathing when over a million visitors a year immersed themselves in the park’s hot waters,” according to the park brochure.

Of course at the Visitor Center we also inquired about great trails to hike in the nature part of the park. We decided the Goat Rock Overlook would make a dandy destination. We changed into our hiking boots at the car, still in the hotel lot, and began our ascent on the Dogwood Trail.  We linked and crossed into many different trails on our smooth path, admiring the wild indigo and wild phlox. We were feeling sweaty from the moderate exertion and the hot sun.  It was amazing, the number of folks wandering around on Hot Springs Mountain’s 26 miles of trails, but then again it was a beautiful Sunday, so maybe not so surprising.  We particularly enjoyed talking to a group of Daisy Scouts who were enthusiastic about their park clean-up mission. At Goat Rock we sat down on an outcropping to take in the view and cool off in the breeze. We returned by other routes, clocking in another four miles total.

Back at the car we felt a strange mix of exuberance and sadness; this was our last hike in Arkansas – our adventure was over. But what a a fabulous trip it had been.  Any misgivings about interesting hikes or scenery this state could offer had been dashed against the rock bluffs and gorgeous Ozark mountains.  We had met charming people, eaten well and laughed a lot. Our new knowledge of history and geology enriched us.  What remained were two key questions: would we change anything about this trip, and would we ever want to visit Arkansas again? The unanimous answers were nope, and you betcha!

Typical trailside roles: Jonathan kibbitzing, Bob pointing and asking questions, Peggy photographing the flora, and Barbara (not pictured) taking the photo! (Barbara Thomke photo)

Chapter Three: Devils Den State Park and the Hogeye Mall

An arc rock formation at Devil's Den State Park. (Barbara Thomke photo)

Devil’s Den State Park is a 2500 acre tract that lies in the heart of the Boston Mountains, the southernmost region of the Ozarks. This park protects the largest sandstone crevice area in the United States.  We were about to discover first hand the ravines, bluffs, rock shelters and caves that make these mountains so interesting. After an hour’s toot south on the I 540 followed by some curvy back roads we arrived at the park mid-morning and stepped into the Visitor Center for orientation and maps.  We found plenty of both. As is our habit, we requested recommendations for favorite hikes which we received in abundance from the extremely helpful park ranger who  overdid the information. She answered our final question for directions to Prairie Grove where we intended to visit afterwards, with a couple of route numbers and the admonition to “make sure to take a hard left at the Hogeye Mall.”  Then with uncharacteristic brevity she winked at us and turned to the next person waiting for advice.

We chose the popular 1.5 mile Devil’s Den Loop Trail because of the interpretive signs, hoping to learn about this particular region.  We were not disappointed.  The going was easy, if you could keep your eyes on the trail. We were constantly drawn to point out rock formations to each other while we dipped under waterfall trickles that gush only in wet weather. Two great caves formed by the fractured rock, called the Devil’s Icebox and the Devil’s Den poured forth cool air from their depths.  (They are currently closed to spelunking in an effort to protect the Arkansas bats from the White-nose Syndrome which has not hit this state yet, but is thought to possibly be spread by humans.)

As we walked along I began to form my own interpretation of the origin of the word “Ozark,” which comes from the early French explorers who mapped the bends of the Arkansas River and who named the most northern bend as ‘Aux Arcs’, which means ‘to the top arc’.  When non-French speakers pronounced these words they sounded like ‘Ozark’, and the name stuck and grew to include the whole region surrounding the great river.  But I was seeing lots of arcs in the rock formations, both horizontal and vertical ones, and I enjoyed imagining Aux Arcs to mean all the bows, whether river or rock, that Arkansas had to offer.

The Yellow Rock Bluff vista to the rolling mountains north and the Lee River below. (Barbara Thomke photo)

We lunched at a convenient picnic table in the park before driving a brief five minutes, climbing steeply out of the Lee Creek Valley to the Yellow Rock Trail head. Greeting us there was the Civilian Conservation Corps (CCC) pavilion, a square shelter built of native stone and logs in the 1930s, renovated in the 1970s to preserve the Rustic Style architecture and its beauty for future generations.  We snooped around the shelter admiring the stonework and its sturdiness and the view across the valley. Then we began hiking this three mile loop in a relaxed downward direction to our goal, the Yellow Rock Bluff.  It was easy going and the path was clear through a pretty oak-hickory forest.  We made good time and soon found ourselves at the tip of a huge bluff overlooking Lee Creek. We sat down to enjoy a drink and take in the view. It was so pretty, so quiet. The sun was warm and we peeled off a  layer.  I wondered how high the temps could climb during Arkansas summers and was grateful for our springtime visit. With binoculars we spotted a lone hilltop home way down the valley, just a little blip in the crest of the tree line.

The CCC Pavilion on the Yellow Rock Trail offers cool shade for a rest and a view. (Barbara Thomke photo)

The return hike was a bit more taxing as we had to regain the 350 feet of elevation we had dropped coming down.  Luckily there were no bugs to annoy us.  When we arrived back at the pavilion we stepped inside  the rocky coolness and sat on stone benches to let the heat seep out of our legs and butts. Delightful!

Next, we headed the Buick in the direction of Prairie Grove on the routes outlined for us by the ranger. The countryside reminded us of our trip to Eureka Springs.  Once again in the privileged front seat, I kept my eye open for the mall we had been warned not to miss.  And suddenly, there it was. . . a large gas station with an attached convenience store and a sign as large and wide as those you might see from an interstate highway (slight exaggeration) announcing the Hogeye Mall! It was the only building at the five road intersection. Tee hee!  Hogeye really is the name of a hamlet, and the Hogeye Mall might have been its only store.  It certainly looked that way. The joke was on us. We made the requisite ‘elbow left turn’ and soon came upon Prairie Grove.

Prairie Grove and Pea Ridge are two Civil War battle sites. The Pea Ridge National Military Park is located close to Bella Vista where we stayed and where you could spend a whole day if this era of history interests you.  Prairie Grove Battlefield State Park is an 838-acre park that marks the last major Civil War engagement in northwest Arkansas which took place in December 1862. Both have battlefield walks and driving tours.  What interested us about Prairie Grove was the historic Ozark village, and in particular the Dogtrot House – a structure I just had to see! I discovered that this type of home construction was common in parts of the rural South because it facilitates air circulation.  It consists of two log cabins (they were called pens at Prairie Grove) built with a breezeway between them but under a common roof.  This home was made of stacked logs and also had a front and back porch that extended along the entire front and rear of the house. Commonly one pen was used for cooking and eating and the other for living and sleeping, and the dogs could easily trot between the two! Clever accommodations made for man and his four-legged companions! Who could’ve guessed??

Jonathan and Peggy stroll along a road bordered by a split rail fence within the Pea Ridge National Military Park. The decisive battle that took place here saved Missouri for the Union. (Barbara Thomke photo)

Chapter Four: Ham Steak and Peanuts in Diamond

Because we were staying just 15 miles from the Missouri border we decided to head north to visit that state and the George Washington Carver National Monument . OK, the real reason was the threat of rain and the thought that we could be indoors for at least part of the day.  We got a late morning start and after hiking a steep horse path (we could tell the horse part by the ‘apples’ left behind) at Huckleberry Ridge State Forest enroute, an aerobically challenging trail, we were ready for lunch.  With no obvious dining prospects presenting themselves along the way, we phoned the GWC Monument to inquire if they had a restaurant on site.  No, they answered, but they could recommend a stop at the Diamond Cafe in downtown Diamond, just a few minutes from the Monument.  We found it, no sweat.

Tidy, clean, organized and run by a husband and wife team of chef and waitperson respectively, we ordered the local special:  ham steak, a choice of two sides from the selection of mac and cheese, baked beans, and corn, accompanied by a salad for $8.00. Something obvious about Alyson’s accent tipped us off that she was not a Missouri native. No, they were from Brooklyn, it turned out – thriving transplants having fun running their cafe in out-of-the-way Diamond, a location devoid of choking taxes, stress and über-culinary expectations of  New Yorkers!  We chatted up Alyson and John while enjoying the yummy tasting and generous portions almost spilling over the sides of the plates. When finished eating we had absolutely no room for dessert. . . until the “George Washington Carver” special was explained.  Did I mention that Alyson was also a dynamite saleswoman? She had consulted with the Monument’s historical staff, then created her own sweet concoction in her test kitchen in the apartment upstairs where they lived – a chewy brownie filled with penuche fudge.  This dessert had to be tasted to be appreciated, she told us. And not wishing to offend our new friend, we did.

Williams Pond and contemplative plaque on the Loop Trail at George Washington Carver National Monument (National Park Service photo)

We then waddled to the car and it lurched from our increased weight the few miles west to the GWC National Monument. Here we began our visit with a slow, digestive stroll along the Contemplative Loop Trail.  It was an easy mile- long wander through a tall grass prairie around a pond which we enjoyed without a drop of rain.  When we entered the center and ducked into the theatre to view a film of George Washington Carver’s life, we found it whetting our mind-appetites thoroughly. From the exhibits we learned about his birth into a slave family near the end of the Civil War, his great interests in botany and struggle to get an education. He was an accomplished artist and became a great scientist, educator and humanitarian. I remembered him vaguely from my middle school history lessons. In the early 1900s he convinced African American farmers to plant soil-enriching peanuts and soybeans to get out from under King Cotton, the traditional but suffocating mono-agriculture. After that, he went on to discover more than 300 ways to use peanuts in products such as ink, paper, soap, glue, dyes, massage oil, milk and cosmetics. Even Thomas Edison and Henry Ford sought him out for information on industrial uses of these plants. Whoa! There is tons more fascinating material to learn about George Washington Carver, but we thought we’d try to adopt just one admirable habit when we got home: taking pre-breakfast woodland walks!

Skirting the pool at Eden Falls. (Peggy Stevens photo)

My husband Bob and I are just reaching our middle sixties and we like to make the great outdoors our workout space. It’s a lot less constrained, the scenery is stimulating and there’s no fee to join! I’m newly retired and Bob had a couple of vacation weeks stored up so we decided to take a spring jaunt. With the fifth great season – Mud Season – coming on strongly in the Northeast, springtime in the Ozark mountains of Arkansas sounded like a good bet.

Arkansas is not on everyone’s top ten of must-see states which might rightly make you wonder (in addition to the nice Spring weather and early flowers), what on earth would lure us there?  A fair question!  I’m a mountain-lovin’ gal so let’s just say I had an old yearn to tromp around those hills and felt drawn to see where a lot of pioneers launched themselves West.  I’d heard it was kinda pretty, too, and I wanted to find out for myself if spring in the Ozarks could live up to the pictures I’d seen in the travel magazines.

Chapter One:  First Impressions of Arkansas and First Hike in ‘The Natural State’

We wore our hiking boots on the plane to Little Rock so we’d have more space to pack outdoor gear, and we used back packs for carry-on luggage. A few fellow travelers gave us funny looks but you can get away with pretty much any kind of get-up on airlines these days.  Besides, I didn’t really care. The boots were helping me get in the mood to stretch my legs along the trails.

We flew into Little Rock, Arkansas which has a little airport, easy to maneuver and where we found the folks we asked for directions real friendly.  Our rental car was waiting and so were our companion travelers, Peggy and Jonathan, who had arrived on a different flight. To make negotiating the cities easier, we now travel with a TomTom GPS device and leave our map reading anxieties behind. Soon the town names were clicking by us on the exit signs as we headed west on Interstate 40 to a wee village called Bella Vista way way up in the northwest corner of the state where we had arranged a condo exchange. But wait. . . a name on a sign . . . Toad Suck. . . caught our attention. Could that be the name of a place?  Peggy searched the AAA Guide Book in her lap and I riffled through the brochures I’d assembled at the luggage carrousel to check it out. However Jonathan came up first with a dramatic reading from Wikipedia, found on his Blackberry:  “What does ‘Toad Suck’ mean anyway? Well, the answer is quite simple… Long ago, steamboats traveled the Arkansas River when the water was at the right depth. When it wasn’t, the captains and their crew tied up to wait where the Toad Suck Lock and Dam now spans the river. While they waited, they refreshed themselves at the local tavern there, to the dismay of the folks living nearby, who said: “They suck on the bottle ’til they swell up like toads.” Hence, the name Toad Suck. The tavern is long gone, but the legend and fun live on at Toad Suck Daze.” And this turned out to be just the first of several curiosity inducing names we’d encounter.

Now, with our juices fully stimulated to make more discoveries, we dropped onto a local road that took us a dozen miles south to Mt. Nebo State Park. Arrival day and I was already anticipating our first walk in the woods! Mt. Nebo rises 1,350 feet above the Arkansas River Valley and from the Bench Trail that we strolled along we caught glimpses of the broad river. As the name implies, this trail offered very little change in elevation, it simply circled around Mt. Nebo in a four mile length.  It was overcast and rain threatened.  We zipped up our jackets against a smart breeze and enjoyed freeing our leg muscles cramped by too much plane and car sitting.

Barbara & Bob preparing for a hike. (Barbara Thomke photo)

At 5’8″ tall, I’m the shortest in this foursome and I struggle sometimes to keep up the pace that my 6-foot-plus tall companions set! When we arrived back at the car I was panting but glad that we had moved right along and avoided a wet incident.  We drove a half mile further to the Visitor Center on top of the mountain to avail ourselves of the WCs and for Peggy to inquire about the name of a purple wildflower she’d spotted along the path.  We rocked on the porch for a spell and felt the stress of travel and the busy lives we’d left behind seep away and disappear off into the broad green valley and the wide meandering Arkansas River that lay at our feet.

It was now late afternoon and we had 160 miles to go before bed.  We retraced our route to the Interstate and hightailed it due north on the I 540 at the 70 mph speed limit, passing through scattered rain showers and the Boston Mountain range (part of the Ozarks) of rolling green hills that we would later visit up close. Our destination lay a couple dozen miles beyond a small town called Bentonville, the birthplace of Sam Walton and the headquarters of Wal-Mart, the giant discount retailer. It was hard to divine the significance of Wal-Mart from this little black dot on the map.

We checked in at the Bella Vista town center and received the keys and directions to our condo that was located a couple of miles back the way we’d just come. Oh well!  Next door Chen’s Chinese Restaurant Buffet beckoned and we headed in for a late dinner.  We devoured the usual chicken dishes varied with broccoli, cashews, or ginger accompanied by white sticky rice and al dente green beans.  We sipped sweet and sour soup. At dessert we discussed our fortunes hidden in the cookies, all washed down with cool water for the total whopping price of $28 for four, not including tip. One thing Arkansas definitely can not brag about is expensive food.

Chapter Two: Eureka!  We Found the Cold Springs!

In the morning we more closely inspected our two bedroom, two bath level-entrance condo. It was spacious all right: a two-sofa living room, a stone fireplace which we hoped we would not need to use, a six-seater dining table, galley kitchen with modern gadgetry and a grill on the deck overlooking a golf course.  Whoo hoo!  This was our idea of camping!

Our first order of business was to food shop, which Peggy and I accomplished tout suite at a nearby market.  Back home, we planned the day’s adventure over cereal and cranberry rolls smeared with peanut butter (one of our favorite accompaniments and more about peanuts later), then stashed our hiking boots in the trunk of the Buick along with raincoats and hats.  The thermometer read 55 degrees, a little cooler than we’d hoped for, but the sun was peeking out intermittently with promise of warming up the day. The secondary road to Eureka Springs looked twisty on the map, so I was granted First Class service in the front passenger seat, due to my tendency to motion sickness. Sometimes it’s lucky to have a less than perfect body!

We whizzed along over good road, swinging down into valleys then up again to ridge lines where the road would straighten out and linger for a mile or two before the next swoop downwards. I felt that I was finally experiencing the Ozarks first hand, and they were as pretty as the pictures I’d seen.  I was mighty glad to be in the front seat where I could feel well and have an unobstructed view of the verdant valleys, the trees displaying full green leafiness.  The daffodils and tulips were nodding in the breeze in the occasional front yards where the kids were mowing lawns.

We passed through a number of small towns, not more than crossroads really, before we saw the sign for Eureka Springs.  Whoosh, down again we headed on a narrow road into a valley and driver Jonathan took a space in the first parking lot we came to. We slipped a fiver into a little box by our numbered parking square and began walking.  Those broad tall store fronts hiding gabled roofs displayed gifts, antiques, artwork and eating establishments and lent this end of town a western feel.  We ambled along piecing together the history of Eureka Springs from the historic buildings and their markers: Legend tells that the various cold springs in the area were revered by Osage, Chocktaw and other Native Americans for their healing powers; in the 1850s white settlers learned of the spring’s qualities and a pioneer doctor experienced a cure he wrote about, spreading the word; some of the wounded Confederate and Union soldiers from nearby Civil War battles were treated at the springs; a covered wagon and tent city grew up of people seeking cures that later developed into a bustling town and tourist destination incorporated in 1880; in 1883 the railroad began bringing six full trainloads of visitors daily; “Mud Street” was renamed Main Street and hotels opened for business, especially the famous Crescent Hotel constructed in 1886, still an attraction; by the turn of the century Eureka Springs was known as a resort community with an elegant Victorian style; today the entire town is on the National Register of Historic Places.

We followed the former Mud Street all the way downhill to its end at the now defunct railroad station, then ascended to the height of the town via a steep street lined with the fabled Victorian manor houses. Bob kept wondering who took care of these gingerbread structures and felt relieved that he wasn’t in charge of painting all the fanciful decorations in different colors. Near the top we stopped to taste the waters of Crescent Spring, one of several in the town, pouring from a rock ledge now encased in a stone wall and funneled into a drinking fountain. It was cool with an unremarkable taste.

Peggy "taking the waters" at Eureka's Crescent Spring. (Barbara Thomke photo)

Our stroll took in a couple of miles before we reached the main business section and the old hotels. Tucked into a corner we found an outdoor cafe with a view and an open table for lunch where we enjoyed fish and chips – not an Arkansas specialty, but tasty nonetheless. Jonathan speculated that probably Einstein had once visited and had his “Eureka Moment” here and that’s how the town got its name; I thought that it was because Einstein had invented the Eureka vacuum cleaner here! We giggled at our creative insanity and agreed that fiction can be more fun than the truth!

We decided our warm-up to the main event was over; it was time for a real hike.  We drove 35 minutes south and then west in the general direction of home, stopping at the Hobbs State Park and Conservation Area on Route 12. We viewed a number of exhibits at the nearly new and beautifully architected Visitor Center where I learned about the tricky streams in this state.  Due to the karst (limestone) topography, many streams flow along the surface, then sink underground to remain lost or reappear. This creates caves, sinkholes, faults, crevices and pits and a seasonal ebb and flow to various rivers that gave towns such as Toad Suck meaningful names.

We sought the advice of a ranger for an interesting trail that we could do in about two hours. Because this is Arkansas’ largest state park in land area we didn’t want to get lost wandering around endlessly! We easily found the trailhead to the recommended Pigeon Roost Trail by retracing our drive for little more than a mile, parked and wrapped our tootsies in hiking boots. We each carried a bottle of water, sunglasses and a hat.

Barbara on the Pigeon Roost Trail. (Barbara Thomke photo)

Yum!  What a great trail!  The afternoon sunlight filtered through the canopy of oaks and hickories, dappling our path with splashes of light.  The footing was free of the protruding roots and boulders so common in Vermont, opening slightly downhill to our steady rhythm. I led so I could control the pace and have time to look around at the maples, serviceberry and redbuds making up the understory diversity.  White dogwoods bloomed and reflected the sun, lighting up their chosen spots like Christmas decorations. It was totally quiet and peaceful.  When we reached the edge of one of the small inlets of the enormous Beaver Lake that jut into the park we looked down to the water and a lone fisherman casting from his small boat tied to the shore. We shed jackets and wound them around our waists, took a sip of water and deep breaths of the warm air.

Still on clear footing, we followed our map, making turns at two junctures. At places the trail followed old logging roads where we walked two abreast, chatting amiably, or not.  Peggy was discovering more wild flowers – trilliums and violets – amidst the low bush blueberries that covered large areas of the ridges. We noted that the bark on the dogwoods is made up of little squares, and that there had been some blow downs in the hollers recently. The trail wound up and down and around following the natural contours but it never grew very steep. The map rated it as moderate in difficulty, but we Easterners thought it should be listed in the easy category.  Back at the car we freed our feet from their leather enclosures and wiggled our toes.  No blisters, no bucked shins, just lots of smiles and a sense of accomplishment.

From here it was just a hop, skip and a jump back to Bella Vista, where the inviting condo waited and a London Broil marinating in the refrigerator was ready for the grill.  We were happy campers.