The Marked Tree Siphons

            Most people driving through Poinsett County have no idea they are passing one of the strangest engineering projects in the country.

            Just outside the small Delta town of Marked Tree, three enormous steel pipes rise over a levee like something left behind from another era. They look odd and slightly out of place against the flat Arkansas farmland. But those pipes, commonly known as the Marked Tree Siphons, were built to do something remarkable: carry an entire river over a dam and somehow, they still work.

            The siphons were completed in 1939, as part of a flood-control effort along the St. Francis River. Long before modern drainage systems transformed eastern Arkansas into rich farmland, much of the region was swamp and overflow country. Flooding was a constant problem. Heavy rains could turn fields into lakes, wash out roads and isolate communities for days.

            Local leaders spent decades trying to control the water. Drainage District No. 7, organized in the early 1900s, dug ditches and built levees throughout the area. In the 1920s, engineers constructed a lock and sluiceway system near Marked Tree to help manage the river. But the Delta’s soft soil caused problems almost immediately. Then came a major flood in 1937 and another levee failure in 1938. Officials realized the old system was not going to survive. As a result, engineers came up with a solution that sounded almost impossible. Instead of forcing the river through the levee, they would lift it over the top.

            The final design used three steel siphons, each about nine feet wide and more than 200 feet long. Once the system was primed with vacuum pumps, water flowed continuously through the pipes and across the levee using siphon pressure. In simple terms, the river climbed uphill long enough to cross the barrier before flowing back down on the other side.

            When the project was unveiled in June 1939, crowds gathered to watch. Newspaper accounts from the time described the spectacle of seeing “a whole river lifted 30 feet across a dam.” It sounded exaggerated, but it was true.

            Even engineers were impressed. Tests showed the siphons operated at more than 97 percent efficiency, an astonishing number for a structure of that size. At the time, many considered it one of the most unusual hydraulic projects in the world.

            More than 80 years later, the siphons are still there, still carrying water across the levee and still protecting thousands of acres of farmland in northeast Arkansas.

            What makes the Marked Tree Siphons so fascinating is not just the engineering itself, but the fact that so few people know they exist. The Natural State has never been particularly adept at promoting its lesser-known landmarks. Tourists flock to bigger attractions while places like this sit quietly beside county roads, largely unnoticed except by locals, hunters and the occasional history enthusiast.

            The siphons tell an important story about the Delta because they help to remind people how difficult life once was in this part of Arkansas. Before levees and drainage systems, the landscape was unpredictable and often unforgiving. Entire communities depended on finding ways to control the water. The siphons were not built as a tourist attraction or a monument. They were built because people here needed them.

            There is something very Arkansas about solving a massive problem with steel pipes, persistence and a willingness to try an idea that sounded a little crazy at the time. No grand speeches. No flashy architecture. Just a piece of infrastructure quietly doing its job decade after decade.

            In May 1988, the Marked Tree Siphons were listed on the National Register of Historic Places, and they definitely deserve that recognition. The siphons are a reminder that some of the most interesting places in America are not necessarily the famous ones. Sometimes they are one hidden in the Delta, beside a levee road, carrying a river uphill while most of the world drives by without noticing.

How Baseline Road Got Its Name

 

For most Arkansans, Baseline Road in Little Rock (Pulaski County) is simply another busy street along the southern edge of the capital city, lined with neighborhoods, churches, businesses, and the routines of everyday life. Thousands of people travel the road each day without giving much thought to its unusual name. But on a recent drive from Benton to Little Rock, I noticed an exit sign for Baseline Road and found myself wondering where the name originated. It sounded too specific to be random. After researching its history, I discovered a story that spans more than two centuries, tracing back to one of the most significant surveying projects in American history.

The story begins with the Louisiana Purchase. In 1803, the United States, under President Thomas Jefferson, acquired a massive expanse of land from France, instantly doubling the size of the young nation. Included in that purchase was the territory that would eventually become the state of Arkansas. There was just one problem: much of the land had never been formally surveyed or mapped by the federal government.

Before settlers could legally buy property, officials needed a way to organize millions of acres into measurable sections. Surveyors accomplished this by establishing reference lines known as principal meridians and baselines. Principal meridians ran north and south, while baselines ran east and west. From those fixed points, surveyors created the township-and-range system that still shapes property boundaries across much of the United States today.

Arkansas became tied to the Fifth Principal Meridian, one of the most significant survey lines in the country. Established in 1815, the meridian and its baseline were used not only to survey Arkansas, but also large portions of Missouri, Iowa, Minnesota, North Dakota, and South Dakota.

The baseline connected to that survey crossed central Arkansas near present-day Little Rock. Over time, roads developed along parts of the line, and eventually the name “Baseline Road” became attached to the route. In that sense, the road’s name is more than a label on a street sign. It’s a quiet reminder of the moment Arkansas began transforming from largely unmapped frontier into organized American territory.

Surveying the land in the early 1800s was difficult and often dangerous work. Crews pushed through forests, swamps, rivers, brutal heat, insects, and rough terrain while carrying heavy chains and primitive instruments for miles at a time. Some spent weeks camped deep in the wilderness, carefully measuring and marking the landscape one mile at a time. Accuracy mattered because the lines they established would later determine farms, towns, roads, and legal property descriptions for generations.

Even today, many of Arkansas’s land records still rely on the township-and-range system created from those original survey lines. Long before GPS or digital mapping, the baseline and meridian system provided the framework for land ownership across the frontier. That makes Baseline Road more than just another street name. It is a surviving piece of a much larger story about expansion, settlement, and the mapping of the nation itself.

Little Rock is filled with reminders of Arkansas history, from the Arkansas River to the old railroad corridors that helped shape the city’s growth. Yet Baseline Road may be one of the easiest historical markers to overlook precisely because it feels so ordinary. The name blends seamlessly into daily life, familiar enough that most people never stop to ask where it originated from.

Hidden inside that simple name is the story of surveyors carrying chains through the Arkansas wilderness, of a growing nation organizing new territory, and of the early foundations that helped shape Arkansas as we know it today.

Sometimes history survives in grand monuments and preserved buildings. And sometimes, it survives quietly on street signs passed by thousands of Arkansans every single day.

How Morrilton Was Almost "Moosetown"

            There are places across Arkansas whose names feel so permanent, it’s hard to imagine them ever being called anything else. Morrilton (Conway County) is one such town. Today, most people associate it with Petit Jean Mountain and the state park that sits atop it, a historic downtown, and its busy stretch along Interstate 40. However, in the years following the Civil War, the community that would become Morrilton nearly adopted a very different identity altogether. For a time, people simply called it “Moosetown.”

            The story begins during the railroad boom that reshaped Arkansas in the late nineteenth century. In those days, few things mattered more to a town’s future than whether the railroad chose to pass nearby. Communities fortunate enough to land along the tracks often flourished almost overnight, while others slowly faded into the background. Sometimes, entire business districts relocated in pursuit of the opportunities rail travel brought with it.

            At the time, Lewisburg was one of the leading communities in Conway County. Sitting along the Arkansas River, it had already spent decades establishing itself as an important center for commerce, education, churches, and local government. But when the Little Rock and Fort Smith Railroad pushed through the area in the early 1870s, the tracks bypassed Lewisburg by several miles. That decision changed the county’s future almost immediately.

            Attention quickly shifted toward a new depot site. Businesses, merchants, and landowners understood what the tracks could mean for growth and prosperity. Among them was E.J. Moose, who owned land near the developing rail stop and became closely connected to the new settlement taking shape there.

            As the community grew, the locals began referring to it as “Moose’s Town.” Before long, the name was shortened to “Moosetown,” and for a while, the name stuck.

            Now, that was hardly unusual in early Arkansas history. Many towns picked up unofficial names long before anything formal appeared on a map. Some were named after landowners or postmasters. Others borrowed the name of a railroad stop or simply adopted whatever local residents called the place often enough for it to catch on. In this case, E.J. Moose’s influence on the young settlement made “Moosetown” an easy fit.

            It is interesting to imagine how differently the town might be perceived today had the name survived. “Moosetown, Arkansas” carries a much different sound than Morrilton, Arkansas. It feels more rustic, maybe even a little whimsical by modern standards. But at the time, it was simply the informal name attached to a fast-growing railroad community trying to establish itself.

            Eventually, local leaders decided the town needed something that sounded a bit more polished. So, the settlement was renamed Morrilton in honor of Lot M. Morrill, a former governor of Maine and a railroad official tied to the line that helped shape the region’s development. During the railroad era, it was common for communities to choose names that projected importance, ambition, and stability.

            As rail traffic and commerce continued to grow, Morrilton quickly surpassed nearby Lewisburg in both size and influence. Businesses, homes, and investment followed the railroad, and the center of activity in Conway County permanently shifted. Lewisburg, once among the county’s most prominent communities, gradually became the much smaller town it is today.

            Still, the old Moosetown story remains one of those fascinating little pieces of Arkansas history that could have easily disappeared over time. It also serves as a reminder of how much chance shaped the Arkansas map we know today. A slightly different railroad route, or a different decision by local leaders, could have left generations of Arkansans calling the town by another name entirely.

            And for a brief moment in time in Conway County, one of Arkansas’s most familiar town names was almost something quite different.

Sulphur Springs' Kihlberg Hotel

 

                Many Arkansas towns and communities feel like they’re living in two eras at once. You can pass through them today and see a quiet main street, a few aging buildings, maybe a handful of homes tucked into the hills. Nothing about them immediately suggests ambition or grandeur. But look a little closer, and you might start to see traces of something bigger that once stood there. In the small town of Sulphur Springs (Benton County), that “something” once rose five stories high. That something was the Kihlberg Hotel.

                The Kihlberg Hotel was built by the Sulphur Springs Sanitarium Hotel and Bath Co. and opened for business in May 1909. The five-story building was constructed from native limestone and was designed to be a full-fledged resort and spa. The Kihlberg was among the largest and most modern hotels in Arkansas. It featured more than a hundred rooms, a grand rotunda, a ballroom, and even an elevator.

                At the turn of the twentieth century, Sulphur Springs was riding a wave of optimism tied to its mineral waters. Like Hot Springs (Garland County) in central Arkansas, the town believed it could become a destination for visitors seeking health, rest, and luxury. The newly-constructed railroad only strengthened that vision. Suddenly, travelers from Kansas, Missouri, and other nearby states could step off a train and find themselves in a place that promised both healing and comfort. The Kihlberg Hotel was meant to be at the center of it all.

                Named for a local promoter connected to the growing popularity of therapeutic bathing and massage, the Kihlberg was built with a specific guest in mind—well-to-do travelers expecting high-end accommodations to match the promise of the mineral springs. For a brief moment, it must have felt to its residents that Sulphur Springs was on the verge of becoming something much larger. But as often happens in life, vision outpaced reality.

                The same railroad that opened Sulphur Springs to the world also complicated things. Excursion trains brought crowds, but not the kind the Kihlberg had been designed to serve. Many visitors were working-class travelers drawn by cheap fares, looking for a day trip or a short, affordable stay. Smaller boarding houses and modest hotels fit their needs just fine. The Kihlberg, designed for longer, more luxurious visits, had difficulty filling its rooms.

                Then came the setbacks that seem all too familiar in Arkansas’s storied past. Fires damaged the building. The tourism economy began to slip. Changing tastes and new destinations pulled visitors elsewhere. What once looked like a sure thing slowly became uncertain, and eventually unsustainable, the hotel shut it doors.

                In 1924, evangelist John Brown (no relation) purchased the Kihlberg Hotel and established what would eventually become John Brown University. When the university failed to gain accreditation, Brown repurposed the former hotel into a high school academy and later a junior college for women. Both efforts struggled to take hold. By 1930, the building had been renamed the Julia Brown School for Children, and in 1937, it took on yet another identity as a military academy.

                That chapter, too, was short-lived. In January 1940, a devastating fire swept through downtown Sulphur Springs, and severely damaged the structure. Although the building was rebuilt, it was only restored to its second floor.

                In the decades that followed, the former Kihlberg shifted through a variety of uses before eventually passing into private ownership. More recently, there has been occasional discussion about restoring the historic structure, but so far, none of those plans have moved forward.

                Today, there’s little to remind visitors of what the Kihlberg once was. The towering structure is gone. The ballroom is silent. The steady stream of guests has long since disappeared. Still, the story hasn’t vanished. It lingers in the quiet way Sulphur Springs holds onto its past. For a short time, this small town reached for something bigger and built it in stone. 

                Across the Natural State, stories like this are easy to overlook, hidden just beneath the surface—ambitious plans, bold ideas, and dreams that took shape quickly before fading just as fast. They serve as a reminder that history isn’t defined only by what endures, but also by what people dared to try.

                And in Sulphur Springs, for a brief period, they reached high and created something truly worth remembering.