Arkansas at War: The Forgotten Bunkers of Maumelle

            Over the years, I’ve come to realize that some of Arkansas’s most meaningful history doesn’t announce itself with a marker or a museum sign. Instead, it settles quietly into the landscape, so well hidden in plain sight that you can pass it a dozen times without ever realizing what you’re looking at. In Maumelle (Pulaski County), just a short drive from Little Rock (Pulaski County), that history rises from the ground in the form of a few aging concrete bunkers.

            At first glance, they don’t seem like much. Low and rounded, partially buried in the earth, their gray surfaces worn by decades of sun and rain, they look more like something you might find on an old farm or tucked away on forgotten property. But these structures are not relics of agriculture or simple storage sheds. They are remnants of war.

            During World War II, this area was home to the Maumelle Ordnance Works, a sprawling federal facility built almost overnight as the United States mobilized for global conflict. At its peak, the plant covered thousands of acres and employed hundreds of workers producing explosive materials for artillery shells and bombs. Arkansas, far from the front lines, became part of what historians would later call the Arsenal of Democracy.

            The bunkers played a critical role in that operation. Designed as storage magazines for volatile chemicals, they were built with safety in mind. Thick concrete walls, reinforced roofs, and layers of earth were meant to contain the unthinkable. If one bunker exploded, the others might survive. That was the idea, at least.

            There were twenty-one of them originally, spaced carefully across the property. Today, only three remain.

            The most notable is Bunker No. 4, which still stands as a largely intact example of these wartime structures. It is a quiet survivor, one of the few tangible links to a time when this peaceful stretch of central Arkansas played a direct role in a global war effort.

            What makes the story even more striking is what surrounds these bunkers now. The land that once housed a high-security explosives operation has been transformed into neighborhoods, parks, and walking trails. Near Lake Willastein Park, families gather for picnics, children play, and joggers pass by without a second thought. One bunker has even been adapted for public use, its original purpose largely forgotten by those who use the space today.

            It’s a reminder of how quickly a place can change. In the 1940s, this was a site defined by urgency and danger, where the work carried immediate and serious stakes. By the 1970s, it had begun its transformation into the Maumelle we know today—a planned community of quiet streets and everyday routines. And yet, the bunkers remain.

            They are not grand monuments. There are no crowds, no long lines of visitors waiting to step inside. They don’t dominate the skyline or demand attention. Instead, they sit quietly, their purpose long fulfilled and their presence easy to overlook. Perhaps that is exactly what makes them worth noticing.

            In a state as rich in history as Arkansas, it is often the smaller, less obvious places that tell the most compelling stories. The bunkers in Maumelle are more than concrete structures. They are reminders of a time when even the most unassuming corners of the state were connected to events unfolding across the world.

            If you find yourself near Lake Willastein in Maumelle, it might be worth slowing down for a moment. Take a closer look at those low, rounded mounds of concrete and earth. Beneath their weathered surfaces is a story of industry, urgency, and a state doing its part in a global struggle.

            It’s a story that hasn’t disappeared. It’s simply waiting to be remembered. And maybe that’s the point of this column each week—to make sure those quiet stories don’t slip away into oblivion.

The Story of Rimrock Records

            There are places in Arkansas that do not look like much as you pass them on the highway. But every so often, one of those places carries a story large enough to travel far beyond the state line. Rimrock Records was one of those places, a small recording business that managed to leave a surprisingly loud mark on the music industry.

            Founded in 1961 by Wayne Raney and his son, Zyndall, Rimrock was not located in a big city known for music studios such as Nashville, Memphis, or Los Angeles. Instead, it was located in the small town of Concord (Cleburne County) near Greers Ferry Lake. It wasn’t where most people would expect to find a record company, yet for more than a decade, that’s exactly what existed there.

            Rimrock Records was more than a record label. It was a place where music was recorded, pressed onto vinyl, and distributed across the country under one roof. At a time when most small labels had to send recordings elsewhere to be pressed, Rimrock handled the entire process in a small building in rural Arkansas. It stood as a rare example of what determination and creativity could build, even far from the industry’s usual centers, and it did so with a distinctly independent spirit.

            Inside those walls, country, gospel, and rockabilly artists found opportunity. Some were regional performers hoping to put their music on vinyl for the first time, while others were more established names who found their way to Concord for their own reasons. The sound that came out of Rimrock was not as polished as productions from Los Angeles or Nashville, but that was part of its appeal. There was something authentic in it, music that reflected the place it came from. And then, of course, there are the stories.

            Over the years, it has been said that even major artists passed through Rimrock’s doors. Names like Elvis Presley and Ike & Tina Turner have been linked to the studio, with stories suggesting they recorded to get away from public attention. Whether they came for convenience, curiosity, or simply the privacy a small town like Concord could offer, their rumored connection has only added to the legend and mystique that still surrounds the place to this day.

            Rimrock’s run, like many other record companies, did not last long. In 1974, the pressing plant was sold to the legendary Stax Records and moved to Memphis, bringing an end to Concord’s unlikely chapter in the recording industry. It was a reminder of how quickly things can change, especially in a business that rarely stands still. Even so, the legacy of Rimrock did not simply disappear when the equipment was moved.

            Today, Rimrock records, those original 45s and LPs, have become pieces of history. They turn up in collections, flea markets, and antique stores, valued not only for the music they carry but for the story behind them. A quick search online shows several albums still circulating, typically priced anywhere from around eleven dollars to fifty or more depending on condition. Each one serves as a quiet reminder that meaningful things do not always come from major cities or famous studios. Sometimes they begin in places few people think to notice, and that may be the lasting lesson of Rimrock Records.

            The Natural State has long held a deep musical tradition, even if it does not always receive the recognition it deserves. However, hidden within its hills and small towns are stories like the one of Rimrock Records, shaped by ambition, creativity, and the belief that something worthwhile can be built anywhere, even far from the bright lights of big cities.

            Sometimes all it takes is ingenuity, determination, and a company such as Rimrock Records, situated in a wide spot along an Arkansas road, to prove just how far a small place can reach.

Walton's 5 & 10

            

             This past weekend, my wife and I traveled to Bentonville (Benton County) to celebrate her birthday at a Brazilian steakhouse she had been talking about for months. The evening delivered exactly what she’d hoped, an endless parade of perfectly cooked meats carved right at our table, a wonderful ambience, and the kind of meal that feels less like dinner and more like an event. Still, in Bentonville, a good meal is often just the beginning. Before heading home the following day, we made one more stop, a place that tells a much different story but one just as memorable, Walton’s 5 & 10, now preserved as The Walmart Museum.

             Located on Bentonville’s historic town square, the building looks nearly identical as it did when Sam Walton opened the doors in 1950--modest, practical, and unassuming. But what appears to be a simple storefront reveals itself as the starting point of a retail transformation that would stretch not only across the Natural State, but across the country and even parts of the world.

            Inside, the museum strikes a careful balance between remembering and teaching. The front section has been restored to reflect the look and feel of a classic five-and-dime store, stocked with items that would have once filled its shelves decades ago. It’s not hard to picture shoppers wandering the aisles, picking up everyday necessities without any sense that they were standing in what would later be called the birthplace of Walmart. There’s a certain humility in that realization, a reminder that something enormous can grow out of something remarkably simple.

            Further inside the museum area, the story of what became Walmart begins to unfold in fuller detail. Through old photographs, preserved artifacts, and thoughtfully designed exhibits, visitors get a closer look at Walton’s approach to business. His focus on keeping prices low, his attention to customer experience, and his willingness to try ideas others might have dismissed all come into focus. Pieces of his life, including his Ford F-150 pickup truck, early store materials and signage, and even his office, help bridge the gap between legend and reality.

            Through the exhibits, Walton is not portrayed as a distant figurehead, but as someone deeply rooted in his community, someone who believed in treating customers like neighbors. That philosophy still feels at home on the Bentonville square, where the pace is slower, and the sense of place is strong.

            Also located inside the museum is an old-fashioned soda fountain, which adds a touch of nostalgia that’s hard to resist. It invites you to sit for a moment, enjoy something simple, and take in the atmosphere. With an ice cream cone in hand, it’s easy to think about the passage of time and how much the world of retail has changed throughout the years.

            The museum’s appeal stretches well beyond business enthusiasts. It speaks to anyone curious about history, to those who appreciate Arkansas’s heritage, and to visitors who simply enjoy stepping into a preserved piece of the past. For locals, especially, there’s a quiet pride in seeing how a hometown venture grew into something recognized across the globe, all while maintaining a connection to its roots.

            If you ever find yourself passing through Bentonville, it’s worth the stop. You may arrive out of curiosity, but you’ll leave with a deeper understanding of how one small storefront helped shape a retail giant and how its story is still very much alive today. It’s the kind of place that doesn’t just tell history, it lets you feel it, in the quiet details and familiar surroundings. And in a town that continues to grow and change, it stands as a strong reminder of where it all began.

            For information on days and hours of operation, check out The Walmart Museum’s website at www.walmartmuseum.com, or give them a call at (479) 273-1329.

From Arkansas to the Squared Circle: The Legacy of Sid Eudy

  

            I’ve been a professional wrestling fan for as long as I can remember—the kind who grew up glued to the television on Saturday mornings and late nights alike. For those of us here in Arkansas, that fandom has always carried a special sense of pride. One of the most imposing and unforgettable figures to ever step inside the squared circle came from our own backyard. That man is Sidney Raymond Eudy, better known to wrestling fans around the world as Sycho Sid, Sid Justice, and Sid Vicious. Later this month, Eudy will be posthumously inducted into the World Wrestling Entertainment (WWE) Hall of Fame during WrestleMania weekend in Las Vegas.

            Born in Moses Lake, Washington, on December 16, 1960, but raised in Marion (Crittenden County), just across the river from Memphis, Eudy’s rise to wrestling stardom felt almost inevitable. At 6-foot-9, with a chiseled frame and an intensity that couldn’t be taught, he looked every bit like the larger-than-life figures who defined wrestling’s boom years of the late 1980s and 1990s. But Sid was more than just an impressive physique, he also had undeniable presence. The moment his music hit, and he stepped into an arena, fans knew something serious was about to unfold.

           Sid first gained national attention in the late 1980s, but it was his runs in World Championship Wrestling (WCW) and the World Wrestling Federation (WWF) that cemented his legacy. In WCW, wrestling as Sid Vicious, he quickly established himself as a dominant force. He initially found success as part of the powerhouse tag team The Skyscrapers before rising to singles prominence and capturing the WCW World Heavyweight Championship twice. His hard-hitting, power-based style and no-nonsense demeanor made him a natural fit at the top during one of wrestling’s most competitive eras.

            When Sid arrived in the WWF as Sid Justice, he was immediately placed in the spotlight. He served as the special guest referee for the main event of WrestleMania VIII, sharing the ring with legends like Hulk Hogan and “The Nature Boy” Ric Flair—a clear sign of the company’s confidence in him. It wasn’t long before he transitioned from enforcer to one of the promotion’s most feared competitors.

             By the mid-1990s, reintroduced as Sycho Sid, he reached the peak of his WWF career. During this run, he captured the WWF World Heavyweight Championship twice, defeating some of the biggest stars of the era. His first title victory came in 1996 when he defeated Shawn Michaels at Madison Square Garden in New York City in one of the decade’s most memorable title changes. He would reclaim the championship again in early 1997, firmly establishing himself among wrestling’s elite.

            What truly set Sid apart, however, wasn’t just his size or his accolades—it was his unpredictability. Fans never quite knew what they were going to get, and that edge made him must-watch television. Whether delivering his devastating powerbomb or unleashing intense, sometimes unscripted promos, Sid commanded attention in a way few others could.

             Across both major promotions, his résumé speaks for itself: a two-time WWF World Heavyweight Champion and a two-time WCW World Heavyweight Champion. Those accomplishments alone would secure his place in wrestling history, but they only scratch the surface. Sid was a central figure during one of the industry’s most iconic periods, sharing the ring with legends and holding his own every step of the way.

            Sadly, Eudy passed away in his hometown of Marion on August 26, 2024, of non-Hodgkin's lymphoma at the age of 63. That night, a video package paying tribute to Eudy aired at the beginning of WWE’s flagship TV show, Monday Night Raw, on the USA Network.

            His induction into the WWE Hall of Fame is more than a recognition of championships and marquee matches, but rather a celebration of a career that left a lasting mark on the industry and on fans like me who grew up watching him. It’s also a reminder that greatness can come from anywhere, even a small town in eastern Arkansas.

            This month, as Sid Eudy takes his rightful place among wrestling’s immortals, fans across the Natural State have every reason to be proud. From Marion to the main event, Eudy’s journey is one worth remembering, and now, one forever etched in the annals of professional wrestling history.

Arkansas's Only Revolutionary War Battle

            You may be surprised to learn that one of the final actions of the Revolutionary War took place right here at our state’s first European settlement, Arkansas Post. Known as Colbert’s Raid, the brief but intense battle serves as a reminder that even as peace was being negotiated an ocean away, conflict still took place on the American frontier.

            In the early morning hours of April 17, 1783, British Captain James Colbert led a force of approximately 100 men, including British soldiers and Chickasaw warriors, against Fort Carlos III and the small village clustered around it at Arkansas Post. Ironically, the attack came months after a peace treaty had been signed between Spain and Britain on January 3, 1783. However, news of that agreement had not yet reached the residents of Arkansas Post.

            The Spanish garrison stationed at Arkansas Post was quite small. In fact, it only consisted of 33 soldiers from the Louisiana Fixed Infantry Regiment, supported by four Quapaw warriors and a handful of officers, including Captain Jacobo du Breuil and Lieutenant Luis de Villars. Despite their limited numbers, they would soon be forced to defend both the fort and the civilian population that relied upon it.

            Colbert’s men began their attack at approximately 2:30 a.m., which caught those at the settlement off guard. Colbert and his soldiers quickly swept through the village and captured Lieutenant de Villars, his family, and several other residents before most of the townspeople could flee to the safety of the fort. With hostages secured, the attackers turned their attention to Fort Carlos III, hoping to seize control of the strategic post.

            What followed was a determined defense. From behind the fort’s walls, Spanish soldiers and their Quapaw allies mounted a counterattack, using both their defensive position and coordinated resistance to hold off the assault. The fighting lasted for several hours, but Colbert’s men were ultimately unable to breach the fort’s defenses. Facing mounting resistance and limited success, they withdrew. Spanish losses were light, with just two men killed and one wounded, while Colbert’s force suffered at least one dead and one injured.

            The aftermath came swiftly. One week later, a combined Spanish and Quapaw force of around 120 men tracked down Colbert’s camp. In a decisive move, they overtook the raiders and freed the prisoners taken during the attack, which effectively ended the ordeal.

            Colbert’s Raid holds a unique place in both Arkansas and American history. It is recognized by historians as the only Revolutionary War battle fought in Arkansas and one of two engagements of the war that took place west of the Mississippi River. Though small in scale, it underscored the strategic importance of Arkansas Post as a gateway for controlling river traffic and regional trade.

            The raid also reflects the broader geopolitical landscape of the time. Spain had entered the war in 1779, as an ally of the American colonists, successfully capturing British-held posts along the Mississippi, including Manchac and Baton Rouge. By 1783, British forces in the region had been largely pushed out, leaving them to rely on smaller operations like Colbert’s Raid in an effort to disrupt Spanish authority and commerce.

            Ultimately, Colbert’s Raid stands as a final clash of the Revolutionary War that highlights the complex relationships between European powers, native allies, and colonial forces in the western reaches of the conflict. Even in its closing days, the war’s reach extended far beyond the better-known battlefields located in eastern United States, touching remote places like Arkansas Post.

            To learn more about Colbert’s Raid and the history of Arkansas Post, consider visiting Arkansas Post National Memorial. Managed by the National Park Service, the site is located near Gillett (Arkansas County) in the heart of southeastern Arkansas. Inside the park’s visitor center, guests can watch a 20-minute film that brings the settlement’s story to life. The center also houses a collection of artifacts and exhibits that trace the long and significant history of Arkansas’s first settlement and its earliest days as Arkansas’s first territorial capital. For more information, visit the park’s website at www.nps.gov/arpo.

            And as I close out this week’s All Around Arkansas, I’d like to wish you and yours a very happy Easter.

The Tiny Town of Slovak

 

                In Arkansas, where quirky town names are almost as common as wide-open landscapes, drivers can stumble across some real head-scratchers. Venture across the flat fields of the Delta, and you might pass places that sound as if they belong on another continent—or were named after long-forgotten settlers. One such place is Slovak (Prairie County), a name that might conjure images of Europe rather than rural Arkansas farmland. But Slovak isn’t just a curious label on a highway sign. Behind the name is a story that stretches thousands of miles across the Atlantic.

            Drive east through the Delta, and you might pass right by Slovak without noticing it. It’s a little more than a speck on the map. Grain bins dot the horizon, church steeples rise above fields, and two-lane highways cut through the farmland. Yet if you slow down long enough, you’ll find a history far larger than the town itself.

            Slovak began as the dream of immigrants who crossed the ocean in the late 1800s and early 1900s, searching for land and opportunity. Many came from what is now Slovakia, then part of the Austro-Hungarian Empire. Like countless immigrants before them, they were drawn by the promise of fertile soil and a fresh start. They found that promise in the rich farmland of the Arkansas Delta.

            But the land they settled was far from ready for farming. Early settlers faced dense vegetation, swampy ground, and the relentless heat of Delta summers. Fields had to be cleared, marshy areas drained, and homes built from scratch. The work was slow and often exhausting, but over time, the settlers carved productive farms from the wilderness.

            The growing community was first known as Slovactown before settling on the simpler name Slovak. What held the settlement together, though, wasn’t a courthouse or a schoolhouse. It was the church.

            The parish of Saints Cyril and Methodius became the center of community life. Named for the missionaries who brought Christianity to the Slavic peoples in the ninth century, the church served as both a spiritual home and a cultural anchor for the immigrants who built the town. Sunday services, weddings, funerals, and festivals all revolved around its walls.

            For generations, the church has been more than a place of worship. It has preserved language, traditions, and a sense of belonging that ties families in Arkansas to their ancestral homeland. During community gatherings, older residents still share stories of parents and grandparents who arrived speaking Slovak and slowly learned English while working the fields.

            Food has always been a powerful link to the town’s heritage. During community festivals and gatherings, recipes carried across the Atlantic generations ago still appear on tables. Kolaches, sweet pastries filled with fruit or cheese, remain a favorite. Hearty soups, smoked meats, and other Central European dishes once fueled long days of farm work and continue to bring families together today.

            Like many small rural communities across the Natural State, Slovak has grown quieter over the years. Modern highways, shifting agricultural trends, and the pull of larger cities have reshaped life across the Delta. Younger generations often leave for jobs elsewhere, and farming itself has changed as operations become larger and more mechanized.

            Even so, the spirit of the town hasn’t disappeared.

            Families still gather for church services and reunions. Familiar surnames appear on mailboxes and gravestones. Stories of immigration, hard work, and community life continue to circulate around kitchen tables.

            It’s easy for places like Slovak to slip under the radar. They rarely appear on travel itineraries or national headlines, and their populations could fit comfortably inside a single city block. Yet towns like this reveal a quieter side of how America was built—not just through major cities and famous figures, but through small, determined communities planting roots in unlikely places.

            In Slovak, immigrants drained wetlands, carved farms from the Delta soil, and built a church long before paved roads arrived. They carried their language, recipes, and traditions with them, weaving those customs into the fabric of Arkansas life.

            Driving through Slovak might take less than a minute. Understanding its story, however, may take a little longer.

Saying Goodbye to an Old Friend at the Museum

                Last Thursday afternoon, I found myself walking through a place that once felt like a second home. I had returned to Historic Arkansas Museum in Little Rock (Pulaski County) for a memorial service honoring a friend and former co-worker, Pat Proctor.

                The occasion was a solemn one, but the gathering was warm. Faces I hadn’t seen in years filled the room: people like Aisha, Felicia, Katie, and Leon, who had once shared lunch breaks, exhibition openings, and the everyday rhythms of museum work. Some had retired, some had moved on to other careers, but for a little while, we were all back where we used to be, remembering someone who had been part of our small family (commonly called our HAMily).

                The service itself was simple and heartfelt. Stories were shared, laughter occasionally broke through the sadness, and the memories painted a picture of someone who had meant a great deal to those around them. Memorial services often carry a quiet weight, but this one also carried something else, gratitude for the time we had known our friend and for the place that had brought us together in the first place.

                After the service ended, several of us walked outside onto the historic museum grounds. The afternoon air was cool, and the sun was shining, and for a moment we stood quietly among the historic buildings that have been preserved there. For those of us who once worked at the museum, the grounds hold a particular kind of familiarity. Every path, fence line, and weathered board carries memories.

                Historic Arkansas Museum sits in the heart of downtown Little Rock, but when you step inside its gates, it feels like stepping into another century. The museum is best known for preserving and interpreting some of the oldest surviving structures in central Arkansas. Several of the buildings date back to the early 1800s, when Little Rock was still a rough frontier town along the Arkansas River.

                Among them are the Hinderliter Tavern (the oldest standing building in Little Rock), the Woodruff Print Shop, and other restored structures that once formed part of the early settlement. These buildings survived events that reshaped the city, including the turmoil surrounding the American Civil War. Their survival is remarkable in itself; many structures of that era were lost to time, fire, or development.

                The museum as we know it today owes much to the vision of Louise Loughborough. In the 1930s, when historic preservation was still a relatively new idea in Arkansas, Loughborough recognized the importance of saving what remained of the city’s early architecture. She worked tirelessly to protect the Hinderliter House and eventually helped establish what became the Arkansas Territorial Capitol Restoration, the early name for the museum.

                Over time, the site grew into a full museum dedicated not only to historic buildings but also to Arkansas history, decorative arts, and traditional crafts. Galleries filled with artifacts, tools, and artwork help tell the story of the state, from its territorial days to the present. Outside, interpreters demonstrate historic skills such as blacksmithing, printing, and woodworking, bringing the past to life for visitors of all ages.

                For many Arkansans, school field trips to the museum are a childhood memory. I remember visiting the museum in the fifth grade. Students wander through cabins and workshops while learning how people lived two centuries ago. For others—like those of us gathered there last week—it’s also a workplace that becomes part of your life story.

                Standing on those grounds again, I was struck by how much history the place holds, not just the official kind recorded in exhibits, but the personal kind that lives in memory. Every museum preserves objects, but places like this also preserve relationships. Co-workers become friends. Visitors become regulars. Over time, the museum becomes part of the city’s shared story.

                As the afternoon sun dipped lower, our group slowly began to drift apart. There were hugs, promises to stay in touch, and the familiar “we should do this again sometime.”

                Walking back toward the gate with my friend, Katie, I glanced once more at the old buildings standing quietly against the skyline of modern Little Rock. They’ve witnessed nearly two centuries of change—wars, growth, and thousands of Arkansans passing through.

                Last Thursday, they witnessed something else: a group of old friends remembering one of their own. And in a way, that felt fitting. Places dedicated to preserving history remind us that every life leaves a mark. Our friend may be gone, but the memories remain—woven into the stories we tell, the friendships we keep, and even the old places that brought us together in the first place.

Close Encounters in the Natural State

                When we think of Arkansas, scenes of its winding rivers and streams, beautiful landscapes, and wide-open Delta skies come to mind. Yet, for over a century, some of our fellow Arkansans have gazed upward, encountering phenomena they struggled to explain.

                Reports of unidentified flying objects (UFOs), now referred to as UAPs or unidentified anomalous phenomena, have woven their way through the history of the Natural State, with sightings dating to the 19th century. One of the earliest series of reports emerged in 1896 and 1897, when witnesses across the country reported seeing enigmatic “airships.” Here in Arkansas, residents near Hot Springs (Garland County) and the Ouachita Mountains described a cigar-shaped craft illuminating the night sky. The newspapers of the time covered these accounts with a blend of amusement and intrigue, with some local lawmakers even humorously suggesting a tax on these strange vessels, as if they were transporting goods.

                Whether the sightings were hoaxes, misidentified aircraft, or simply something unexplainable, they signaled the start of Arkansas’s long-standing relationship with the mysteries that hover above us.

                Fresh interest in UFOs took off in the 1950s and 1960s. In 1952, a resident from Prairie Grove (Washington County) reported a disk-shaped object flying swiftly across Cove Creek Valley. While such reports were common nationwide, they struck a particular chord in rural areas, where crystal-clear nights made any unusual lights stand out.

                A particularly remarkable series of sightings took place on August 4, 1965. Across northwest Arkansas, many residents shared their encounters with strange aerial objects. In the small community of Viney Grove (Washington County), one witness described a slender, silver craft with illuminated windows hovering just above the treetops. Others from Blytheville (Mississippi County), Fayetteville (Washington County), and Fort Smith (Sebastian County) shared similar experiences, recounting accounts of lights or aircraft operating in ways that defied conventional understanding.

                The magnitude of these reports caught the attention of Project Blue Book, the United States Air Force’s investigative program running from 1952 to 1969. Though the majority of sightings were eventually attributed to natural phenomena or standard aircraft, a fraction remained unresolved—an aspect that has only fueled ongoing speculation.

                In 2024, Arkansas witnessed an intriguing surge in reports of unidentified aerial phenomena. Across the state, many individuals recounted experiences involving bright lights hovering in the dark, rapid-moving objects, and formations of orbs spaced evenly across the night sky. Some of these sightings have occurred near military sites, including the notable Little Rock Air Force Base in Jacksonville (Pulaski County), leading to speculation about potential secret aircraft testing. 

                Experts remind us that the majority of contemporary sightings often have logical explanations. Unfamiliar with certain patterns, observers might mistake commercial drones, military maneuvers, high-altitude jets, weather balloons, or even satellites like SpaceX’s Starlink for something more mysterious. Atmospheric phenomena can also cause light distortions and optical illusions, particularly during twilight hours.

                However, not every sighting can be so easily brushed aside. The federal government itself has recently acknowledged that some UAP cases are clouded by insufficient data, making it difficult to draw definitive conclusions. This admission signals a shift from the age-old ridicule surrounding these narratives to a more curious and open-minded discourse.

                The cultural impact of UFO sightings has solidified its place in Arkansas society. In the beautiful Ozarks, enthusiasts converge at conferences, enthusiastically sharing their stories and theories. Organizations like the Mutual UFO Network actively collect reports and engage in interviews, providing a platform where skeptics, scientists, and believers can gather to deliberate what witnesses might have actually encountered.

                For many Arkansans, the allure of these sightings transcends the question of extraterrestrial life. It delves into the realm of mystery. Set against a backdrop of natural splendor and expansive skies, the night invites contemplation. That strange gleam over a soybean field or a distant mountain can provoke questions that echo long after the light disappears.

                From the mysterious airships of the 1890s to the glowing formations of today, the skies above Arkansas continue to evoke a sense of wonder. In a world that often feels confined by existing maps and measurements, perhaps it’s only fitting that a few lights in the night still elude straightforward explanations. 

Four Years of All Around Arkansas

            This year, the Saline Courier celebrates its 150th anniversary. And this week, I celebrate a milestone of my own: this column turns four years old.

            I’ve never claimed to be much of a mathematician, but by my count, that comes to 208 columns—208 opportunities to write about the people, places, and culture of my beloved home state.

            The idea for All Around Arkansas was born years ago when I worked in the tourism division of the Arkansas Department of Parks, Heritage, and Tourism. I served in the group travel section, where our three-person team promoted Arkansas to tour companies, travel writers, influencers, and conference planners across the country. We attended conventions, pitched destinations, and invited decision-makers to experience Arkansas firsthand—all with the hope of bringing more visitors and more economic impact to our state.

            Often, we hosted tours of some of Arkansas’s most well-known attractions, introducing guests to our history, culture, and, yes, a few tall tales along the way. As a native Arkansan with a deep love for our state’s stories, I was frequently tasked with serving as tour guide. I relished the chance to share the legends and lore that make Arkansas unique.

            But there were also stretches of downtime.

            As a child, I remembered watching “Travelin’ Arkansas,” a segment on KTHV Channel 11 hosted by Chuck Dovish. Dovish crisscrossed the state, spotlighting attractions and colorful stories. It was informative, entertaining, and unmistakably Arkansas. That memory sparked an idea: perhaps I could use my downtime to tell more of our state’s stories.

            At the time, Arkansas Tourism maintained a blog on its website, along with Facebook and Instagram pages. While those platforms highlighted beautiful photographs of iconic destinations, I couldn’t help but feel we were only scratching the surface. We regularly promoted places such as the Clinton Presidential Center, Crystal Bridges Museum of American Art, Johnny Cash’s Boyhood Home, and Crater of Diamonds State Park. All worthy destinations, certainly—but Arkansas is far more than a handful of well-known landmarks.

            There were countless untold stories in small towns and along back roads. I believed we could—and should—be sharing them. And I believed I knew someone who would be more than willing to tell them.

            One day, I approached my supervisor with a proposal. When traveling to conventions or delivering materials to welcome centers and state park visitor centers, I could also gather stories. I could write articles about interesting people and places, take photographs and record interviews. The content could be shared on the tourism website and social media channels.

            My supervisor loved the idea and encouraged me to pitch it to the communications director. She was supportive and said she would present it to upper management.

            Then came the waiting.

            Several days later, I was called into my supervisor’s office and given the news: the idea had been nixed. The explanation was familiar and bureaucratic—“It’s not in your job description.” I walked out disappointed but not defeated. The idea stayed with me.

            Fast forward to January 2022. After subscribing to the Saline Courier, that long-shelved vision resurfaced. What if a local newspaper were interested in a weekly column about Arkansas’s history, heritage, and culture? I emailed the publisher with my proposal. A few days later, he responded with interest and asked for a sample.

            For that first submission, I chose a place close to my heart: Pinnacle Mountain State Park. I had visited the park countless times over the years and once worked at its visitor center before moving into the tourism department. It felt like the perfect place to begin.

            Thankfully, the publisher agreed. Four years later, All Around Arkansas continues to appear not only in the Saline Courier, but in several other newspapers and magazines as well.

            The story of Arkansas is, ultimately, the story of all of us—those who came before, those who call it home today, and those who will shape its future. I am grateful to the Courier for giving these stories a home, and to you, the readers, who make it a point to join me each week.

            There are still countless overlooked stories waiting to be told in the Natural State. I intend to keep seeking them out, and I hope you’ll continue to ride along with me in the years ahead.

The Legend of the Haw Creek Witch

                On a winding road south of the small town of Pelsor (Pope County), Highway 123 descends into a narrow valley where a crystal-clear stream winds through rock ledges and a lush hardwood forest. Situated in this secluded spot is what appears to be an ideal place for a peaceful weekend retreat.

                The tranquility of the daytime is deceptive, however. When night falls, locals claim the atmosphere shifts dramatically. This change can be attributed to one of Arkansas’s most peculiar modern legends: the tale of the Haw Creek Witch.

                Unlike many Arkansas tall tales rooted in distant history, this particular story originates from a single interesting discovery. In the late twentieth century, some hikers stumbled upon an unusual arrangement of stones resembling a grave located behind the campground. Marking its head was a rugged stone inscribed with the words: “Here lies the Haw Creek Witch, 1829–1881.”

                Here's the problem — no historical records indicate that any woman (witch or otherwise) is buried there. No graveyards can be found nearby, and there are no documented homesteads or recorded nineteenth-century burials in the vicinity. Yet, this marker sits deep in the woods, far from well-maintained trails, seemingly placed for accidental discovery rather than formal visitation.

                Theories surrounding the site emerged quickly. Some suggest it belonged to a shunned mountain woman excluded from her community. Others speculate it was a folk healer unfairly blamed for local illness. A darker narrative implies she may have been killed out of fear of being a witch. However, none of these theories has been substantiated, and many researchers now lean towards the notion that the grave was likely just a prank. 

                Soon, campers began reporting strange occurrences. Some claim to have heard a woman weeping in the forest late at night. Others described footsteps circling their tents, rocks tossed from the darkness, or the persistent sensation of being watched from the tree line. Several visitors claimed their dogs refused to approach the wooded hillside behind the campground. There are no police reports, no injuries, and no confirmed paranormal events. Yet, the story continued to grow every time the tale was told.

                Part of the explanation may lie in the area itself. The Ozarks are far from silent after dark. Barred owls produce calls eerily similar to a human scream. Foxes emit sharp, high-pitched cries that sound like someone in trouble. Coyotes, bobcats, and even wind funneling through the narrow valley can create sounds that echo and distort in the forest. 

                What makes the Haw Creek Witch unusual among Arkansas legends is that the folklore seems to have formed in reverse. Most legends grow from an event and eventually become stories. Here, the physical object came first, and the narrative followed. The suggestion created the legend.

                Today, hikers still search for the marker. It has disappeared and reappeared over the years, sometimes rebuilt by visitors. Coins, stones, and small trinkets are occasionally left behind by those who find them. Even skeptics admit that encountering a grave dedicated to a witch deep in remote woods can be unsettling, particularly after sunset, when the valley darkens, and the forest grows loud.

                No verifiable haunting has ever been documented at Haw Creek Falls. Still, on cool autumn nights when fog settles over the creek, and owls call across the ridges, it becomes easy to understand why the story refuses to fade.

                Whether or not it’s a harmless prank, modern folklore, or simply imagination meeting isolation, the Haw Creek Witch has secured a place among the Natural State’s enduring mysteries, proof that a legend does not always need history to survive. Sometimes all it requires is a quiet forest, a lonely marker, and someone willing to tell the haunting story around a warm campfire.

Gulpha Gorge Campground and Park

                

                 It’s no secret that Hot Springs (Garland County) is my favorite city in my native state, and one of my favorite places there is Gulpha Gorge Campground. This beautiful spot has long been special to my wife and me, a place where we’ve spent countless afternoons with our Boston terriers, Stonewall and Dixie, splashing in the cool waters of Gulpha Creek. This past Saturday, we returned once again—this time introducing our new Boston Terrier puppy, Tucker, to a place that has become part of our story.

                The history of Gulpha Gorge stretches back more than two centuries. In 1804, President Thomas Jefferson commissioned Dr. George Hunter and William Dunbar to explore the Hot Springs area, surveying the newly acquired territory and documenting its scientific significance. After a 25-day journey, the expedition reached the confluence of what is now known as Gulpha Creek. In his journal, Dunbar referred to the stream as “Fourche à Calfat.” Over time, “Calfat” evolved into “Gulpha,” giving the creek its modern name.

                The campground itself came much later. In 1924, Colonel John Fordyce donated 16 acres of land to the federal government to establish a campground in Gulpha Gorge. The property included two rustic changing booths near a small swimming lake called Lake Lillian, named in honor of Fordyce’s wife. The small lake was created by a dam Fordyce had constructed on the creek, which was eventually removed, allowing the creek to flow freely. That gift laid the foundation for what would become one of Hot Springs National Park’s most beloved outdoor destinations.

                Today, Gulpha Gorge Campground sits in the heart of Hot Springs National Park, offering a rare blend of natural beauty and modern convenience. Although it is the only developed campground within the park’s boundaries, it has managed to retain a peaceful, wooded atmosphere. The gentle sound of Gulpha Creek, shaded campsites, and nearby hiking trails give the area the feel of a quiet forest retreat, all while remaining close to the city.

                The campground is relatively small, with around 40 campsites, but it is thoughtfully designed. Each site offers full hookups for RVs and trailers, including 30- and 50-amp electrical service, along with water and sewer connections. Picnic tables, grills, and fire rings make each campsite comfortable and inviting, while paved roads and RV pads simplify setup. Modern restrooms with flush toilets are available year-round, adding a level of comfort not always found in national park campgrounds.

                For hikers and outdoor enthusiasts, Gulpha Gorge Campground is an excellent starting point. The Gulpha Gorge Trail begins near the campground and climbs toward Hot Springs Mountain, offering scenic views and access to the park’s broader trail system, which spans more than 26 miles. Whether you’re looking for a short walk or a longer trek, these trails highlight the forested landscapes and rolling foothills of the Ouachita Mountains.

                There’s also plenty to enjoy without leaving the campground itself. During warmer months, wading in Gulpha Creek is a favorite activity for visitors of all ages. The shallow, clear water makes it especially inviting on hot summer days. Picnicking, birdwatching, and simply relaxing beneath the trees round out the experience, making Gulpha Gorge an ideal place to slow down and reconnect with nature.

                That said, Gulpha Gorge does not offer complete seclusion. Its proximity to Highway 7 and the edge of the city means that traffic noise can occasionally break the tranquility, and the close spacing of campsites can limit privacy. Still, most campers find these minor drawbacks are more than balanced by the campground’s convenience and accessibility.

                Reservations are required for all campsites and can be made through Recreation.gov. The campground is especially popular during peak seasons and holiday weekends, when sites tend to fill quickly. With a little planning, however, it’s possible to secure one of the coveted creekside sites, known for their peaceful views and soothing sounds of flowing water.

                Staying at Gulpha Gorge also puts visitors just minutes from historic downtown Hot Springs. After a morning hike, you can head into town to soak in one of the city’s famous bathhouses, explore local shops and restaurants, or take a scenic drive up Hot Springs Mountain Road. That drive leads to the Hot Springs Mountain Tower, a 216-foot steel observation tower that opened in 1983 and offers sweeping views of the surrounding landscape.

                In a region of Arkansas known for its lakes and forests, Gulpha Gorge Campground stands out by offering the best of both worlds: the calm beauty of a shaded creekside retreat and the charm of a historic city built around water and wellness. Whether you’re a seasoned camper or visiting for the first time, Gulpha Gorge invites you to slow down, explore more deeply, and discover why the Spa City has drawn hundreds of thousands of visitors for generations.

Miss Laura's Social Club

                Prostitution has often been called the world’s oldest profession, and in Fort Smith (Sebastian County), this intriguing history is neither hidden nor whitewashed. Instead, it stands out in a beautiful green building on Garrison Avenue: welcome to Miss Laura’s Social Club, which now serves as the city’s official visitor center. What began as a house of prostitution has become one of the most famous historical landmarks in the area.

                In the late 19th and early 20th centuries, Fort Smith was a rough and tumble river and railroad hub, teeming with soldiers, marshals, outlaws, and the many working men passing through the last vestiges of “civilization.” Where there was money, loneliness, and whiskey, vice followed closely behind. The red-light district flourished mere footsteps from the tracks, with Miss Laura’s among the most notable establishments operating openly at the time. This was not a secret back-alley endeavor; it thrived as a business, regulated and tolerated, intricately woven into the city's fabric.

                What set Miss Laura's apart was its reputation for being relatively respectable for a brothel. Managed by Laura Ziegler, the house enforced its own rules: no weapons, no drunken disorder, and no violence. The women were expected to maintain professionalism, while clients were required to behave. In a city infamous for Judge Isaac Parker, popularly known as “The Hangin’ Judge,” order was essential—even in a place steeped in sin. This commitment to conduct resulted in a house known for its safety, cleanliness, and discretion, qualities that solidified its place in the rich backstory of Fort Smith’s history.

                When the allure of the red-light district waned, and Miss Laura's doors closed, the building faced the possibility of fading into obscurity. Rather than opting for demolition, Fort Smith city officials chose to preserve this iconic structure. Today, Miss Laura's functions as Fort Smith's visitor center, warmly welcoming tourists with maps, brochures, and friendly faces. The transformation feels almost poetic: a venue once devoted to pleasure is now centered on hospitality. Yet, the past remains visible; the upstairs rooms are preserved, stories are shared openly, and the building's history is acknowledged without any embarrassment.

                In my opinion, Miss Laura’s stands out as a testament to the unique character that defines Fort Smith. Unlike many towns that polish their pasts into shiny, marketable narratives, Fort Smith boldly embraces its history, as evident in its decision to transform a former brothel into a welcoming point for residents and visitors alike. This choice conveys a subtle yet powerful message: this is our story, and we take pride in it. After all, history is rarely accommodating.

                As you step inside Miss Laura’s, the layers of Fort Smith’s rich history unfold before you. The city has always been a juxtaposition of law and lawlessness, from churches and saloons to justice and vice co-existing in harmony. The building itself embodies this balance, reminding us that the American narrative encompasses not only aspiration and morality but also the intricate dance of survival and desire that defines community life.

                Miss Laura’s does not romanticize or vilify its past; it simply presents the building’s true story. In doing so, it offers a far more nuanced understanding of history than mere plaques or historical markers could ever convey, recognizing that towns are shaped not only by their heroes but by the everyday lives of common people—imperfect yet resilient individuals doing their best in challenging times.

                Ultimately, the enduring appeal of Miss Laura’s lies in its authenticity. It serves as a reminder that Fort Smith has always been a crossroads, influenced by movement, commerce, and the complexities of human morality. While calling prostitution the oldest profession may be a playful quip, at Miss Laura’s, it opens a doorway to understanding the city itself: unrefined, resilient, and unexpectedly inviting.

                For those interested in learning more about Miss Laura's, you can visit the center’s website at www.misslaurasmuseum.com. However, for a truly enriching experience, why not take a trip to Fort Smith and see it all for yourself? It’s definitely worth the drive!

Batesville's Historic Lock and Dam

                As most folks pass over the White River in Batesville (Independence County), the winding waterway rarely captures a second glance. I know I didn’t think much of it during my visit to this historic city last Saturday, accompanying my wife on a work trip. The river flows steadily beneath the bridge, a familiar sight in our everyday lives. Yet, just downstream lies a significant structure that has quietly influenced the city for more than a century: White River Lock and Dam No. 1.

                Constructed in 1903, Lock and Dam No. 1 emerged during a time when the United States relied heavily on its rivers for transportation. Initiated through the Rivers and Harbors Act of 1899, this project was part of a grand federal vision to enhance the White River for commercial navigation. Although plans were made for ten locks and dams along the river, only three came to fruition, with Batesville’s being the first.

                The dam spans approximately 660 feet across the river, featuring a lock chamber designed to lift boats about 15 feet above low water levels. At one time, this height was crucial. Steamboats transporting goods like lumber, cotton, and agricultural products required reliable river conditions, and the lock offered a solution, allowing vessels to navigate around troublesome shallow areas.

                Batesville’s bond with the White River predates the dam itself. As early as the 1830s, steamboats were a common sight at the docks, establishing the town as a bustling regional trading hub. For many years, the river served as the lifeblood that brought people, resources, and opportunity to the area.

                However, this dynamic shifted in the late 19th century with the arrival of the railroad. Rail transport gained favor due to its speed, dependability, and reduced vulnerability to the whims of weather and water levels. As trains began to replace boats, river commerce began to dwindle. By the mid-20th century, the Corps of Engineers determined that maintaining the navigation system on the White River was no longer financially sustainable, leading to the closure of the lock gates at Dam No. 1 in 1952.

                What could have easily become a forgotten relic of days gone by has instead found a new lease on life. The City of Batesville took ownership of the site, transforming the surrounding area into what we now know as Riverside Park. The dam has transitioned from being an industrial asset to a community treasure. Families can be seen picnicking nearby, while anglers cast their lines into the deep waters below the spillway. Walkers and joggers enjoy picturesque views of the river that once carried steamboats upstream.

                But the story of the dam doesn’t end there. In the latter half of the 20th century, local leaders recognized the river’s steady flow as a source of untapped potential. With an increasing focus on renewable energy, attention turned back to Lock and Dam No. 1, this time as a crucial player in hydropower production rather than just navigation.

                After years of planning, securing financing, and navigating regulatory hurdles, a hydroelectric facility was established at the site. It began generating electricity in 2007, enough to power thousands of homes. While it may still be considered modest compared to larger power facilities, this project signifies a significant investment in local renewable energy and contributes to economic development.

                Today, Lock and Dam No. 1 wears many hats. It serves as functional infrastructure, quietly generating power while also being a beloved recreational landmark at the heart of one of Batesville’s most frequented public spaces. It stands as a living testament to the city’s longstanding relationship with the White River.

                However, maintaining the dam is an ongoing necessity as it ages—a reality faced by any structure subjected to decades of rushing water and seasonal flooding. Recent repair efforts highlight the need to strike a balance between preserving historic infrastructure and ensuring public safety and usability.

                In many respects, White River Lock and Dam No. 1 mirrors Batesville itself: adaptable, resilient, and shaped by the winds of change. What began as a gateway for commerce has evolved into a vital community gathering spot and now plays a significant role in the region’s energy future. The river continues to flow, the dam remains strong, and together they narrate the story of a town built on the edge of one of the most important waterways in the Natural State.