Pt 22 Surviving Arkansas Pod People and Pandemic Pit stops
Journey through ominous roads and unwelcoming signs: the state that didn’t roll out the red carpet and a very vivid imagination.
Do you ever binge-watch a series and find yourself completely hooked, only to hit an episode that’s just... meh? You know the ones, nothing too exciting happens, and it feels like filler. I call these “positioning episodes.” They dip into the past, set the stage, and lay down some solid foreshadowing for what's to come in the next episode and beyond.
That’s exactly what I served up last week, a meh-positioning post. I shared the unwritten rules of companies that share their parking lots with RV travelers. Sure, it wasn’t action-packed, but if you’re new to RV life, I bet you found those tidbits pretty handy. For everyone else? Yeah, maybe it was a little "meh."
Need to catch up?
Pt 21 Discovering the art of Secret parking spots for a Safe Night’s sleep
Pt 19 The day time stood still
Anyway, consider it a setup for what’s next. We had just pulled out of the RV park in Oklahoma (after an emotional “we left the cat behind!” moment) and pointed our rig eastward. Destination: Ocala, Florida. Google optimistically estimated it at 17 hours and 22 minutes. Spoiler alert: Google has never driven a motorcoach during a worldwide epidemic shutdown. Stay tuned, because things are about to get way more interesting!
It was exciting, once again, to roll through a state, especially Oklahoma. We had a great experience there and left with hopes of returning when the world is open and ready for people and tourists again. What struck me as odd—though I didn’t notice it at first—was the lack of vehicles on the road.
And then it hit me: how wonderful it was to truly drive solo on the open road. No jerks cutting you off, no sudden stops or abrupt turns, and none of those drivers who jump out in front of you only to crawl along at 10 miles under the speed limit. Nope, just the open road and nature. For a moment, we soaked in the true feeling of solitude, wheels humming against the asphalt like a melody of freedom.
Our trusty Garmin, with its usual attitude, chimed in to announce we were a couple of miles from crossing into a new state (maybe she knew something we did not). Not that we needed the reminder this time, she might as well have chuckled “Good luck!”
As we approached the Arkansas state line, the atmosphere shifted dramatically. Gone was the liberating sense of an empty highway. Instead, we were met with a foreboding, almost ominous, feeling that made the border seem anything but welcoming. The contrast was startling, and I couldn’t shake the sense that the road ahead might hold a few surprises, whether we were ready or not
It was early April when Arkansas Governor Asa Hutchinson issued an executive order restricting hotels, motels, and vacation rentals to specific categories of guests—primarily healthcare workers. This effectively barred non-essential tourists. To further limit out-of-state visitors and slow the spread of the virus, all camping and parks were closed to RV travelers.
Driving into Arkansas felt like stepping into an apocalyptic movie. Starting right at the state line, for two miles, there were signs explicitly warning that recreational vehicles were not welcome. The messages were so jarring, so stark, that I was too stunned to even snap a photo to document the ominous feeling.
You have to remember, at that time, much of the news surrounding restrictions was kept local. There wasn’t a lot of information about what was happening in neighboring states. We had no idea what we were rolling into—and it felt as though we’d stumbled into this eerie reality just as the order took effect.
Now, feel free to have a good chuckle, seriously, I won’t mind! As I read the ominous signs posted every 500 feet, my stomach churned. It felt like we’d stumbled straight into The Day of the Dead or something equally eerie. I half-expected to see zombies, or parts of them holding signs warning us to turn back.
The signs, written in bold red letters, read something like: No overnight stays for recreational vehicles. Reading it aloud, I turned to Ernie, curiosity getting the better of me, and asked, “What exactly is a recreational vehicle?”
Without missing a beat, “You’re sitting in one.” Ernie replied with a smug look on his face.
And that, is the moment, I learned RV is an acronym for recreational vehicle. Go ahead and laugh—I did, and I still do! I grew up camping with a tent and a camper, but I had no idea what we were in was technically a recreational vehicle. To me, it was simply our motorcoach, our home on wheels. Maybe because we lived in it full-time, I’d never associated it with the “recreation” part. Moments like these are what I lovingly call “canoe moments.” You’re either in the canoe with two oars or, well... just one. In this case, I was paddling with neither!
Well, we had no choice but to drive through the state. My euphoric mood from just a couple of hours earlier had completely dissolved, replaced by tension and unease, thanks to seeing far too many apocalyptic movies. The signs, the emptiness, and the ominous vibe were straight out of a cinema nightmare.
If we’d been in a van, maybe we could have blended in, but in a 45-foot motorcoach the size of a Greyhound bus? Not a chance. We might as well have blasted our air horns hung out the windows, while waving flags shouting “Hey, look at us! We’re an RV!” Subtlety was not an option. Still, we did our best to keep as low of a profile as a giant bus can manage—which is to say, like an elephant trying to hide behind a twig. And wouldn’t you know it, we had to make a stop.
We had to stop for fuel and were grateful no one was around to give us the evil eye for it. The scene was eerily quiet, no rush of vehicles on the nearby highway, no cars on the gas station side, and no trucks on the fuel side. Just an occasional breeze kicking up bits of discarded plastic, the only movement in an otherwise still world.
As I nervously glanced around while washing the windshield, my vivid imagination conjured up the 1978 version of Invasion of the Body Snatchers. I’m not sure why my mind pulls these serendipitous references from thin air, but it does. In that classic sci-fi horror film, the alien "pod people" unleash a spine-chilling, high-pitched screech while pointing at the unassimilated—a moment so iconic and unnerving that it perfectly matched the tone I was feeling standing there.
The desolate streets, the rustling of the wind, and a rogue plastic bottle skittering across the pavement made me jump. My heart raced as I half-expected an alien pod person (with a double face mask on ) to leap out of the shadows, finger raised, screeching in that infamous, haunting way. I mean, honestly, could the mood have been set any better for an alien invasion?
My heart was pounding, the hair on the nape of my neck standing on end, matched only by the goosebumps prickling my arms. I was certain a pod person was about to appear from around the corner of the building, screeching to rally their fellow pod people to capture us. I could practically see us being transformed into Arkansas non-RV pod people with triple layer face masks. At that moment, I knew one thing for sure: there was no way I was sleeping overnight in this state. That’s how they turn you—while you’re asleep!
A cold shiver ran down my spine, cementing my resolve, when suddenly Ernie appeared from around the corner. I jumped about ten feet into the air, snapping out of my imaginary horror flick—only to make him jump, which then made me jump again. My fight-or-flight response was officially on overload. Scrambling into the RV, I slammed the door shut and locked both double bolts, convinced these magical locks would somehow keep the horrors at bay and was ready to leap under the bed covers, joining Jaggie-Boo-boo’s.
As I stood there, panting, I quietly promised myself: no more zombie, apocalyptic, or alien invasion movies—ever again. Meanwhile, Ernie was outside, laughing so hard his knees buckled. Finally, I relented and let him in, muttering something about it not being that funny.
We survived the fueling stop and were back on the road with no Arkansas pod people in sight, thankfully, or being reported.
We traveled 409 miles that day, and I was beyond thankful Arkansas was one of those shorter drive-through states. Even so, it made for a long haul, and Ernie took on every single mile of it. At this point in our journey, I was firmly in the co-pilot seat for I had not learned to drive this beast yet. And let me tell you, I was so grateful he could handle it.
Thankfully, we were fully stocked with food, water, toilet paper, and nose-tissues before leaving Oklahoma. My Girl Guide days had taught me the importance of being prepared, and those lessons really paid off. So, here’s a big thank you to Mum and Dad for sticking me in The Girl Guides Organization all those years ago—weekly dues of 50 cents —well spent!
We pretty much held our breath the entire way through Arkansas. The tension in the coach was so thick you could slice it with a bread knife. Maybe Ernie was replaying the same horror movie in his head, but I wasn’t about to ask. Some things are better left unspoken—especially when they involve pod people and apocalyptic vibes.
We knew we were nearing the Tennessee state line when the “un-welcoming” signage started popping up. A few miles of stern warnings for westbound travelers coming into Arkansas from Tennessee left no room for misinterpretation: Don’t stop, don’t stay, just keep moving.
I couldn’t help but wonder about the poor souls crossing. I imagine their faces, masked up, wide-eyed, and possibly crossing their legs in desperate prayer when they realized the welcome centers and rest stops were closed. thankful for their golden toilet paper, while scanning the horizon for trees like their lives depended on it.
I bet they felt the same ominous chill we did. Or maybe, just maybe, they too were reliving their own pod-people nightmare, complete with imaginary screeches and pointing fingers. One thing’s for sure, Arkansas wasn’t rolling out the red carpet for anyone
.With the foreboding signs of Arkansas behind us and the Memphis-Arkansas Bridge ahead, we crossed over the mighty Mississippi River. The view was flanked by two other bridges: the Frisco Bridge, carrying railcars, and the Harahan Bridge | Big River Crossing, another rail bridge. However, tucked along the Harahan is something truly unique—the longest public pedestrian and cyclist bridge across the Mississippi, stretching nearly a mile.
Of course, on this particular day, it was completely barren—except, in my imagination, for a few wandering zombies. I made a mental note to walk across it someday when we come back this way. Why? Because it’s there. How often do you get to stroll across a bridge spanning the Mississippi?
Just as I started daydreaming about that walk, something caught my eye—a giant pyramid rising on the horizon. My curiosity kicked in, and I couldn’t take my eyes off it. To my surprise, this wasn’t some historic monument or ancient wonder—it was a Bass Pro Shop.
In fact, it was the Bass Pro Shop shaped like a pyramid. where we were staying for the night,. Talk about a marketing marvel! Who wouldn’t want to stop and see what this is all about? It practically follows you across the Hernando de Soto Bridge, calling out like a siren of sporting goods and outdoor gear.
It’s not every day you see a pyramid tucked into a historic downtown area in North America (except maybe the Luxor in Las Vegas). Can you even count how many pyramids you’ve seen in the USA? Because I can’t, and this one? It’s definitely going on my list for the sheer novelty alone.
We passed the pyramid by and continued east on I-40. I’m assuming that, because we were in downtown Memphis, there was some fandangling involved to get to it. After navigating a series of tighter streets, we finally found ourselves off North Parkway, catching glimpses of the downtown vibe. Following the directions we’d been given, we drove alongside the riverwalk to the back of an empty parking lot. We parked beneath the Hernando de Soto Bridge and its cloverleaf, hunkering down for the night.
After the emotional rollercoaster of the day, both of us were thoroughly wiped out. Still, I managed to rally, grabbing the cats, on leashes, of course and ventured out for a little exploration under the overpass. Once all the cats were safely back inside and accounted for (headcount complete!), I decided to stretch my legs a bit more and walk the perimeter of the Pyramid.
Let me tell you, it was massive. Standing in front of the closed establishment, looking up at its gleaming point, I felt tiny. As much as I wanted to get inside and explore, I couldn’t help but marvel at how extraordinary it was. But then again, when has a pyramid ever been ordinary?
This pyramid, though, is something else entirely. It’s not just about its size or shape for it has so much to offer. But I’ll save those details for next week. Stay tuned!
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~Karen
What a journey you’ve shared Karen. Your ability to take a seemingly simple trip and turn it into a vivid, emotional, and sometimes comedic experience is incredible. I loved how you captured the tension and strange feeling driving through Arkansas....your description of those signs and the “pod people” had me laughing! But, beyond the humour, there’s this deep reflection on how even the smallest things like being caught off guard by the emptiness on the road can shift our perception of the world around us. I’m excited to hear more about the pyramid next week! It sounds like this journey is filled with unexpected twists. Safe travels, and thank you for sharing such a unique experience!
so cool that you take us with you on these adventures - do you have some pictures to share of your motorhome? would LOVE to see it :)