It looks fairly nondescript, doesn't it? An old farmstead, a historical site, at Buffalo National River in northern Arkansas, right along the Buffalo River Trail that Torrey and I were busy finishing up this year. We passed by Erbie Historical Site in the afternoon, after something like fifteen miles of hiking with our packs on. We still stopped to check out the homestead, peeking into the old house, the barn, the chicken shed, and other smaller buildings on the property. It was cool, neat, a bit of history. Then we moved on, eager to make it to our car and the luxury of camping for the night. Until, that is, we needed one last run to the bathroom before hitting the sack. We were cold and lazy, and yeah ok I really didn't want to walk from our campsite all the way to the other side of the campground in the pitch black night where not even the stars were shining. So I convinced Torrey to drive us there. And boy did I regret it, because no sooner had we finished up at the outhouse than Torrey decided it would be fun to go for a late night drive along a forest service road. To check out that old farmstead. Did I mention it was so dark that there weren't even stars out? So me being me and hating being scared, I did the only practical thing I could aside from voicing my vehement disapproval (which fell on deaf ears anyway): I covered my eyes. I straight up refused to look, gloved fingers pressing into my watering eyes so hard I was seeing bursts of white light erupt behind my eyelids. The bumpy, twisting forest road felt like a lot further than the mile or whatever it actually is, and at the end of it when Torrey turned her headlights on bright to illuminate the farmstead in all its midnight glory, I still refused to look. Her commentary didn't help, saying things like "Oooh this is creepy. Why did we do this? This is terrifying! Why did I think this would be a good idea?" And I refused to even peek, despite her goading. And when she had sufficiently freaked herself out enough to turn around and leave, Torrey missed the turn for our campground, essentially forcing me to open my eyes long enough to help her get us back to our site. My gloves damp and tears still leaking down my face (because apparently that's my reaction to fear, and what a wonderful reaction it is, eyes welling up like a freaking garden hose), I had to pay attention to this stupid forest service road illuminated only as far as the headlights could reach past every twist and turn, convinced we were going to round a corner and find the ghost of the farmstead's last owner in our path. Did I mention I hate being scared? I make up too many stories in my head for things like this to make me comfortable. Once we finally returned to the safety of our campsite we got into our bags, Torrey mumbling about how it had been a bad idea to go and how she wouldn't be able to sleep. I may or may not have been a little smug when I told her I wouldn't have a problem sleeping. I didn't look, after all.
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