We spent the night at The Cellar Winery in Iowa, and it was kind of perfect. Parked the van between rows of young vines, watched storms roll in under moody skies, and soaked up that peaceful, slow winery energy.
This is exactly the kind of stay we hoped for when we started this journey—quiet, charming, and just far enough off the beaten path. No frills, no rush, just a good spot to breathe and reset.
While hiking along the Niobrara River, we rounded a bend and found this old bridge—collapsed, splintered, and half-swallowed by the landscape. No sign, no explanation. Just the quiet remains of something that used to connect one side to the other.
It was the kind of moment that makes you pause. Not dramatic, not tragic—just... forgotten. Nature’s been reclaiming it piece by piece, and honestly, it's doing a beautiful job. There's something weirdly peaceful about it, like the river doesn’t really care what used to be here. It just keeps flowing.
We made a stop at Ashfall Fossil Beds in Nebraska, and this spot seriously blew my mind. What looks like a giant sandbox is actually a prehistoric mass grave—an ancient watering hole where rhinos, camels, and horses were caught in a volcanic ash cloud around 12 million years ago. The fossil layer is still being excavated, so you’re basically looking at a moment frozen mid-extinction.
No dramatic recreations, no museum dramatics—just the raw, dusty layout of bones right where they fell. It’s eerie, quiet, and kind of humbling. Definitely worth the detour if you're passing through the middle of nowhere.
Just off one of the trails behind Crystal Bridges, we stumbled on this wild patch of quartz crystals jutting out of the hillside like some fantasy movie prop. No signage, no fences—just raw geology doing its thing. The way the light hit them made the whole wall shimmer, like nature was showing off a little.
Arkansas is known for its quartz, but I didn’t expect to find it this casually on a museum hike. Felt like a reminder that sometimes the best art isn’t in the galleries—it’s outside, waiting to be tripped over.
This massive wall piece by Leonardo Drew at Crystal Bridges caught me off guard—in the best way. At first glance, it looks like an explosion frozen mid-blast: jagged, scorched wood shards punching out from a white wall. But then you realize it’s all intentional. Reclaimed wood, torched and reassembled. It’s messy, precise, and kinda meditative the longer you stare.
It’s called Number 185 and it’s all about memory, decay, and rebuilding. Which sounds dramatic, but honestly… it just feels real. Stuff falls apart. We rebuild. Over and over.
If you’re ever in Bentonville, this one’s worth a pause.
Crystal Bridges Museum of American Art
Leonardo Drew – Official Site
Right before we left Chicago, the Gold Coast did what it always does best in spring—explode with tulips. Whole blocks lined with red, orange, and yellow blooms, just casually showing off in front of those historic brownstones and limestone facades.
It’s one of my favorite little city traditions. Every April, the neighborhood feels like it wakes up from hibernation. Even on gray days, the flowers glow. It’s the kind of thing you start looking forward to without even realizing it—like the city’s way of saying, “hey, winter’s over… you made it.”
Spotted this funky cluster of fungi on a tree during our hike—turns out it's Turkey Tail (Trametes versicolor), one of the most common woodland decomposers in the U.S. Named for its layered, feathery pattern that (kind of) resembles a wild turkey’s tail, it quietly breaks down deadwood and feeds the forest floor.
The little hollow at the base of the tree felt like it belonged to some tiny woodland creature. Between the mushrooms, damp leaves, and little umbrellas of mayapple popping up nearby, this whole scene looked like a fairy tale set dressing.
At the Johnson’s Shut-Ins State Park visitor center in Missouri, we came across these wild metal placards that stopped us in our tracks. They weren’t just flat signs with facts—each one had serious texture, like topographic maps and wildlife illustrations stacked together in metal layers.
This one, showing a lizard in its habitat, felt more like an art piece than a park display. The rusted tones, cutouts, and subtle sparkle gave it this geological, almost ancient vibe—like the earth itself was telling the story. Honestly, more trails should invest in signage like this. Way cooler than “You Are Here.”