We made it. Finally. Arriving during what apparently is one of the worst storms in the past few years, we skirted and skidded our way through Northern Arkansas and arrived in Little Rock yesterday afternoon–a day late, but in one piece. (Actually two pieces, because we had taken separate cars. But really, I don’t see why you have to be such a stickler for accuracy, so why don’t you shut up?)
I had been warned of Arkansas roads in during the winter. “Be careful,” people advised, “for the state does not do anything to clear ice from the roads.” “Oh tush” I admonished, for these people obviously had never driven through South Dakota in February, and I was confident my winter driving prowess was unsurpassed.
Let me say this: People who drive in Minnesota and South Dakota in the winter have absolutely no idea what sheer terror is (unless they’ve been raped by clowns). Sheer terror is driving through Missouri at 60 mph, and seeing the freshly plowed Missouri road morph into a rapidly approaching snow dune exactly at the Arkansas border.
So we cruised through most of Arkansas doing about 25 mph.
The most bizarre part, however, is when we would actually spot road crews attempting to clear the road. We would occasionally happen upon a snow-plow and would follow it for miles before realizing that the plow was not actually plowing any snow. It was as though the drivers had forgotten to lower the blade of the plow before they began their shifts, and the road was often worse after the plow had gone over it.
What have I learned? That much like the love of a mail-order bride, Arkansas is beautiful but deadly.