Living Like a Local in Conway: Arkansas' Best Kept Secrets and Hidden Gems

Just a quick drive from downtown Conway sits Cadron Settlement Park, where the Arkansas River has carved a story in stone that speaks to anyone willing to listen. The sandstone bluffs here aren't just pretty – they're pages from Earth's autobiography, showing clear banding from ancient river deposits dating back millions of years.

I spent a misty morning following the trails along the bluff edge, where the sedimentary layers reveal themselves like chapters in a book. The park was nearly empty except for a couple of local fishermen who pointed me toward a small unmarked path leading to what they called 'the turtle rocks' – unusual circular formations in the sandstone that indeed look like turtle shells emerging from the ground.

For geology enthusiasts, bring a good hand lens to examine the fine details in the sandstone. I never travel without mine – it's like carrying a tiny window into the microscopic world that tells the bigger geological story.

When I mentioned I was a hot spring enthusiast to the barista at Zetêo Coffee downtown, her eyes lit up. 'You have to check out Bell Slough,' she whispered, as if sharing state secrets. Located about 15 minutes outside Conway, this wildlife management area contains something special: a small, undeveloped thermal spring that locals have enjoyed for generations.

Unlike the commercialized hot springs of Hot Springs National Park, this humble seep emerges at a modest 82°F year-round - not scalding, but noticeably warmer than the surrounding water, especially in spring. Finding it requires some effort - you'll need to hike about a mile down unmarked trails through wetlands. I recommend wearing a good pair of waterproof hiking shoes as the approach can get muddy.

The spring itself is nothing fancy - just a small pool about the size of a hot tub with a sandy bottom where warm water bubbles up. But sitting there with my feet in the warm mineral water while watching herons stalk through the nearby marsh was a moment of perfect tranquility that fancy resorts simply can't manufacture.

With a name like 'Toad Suck,' how could I resist? This oddly-named ferry crossing just west of Conway has transformed into Toad Suck Park, where the Arkansas River narrows and creates fascinating geological features. The name allegedly comes from riverboat crews who would stop here to drink at the tavern until they 'swelled up like toads.'

But beyond the amusing name, this area showcases river dynamics in action. The bend in the river has created textbook examples of point bar deposits and cut banks that I used to diagram on classroom whiteboards. Now I was standing on them, watching the river's patient work continue.

I spent an afternoon boulder-hopping along the shoreline with my trusty field notebook (old habits from teaching die hard), sketching the unusual concretions found in the riverbank. These spherical rock formations, which locals call 'fairy stones,' form when minerals precipitate around a nucleus in sedimentary deposits.

For anyone fascinated by moving water and its geological impacts, this site offers a natural laboratory without the crowds of more famous river landmarks.

Conway might seem an unlikely place for a vibrant music scene, but three colleges in one small city creates the perfect cultural petri dish. After days of geological exploration, I found myself drawn to Kings Live Music venue downtown, where the Thursday night open jam session had attracted a surprising mix of talented musicians.

What began as a quiet evening nursing a local craft beer turned into one of those magical nights of spontaneous music. When the house band learned I played a bit of harmonica (a habit I picked up during long field expeditions), they insisted I join for a blues number. My travel harmonica has accompanied me from New Zealand hot springs to Icelandic glaciers, but playing with these Arkansas musicians ranks among my favorite musical memories.

The crowd was an enlightening mix of college professors, students, and multi-generational Conway families. Between sets, I chatted with a geology professor from Hendrix College who invited me to view their remarkable mineral collection the next day - connections that would never happen if I'd stayed on the standard tourist path.

On my final morning, I followed a tip from the hotel desk clerk and headed to Lake Conway before dawn. This 6,700-acre man-made lake might not be a natural geological formation, but the morning light on its cypress-studded waters creates magic that any landscape lover can appreciate.

I found a quiet eastern shoreline spot and set up my travel tripod just as the first light began breaking through the cypress trees. The mist rising from the water's surface created an ethereal scene as great blue herons stalked silently through the shallows.

What makes this lake photographically special is how the standing cypress trees create natural leading lines in the water, drawing your eye through the frame. As the sun broke the horizon, the water turned to liquid gold around the dark tree silhouettes.

I wasn't alone in appreciating this spectacle - a local photographer who visits almost daily showed me how different sections of the lake offer unique compositions depending on the season. He pointed out that spring is ideal, as the new cypress growth adds touches of bright green to the composition before summer's haze sets in.