We didn’t set out chasing anything grand on this trip. No packed checklist, no rush to “see it all.” Just a simple idea: drive out, slow down, and let Hot Springs do what it’s known for—make you breathe a little easier.
The journey itself eased us into that mindset. Our first real pause was at the Texarkana state line. One foot in Texas, one in Arkansas—one of those small, slightly cheesy stops that somehow always feels worth it. There’s something grounding about marking the moment you’ve crossed into somewhere new, even if it’s just a sign and a quick photo. It felt like a soft reset. The road ahead, a lighter schedule, and the quiet excitement of being somewhere different.
By the time evening rolled around, we made our way to Garvan Woodland Gardens for their Christmas lights. I’ll be honest: the wait tested our patience. Almost an hour just to get in, inching forward, wondering if the payoff would match the hype—especially with a long day already behind us. But once we stepped inside, all of that melted away.
The gardens were transformed. Trees wrapped in soft, glowing lights. Paths illuminated just enough to guide you forward without stealing the magic. Reflections shimmering on the water, making everything feel doubled, deeper, calmer. It wasn’t loud or overdone. It was thoughtful. Almost reverent. The kind of place that makes you instinctively slow your steps and lower your voice.
Walking through the lights felt less like an attraction and more like an experience meant to be absorbed. Kids pointing in wonder. Adults lingering a little longer than usual. Couples pausing to take photos, then putting their phones away and just standing there for a moment. The wait suddenly made sense. Some things need a little patience before they reveal themselves.
Day Two greeted us at an easy pace, the kind that feels right after a night of lights and lingering walks.
We started the morning at the Fordyce Bathhouse Museum, stepping into a piece of Hot Springs history that quietly explains why this town exists in the first place. Walking through the preserved bathhouse rooms, it was easy to imagine a time when people arrived here with nothing but time and hope, trusting mineral water and rest to do their healing. The tiled rooms, old tubs, and faded photographs didn’t feel like a museum frozen in time—they felt human. Like reminders that slowing down has always been part of the cure here.
From there, we headed up to the Hot Springs Mountain Tower. The ride up already hinted at what was coming, but the view at the top still managed to surprise us. Layers of trees stretching endlessly, the town tucked gently below, and that feeling of being just far enough removed to see everything clearly. It wasn’t dramatic in a loud way. It was calm, wide, and grounding—the kind of view that makes conversations pause naturally.
Standing there, it felt like the perfect counterbalance to the day before. Where the Christmas lights glowed softly in the dark, this was clarity in daylight. No rush, no agenda—just perspective. And somehow, that made the whole trip feel complete already, even though we still had time ahead of us.
As we headed back, there was no feeling of rushing to “get back to real life.” Hot Springs has a quiet way of reminding you that real life isn’t somewhere else—it’s right there in the pauses, the views, the waiting, the warmth. From standing on a state line to standing above the treetops, the trip gently nudged us to slow down and look around a little longer than usual.
We came back to Dallas with calmer minds, lighter hearts, and the sense that sometimes the best trips aren’t about how much you fit in, but how fully you show up. And that feeling? It lingered well after the road carried us home.
Kenrick Vaz 