Where To Visit The Most Bizarre Tourist Attraction In Your State

One of the great things about living in the United States is that if you're in the market for a good road trip and can't get enough of the quirky, offbeat, or downright odd, all you have to do is look around. The U.S. countryside is a veritable jackpot when it comes to eccentric hidden gems from the magnum opuses of obsessive country folk artists to echoes of macabre histories that will haunt your dreams. 

While every state has its share of homespun roadside attractions, we've combed the country for the most head-scratchingly odd among them. From Florida's Coral Castle, an elaborate reminder of love's potential in the grasp of artistry, to Hawaii's green sand beaches, the perfect spot to admire jewel-stoned sands and stunning blue waters. Hang onto your car snacks as we look into the most bizarre attractions you can find lurking in every corner of the country.

While visiting Alaska to behold the beauty of its vast, still untamed wilderness and take in the breathtaking sight of the Northern Lights, make time for the state's oddball roadside attraction, Mukluk Land. A sort of junkyard folk art DIY amusement park built around a giant mukluk, this folksy attraction offers amusements like skeeball, a bounce house, and mini-golf. There's also a quirky collection that includes Korean War artifacts, a place dubbed "Tok's first jail," a wishing well, vintage cars, and Santa's rocket ship.

The sleepy town of Alma, Arkansas, has a nutrient-rich claim to fame, and they're not shy about letting the world know. Once home to the now-defunct Allen Canning Company, which allegedly produced most of the world's spinach at one time, Alma declared itself the "World's Spinach Capital" in 1987. The declaration was an affront to the residents of Crystal City, Texas, who had awarded themselves the title several decades prior. Nonetheless, the leafy interloper community proudly boasts several Popeye statues and a spinach-themed water tower that indicate they're not backing down.

Regarding UFOs, most folks tend to align with either Scully or Mulder. And for those who want to believe, there's a perfect spot for eyeballing any potential extraterrestrial visitors thanks to one Colorado woman's kitschy UFO Watchtower. According to the owner, the area has been a hotbed of UFO sightings dating back to the 1570s, when the conquistadors wrote about them in their journals. Located in San Luis Valley near Hooper, this observation tower gives guests a 360-degree view of the desert so they don't miss out on UFO sightings. It's also home to lots of space-themed junk art and camping for the Spaced Out Music & Arts Festival. 

A chimera of museum and curiosity shop, The Odditorium is home to a dazzling array of dark and unusual curiosities that include collections of radium glass and gas masks, Amelia the cycloptic pig, and a medically-articulated Victorian Era skeleton named Lizzie. After the company store co-owner Ken Schuler worked for a closed-up shop, he and his wife Beth decided to put their quirky collections to good use and opened up the Odditorium. For Beth, educating visitors on the history of electroshock and psychiatric medicine is all in a day's work.

Kids who grew up in the 1980s will likely remember the excitement of the original Cabbage Patch Kid craze. But for the LPNS (Licensed Patch Nurses) at Babyland General Hospital in Cleveland, Georgia, the Cabbage Patch craze continues today. Guests can tour the grounds of the "hospital" where Cabbage Patch Kids are delivered for free to learn about the CPK birds and bees. Specifically, how Bunnybees pollinate the fabled Magic Crystal Tree named Mother Cabbage and, with the help of Imagicillin, delivers her vacant-eyed children into the waiting arms of happy children around the world.

Sure, the Bermuda Triangle is out there, vortexing ships and planes into a parallel universe. But there's a more corporeal threat lurking in Idaho's borders, a threat ominous to warrant the name "Zone of Death." Located deep in Yellowstone, this dense wilderness is said to be some of the wildest country left in the U.S., home to more grizzly bears than trails. According to Michigan State University Law Professor Brian Kalt in his essay "The Perfect Crime," the 50-square mile tract stands outside of any legal jurisdiction thanks to a constitutional federal districting loophole, making it theoretically a prosecution-free zone — at least, from an academic standpoint.

Why and how shoes end up abandoned remains a mystery for the ages. But one lonely corner in Indiana has become so much of a sole magnet that the place has earned the sobriquet "Shoe Corner." Located at the intersection of 109th Avenue and Calumet Street in Hanover Township, Indiana, the spot has been gathering shoes for decades, spawning countless threads of local lore surrounding its origin story through the years. Whether it's local tradition or some paranormal sneaker-summoning force, it's a worthwhile spot to rubberneck even if you don't plan to chuck a wedge out the car window. 

Anyone traveling the United States for quirky roadside attractions long enough will start to see a few recurring themes — the world's largest balls of twine, spook lights, and houses shaped like flying saucers show up repeatedly across the American landscape. But one of the most utterly American phenomena is the art of replicating Stonehenge with everything from boats to plastic rocking horse toys. Among the best in the lot is Kansas' Truckhenge, which is exactly what it sounds like it is. The property is open to the public, with an esteemed past guest list that includes the Sister Wives and old Captain Kirk himself.

With their ornate historic gravestones, sculptures, and above-ground vaults, New Orleans cemeteries are among the most beautiful in the world, a fitting tribute to the lives and heritage of those they honor. It's a sight that has captivated countless visits through the years, even inspiring actor Nicolas Cage to purchase two burial plots of his own and plant a 9-foot pyramid atop them. Such an acquisition is the standard operating procedure for Cage, whose list of past splurges includes a pet octopus, a pair of castles, and shrunken pygmy heads.

Lovers of true crime and tiny things are invariably delighted when they stop by the City Chief Medical Examiner's office in Baltimore. There, they'll find an oddly whimsical collection of small scenes representing a series of various homicide scenarios. First created by "mother of forensic science" Frances Glessner during the peak Perry Mason period of the 1930s and 40s, each diminutive detective diorama depicts a dastardly deed in detail — a precursor to the 3D software modeling homicide police use today. Although these artistically rendered designs are viewable by appointment only, you can check a handful of them virtually thanks to the Smithsonian Institute's 360-degree Nutshell Studies viewer.

Many states have at least one abandoned hospital or asylum that's long been bedeviled by spicy backstory-fueled haunting rumors. But few are as primed for Stephen King adaptation as Michigan's The Village at Grand Traverse Commons, a swanky residential phoenix built on the former grounds of Traverse City State Hospital and asylum. Fans of the paranormal or just plain spooky can tour the grounds' more haunted spots, including a walk through the underground steam tunnels and men's ward basement, complete with a rundown of employees' claims that the cottages tend to groan.

Long before Freddy Fazbear tormented his first security guard, lucky birthday kids dreamed of the ultimate '80s kid jackpot — a celebratory trip to ShowBiz Pizza or its erstwhile nemesis Chuck E. Cheese. While the latter is still around today, most generation Alphas will never know the unique blend of terror and wonder from an encounter with first-gen pizza place animatronics. But if you can afford the inevitable counseling sessions, schedule an appointment to stop by Smitty's Super Service Station in Little Improve and check out the musical stylings of the original three-stage Rock-afire Explosion band. 

Easily one of the country's most intriguing underground destinations, Havre Beneath the Streets is a tribute to the town's unique history. Named for Le Havre, France, by the turn of the century, the Wild West frontier settlement featured an underground mall home to its rather colorful underbelly. After much of the city burned down in 1904, even the legit business owners started operating underground during the reconstruction period. Guest tours offer a glimpse into this strange underground world that has served as home for a brothel, a barber, several opium dens, and plenty of Prohibition-era crimes.

Back before every town had a handful of self-declared sovereign citizens, a guy named Kevin Baugh declared himself the president of his own country, announcing his 11-acre home a micronation in 1977. Partly inspired by the film "The Mouse That Roared," Molossia isn't recognized by any U.N. member nations but does have its own anthem, flag, and signature mocktail. While you can't immigrate to Molossia, the President and First Lady offer tours a few days out of the year — but be sure to leave any onions, catfish, or walruses at the border.

Residing in Chester Township's Highlands Ridge Park is a field of forlorn-looking telephone poles that seem ripped from a surreal dystopian film set. The park features upwards of 700 telephone poles planted in parallel lines. Beginning as far back as the 1920s, AT&T Bell Labs began using the field — then known as Telcordia Tract — to test how well different varieties of wood and protectant methods could withstand the elements and woodpecker damage. At one point, the park was even used to give phone line technicians practice climbing poles.

Anyone who has ridden the subway can attest that New York City is home to plenty of strange and interesting sights. But one of the more Instagrammable among them is a futuristic-looking stairway to nowhere that serves as the focal point of Hudson Yards. Called Vessel by artist Thomas Heatherwick, the interactive, architectural artwork serves up echoes of a dreamy, Escheresque beehive while giving guests countless new angles and vantage points from which to view the city. With more than 80 landings and 154 interconnected flights of stairs, it's also a great way to get your steps in. 

The golden age of the traveling carnival may be a thing of the past, but the American landscape is still littered with reminders of this bygone era. These monuments are called Showmen's rests and serve as a permanent tribute to the hardworking circus folk and, occasionally, their elephants. One of the more haunting circus memorials can be found in North Dakota, where a lightning strike hit as a Ringling Bros. tent was getting raised in 1897. A replica of the damaged tent pole now commemorates the shock that took the life of three people while seriously injuring a dozen more.

Look around Oklahoma's Lawton area and find a piece of forgotten Dust Bowl history. Beginning in 1935, under the direction of President Franklin Delano Roosevelt, the U.S. Forest Service planted millions of trees meant to help stabilize the damaged topsoil. An echo of that desperate era, Lawton's Parallel Forest stands today as a living, breathing reminder of how fragile humanity's relationship with the planet truly is. With thousands of evenly-spaced, nearly parallel trees, the Parallel Forest bears the air of solitude and enchantment — so much so that locals relish spinning paranormal yarns about the place.

The inspiration for the horror film "Silent Hill," Pennsylvania's Centralia mine fire is a coal-seam fire that has been burning continuously for decades, if not longer. Although no one is certain when the fire began, most speculate it kicked off in 1962. In the ensuing decades, geologists' numerous attempts to stop the fire have failed as it continues to snake its way through the town's labyrinthine mine system, coughing up poisonous gas, smoke, steam, and even a pseudo-geyser. By 2010, the town was declared uninhabitable, with officials ordering a complete evacuation. 

In 2001, the town of Providence, Rhode Island, hosted a gun buy-back program called Guns for Goods, with gun owners receiving a gift certificate as an incentive to hand in a gun they no longer need so it doesn't fall into the wrong hands. In perhaps the most metal act of upcycling ever, sculptor Boris Bally turned about a thousand of them into a seriously cool-looking obelisk embedded with firearms. To complete the pillar, each gun was disabled before getting embedded in the 12-foot concrete monolith, which can be found in front of the federal courthouse.

If "The Walking Dead" has taught us anything, having a well-fortified HQ is essential in the apocalypse. For survivalists looking to ride out the zombie apocalypse in comfort and style, Vivos Shelters has been hard at work transforming 575 former off-grid military munition buildings into the world's largest survival bunker complex, ostensibly accommodating as many as 5,000 residents if the preppers turn out to be right. Each solid concrete and steel bunker boasts a roomy 2,200 square feet of customizable floor space and can accommodate up to 24 people you'd have to like. Tours are available upon request.

Depending on your perspective, almost anything could be considered art. For Texan artist Barney Smith, finding the perfect medium began and ended with a quick pop to the loo. Like many folk artists, Smith developed a passion for quirky art — in his case, toilet seat art. In 1992, he began sharing his outhouse art pieces with the world via a garage-housed museum in his backyard. Today, Smith's eccentric collection can be found at Truck Yard, a pooch-friendly, folk art-laden San Antonio hangout that hosts food trucks and live music.

For Vermont ice cream company Ben & Jerry's, parting with a retired ice cream flavor is an emotional affair. To honor the memory of those past-tense flavors that once brought the world so much joy, they created an actual Flavor Graveyard, complete with tombstones memorializing retired recipes. Here, guests can pay tribute to late greats like Wavy Gravy, Schweddy Balls, and Economic Crunch. Each headstone features the name and description of the flavor in question, the years it spent in production, and a cute little poem honoring its memory.

If you think a 16-foot statue of communist Soviet revolutionary leader Vladimir Lenin seems like an odd thing to find on a street in Seattle, you're not alone. The figure originated in communist Czechoslovakia and was later purchased by an English teacher after the Velvet Revolution, eventually making its way to a private U.S. home in 1996. The imposing, red-handed figure has been the focal point of some controversy for decades. However, as it stands firmly on private property and freedom of expression is still a core American value, it doesn't seem to be going anywhere anytime soon, even if local politicians keep trying.

If the pandemic taught us anything, it's that with the right level of commitment, you can DIY just about anything — but that doesn't mean you necessarily should. It's hard to imagine what first inspired 19th-century West Virginia farmer Graham Hamrick to take up his unusual hobby. Still, according to local folklorist Jason Burns, Hamrick had a somewhat Batesian passion for DIY Biblical embalming methods. Thanks to some ethically murky hospital practices and an apparent lack of local laws forbidding it, Frankenfarmer managed to get his hands on a couple of bodies, which are still on display at the Barbour County Historical Museum.

The patron saint of anyone who has taken too much of a free thing just because it was free, Francis Lee Smith created the mind-numbingly odd Smith Mansion partly out of obsession. After a large wildfire ripped through Rattlesnake Mountain in 1952, folks were invited to take as much free timber as possible, and Smith couldn't pass up the deal. Initially envisioned as a "tribute to the North Fork Mountains," the project would swell into an obsession as he just kept building — a fixation that would eventually destroy his marriage and lead to his demise as he was crushed while working a roof.