Least Heat Moon wrote: “El Paso was a pleasant city,
but I felt I’d been in Texas for weeks, so I drove
on west. . . .” Like him and countless other travelers
before me, I was overwhelmed by the Lone Star State. When
I wrote last week from Del Rio, on the U.S.-Mexican border
due west of San Antonio, I was already halfway across
Texas; I thought I would make relatively short work of
it. Then I got my comeuppance: West Texas blew me away.
As you know, Texas and I have had our moments, but
this week they were all good. Before it even began I
had been showered with good tips and one fabulous invitation
to a real Texas July Fourth get-together. A distant
cousin and his wife lived in Dripping Springs, through
which I had just passed when my mother reminded me of
them. Ted Montgomery and I share a common ancestor in
Jehu Montgomery, who was born in Pennsylvania in 1806.
Jehu had been fruitful and multiplied, producing 17
children by two wives, so it wasn’t surprising
that his descendants were all over the place. Ted, his
wife Peggy, and I shared an interest in geneaology,
history, and good food, and Ted was a font of information
and witticisms, so under normal circumstances there
would have been no question but that I would join them.
However, time—as always—was pressing, and
it was still raining; I was desperate to see clear,
blue western skies and be baked by the sun, so with
genuine regret I passed on their warm welcome and headed
south into the Hill Country, obliquely aiming at Big
Bend National Park.
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Cruising the Hill Country
I had never been in the Hill Country before, and I
fell in love with it. Though the vegetation and ecology
were entirely different from those of my native Pennsylvania
hills, the topography and roads made me feel right at
home. Steep climbs gave way to gorgeous vistas and precipitous
drops, and the dips and hollows were cozy and inviting.
Uli and I were both glad to get away from the tepid
flatlanders’ curves and find some that we could
lean into and play with: If you love 3-D driving, you
really should experience route 337 between Medina and
Camp Wood. I would have stayed longer if it hadn’t
been raining (still!), but water was beginning to wash
over the road in places and I respect mountains and
water enough to get out of their way when they’re
roused. (It was a smart decision: Days later the flooding
was so bad that the interstate, no less, was closed
around San Antonio.)
On one of those spectacular crests, though, I pulled
over at a roadside rest to take a better look, and ended
up meeting two lovely black families who were enjoying
the ride as much as I was. I mention their race only
because they were the first black folks I had come across
who were also touring, and I was glad to see them on
the road. (The National Park Service and many state-park
systems and tourism bureaus are actively trying to encourage
minority visitors, but success is slow in coming.) The
Osborne family is from Houston, where Dwight is a NASA
flight-control operations support officer; his cousin
had finally talked him into seeing this part of the
state, and everyone seemed pleased that he had. They
were interested in the Odyssey and took a copy of the
updates to read; Dwight signed up on the spot and promised
to e-mail me some cool photos from space in return.
(True to his word, he did; it pained me greatly to realize
that I didn’t have the appropriate software on
my laptop to run them.)
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This Is the Real Texas
In tiny Medina I found Keese’s Bar-B-Que, a
little place that seated a grand total of 26. Although
it was obviously new, there was already one calendar
on the wall and the numerous photos, clippings, and
ranch memorabilia made it clear that the Keeses had
been around for awhile. When Keese himself came out
of the kitchen and sat down at a neighboring table with
some fellow ranchers, I knew I was in the right place.
I was having plenty of fun taking in the stuff on the
walls, which included fliers for the Medina Livestock
and Wildlife Management Association’s upcoming
bar-b-que, Crider’s Rodeo and Dancehall, and the
First Annual Medina Wild Chicken Hunt (a hysterically
funny chapter in and of itself). Then I overheard him
talking about an aged metal contraption I had noticed
hanging nearby. (The accompanying sign read, “Guess
the gizmo and win a free one-meat dinner”). He
freely admitted that it was a hydraulic jack of some
sort—the trick came in identifying its highly
specialized use. “Got it at a garage sale,”
he said; “for $2, couldn’t go wrong. Had
$50 worth of fun with it already.”
Keese seemed like quite an interesting character. He
and his wife rode Harleys and he was appalled at the
thought of taking his bike to some upcoming rally in
downtown Austin—“It would be like going
to New Orleans for Mardi Gras,” he said. He had
a superb, dry wit and could, I’m sure, go toe-to-toe
with an Irishman in top form any day of the week (and
that’s a compliment of the highest order).
Almost inevitably we ended up talking, mostly about
the roads thereabouts, but I never did introduce myself
and he never volunteered his first name. I wasn’t
in the mood to play author; at that moment, I just wanted
to be an anonymous traveler. For his part, I guessed
he normally wouldn’t have much patience with tourists,
but seemed to appreciate the fact that I appreciated
his land and had gotten way out there, so we got along
fairly well. I was honored when he presented me with
his worn copy (“Need to get a new one anyway”)
of The Roads of Texas, a small-scale map book
that came in handy more than once.
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It’s Another World
And then I was in Del Rio and everything was different:
The land, the food, the language. For the umpteenth
time I wished I had gotten around to learning Spanish
(it’s still on my very long to-do list). I wanted
to cross the border but didn’t really have the
time, seeing as how I wanted to get to Big Bend before
the Fourth was upon us and all of the campsites would
be occupied.
Route 90 west gave me the open land and sky I had been
hungering for, and a fortuitous stop in Langtry afforded
not only a peek at Judge Roy Bean’s famous saloon/billiard
parlor/court of last resort, but also valuable information
about Big Bend. The gentleman manning the visitors’
center had come home to his native Langtry after travelling
the world for Uncle Sam, and he clearly knew the Big
Bend country intimately. He gave me excellent advice
on gas stations, campgrounds, and trails.
The park itself left me at a loss for words (which
is obviously a fairly rare occurrence). Big Bend’s
combination of rich biodiversity, spectacular geology,
and lighting a diva would covet amounted to nothing
less than sensory overload. It was never-ending: Wow.
Cool! Damn. . . . Even multi-syllabic adjectives seemed
inadequate: It was awesome, but in the traditional sense
of the word—the watered-down colloquial usage
was simply not up to the task. With the invaluable Roadside
Geology of Texas at hand, I was forever stopping
by the side of the road and gaping at yet another otherworldly
formation. I wanted to scream at the tourists who slowed
down to curiously check out me and my DC license plates,
“Look over THERE, not here! You’re missing
the whole show!” But I learned a long time ago
to save my breath.
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Everybody Hates Washington
On Wednesday I moseyed over to Study Butte for gas
and ice, and my DC plates continued to attract attention.
(The bottom line, “Taxation without representation,”
always gets people going on the subject of Washington’s
unique status; many seem to think that Washingtonians
pay no local taxes because they live in the nation’s
capital, which isn’t a state. The further west
I go, the worse it gets. We gave King George a bit of
grief over this very issue, didn’t we?!) While
pumping gas, I got sucked into a mostly tongue-in-cheek
debate over federal subsidy of the District and who
really pays; I’m about ready to start carrying
copies of my DC tax records to prove that I’ve
paid pretty heavily and am not really a leech on the
body politic.
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But They Love a Parade
That was a fateful gas run, though, for I ended up
getting invited to the Study Butte/Terlingua Fourth
of July parade and subsequent fireworks and party at
the community center. (The two small towns sort of run
together and there appears to be some confusion about
where each ends and begins, but I have it on good authority
that Terlingua Creek is the dividing line.) I had planned
to attend a park ranger’s presentation on the
legends and lore of Big Bend, but a small-town Texas
Independence Day celebration was too good to pass up.
So on Thursday, the Fourth, I made the 50-mile roundtrip
to the Rio Grande Village store to take a shower (there
weren’t any at the Basin Campground in the Chisos
Mountains where I was camping). After that blissful
scrubbing I went down to the Rio Grande itself and gazed
at the little town of Boquillas, Mexico. I had considered
going across, but found out that the border crossing
was now closed. (I found out purely by accident, in
a chance encounter—the crossing itself was wide
open and no signs indicated that I’d be in deep
doo-doo if I wandered over and got caught.)
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Good Borders, Good Neighbors?
This was one very real—and hurtful—consequence
of the War on Terrorism. There had been three border
crossings in the park alone that were open for local
traffic, but word came down from Washington that on
May 10, 2002 those crossings would be closed. Never
mind that the people on both sides of the border had
always depended on each other for supplies and business.
Boquillas, a village of only about 150 souls, had no
electricity or gas station, and the nearest Mexican
town that did was approximately 160 miles away. Getting
the gas to drive there and finding food that would keep
until they could eat it was a major challenge; and of
course they no longer would have any income from the
gringo tourists. Likewise, the gringo tourists and U.S.
shopkeepers who had depended upon the Mexican business
were out of luck.
To add insult to injury, the border was ridiculously
porous there: I counted at least a half-dozen places
up and down river from the Boquillas crossing where
I—who am not known for my athleticism—could
cross without undue exertion. If I could, presumably
a bad guy could manage it.
Now don’t get me wrong: I’m wholeheartedly
in favor of controlling our borders, and I’m willing
to do whatever it takes to make them as secure as they
can ever realistically be; but this I don’t get.
Neither do the locals on the U.S. side of the Lajitas
crossing, who are petitioning the U.S. Border Patrol
and U.S. Customs to “recognize the unique character
of our area and continue their longstanding policy of
. . . allowing limited cross-border movement in the
immediate area for people from both communities.”
A few articles have appeared in local papers, and at
least 150 people have signed the petition in the Study
Butte Store alone, but nobody is counting on distant
bureaucrats having a change of heart. This is the sort
of thing that makes people hate Washington, and I can’t
say I blame them.
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A Rockin’ Fourth
On a happier note, I had a ball at the Study Butte/Terlingua
Fourth celebration. The parade was of the blink-and-you’ll-miss-it
variety, consisting largely of police and EMT vehicles,
with a few American Legion/Veterans of Foreign Wars
floats and horseback riders thrown in, but it was great
fun; and the fireworks display lasted a long time and
was up-close-and-personal. The community center, the
product of grant money that needed to be spent, was
new and very nicely done; no plastic, fake-wood paneling
here, but plaster and real wood. Two local guys played
rock standards, a gray-haired cowgirl passed out apples,
and the local candidate for justice of the peace bought
me a couple of beers, introduced me around, and kept
me entertained. (It’s always useful to get to
know the right people.) The evening was all about independent,
strong-willed people coming together to celebrate and
affirm their collective—and individual—independence;
hopefully, it was replicated all over America that July
4, 2002.
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Sisterhood In the Campground
Speaking of independent, strong-willed people: I’m
pleased to report that I finally ran into another
woman camping alone, in the Basin at Big Bend. She and
I were right across from one another, and when I went
over to confirm that she was alone, she said that she,
too, had been thrilled to see me. (“I saw you
and it was like, ‘I am woman, hear me roar!’”
she laughed.) Like me, the young woman from Austin usually
camped with a boyfriend or friends but was happy on
her own, too. When she pulled out the day before me,
she told me to keep roarin.’
New Mexico, hear me roar. Stay tuned for next week’s
installment. . . .
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