My winter wanderings

[USExplorer]

I have to credit the book "Blue Highways", by William Least Heat Moon, as an inspiration for my travels as well as my documentation of them. Honorable mention also goes to Richard Grant, for his BBC documentary "American Nomads" (available on utoob) and accompanying book. 

The public computer throws me off after an hour, so I leave and walk the streets. Even though the weather is cool and cloudy, residents and visitors are out in full force. A homeless man asks me to give him something to eat, so I give him the stick of crackers I brought along on my city walk. I walk down Canal Street to the riverfront and see the Mississippi River for the first time. Wide, sluggish, "too thick to drink and too thin to farm". A ferry advertised as free for pedestrians has begun charging four bucks for a round trip. Hundreds of delighted shoppers crowd the riverfront premium outlet stores. Homeless guys nap, fish, busk, and chat along the riverfront amid the throngs of well-to-do tourists. A few of us watch along the railing as the cargo ship "New Delhi Express" slowly navigates its way up the river, a paddle wheel cruise ship (Live Jazz on Every Cruise) making way for it. The ships chirp their foghorns in greeting. I get hungry and walk all the way back to my car, eat, then walk Girod Street down through the Warehouse District. I set off along the Riverfront and enter the French Market. Navigation is difficult due to the hordes of people crowding the open-air market pavilion. I'm not an artsy guy, so I don't find much there that interests me. A 9/11 truther dressed in an Uncle Sam getup speaks to a small crowd of earnest people about Building 7 next to a booth selling anti-establishment bumper stickers. 

Using my free city map, I find my way up to Bourbon Street, which is more rowdy at 3:45 pm on a cloudy, cool winter day than Key West was several hours into a sultry night. Dirty water pooled on the grimy streets and sidewalks, and a foul reek filled the air. A discordant racket of music poured from the open doors of numerous bars. A hundred options to lighten one's wallet presented themselves, from panhandlers to strip clubs. Cars foolish enough to turn down the street honked in impatience as they stood at a standstill. I was tempted to stay for the night to see the place come alive, but my parking charge would rapidly climb after 6 pm, and I had no inclination to blow away my travel savings. On the way back, I walked into the library again to look something up. I wasn't wearing a jacket like in the morning, and my shirt was tucked in. As soon as I passed the security desk:

"Sir, sir, what's that on your belt?" I have four items attached to my belt; a flashlight, a can of mace, a multi-tool, and a water bottle. 
"A water bottle." Library policies nationwide prohibit drinks. I always ignore them.
"Not the water bottle, the knife. Is that a knife?"
"It's a Swiss Army knife. What's the problem?"
"You can't bring that into the library."
"Well then I'll leave." I turn and stride toward the door. 
"No, sir, sir, you have to leave the knife at the desk here."
Without even looking back, I reply "I sure ain't leaving it with you guys."
I hear protestations behind me, but I exit the property as quickly as possible. 

See you later, NOLA.

A very high railroad bridge crossed the Mississippi River several miles outside of town, and the road rose to meet it, then dropped to ground level. If the Mississippi is the bisector of our nation, I am now in the West.

Only 5 straight-line miles from downtown New Orleans along Route 90, but there are no subdivisions, no miles of ugly sprawl. Only small towns bypassed by Route 90,, cane fields and marshes. Near Boutte, I stop at a Walmart and end up donating blood at a blood drive. Drained (literally) after the day's events, I choose to stay in the parking lot for the night. The first parking lot campsite of my journey. It begins raining around 4 am. I sleep in, then head out along US-90, which is in the process of being turned into an interstate highway (I-49). I turn off at SR-1 and get a state highway map from the visitor's center. The friendly ladies at the desk persuade me to stay in the area and try some Cajun cooking, so here I am in the brand new Lockport public library.

1384: Gulf-front Walmart. If you want cheap Gulf-front property, Mississippi is the place to be.
1385: A breeze blows sand across Route 90. Notice the grassy expanse on the right that used to be cluttered with vacation rentals.
1387: Railroad bridge over St Louis Bay, resting birds-eye view. 
1388: Part of the Bay St Louis beach affected by red tide. What a waste of fish. 
1389: The most kick-ass private property sign I've seen, a private college's pier.

 

[USExplorer]

1390: Red tide on a Mississippi bay
1391: Just another abandoned boat, pushed off the road after Katrina and left to rot in the woods.
1392: Louisiana beckons, across the East Pearl River.
1394: A shrimper heads onto Lake Pontchartrain past intrusive development. The I-10 bridge is in the background.
1397: New Orleans beckons from 25 miles away, spectacularly backlit by the setting sun.

 

[USExplorer]

The French Quarter strongly frowns upon photography. A live jazz band had a huge "NO VIDEO" sign in front of the stage. Every vendor and store had a hand-written "NO PHOTO" sign posted on the premises. Also, as you might have noticed, I don't photograph people. 

1399: Beautiful secluded sheltered campsite FREE OF CHARGE. Only a couple miles from the French Quarter! I actually camped here.
1400: New Orleans, from the roof of my campsite. 
1401: The Father of Waters
1403: Thousands of tons of cargo roaring across the Mississippi a hundred fifty feet up in the twilight air.
1406: The tracks reluctantly lose elevation in the median of busy US-90.

 

[Rugster]

Wow, excellent travel log. Thanks for sharing.

If you are ever in the Carrabelle/Apalachicola area, take a detour and check out Saint George Island, beautiful beaches. In my opinion the nicest beach in America.

 

[Goshawk]

Just awesome writing. You need a blog.

 

[USExplorer]

@Rugster: When I drove through Apalachicola back in February, I took the 5 mile long bay causeway out to St George's Island. I only remember extreme fog. I also stopped at the free nature center in Eastpoint. This time I just drove right on through.

At the Route 1 drawbridge, I climb a set of stairs to the top. Two boys shout and wave from their trailer home canal-side. When I climb down, the older one asks me if I'm from the area. I tell him I travel all over the place. Then he asks:

"Which way are you going?"

"I'm not sure yet."

"If you go that way," pointing down the bayou, "there's nothing but rednecks and coonasses. The other way will take you back to the highway."

On my map, Route 1 travels right alongside the Bayou LaFourche down all the way to the Gulf, some 60 miles out. The road's hold on land grows increasingly endangered as it approaches the coastline. Small towns dot its concourse. I choose to avoid the detour at the risk of missing out on authentic Cajun food and go back to Route 90. 

In Morgan City, I park at the fisherman's wharf, which floats above the Atchafalaya River. Two trussed bridges cross overhead, parallel to each other. Morgan City is a walled city, surrounded by a high flood wall against the onslaught of the river, both its livelihood and its greatest enemy. The downtown shops are deserted at 4 pm. A jittery guy walks directly up to me and asks me for a cigarette. I tell him I don't smoke. He strides off. An extremely overweight kid walks by on the main street, loudly singing a song of his own making, unconcerned of being seen. 

I stop at a Cajun Pentecostal Church outside Bayou Vista and attend a prayer meeting. For whatever reason, the announcement of my being there elicits a round of applause. 

I camp for the night pulled off the side of an access road off Route 90. Mosquitoes swarm the outside of my truck, plastering themselves against my windows despite the 55 degree breeze. Every time I open my door, several come inside. They are clumsy, bumbling around in the warm interior rather than getting right down to business. Around 6:00, I am woken by a dim flashlight shining in my window, and an insistent "Sheriff's office!" call. I open the door and he demands ID, even after stating that I am not being detained. I relent and give him my license, which he quickly runs and comes back.

"Well, what brings you to this part of Louisiana?"
"I'm heading to Arizona."
"Is it a family reunion?"
"Nope, its a gathering of vagabonds and vandwellers who live like this."
"Man, if I had half the balls you had I would travel the country too. But I have a wife and a mortgage. Enjoy your trip."
"Take care." We shake hands.

Route 90 enters fields of sugar cane as it approaches Lafayette. A billboard states "We are harvesting. Please be careful." Trucks with big mesh buckets are everywhere on the highways. Temperatures are in the mid-50s, and the sun is nowhere to be found. In Lafayette, I stop at a quiet library and spend a few hours, buying two "quarter novels" and uploading pictures. The city of Lafayette itself does not appear interesting, and I continue heading west. Scott advertises itself as the "Gateway to the West". Route 90 travels through more flat farmland, cane in the dry land and rice in the wet. I enter Jeff Davis Parish after crossing the Mermentau River. In Jennings, an abandoned mill stands in what passes for downtown. Decrepit trailers and abandoned buildings show that oil money hasn't yet reached this region. An unlocked ladder rises to the top of a giant concrete tube. On a whim, I begin climbing it. Unaccustomed to climbing high ladders, the one hundred foot climb feels more like five hundred feet. The ladder is welded steel, painted with thick red paint. At the top, the view is unspectacular due to tall trees in the neighborhood. I look down and, oh crap, a cop car is pulled up behind my car! I figure the cop would want to talk to me, so I begin the long descent. When I get to the bottom, the cop car is gone. I still can't figure out why a small town cop would drive off from an out of state vehicle parked near an unsecured abandoned building.

Route 90 continues to parallel I-10 through small towns like Iowa. And it looks just like Iowa, except there is no corn being grown. Lake Charles takes me by surprise, a small city with a glittering glass-and-steel skyscraper in its business district. A cold wind is blowing, and a hardy soul feeds bread to a huge flock of ducks and coots gathered on the shore. The downtown, as usual for this region, is dead. Only two bridges head west, and they are both on interstate highways. I choose I-10, then get off at Sulphur. A duller town could not be constructed. Thousands of orange sodium lamps on the three nearby refineries form fantastic lightshapes on the horizon, but the only sign of New Year's Eve I could find was a solemn middle-aged guy walking home a twelve-pack of beer from the convenience store.

Route 90 goes flat and straight in the dark as I crawl toward the Texas border. An old car persistently tailgates me, even though the passing lane is wide open for miles. I make an O-turn and the car punches the gas, soon dissolving to a red dot on the horizon while I continue my leisurely 45 mph pace.

The Sabine River divides Louisiana and Texas. There is only one bridge over the river, a four laner speeding along at 75 mph. In Texas, they are just doing the speed limit. The information center is closed for the holidays. I turn down Route 90 into the town of Orange, a riverside port town. Other than the constant staccato of firecrackers, there is no sign of celebration on any of the streets. A solemn dance party at the FOE is the only festivity that I find in the town. I spend the night in Walmart, hoping that the rest of Texas is not this bland and colorless. 

The next morning, it is 40 degrees, cloudy, and windy. The weather forecasts a blanket of clouds for the next few days, with colder temperatures to come. I'm using the Walmart wifi in the entrance. The entire distance of my 12 day journey so far is equal to the distance across Texas. With the cold, I'll likely be doing a whole lot more driving and less fooling around and sightseeing. 

happy new year

 

[Goshawk]

you seem real enough with the writing, am starting feeling like you are writing for practice with those who love good stories, in some way to get attention (attention is a good thing, so no worries). Please don't get me wrong, we love the postings, but this is usually the quality from a significant travel writers blog, where they get lots of attention and can advertise. Sure the forum will love the extra traffic from readers, and I personally love the details.

Keep going, and please let readers know if you switch to another medium. (if someone is ghost writing this, please keep us all in the loop to stay your appreciative fans)

and where did you work for the AMC? Where you at the huts for the summer? former 4000 footer so know them well.

 

[USExplorer]

@Goshawk: I used to have a moderately successful blog regarding home chemistry experiments and element collecting. Quite a surprise when I typed in the URL and it was still there. http://lanthanumkchemistry.over-blog.com/ Never made a penny from it, although the host plastered it with ads after I abandoned it. As you can see, I was quite the chemistry nerd in my college days. Now, instead of elements and compounds on the molecular level, I deal with towns and highways, the big picture. Maybe I will start another blog, I've started and aborted a few already since I started traveling. 

Most of my travels have no paper trail, no photos no journal no charge card receipts. Same goes for temporary friendships, often we don't even exchange names. I decided on a whim to make my trip from Eustis FL to Quartzsite AZ an exception, while still protecting the anonymity of those I meet along the way. The trips from Somerset NJ to Chapel Hill NC, Chapel Hill NC to Apalachicola FL, Apalachicola FL to Marion AL, Marion AL to Asheville NC, Asheville NC to Detroit MI, Detroit MI to Warren OH, Warren OH to Bretton Woods NH, Bretton Woods NH to Chapel Hill NC, and Chapel Hill NC to Eustis FL are only recorded in my memory.

I hate it when I mention my stay at the AMC and people automatically think I was in the hut croo, then I disappoint them by saying I only worked at the roadside lodge. I only climbed ten of the 4000 footers, highest being Jefferson.

Back to the triplog.

Texas is very stingy on river bridges. Unlike Louisiana, with an over-abundance of parallel high bridges, Orange Texas has only one bridge over the Sabine River, and it carries I-10. This means that I will be forced to hop on the interstate every time I cross a river, and east Texas is full of rivers.

I take I-10 to Beaumont, a city of 120,000; 119,900 were sleeping off their hangover all morning. I park at the riverfront and cook macaroni and cheese in my front seat, the cold breeze being too strong to cook outside. I eat the slimy stuff, wash the pot with a paper towel and a little water, then finish reading a book I started the previous day. Driving out along Route 90, the city rapidly disappeared behind me. Liberty County appears to be composed nearly entirely of pastures in various stages of use or abandonment. The Trinity River is flooded, and the public boat ramp access road is part of the river. A couple of travel trailers are parked on a flooded lot advertised as perfect for cabins or RVs. The residents are out taking a walk, and as they come back a trio of tiny dogs circles perilously close to my backing vehicle. Their owner completely ignores me and alternately calls and yells at the dogs. Her kids of various ages watch me without any expression. Possibly they were squatters and believed me to be the realtor's agent, snapping photos of the property. 

I catch my first glimpse of Houston 20 miles out on the US-90 bridge over the San Jacinto River. The floodplain has been turned into an ATV park. Closer in, I turned onto I-10. The extremely light traffic was a pleasant surprise. I take the exit for ALT-90 down over Buffalo Bayou, driving through a poor semi-industrial neighborhood. On down Navigation Boulevard into downtown, the surface streets again lightly traveled. I find free parking a quarter mile from downtown in the Buffalo Bayou Park. Here, a few fitness enthusiasts are out jogging and walking in a large grassy ravine in which a sludgy, eroded bayou flowed. The city skyline towered over the park. I set out for it, crossing under I-45 and heading down Dallas Street. When I reached Main Street, I turned left, walking alongside the metro train tracks. A large crowd of black guys loitered outside a convenience store.

"What'll you take for that camera?" Someone yelled as I made my way through the crowd. I turned around. A short guy with a slight speech impediment had accosted me. 
"I ain't selling it, and besides, its twelve years old and not worth crap."
"You've sure got a lot of nerve, walking right through a crowd like this with a camera around your neck. Here's the deal: you go into the store and buy me a pack of cigarettes, and I'll make sure you stay safe out here."
"If you're hungry, I'll buy you some food, but I won't buy you cigs. Besides, I've lived in a week in Detroit, I've walked through Camden, Houston ain't nothing." He looked impressed.
"So you aren't concerned about your safety, strolling through here like you're on vacation?"
"Ever heard of the Second Amendment?" I wasn't carrying a handgun.
He ignored the question. "Could you buy me a burger or two?"
"Sure."
He smiled widely and asked my name. "He's one of us", he announced to the crowd. 
We walked into the store, and he popped two bagged Angus burgers in a microwave. While they were heating, he told me about how he got injured on a job cleaning drilling equipment, something hit him on the head. The microwave finished, and we walked up to the counter and I paid $6.15. He thanked me and we shook hands. His hand was soft and flabby, not the hand of a laborer. He then asked:
"Could you get me tickets for the train?"
"If you wanted tickets for the train, you shouldn't have bought those expensive burgers."
"I thought you had a pass, no problem then. Take care, and God bless." I continue on walking. 

As I didn't have a map of the city, I avoided straying too far off the beaten path. I turned down Rusk and back onto Fannin, paralleling Main Street. A homeless guy asked me for change, and I gave him a quarter. He didn't thank me. 

I turned onto Clay Street as the sky darkened with drizzle and approaching dusk. Several homeless were resting at the entrance to the Methodist church offices. I waved to them, and one of them sat up and enthusiastically wished me a happy New Year. His name was Ace, and he was proud of his clean-cut appearance, even when sleeping on the street. He has the haunted eyes of someone who has done hard time, which he has.

"Looking around this city, the new year doesn't appear all that happy," I replied.

He launches into a great exposition about the city, starting off with a sports-team illustration and entering the dark heart of the city. "Drug money built all this." He re-affirms the point with every skyscraper in view. A bang, a block away. "Twelve people were shot last night, on New Years Eve. I heard it on the news. Now I've lived in Houston all my life, born and raised here. I don't know what to do about the problems here in the city. So I call out to Jesus. And what does he say to me? 'Shut up. Stop worrying. That is all you can do.'" Another bang, very close, and two pigeons rocket out of a nearby tree. "Was that a gunshot?"

"If it was, it was only a .22, and I didn't hear a bullet hit anything. It was probably just a firecracker," I reply.

A man walks out of the parking lot across the street with a small bag. Ace yells at him. The man ignores him and walks by.

"I just can't understand why someone would get their jollies off lighting off firecrackers, just to get people to jump out of their skin. There isn't much I can do about it though, just try to stay calm and avoid getting angry."

It grows dark, and another man arrives with several pieces of cardboard. He lays them down on the concrete and goes to sleep, no pillow, no blanket, no cushioning. At least he has shelter from the rain.

Someone asks the time. It is 6:45. "The church people, they feed the homeless outside the library at 7 pm, every other night, vegetarian. Do you want to come along?"

"Why not, its along the way."

Ace settles in for the night, and I follow an old Native American man to the library. "Being from up North, this doesn't feel cold to you, but to a Texan like me, it is very cold. The wet cold, that goes right into your bones."

Down at the library, homeless people sleep and wait all over in the dark. Many of them have no blankets. A large overhang provides shelter from the wind-blown drizzle. The temperature is below 45 degrees. We wait, no one shows up. I offer to buy a sandwich at the McDonalds. He declines.

"My lady friend, you saw her back at the church, she can't get around, so I come here for her, to get her a meal. I don't need food." He excuses himself and sets off in search of a friend. The dark crowd is silent in the cold, as if talking would be too great an energy expenditure with no food coming. I walk back to my truck, passing homeless people sleeping in the grass under the overpass. One heavily cloaked individual sits at a bench on the edge of the ravine and looks out over the dimly lit bayou park. I walk down into the ravine, traversing paths dimly lit by LED light, the roar of the highway in the background and the outlines of skyscrapers luminous against the sky. My truck is unmolested, the parking lot nearly empty. 

I drive out along Allen Parkway, the empty roadway curving to follow the bayou's course. I turn north, cross I-10, and park in a neighborhood where new condos are encroaching on dilapidated industrial infrastructure. Residents park on the street, blocking nearly half the roadway. I park on the edge of the development, with an empty lot on one side and a rundown building on the other. All night, hornless trains clatter by, and drizzle patters lightly on my roof. I am four miles from downtown. I put up curtains to block the glare of automobile headlights, and sleep until the bleak cloudy sky is once again revealed. 

I hit I-10 out of Houston, traffic again extremely light. The city sprawl is quickly left behind, and I cross the Brazos River into a new county. I stop at Sealy to use the public library, which by some quirk of fortune is open at 9 am on a Saturday. I donate all the books I have read in the past few days, none of them being keepers.

 

[USExplorer]

1407: Bridge over the Atchafalaya
1408: Morgan City, walled against nature
1411: Glad you didn't look up.
1412: Fully equipped kitchen
1413: 8 acres of river. The actual river is behind the railroad bridge in the background.

 

[USExplorer]

1415: Low bridge, high river.
1417: Second view of Houston, 20 miles away, from the San Jacinto River
1418: Houston Sleepy's.
1419: Cocaine built this.
1420: What would really be great is if this can were actually filled with beans.

 

[Cammalu]

I'll take your current musing over the chemistry blog any day [emoji15]

 

[USExplorer]

Route 90 rejoins I-10 until Columbus, where the mighty Colorado River flows through a yawning chasm. Okay, the river is called the Colorado, and it is a big river, but this close to the Gulf it is sluggish and muddy. I cook lunch near the railroad bridge, then put in more miles down US-90, which remains blissfully untraveled. In my quest to find a Texas highway map, I hit the Weimar and Schulenberg (authentic Texas small towns) visitor's center, but they are closed for the day. Miles of savanna-like pasture and small towns. In Luling, trucks wait patiently for a stopped train. It is 42 degrees and drizzling. I get referred to the "Czech us out" visitor's center, but it too is closed. The road continues past small scale oil wells into the city of Seguin. The librarian refers me to the visitor's center is, you guessed it, closed. The drizzle stops, and the showers begin. I stock up on groceries at Walmart and read a book, bundled against the cold. 

At 10 pm, I decide that I am not spending another night at a Walmart and hit 90 out of town. The banks of the Guadalupe River are developed, no luck there. Up through back county roads, everything is fenced, small hobby ranches for wealthy San Antonio residents. Just after the Santa Clara Creek, I park in an entrance to a farmer's field, the only one not a muddy mess. I-10 provides background white noise. 

Fifteen miles up the road, I stop at the Flying J truck stop in the hope of getting a shower. Twelve dollars, they say. No thanks, I say. While sitting in the parking lot of the TA eating breakfast, a guy comes up to my car.

"Need any help?"
"Do you have four wheel drive?"
"Yep."
"Well, I got my truck stuck in a ditch down by the creek. I've been sleeping in my truck on this piece of property, but with the rain last night, I tried to drive through the ditch and got stuck. See, I only have two wheel drive, and I blew out one of my tires trying to get out. Could you pull me out?"
"Do you have towing straps?"
"I have ratchet straps."
"Great, I'll meet you down there."

I drive down the access road, make a U-turn, and park near the entrance to the property, a muddy driveway with the rocks long disappeared. I turn on the four wheel drive and surf my way through the mud down to the relative high ground near the ditch. I back up, we hook up the strap, and I begin pulling. The strap holds for a second, then snaps. It is only designed for keeping cargo in place. After several more attempts with the same ending, I tell the guy he will need to get a real tow strap, then drive out, giant cakes of mud on my boots, on my brake pedal, on my floor mat, on my tires. 

Route 90 misses downtown San Antonio by several miles. I choose to continue on to the next town. It still amazes me, how the seventh largest city is still a "snooze and you'll miss it" town. Most of the 1.4 million people live in low-density subdivisions scattered throughout the 500 square miles of city limits.

Despite being a little over ten miles from San Antonio's city limits, Castroville is a town all its own. The first of a range of scrubby hills rise in an escarpment just outside the town, which lies in a flat river valley. The vegetation on the hills is unlike any I've seen in the East. In other words, Texas is starting to look like Texas.

I stop in the regional park/campground and get to talking with a kind lady named Laura, who invites me over to her apartment for lunch. I reminded her of one of her kids who was homeless for a while. I reassure her that I have been traveling for a while now and that she needn't worry about me. 

Back in the park, I take a hike up the Cross Hill. The trail is a mix of mud and rocks, and the surrounding scrub is all less than 10 feet high. From the top, the wide open flat plains back east are visible, including the whole town of Castroville. A big white cross stands guard over the town, and a gaggle of teenage girls take selfies around it. Toward the west, more scrubby hills parallel US-90 as it climbs the escarpment. To the northwest, the escarpment is visible as a low ridge, with the occasional ravine breaking up the outline.

I choose to check the fluids and tire pressure in my truck. I pop the hood and discover I had left the radiator cap off since Florida. The reservoir was nearly empty. I refilled it with plain water. 

For the evening, I visit the Jesus church, which reminded me of an old camp meeting with modern music. A very friendly and enthusiastic group of people, for whom three hours of prayer praise and fellowship (for the second time that day) is just right. A traveling repairman named Jon talks to me after the service. He regularly drives between Arizona and San Antonio for his job. 

"So, what route will you be taking?"
"I'll probably take 90 to Van Horn, camping along the way and seeing the sights."
"Be very careful camping along Route 90. There's a lot of cartel activity close to the Mexican border. Please, stay in the rest stops along the way, or better yet take 55 and 277 up to I-10. Once you get past Uvalde, there are Border Patrol checkpoints too."
"So no camping on the banks of the Rio Grande?"
He gets a shocked look. "Oh no. You can't do that. You'll have illegal immigrants trying to get stuff from you, Border Patrol agents searching your truck. No way."
"I'll see about camping when I get down there."
"Just stay safe."

I camp for the night on a scruffy patch of land close to US-90, overlooking a railroad cut. Several trains come by all night. I wake up just as the sun is brightening the crystal clear horizon. Out West at last. Here I go.

I think I will empty my coolant system and replace with 50/50 when I get the chance.

 

[USExplorer]

1421: Colorado River
1422: The first low hills outside Columbus, from the Odd Fellows Cemetery
1424: The name does not refer to domestic disturbance, but rather to a wailing ghost.
1426: Goodbye flatlands, from the hill country escarpment
1427: The escarpment to the north

 

[USExplorer]

In Hondo, I stop in the library to update my triplog. A sign says "This is God's country: Please do not drive like hell through it." Irrigated fields line the road to Uvalde. Creeks have disappeared, although there are a few sloughs interspersed with the dry washes. A sign reminds adventurers that Texas law prohibits driving in riverbeds. A sign in a small town says "Go ahead and blink. Knippa's bigger than you think." Finally Uvalde, which appears to be a normal farm supply town, with a Walmart and all the chain stores. The sun shines strongly, and the air is cool and dry. Numerous families play at the Memorial Park, which borders a muddy pond befouled by ducks. As I walk by, a line of turtles basking in the sun drop into the water, all except for one, which eyes me warily. 

I stop at the HEB to get a couple gallon jugs of water, then set out into the Texas West, a wide open expanse of fenced off lots. PRIVATE PROPERTY NO TRESPASSING. Look but don't enter. The Nueces River is dry. I avoid distractions and hit the gas for the border. Along the way, I see very little livestock or grasslands. It appears most of these ranchlands are for "hunting" excursions, if one's idea of hunting is shooting a half-tame deer in an enclosure with a bow. I pass a group of deer grazing like cows in the brush near the road. 

Over half a dozen planes are trying maneuvers over the highway as I pass Laughlin AFB. I drive through Del Rio and down the 239 spur road. The International Bridge began far sooner than I expected, but I managed to make a U-turn before that. I pulled into a nearby Dollar General to get ready for a walk across the border. Shortly after, a city cop pulls in behind me, blocking my truck in the parking lot. I take the initiative and step out before he does. I continue chomping on fish-shaped candies as the officer steps around and turns on a voice recorder. 

"Afternoon, officer."
"Do you work here?" 
"Nope, I'm a customer. Are you detaining me?"
"No, I just got a report of a vehicle matching your description, with no front license plate, driving around downtown."
"North Carolina does not require front license plates."
"I know, I used to work there. Could I see some ID?"
"Again, are you detaining me?"
"No, I just want to see your ID."
"I'm not gonna give you my driver's license unless you are detaining me for a traffic violation or a Terry stop. If you want to find out who I am, just run my license plate. And if I am not being detained, would you please move your squad car out of the way?" Yes, I did sound like an a-hole.
"Are you leaving?"
"Nope, but I don't like you blocking me in like that."
"I'm not blocking you in."
"You clearly are. If I back out, I will collide with you."
"If you want to leave, then I'll move the squad car." He makes a hasty call on his radio.
"By the way, can you walk across the Mexican border?"
"Yes."
"I was going to drive up to the bridge, but then I saw a sign and turned around?"
"Which sign?"
"The one about firearms."
"Are you carrying?"
"Nope, only long guns. And for the second time, would you please move your squad car a few feet forward?"
He ignores me, walks back and calls in my license plate. "Where are you headed?" 
"Arizona. By the way, are there any good campsites on the border?"
"No, you can't camp on the border." An all clear comes over the radio. "Do you have any more questions?"
"I just want to avoid hassles with the border patrol."
"With that kind of attitude, you're sure to get hassled."
Just before he gets in his car, I call out again: "Excuse me, where are good places to camp around Del Rio?"
Quietly, he says, "Just keep moving. Good day."

I pull into the cross border taxi parking lot and divest myself of all edged objects. The trip costs $40. The taxi driver exaggerates the distance to Cuidad Acuna, and ends up losing the five dollars I would give him to park. I stop in the local library until 7:00, then drive up the commercial strip to the Walmart and walk right back downtown. From the top of the bridge over the tracks, I can see the innumerable lights of a foreign city rimming the southern horizon. The Del Rio downtown area is dark and deserted, many of the shopfronts vacant. On the way back, an aggressive panhandler gets right in my face and demands two dollars for a burger. I stare him down tell him No, I ain't givin you the money, I don't even eat burgers myself. He pleads down to one dollar, I still refuse. He then offers to give me a ride back to where I parked, "a mile up the road". I refuse. He then begs that I bestow God's blessing on him. After I include bless in a sentence, he seems satisfied and takes off across the street. 

The next morning, I turn down 349, which leads across the Amistad Dam into Mexico. The gate is locked, but a gap allows pedestrian entry. I got halfway out on the dam before a border patrol pulls up. "This is a restricted zone, I have to ask you to turn around and walk back." Pedestrians wishing to cross into Mexico are required to go through an American checkpoint, for whatever reason, and the checkpoint does not open for over an hour. I walk back and drive on down Route 90, which crosses part of Amistad Lake and moves on into an increasingly rocky and sparsely vegetated region, with numerous canyons and hills. I park at the picnic area overlooking the beautiful Pecos River, over 300 feet below. The Route 90 bridge is highest highway bridge in Texas. Instant oatmeal for a late breakfast.

At Langtry, a museum is devoted to the legacy of Judge Roy Bean, a wild frontiersman who was the only law west of the Pecos River. This region was a magnet for the most unsavory types, and Judge Bean dispensed liquor and justice from his saloon/courthouse. He was not a draconian punisher, instead relying on his ferocious larger-than-life reputation to keep everyone in line. Torres Drive leads out to a bluff overlooking the wild Rio Bravo (Grande) river, which is hidden in a forested grove. The sere hills of Mexico rise just across the river. No one else is in sight. A suspicious ladder leans against a small cliff on the American side. 

The road to Sanderson travels through rough country, country that is unique in the West in that it is 100% privately owned and fenced off. Abandoned buildings are covered with graffiti. Other than the fences, the road, the railroad, and a few abandoned shacks, there is no sign of human civilization. This canyon-ridden wasteland is where "No Country for Old Men" was set. The entire county has a population density of 0.4 people per square mile, steadily decreasing. Sanderson, as the county seat, has a library, a couple gas stations (30 cents above normal price), the regular government buildings, a shack-like high school, and a couple restaurants. A motel advertises $24.99 rooms, free breakfast included. There is not a lawn in the whole town. The town itself sits in the bottom of a deep, wide canyon, at 2800 feet elevation, a true old West town. The weather is cloudy and in the mid 40s. 

Time to post some pictures.

1428: Shrubby hills at a Castroville city park. The hiking trails are a mix of mud and rock.
1429: Swamp cactus.
1430: Windmills atop a small rise outside of Hondo.
1432: Amistad International Reservoir, with a couple Mexican mesas on the right horizon.
1433: The Rio Grande Valley west of Del Rio. The river itself hidden in its canyon.

 

[USExplorer]

1434: The highest highway bridge in Texas. US-90, meet Pecos River. Pecos, meet 90.
1436: Flat open land can hide canyons large enough to march armies through. Rio Bravo canyon here.
1437: "West of the Pecos there is no law; west of El Paso there is no God."
1438: The Rio Bravo canyon from its rim, the river hidden and sheltered by the lush forest. Upriver from Langtry is hundreds of miles of wilderness. 
1440: Immigrant entry ladder, in Langtry.

 

[TMG51]

"With that kind of attitude, you're sure to get hassled."

Good advice. Not sure why you want to make trouble for yourself.

 

[rvpopeye]

I have stopped in that rest area by the too tall bridge.
If you looked off to your left away from the bridge , the Pecos empties into the Rio Grande/Bravo. It's a cool spot , I really enjoyed the view from that high spot overlooking the rivers.

There is (was in 2005 anyway) also a small boondock camping area across the street from the Roy Bean Museum/Cactus Garden.(donation requested , I left $5)

When I went through that area a lot of the ranches were home to goat herds. Beautiful country, I'm very glad I went that way instead of just hopping on I10 !

I was traveling in the other direction from Pecos to Hondo via Del Rio.

 

[USExplorer]

Back in Del Rio, I stopped at one of the border checkpoints. The agent apparently worked as an auctioneer in his spare time. The entire interaction took about 15 seconds. "Anyone else with you?" "No." "Where you heading?" "Arizona." "Are you a US citizen?" "Yes." "Good day."

Just outside the Sanderson town limits, I drove up a disused rocky track to an abandoned water cistern overlooking the town. I climbed up onto a rocky outcropping to get some pictures, then descended and continued on my way. The road followed the broad canyon up onto a high shortgrass prairie. I drove out from under the lowering clouds into a golden brown landscape, brown grass extended toward the ragged mesas and mountains on the horizon. In the south, a distant southern peak towered massively over the low, ragged ridges in front of it. As I approached Alpine, the sun set, rose again for a few moments, then set for a final time behind the western ridge. 

The town of Alpine appeared rather dull after dark, beside the spectacular scenery. I drove around looking for a place to park for the night and a place to fill my water bottle, finding neither. Eventually, I parked in a picnic area a few miles outside of town, with the black silhouette of the Twin Sisters overlooking my site. Sleeping in roadside picnic areas is common in these western parts, unlike the east, and cops rarely bother campers here. I took a walk down the dark highway through a wide saddle, 4900 feet elevation. Some cars honked as they drove by. In the rare moments that no cars were close by, the desert was completely quiet, the sky filled with stars, and the air rapidly cooling. When I got back to the rest stop, I noticed a car sitting in the unlit picnic area with an interior light on. I flashed my headlamp in their direction, and the light turned off. I sat at a picnic table 50 yards from them. The car light flashed on and off again, and I heard the car door open. After a few seconds, I called out:

"Great star show, isn't it?"
"Uhh, I guess." The voice almost cracked; sounded like a nervous guy, one who is not at home in the middle of nowhere in the dark, speaking to an unseen stranger.
I wait a few seconds. "You from round here, or just travelin' through?"
"Actually, I'm from South Carolina."
"Not too far, I'm from North Carolina, heading to Arizona via Florida."
He doesn't reply. I walk back to my truck, which is a short distance away. The guy starts up his station wagon and drives off. 

Remarkably, I am not bothered all night. I toy with sleeping under the stars but decide against it. A freak drizzle-storm comes in around 3 am, then moves on. In the morning, the temperature is 42 degrees, and my truck is covered with dew. Good thing I didn't sleep outside.

After driving up through the pass, the mountains are left behind, and a great wide open expanse of plain opens in front of me. Marfa sits in a bowl 200 feet below the surrounding plains, and it is 30 degrees and foggy there. I stop in the visitor's center and learn about the Marfa lights, mystery lights that appear occasionally on the horizon a few miles south of Marfa. Everyone has their pet explanation for the lights. I cook some instant oatmeal and head out for Van Horn. A sign says "No Services Next 74 Miles." I set the cruise control at 45 mph, even though the speed limit is 75. I have done this for the whole of Texas. 

The city of Valentine is all of 200 souls, with no businesses at all. The residents have to drive 35 miles just to get gas or get a snack. I barrel on through.

A fake Prada storefront stands all alone on the high plains next to US-90. It is an architectural work of art. To me it seems to be an exercise in irony. 

Driving to Van Horn, I pass an orchard, of all things. The neatly planted trees go on for nearly a mile. 

Van Horn is an interstate town, the first since I left I-10 in San Antonio. It is a burned out town, having lost 1000 people in the past 25 years. For a town of 3000, that is a serious decline. The library is clean, large (for a town this size), and deserted.

I apologize in advance for not being able to find the names of the mountains I have photographed. 

1443: Distant Mexican mountain range, looking south-west of Langtry. 
1445: Again, looking toward Mexico, four ranges of mountains visible.
1446: Sanderson from the canyon walls.
1447: Looking down into the canyon.
1449: I believe I am looking in the direction of Big Bend, from Marathon area. Does it have a mountain this prominent?

 

[USExplorer]

1450: A study of open space amid the setting sun, looking north on the road to Alpine. 
1451: Rails catching the light, the mountains already in shadow.
1452: Golden brown to reddish brown as the sun nears the horizon, cast against the eroded buttes east of Alpine.
1454: The Texas Matterhorn, looking north on the road to Alpine.
1456: 15 second exposure of Orion, taken from my campsite.

 

[USExplorer]

Outside of Van Horn, I gain another hour with another time zone transition.

I mail out a letter to my last hosts from the Sierra Blanca post office, then drive out of town into the scrub for target practice. Buckshot fired into rocky ground does ricochet with the whanging sound prominent in western movies. At McNary, I turned onto Route 20, which runs along the flat and fertile river valley. A massive system of weirs and irrigation canals crisscrosses the fields and orchards. The region is very quiet. High Chihuahuan mountain ranges stand in contrast to the low hills on the American side. The Franklin Mountains stand distinct on the horizon.

As El Paso nears, the Franklins grow larger, the road widens, and the detritus of commerce lines the highway. I make it close to downtown and turn into the Chamizal National Memorial. A visitor's center commemorates the successful resolution of a decades-long land dispute begun by a Rio Grande course change. Eventually, a concrete lined canal was dug and the river channeled through it, dividing the disputed land equally. 

Despite many warnings to the contrary, I decide to walk across the Mexican border into Ciudad Juarez. A few years back, Juarez had the honor of being the most violent city in the world. The violence has abated, now that the Sinaloa cartel defeated their rival. I divest myself of weapons and cash, pocket my passport, and walk across the Bridge of the Americas. A mile-long line of trucks waits, honking impatiently, to cross into Mexico. There is no restriction on entering Mexico by foot, no checkpoints, searches, or demands for documentation. The two border highways each run alongside the channelized Rio Grande. The bridge ends at the Parque Publico Federal El Chamizal. A visitor's center has several English speakers who hand out maps to the city. The maps depict a lively, futuristic, world-class city full of art exhibits and luxury hotels. Reality, well, is a little different. The large, beautiful public park is empty except for a lone policeman. I decide to walk back across and drive closer to downtown. Even a few blocks from downtown El Paso, street parking is free. It is dark by the time I enter Juarez again via Stanton Street. For the next few hours, I walk the streets, making my way to the Benito Juarez monument. A few people were out on the streets, workers returning home from the factories, faces wrapped in scarves or bandanas against the cold breeze. Street vendors sold food and other wares on street corners, and silent groups huddled around burn barrels. I was not approached, greeted, or solicited. Away from the bus stops, the streets were empty and dark. The air smelled of raw sewage and trash. A few surviving bars of what was once a thriving nightlife section played recorded music to empty stools. 50 cent drinks were advertised. The few open restaurants on 16 de Septiembre were also empty, the vendors trying to look hopeful. The only bustling place was Juarez Centro, a plaza full of American restaurants and stores, their brightly lit fluorescent interiors looking out of place in this dark place. Even here, everyone is quiet, there is no joking among friends or laughing. Some kids ride skateboards in a plaza park rimmed by shuttered storefronts. 

I get tired of walking and walk back across the border. I would stay the night in Juarez, but I don't want to leave my truck parked on the city streets. A couple of vendors on the bridge try to sell me candies, and I refuse. The American agent makes me take off my jacket and puzzles over why on earth I would want to walk into Juarez at night except for nefarious purposes. On the El Paso side, there is more activity, kids playing in a well lit park, workers streaming back into Mexico. I decide to spend the night in New Mexico, and drive along the border highway until the Mexican border takes leave of the Rio Grande. I then cross the river and drive on 273 along the Texas border. I find a campsite on a hill overlooking the entire spread of west El Paso. 

I rise with the sun and drive north on 273 to 28, which runs through the heavily irrigated valley. Other than the scarcity of roadside grass, this farmland could be anywhere in the coastal East. Eventually, 28 crosses the Rio Grande, which is a wide band of sand with not a drop of water. South of Las Cruces, I hop on I-10, which points west across the empty flat country. A border patrol checkpoint blocks the highway, forcing drivers to turn off. The agent merely glanced over each passing car before waving them on. 

I pass a tourist trap called Akela Flats, then approach Deming. A resupply trip at the local Walmart, then a treasure hunt for the library, which has moved twice since my GPS was manufactured. The weather forecast predicts snow and rain, very un-desertlike weather. Time for a race to lower elevations.

1458: My campsite, with mountain backdrop, outside Alpine Texas
1459: High plains near Marfa, full telephoto. 
1462: Desert rainstorm near Van Horn. VERY windy up here on the overpass. 
1463: Seven locomotive train crossing the scrubland near Sierra Blanca.
1464: El Paso from the east. Beautiful, ain't it?