BIG BUST

Sunday, June 21 to Tuesday, June 23. 

No, we didn’t have a Dolly Parton sighting.  The big bust was Big Bend.  We left Fredericksburg west on 290, relying on Gertrude to lead us eventually to SR41 to ultimately connect with US377 and then south to Del Rio, TX.  One of the intermediate waypoints we programmed was the tiny hamlet of Mountain Home.  Gertrude totally screwed up, turned us down a farm road, and announced “You have reached your destination.”  Say, what?  We were nowhere.  Nothing.  We used the sun to navigate south and after many turns found our road, and Mountain Home.  5 miles from where Gertrude said, and on the other side of the I-10.  One of these days we’re going to be in big trouble following that broad.  Along the way we kept seeing weird antelope that didn’t seem to belong here.  Then we saw all the signs advertising “exotic game hunts” and realized these ranches were stocking African goodies for the gunboys to slaughter.  Yuck.  We also came upon our first border patrol checkpoint. Guess we looked harmless as they just waived us through after asking if we were citizens.  Now I know how to smuggle lots of aliens in an RV. 

Del Rio is a strip town, with all the businesses stretched along the main highway.  And all of those businesses appear to be chain franchises so it’s a good thing we carry our own and feed ourselves.  What Del Rio does have is the Amistad National Recreation Area consisting of the huge Amistad Reservoir which has large open areas and lots of inlets.  It’s an incredible amount of water in what otherwise is desert. Some nice housing developments border parts of the reservoir with $$$ views.  We stopped only to gas up in Del Rio, then headed NW on US90 to our camp for the night at Seminole Canyon State Park.  Quite nice, set up on a hilltop, with 50 mile views and the best night sky we’ve seen thus far on this trip.  As Carl did NOT say, “Billions and billions!”  We also spotted some giant luminescent critter flying around.  Not your garden variety firefly, this sucker had a long lighted body.  My googling suggests it was some sort of beetle.  We asked the rangerette the next morning, but she didn’t have a clue.  It’s also the home of the killer centipedes. As with all Texas parks, this one had great bathrooms and showers.  We’re getting spoiled.  So much better than California parks.

Monday morning we continued west on 90, across the Pecos River, to the town of Langtry and the home of Judge Roy Bean, “The Law West of the Pecos.” There’s a small museum, and you can walk through his original courtroom building and home, which he called his opera house.  He had an infatuation with Lily Langtry, whom he had never met, and had written many letters inviting her to visit the town he claimed to have named after her and his “opera house.” The town actually was named after an engineer.  Bean died nine months or so before Langtry did actually visit.

We stayed on 90 to the town of Marathon, where we turned south on US385 to wards Big Bend, through the Santiago Mountains with views of the Sierra Del Carmen off to the left.  I had never thought of there being mountains down here, but the whole area is mountainous, including the Chisos Mountains right in the heart of the park.  The drive into the park has some nice views, and as long as we stayed in the RV with the air conditioning it was fine.  We got to the Panther Junction headquarters and found the only campgrounds are 14 miles or so further down on the river (that’s good, as it was the Rio Grande we came to see.  Down we went, descending a thousand feet or so, and came upon the Rio Grande Village campground.  Hmmm.  Where’s the river?  Well, gosh (I said something else), the campground is not actually ON the river, despite a promo photo I had seen.  The camp was a large parking lot affair, and it seemed we were the only fools to elect to camp in Big Bend in June, which as it turns out is the hottest month.  No place to go, so we paid up and hooked up and got the air going.  Off to find the river, which actually wasn’t far off, but completely hidden by impenetrable undergrowth.  Our map showed a boat ramp, so we hiked that way and eventually found a path through the brush and there it was.  All of 25 feet wide and brown as mud.  Actually, it WAS a river of mud.   The camp brochure warned against swimming in it as it had pathogens, and said it was so gritty that you could hear it sandblast your hull if in a metal boat.  All in all, a big disappointment.  As it turns out, the actual Rio Grande dries up almost entirely before entering the Park.  All the water we see here comes from a Mexican river that empties into the streambed about 30 miles to the west.  This is one ugly ditch, and no reason to make a journey of any length.  Sometime in the middle of the night, another rig pulled in an set up, so we’re not the only ones.

Tuesday morning we packed up and went out to an overlook about five miles away.  It didn’t overlook, much except the Mexican town across the river.   One of its artists apparently waded over and has set up an honor-pay stand of his/her wares. After this, we began the long climb out of the river area and then out of the park, heading for the Balmorhea (Bal’moray) State Park which sports one of the largest spring-fed pools in the world, covering more than 2 acres.  We could use a little fresh spring water action in this 100 degree heat.  First, however, we went on the mother of all roller coaster roads, SR170 through the adjacent Big Bend Ranch State Park.  Yeegods.  We’d plunge down and then swoop up so that you couldn’t see anything but sky out the windshield.  Had to take it on faith we were still in our lane and no one was in ours.  A wild road.  Then it was up 67 through the town of Marfa where they filmed the movie “Giant” way back when. Not much there all these years later.  then it was up 17 to Balmorhea and the wonderful spring water pool.    Aaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhh.

THE DUMMKOPH AND HIS KARMA

Wednesday, June 17 through Saturday the 20th. Fredericksburg is in the heart of the Texas hill country,  with lots of green and rolling hills.  It also is German.  Back in the 1840s, Germany was not unified, but was a collection of fiefdoms under various princes, dukes and the like.  It also was in economic distress.  A group of 19 princes formed a company that enlisted families to join together and relocate to America, with the intention of creating a settlement to raise cotton and tobacco for the profit of the company (and the princes and dukes).  120 souls made the initial trip and somehow ended up in Galveston, then made the trek to the hill country.  After being fleeced a couple of times, they purchased acreage first in New Braunfels, but ended up in the area they named Fredericksburg, after one of the princes that sponsored the company.  They nearly starved, but were saved, of course, by the local Indians.  The company went bankrupt, but the farmers stayed on and eventually thrived.  Today, there are original structures from that time, along with reconstructions from back in the 1930s.  Many in the town still speak German (to the delight of some German tourists we followed into one of the attractions).  This also is the birthplace and boyhood home of Adm. Chester Nimitz, the architect of the victory in the Pacific in WWII.  There’s an excellent museum devoted to his life, and he was an extraordinary guy throughout his naval career.  Got the Navy to convert subs from the dangerously explosive gas engines to diesel, and later gave key support to Rickover for having subs go nuclear.  He even met Togo as a shavetail lieutenant decades before the war.  The town also has the National Museum of the Pacific War, which was the principal reason I wanted to make this stop.  Of course, it had just closed for six months of renovations.  But I could use the stub from the Nimitz museum for admission when it reopens!  Thanks.  I don’t think we’ll be passing this way again soon.  Fbg, as they refer to it here, has a lot of nice art galleries, an incredible number of furniture and furnishings boutiques, ice cream parlors, and . . . a brewpub!  Just the thing for a 102 degree afternoon.  For one day of our stay, it also sported the world’s biggest dummkopf.

We took the scoot into town from the LadyBird Johnson Park, parked it on the Main Street drag through down, carefully locked up the helmets, and left to go tour the town by foot.  All day.  With hundreds of passersby.  It’s a good thing that we had ended the afternoon with a brew from the brewpub, and I was feeling mellow, because when we got back to the scoot I saw the flapping yellow.  Of the tag.  To the keys.  Still in the ignition.  Thank you, honest Texans and tourists, one and all.

One of the things we toured was the Pioneer Museum, a collection of buildings – houses, school, workshops, barn, outhouse (recognize the shnoz?) – dating from the 1800s that were moved to this site in town (one house was there already) and set up as a preservation of the pioneer heritage of those early German settlers.  You take away a sense of admiration for the craftsmanship, fortitude, and endurance of those folks.

But, you say, what about the karma?  We extended our stay from the intended two days to four when we found out that the neighboring town of Stonewall was hosting its 48th annual Peach Jam-boree and Rodeo on Saturday,  We scooted over there early to catch the parade with the requisite beauty pageant floats, horses, tractors, assorted goofballs (it’s a peach festival, get it?), and an alleged African beast supposedly called a Wasubi, which looked like a Brahma, but had the hugest horns (girth, not length) I’ve ever seen.  Hmmmmm.  Calling Ripley’s.  We listened to texmex music (guitars and squeezebox), ate peach cobbler with peach ice cream, watched the eleven queen hopefuls answer the question portion of the contest, saw the infamous armadillo race reduced to a battle between one painted juvenile armadillo and a pet possum that was scrounged up at the last minute when no other dillos arrived, ate peach ice cream by itself, enjoyed the peach eating and pit spitting contests, gazed bewildered at the tractor goings on in the arena (here comes the karma), and sat amazed (and silent, with our hands under our thighs) at the auction of the fruit baskets from the local farmers which went for . . . wait for it . . . between $450 and $2,500!  We foolishly had thought we might get one for around $40, but this is an auction for the local businesses (and one rich guy who was showing off) to drop bragging-rights funds as the principal fundraiser for the chamber of commerce.

We went over to the grandstands about an hour before the rodeo was to start and nabbed primo seats in the top row, with a railing back to lean against.  The stands slowly filled up, but we, being insulated by lower rows, enjoyed footroom on empty seats in front of us.  That is, until . . . oh, no.  The, ah, woman tractor driver whose posterior I just couldn’t keep from photographing (see above) was gazing up at the empty spaces before us.  She nudged her almost equally porcine husband and started to climb.  Slowly.  With great effort and much exhalation.  With seas of spectators parting like the waters as she progressed.  She then got to us, turned around.  And sat.  Oh, how she sat.  Our footroom?  Forget it.  Our legs?  Might as well be amputees.  We could either stand on our seats all night, or move.  We moved.  See what I get for being an insensitive smartass?  Yup.  The ass.

Once we relocated, the rodeo was fine, with an opening prayer that was decidedly and unapologetically denominational, hilarious sheep-dogging for the kids, pretty fearsome broncs, even nastier bulls, and something called a wild-cow milking team contest, where 6 teams of 3 race on foot from one end of the arena towards 4 cows at the other end, the object being to retrieve at least a centiliter of milk.  Cows naturally scatter and run.  Mayhem ensues.  The crowd goes wild.  Again we are reminded:  ah, America.

WE HAVE A WINNER

We’ll get to that later.  This entry should perhaps be subtitled, “Wanna see my scar?”  The subject is LBJ, and today we traced his life and in doing so relived a little of our own history of the ‘60s.  After escaping Pedernales Park, we headed a short ways west to Johnson City, yes, named for the old boy’s grandfather, and his boyhood home.  It’s nothing fancy, and it’s grounds are

a darn sight prettier than they were in his youth.  Swept-dirt yard then, in the baking sun, but now a park-like setting with green lawns and big shade trees.  The interior had been done as per their memory, but the original furnishings had long been discarded.  Here’s his bedroom, which he shared with his brother.  There’s

a picture of a 5-year old LBJ on the wall and I gotta tell you he is the oldest looking 5 year old I ever saw.  Almost like Brad Pitt in “The Curious Case of Benjamin Button.”  Loni liked the kitchen best.

Johnson City houses the LBJ museum, and it was very well done.  It’s amazing the convoluted journey of a future president. 

After that, a few more miles west is the community of Stonewall, which is the site of the LBJ Ranch, 2,900 acres, about 600 of which have been donated for this other part of the museum.  The main house sits on an oak-covered knoll facing the Pedernales River (this stretch has plenty of water and is beautiful). Apparently LBJ spent more time at his Texas White House than any other president spent at their home residence.  I thought W took that prize, but I guess not.  The house was the site of many high level conferences, both with his cabinet as well as foreign leaders, often sitting under the huge oak tree that is behind Loni in the pic above.

Ladybird, as a condition of donating the house, required it to be furnished as it was in the mid-60s, so it’s filled with period stuff that could have been in our own home back then.  Nothing at all fancy.  No pics were permitted indoors, so here’s the rockers on the front porch, all of which are original and used in the 60’s.  Just like at the White House, he had his three tv’s side-by-side in the living room for simultaneous viewing of the three networks.  He and Ladybird are both buried there in the family plot.  Her headstone hasn’t been installed, so flowers mark her grave.

So, on to the winner, which is the Ladybird Johnson Municipal Park in Fredericksburg, the next city west of Stonewall.  The has got to be the nicest public park we’ve ever stayed in.  All the spaces sit under big pecan trees so they stay relatively cool, all are generously sized and spaced apart.  Bathrooms & showers spotless.  Right on the river (at the right in the pic above) which, because of two dams, was very full and beautiful.  

On the opposite side was the municipal golf course, which blended in so well you think it is part of the park.  In front of us was the municipal swimming pool, which was Olympic sized and cost only a buck to use.  Believe me, we did.  Kudos to the City of Fredericksburg!

WE HAVE A LOSER

Tuesday, June 16.   Ladies and gentlemen, we have a loser.  Hopefully we have now stayed in the worst park that our RV travels will take us to.  Pedernales Falls State Park, step up and take a pratfall.  There is nothing to recommend this place – neither scenery nor the physical plant.  This was the most attractive thing we saw: I thought it was dead, in keeping with the ambiance of the flora around us, but when Loni nudged it with her toe it took off like a shot and ran up a tree.  That was it for our nature walks. 

Ugly is bad enough, but there’s no excuse for the lousy physical plant.  The ranger station is about a mile and a half from the actual campground.  You can’t just pay your money and pick a site.  You have to pay, then drive down, drive around, find a site, drive back to the station (no phone service) to tell her what you’ve selected, then return to set up.  Did all that.  Got out our Progressive Industries power monitor and plugged it in.  YIKES.  Our first time with a bad power setup.  The monitor showed reverse polarity.  Why is that a big deal?  Well, beats me, but a quick google and this seems to be the answer:

Reversed polarity puts all the AC breakers on the rig in the neutral side of the circuit. An overload might still trip the breaker, but since the breaker is in the neutral side, the circuit is unprotected from a short. Current will continue to flow until the circuit burns open. A fire aboard is a possible consequence. Reversed polarity also presents a serious shock risk. Turning off a breaker appears to remove power from the circuit because it turns off all appliances connected to that circuit. But with reversed polarity you have disconnected the appliance from ground, not from power. The circuit is still live!  Unfortunately, the circuit boards in the rig could melt, causing mucho buckos of damage. 

So, thank you Progressive!  I walked around to a few other sites and thought the monitor read ok on them.  It’s a little hard to read in direct sunlight.  Drive back up to the ranger, report the polarity problem, tell her the new site, drive back down, back in, level, go to hook up the monitor and . . . augh!  An open ground fault (the grounding wire not connected somewhere) thus a potential shock hazard.  Wander around again and test another site.  Another open ground.  Trudge again. Finally, a good one.  Drive back up to the ranger, report the additional two faulty posts (she has no clue what I’m talking about, but at least writes down the info), get assigned to the new spot, drive back down, set up, get the air on, and flop.  Did I mention it’s 98 degrees out?  This is not a happy camper.

We did drive the rig over to the “falls” the next morning, but found the water level so low there was barely anything trickling over the rocks, which form more of a slide rather than a falls.   To be fair, this part of Texas is experiencing a drought, and I’m sure it’s more attractive in wetter times.  We won’t wait around.

CORPUS CORPOROSUS

Friday, June 12.    A leisurely drive down to Corpus Christi.  Here, old salt passes even older ship.  We’re here to visit with our friends Perry and Sara from the old FTC days in the 70’s.  As the title of this episode augurs, this was a lip-smacking three days.  Also a lip flapping three days.  I do believe the four of us talked non-stop for the entire awake time we were there.

Sara made a lovely dinner Friday night in her self-designed remodeled kitchen that has more useful storage space than any I have ever seen.  I’m in big trouble when we get home!  Better keep Loni on the road.  Saturday we toured CC, seeing the art museum, the art society’s gallery, downtown CC, and the mansion district along the seafront.  We then went to Rockport, which is turning into a sort of Carmel-by-the-Gulf with art galleries.  It also sported a cafe that specialized in homemade cheesecake.  Hey, lunch solved!  It was eclectically decorated

but the cheesecake was indeed good and in great flavors.  We had maple pecan and a blackberry.  Bring on the Lipitor!  We did some exploring along the coastline

and found a beautiful beach with a kite festival underway.

Then it was on to the Fulton Mansion, a Munsters House lookalike if ever I saw one.  It was closed, so we just

kicked back on the porch and enjoyed the millionaire’s view, which wasn’t shabby at all.

This all is hot work, of course, so we headed across to Padre Island on the ferry

to kill some Margueritas, beer and wine while waiting to digest the cheesecake so we could go to dinner. 

Alcoholic content at the required minimum, we took off for a little place that is a favorite of Sara and Perry, and for good reason.  We lucked into a table just as a party was leaving, and there immediately formed a line after us waiting outside on the patio for seating.  Seafood and seafood pastas was the order of the night, and the place was great.  Grilled shrimp over angel hair pomodoro with plenty of garlic sent me into smacking giggles.  We could only laugh when the server asked about dessert.

Sunday we drove about an hour out of town to visit the famous and huge King Ranch.  This is an impressive place to see, with an Horatio Alger history.  Amazing how fortunes are started by ambitious men who have nothing.  I won’t recite the tale here as you can google it here and read the whole story.  The collection of brands was interesting (the horizontal snakey one, called the “running W” is the King Ranch brand) but I think the most fascinating aspect of the tour was our meeting a cowboy who was born and had lived his entire life on the ranch.  At age 13, he broke and was the first to ride the horse that would become the 1946 Triple Crown winner, Assault.

All this traveling around made us thirsty and hungry, so it was off to dinner and Tex-Mex and beers.  The enchiladas were great! 

This was a great visit with some very good friends and we were reluctant to move on, but we did.  Monday we set out to camp at Padre Island and get in a little surf time.  Further up the Island you can park right on the packed sand, but we opted to avoid the blowing salt water (the wind had blown a steady 15mph the whole time we were there, right off the Gulf) and park at a state park right next to the beach.

The ocean was like bathwater, but it was mighty refreshing in all that humidity.  It slopes out very gradually, so you can be a hundred yards off shore and still standing up.

And it runs for about 14 miles or more up the shore.

Corpus is very nice, indeed.