Goodbye Texas

I'd wanted to go to Roswell, NM, to savor the proximity to aliens and UFOs and just general weirdness, but it was too far off my uncharted path,  Fortunately, I had a small taste of little gray men on the outskirts of Hueco Tanks.

Not a new home to be seen.

Hueco Tanks...A Disappointment

On the recommendation of the wonderful NPS staff at Guadalupe Mountain and in hopes of seeing petroglyphs, I took a side trip to Hueco Tanks, just outside El Paso.  El Paso is about a gazillion miles long, with I-10 running down the middle, and ten miles wide, except in one area which is where I turned off for Hueco Tanks and that piece of El Paso was another half a gazillion miles.  El Paso is not pretty, folks.  And the signs for Hueco Tanks State Park and Historic Site...or the lack thereof...merit attention by the State of Texas, if and when it can get its feeble little mind off  sex.

A word about state parks out west:  Because the federal government first saw the value in the areas which became our magnificent national parks, such as Grand Canyon and Yellowstone, western states, which had gained statehood later than their eastern sisters, didn't have much to choose from for state parks.  Yet many western state parks are little gems.  Hueco Tanks could be a little gem but.....

Originally, this area had been privately owned, then county owned, before it was passed on to Texas Parks and Wildlife.  In his first incarnation, it had both historic and prehistoric significance.  Prehistorically, the area attracted Native Americans, later including Mescalero Apache who drew pictographs and petroglyphs.  The tanks, or rock basins, captured always-needed water.

Later, ranching arrived, as did the Butterfield Stage.

Today, this little 800 acre park draws about 100,000 visitors from all over the world:  not for the prehistory, the history, the wildlife or vegetation, but for the rocks.  Apparently, Hueco Tanks is one of the best in the world bouldering.

It gets so crowded that the number of vehicles through the gate must, at times, be limited.  When I arrived, it was swamped with climbers:  young, healthy, cheerful -- and interested only in bouldering.

Texas parks are starved for money, and Hueco Tanks is no exception.  The entrance is not designed to handle the traffic, and the building into which we all disgorge was built for a calmer, less visited time--about 40 years ago.

The staff was very, very nice, though clearly overworked with all the young climbers trying to get permits and directions.  Cheerful voices rang out as climbers greeted one another.  Vehicles piled up outside.

Paying my entry fee, I edged my way to my car, where a pleasant ranger reminded me that under Texas law, dogs could at no time, even in the cool temperature that day, be left in the car.  Nor could they be taken on any of the trails.  That meant no petroglyphs. I was disappointed, but understood.  Texas was more concerned about the health of  dogs than about the health of Texan women. 

I headed to the interpretive center, which is in the old ranch house.  I'd been told the canines would be allowed in, and they were.  However, I left them in the car long enough to dash up to the small center and ask about the bathroom.  Very rudely, an old man who'd forgotten to shave for a few days, snarled, "We don't have one.  Use the one at the entrance."  I knew he was lying.  I turned around, and darned if the door didn't slam behind me as I walked back to the car.  I did not return to the entrance but will say no more.  When I returned with the dogs, a woman volunteer apologized and said the one they had was out of order, but she was new and hadn't known.  The nasty old coot had left by then.

The volunteer was very nice.  Her primary job was to enforce the requirement that everyone who came into the park view  a video about the park.  All parks have a video; most are well done and informative.  This video was also well-done and informative ....  with a strong threatening undertone.  

The usage of Hueco Tanks as a climbing site is overwhelming the human, historic, and natural resources.  It isn't that the climbers are bad folks; they're exuberant and excited.  And they're there to climb, with the other resources as an aside.  The video wanted all visitors to enjoy the park, but to remember that it's a fragile place.  Once I'd viewed the video, my name was entered into the Book of Doom, and I was given a ticket that granted reprieve from viewing the video again for one year.

My guess is that snarly old coot, another volunteer,  had assumed I was a climber; I was rather scruffy looking, if a bit old to be crawling over the rocks unroped.  And he was just sick and tired of climbers ignoring the history and prehistory of his beloved area, and assuming they could go anywhere....  It's either that or he was just a snarly old coot.

I do have some photos....

Waco Tanks:  Hueco, pronounced Waco, means hollows.  Tanks, huecos, are natural rock basins that catch and hold water.

I am always intrigued by these historic ranch houses, which at one time were in the back of beyond.  My mother grew up in a farm house without running water or electricity, but she could walk to school and had friends on nearby farms.  These western farms and ranches were often fairly isolated.  It's hard for me to imagine what daily life was like.

Back in ranching days, the grass would not have been allowed to grow so tall, so close to the house.  Given the fire danger today, I'm surprised that it was so high when I was there.  What I like about the house is that it blends into the environment; it looks as if it belongs.  The rocks in the background are similar to those that attract boulderers.

The romance of the overland mail and passenger stage.  In this instance, it's a fraud, which I did not find out until after I'd taken these photos.  The stage/mail stop was not here; the stones were moved from another location but there is no indication of that on the sign.  This lack of historical honesty reflects Texas in general.  Try visiting the Alamo.

Another example of underfunding:  slopping cement on top of the wall to keep the wall from eroding.  Professional preservationists weep at the sight. 

Now, however, we have two very happy mammals.  Almost no park, federal or state, could function without volunteers, who serve as campground hosts and interpreters, among other necessary tasks.  This woman lives in her RV, going from park to park, spending two or three months at each park.  Living with her are three canines. Tobey can tell......

And so we left Hueco Tanks....and Texas...on a happy note.

Don't Tell My Mother that I'm a Motorcyle Mamma!

When I lived in Tucson about a million years ago, I earned many passenger miles on a Honda 305, nicknamed Moby, since it was white and weighed a ton.  I toted up about 1/4 mile as moto operator, the first time found me and Moby in a ditch on Mt. Lemmon.  The second time I had the courage to rev it up to second gear as I toddled around the block in sheer terror.  Neither was what I might term a major success. 

Now that I'm out here in my later years, I decided to go about this learning-to-ride-a-motorcycle in a more systematic way, as befitting a retired college professor:  I signed up for a short course offered at Pima Community College and taught by an instructor certified by the Motorcycle Safety Foundation.

My charger awaits me!

Our intrepid instructor, who's logged over 100,000 miles on two wheels with a big engine in between.

Goo

One of my fellow students, who looks about the age I was when I was out here a million years ago.

She, her friend, and I were the only students, a student/teacher ratio which I definitely appreciated.  And, they appeared with proper gear, including helmets, gloves, and leather jackets.  Their husbands both own motorcycles.

 And then there's moi:  borrowed helmet, borrowed gloves, no leathers...though it was much too warm for leathers.  I soon discarded my vest.  Our instructor was adamant that before we even mounted the motorcycle that we be wearing our gear:  long sleeves, gloves, helmet, and eye protection, either a visor or glasses.  Since we were not leaving the safe (relatively) confines of the ring, sun glasses were OK.

Proper gear on.  Bike locked.  Stand down.  Mount up.

Good form in the mount up.  Wheel turned properly.

Note Mountain Rose shirt. What the well-dressed motorcyclist is wearing today.

A confession:  We never went higher than first gear, riding in circles around the training ring.  For those few motorcycle novices out there, most motos have gears....and a clutch....and two brakes.  While the concept of clutching, gearing, and braking is similar to that of a manual transmission automotobile, the clutch is at the left hand, one brake at the right, and the accelerator is on the right handlebar.  The gearshift is at the left toe.  What we do in a car with our feet, we do on a moto with our hands.  I had to practice a new system, to habituate my brain to a different way of doing things.  It was great fun, but also tiring, so riding in circles in first gear, practicing shifting to first, going a short way, slowing down, and braking was actually sufficient unto the day.

Attesting to successful completion of my "Motorcycle Experience."

And now I'm ready for.....NOT!

Miles and Miles of Texas

 

That Texas can be daunting is in no doubt.  Crossing the border from Louisiana into Texas, the first mileage sign I saw was 880.  Yes, had I stayed due west on the interstate, it would have been 880 miles to the New Mexico border.  But, as you know, I headed south to see the whooping cranes, before turning west for a 600 mile dash to Van Horn, Texas.  I had considered going to Big Bend National Park, but it was quite far south, and a tad closer to the sometimes chancy border with Mexico than I felt comfortable going solo.  And there appeared to be places of interest near Van Horn.  So off I sped, for 600 miles, around San Antonio (ugh), through Houston (Ugh), and then through miles and miles of clear desert.  Central Texas might as well be wiped off the face of the earth; from Houston to Dallas to San Antonio to El Paso, it's practically a megalopolis.  OK, I exaggerate, but you understand.  Fortunately, Van Horn is different.  

My housing choices were limited, though again I'm overstating, as is my wont.  One choice was lodgings which had been acceptable back before cars were air-conditioned:  aka long ago. 

Choice #2 didn't seem to accept canines.

So I went with #3.  After 600 miles of driving, I knew I would be in no mood to put up the camper, yet I didn't really want to stay at the Hampton Inn, and KOA is pet-friendly.  Ergo, A KOA Kamping Kabin although my English teacher heart sinks at the alliteration.....

A Kamping Kabin has electricity and beds, but no water.  It's BYO linens, blankets, pillows, which of course I had.  And this one even had a heater, which was fortunate as it was quite chilly that first night.

It did warm up sufficiently during the day that I could take advantage of the swing.  Any astute blog readers remember where you another swing?

Nor was it without its own wildlife.  Pretty colorful rooster.  Glad the canines never saw these fowl.  The air would have been foul with their barking.  OK, bad pun.  But there aren't too many Holiday Inns that feature chickens pecking around.

Obviously, Van Horn is a sleepy little town, although this photo is a tad misleading.  I'd been looking for the post office when I came across this:

Cars last forever out here, whether in good operating condition, or as art.  Note that the saguaro cactus is geographically mislocated...and metal.

Heading up to Guadalupe National Park, this warning.  You can see by the wind sock that the warning is to be heeded.  

Guadalupe Mountains National Park seems to be a little known treasure.  It has room for backpackers, wilderness lovers, naturalists, and historians.  I had time only to dip in my little toe, and even that was marvelous.

The Overland Butterfield Stage, the coach, shaped in our minds by John Wayne westerns and many songs, ran only for about eleven years, when  the "iron horse" of the transcontinental railroad made it obsolete.     

 And what country is was!  So vast, so lonely.

              

The Pinery Station faced the plains, with its back to El Capitan.

Constructed of shaped stone.

From the floor plan, there appear to be three small rooms which might have served as sleeping quarters for passengers.  Regardless, a coach ride was a miserable experience.  I made a one mile stagecoach trip in Ft. Smith, Arkansas, and even with a state-of-the-art in-the-1880s springs, it was not pleasant.  And with open windows, dust blowing, unwashed bodies... the iron horse would have been a relief...and faster.   From Missouri to California would have taken close to a month via stagecoach. 

The Pinery Station was in the saddle of the Guadalupe Mountains for only a year before it was relocated nearer to the Davis Mountains, to the east of Van Horn, probably as that location was more convenient to Interstate 10.

I adore living history.

Frijole Ranch , in the 21st century, may not be the desert oasis the NPS claims it to be, but had I been a Texas traveler or range rider, it might well have seemed like heaven.

Tucked away in the trees is the original Frijole Ranch, with that foreboding peak looming above. 

I'm uncertain as to whether this barn is original, though original means many things when a place has been owned by different people over the years.

I can say with some certainty that the metal fence is not original, and that the sidewalk was probably added either very late during private ownership, or by the NPS.

The Frijole Ranch did not overlap temporally with the Butterfield Stage.  The first house was built around 1878; the stage had been moved around 1859/1860.  The house that we see today is built around that first house from 1878.  There were three owners of the property, the first being of fairly short duration, the second selling out to the wealthy third owner, who never lived here, but whose foreman did, up until the 1940s.  One thing to keep in mind is how isolated was this part of the United states, well into the 20th century.

While these trees are calm, soothing, and provide much needed shaded, 100 years ago, they would have been mere saplings.  I have to remind myself that what I see today is not a photograph of the original, either the house or the environment in which it sits.

These two photos are of the water source, which is not only in this shed, but covered with a screen, neither of which would be original, though the water source would be, as it would have been a primary reason for settlement here.

Lacking electricity and running water well into the 20th century, one owner of the ranch installed gas lights and figured out a way to pump the gas to the fixture.  It was explained to me and I was impressed, though it was beyond my comprehension.

Ya'll may have realized by now that I'm intrigued by rock structures (and adobe).

Notice that smoothed, shaped rock on the left abuts unshaped rock.  I asked the NPS volunteer if she knew why one was shaped but no the other, and she'd never noticed it.  It was an oddball question for sure, and I wouldn't have expected her to know.   My guess, based on complete ignorance, is that perhaps the difference in stone reflects different phases of add-ons, but the roof line makes that hypothesis questionable.

Storage shed.

The horse for the teacher is a definite perk.

The nearest town of any substance, Van Horn, was 60 miles away, generally a two-day journey by buggy.  This family had both enough money and a desire for education that they hired a teacher for their children.

 

The very nice NPS volunteer took my photo.  Note that I'm wearing my POEM sweatshirt, gift of cousins Ron and Suzanne.  POEM, as most of you probably know, is the Garrison Keilor acronym for the Professional Organization of English Majors, of which I am a proud member.

And the high winds continue as I wend my way down the mountain back to Van Horn.