Am going to start blogging again, but probably with fewer photos.

Marfa, Texas

 An Odd Little Artsy Town in the Middle of Nowhere

Marfa is south of Interstate 10, in west Texas.  If you look at a map, to be south of I-10 in west Texas means being pretty much nowhere.  And yet, Marfa, Texas, has been written up in Vogue, which called it magical and mystical, which I think was stretching the adjectives a bit.  

I’d known that Marfa was designated “artsy” (though not the about Vogue write-up), and on my previous stay at Davis Mountain, I’d driven through Marfa in a fruitless endeavor to discover its artistic character.  It just looked like another dusty west Texas town, plunked down in the midst of the vastness of the land that stretches from the Canadian border to Mexico.  Nothing there….

Then, recently, I read a whodunit by John Sandford (yes, I consume large quantities of trashy whodunits):  Golden Prey.  The finale shoot-em-up, wherein the bad guys die in a blaze of gunfire, was set in Marfa.  In fact, that final, climactic scene where everything goes to hell, took place in and around the reason for Marfa’s claim to artistic fame:  the hangar museum that displays the modernist/minimalist/something works of Donald Judd:  The Chinati Foundation.

Obviously, learning about the work of Judd through a whodunit is indicative of my lack of culture.  Oh well.

So, to Marfa I came, to see art, to become one with Vogue culture.  And here is where I stayed:

Not here, at the beautiful Paisano Hotel, where Liz and Rock and James Dean had lounged (and maybe loved) while making Giant, one of the many films made in Marfa:

No, here, surrounded by the vastness of west Texas. 

Not here, with the lovely bathroom, fireplace, and tile floors:

That’s OK.  I had this beautiful sunrise.

Artsy Marfa

After a stop at a most excellent local historical museum, I ventured into an artier venue:  The Chinati Foundation.  I won’t burden you with the whole story, but, basically, New York weary Donald Judd stumbled over Marfa and its defunct military base; he bought the latter, which had sufficient indoor and outdoor space to house his ….large….concrete ...... pieces.  I did not wish to pay to see the pieces in the hangar, but here are those outdoors, scattered like the toys of giants over about  1/3 mile.

 

Yup.  Not portable. At all.    And so I moved on to Silver City, NM.

Davis Mountain State Park, Texas

I’d been here before and wanted to return and stay longer.  It’s a good birding location, and it’s just a few miles from Ft. Davis National Historic Site, where I’ve also been before.

Remember that I head west in part to escape the gray, icy, snowy, cold Wise County days and nights.  Well, guess what I got at Davis Mountain???  Cold and snowy…..VERY!  But first, the before:

An arty photo...........

Top of the mountain, looking across the valley toward the east....

Top of the mountain again....

AND THE AFTER

So much for my plan to set up my little tapestry loom on the picnic table...

When a dog has to go, a dog has to go.....

Tobey and I stayed inside.......

 AND IN THE SMALL WORLD CATEGORY

I was having a delicious cup of coffee in a health foods kinda place, and chatted, of course, with my table companion.  When she realized that I was an outsider, she asked me where I was from; when I said Virginia, she said her sister lived in Virginia.  Where, I asked.  She mumbled something that I didn't quite understand and then she repeated it: Nellysford.  And of course, I know exactly where Nellysford is, as I have kinfolk there.  This woman's sister actually lives in Wintergreen, which I guess has a Nellysford address.

Then I ran into a birder, and we started discussing birds.  As we chitchatted in the cold, somehow South Carolina was mentioned; turns out his deceased wife had gone to Columbia College:  Duh, so had I, for one semester before I decided the pond was too small for me and transferred to the university.  His wife graduated the year before I arrived.  Small world, indeed.

FT. DAVIS

  As an aside, I am drawn to these western US Army forts, established primarily to safeguard western migrants (mostly white) against the marauders (not white, and whose territory it was to begin with).  They were often so isolated, so far from anything that seemed civilized.   The men would have had duties and chores….and rampages against the people whose land they were taking.  But the women, the wives of officers and enlisted men:  What were their lives like?  How did they cope with the vast loneliness that must have engulfed them from time to time?  I don’t know, but I can wander and wonder.  

The last time I was at Ft. Davis, I became intrigued by the status of the laundresses; they were not merely women of poor moral character; they were paid and in some cases received housing (hovels) and a food ration.  When I inquired about them this visit, I learned that a dissertation had been written about them, so naturally, I begged to look at a copy.  What fun!!!  The social structure had Ft. Davis was quite stratified and complex, including officers, NCOs (black soldiers in this instance), and enlisted men; wives, who were acutely aware of their positions vis a vis their husbands; laundresses, who may have been single Mexican or native American women, or wives of enlisted men and the black NCOs.  Unfortunately, I  didn't have time to read the entire dissertation, but what a treat to be able to dip into it, even if for a short time.

And here is my Davis Mountain bird list  (mostly spotted at the two feeding locations set up by the park, and which also attract javelinas, as did my campsite).

DAVIS MOUNTAIN BIRD LIST

chipping sparrow               red breasted nuthatch    acorn woodpecker
ladder-backed woodpecker (female)                       canyon towhee
junco (don't ask me which kind)                             lesser goldfinch
western scrubjay                 titmouse                       house finch
white-winged dove             Berwick's wren            spotted towhee                     

NEXT:  The decidedly odd little hamlet of Marfa, TX.

Which side of the street at 5 PM?

In Ft. Davis, that makes a biiiiiigggggg difference.  But let me jump back in time and geography.

Growing up in South Carolina, even though I left about the time I was of legal drinking age, I was aware of the oddities of booze buying under our fair state’s blue laws.  For instance, if you belonged to a country club, you had a locker where you stashed your booze.  ABC stores were open from dawn to dusk, so you’d damn well better know the exact minute when dusk ended, or you would be without your 5 pm bourbon.  If you wanted a G&T in a bar, you had to buy a mini-bottle of gin, which arrived along with gin and ice and lime.  Imagine what it cost to build yourself a Long Island Iced Tea from five mini-bottles of vodka, rum, gin, tequila, triple sec. Then I moved west, away from blue laws, more toward Miss Kitty and Matt Dillon—until a trip to Salt Lake City.  Turns out, back before tourism was accepted as a powerful force for financial well-being, SLC had some downright quaint customs regarding spirits.  Wandering around, seeking 5 o’clock sustenance, I went into what appeared to be an ordinary drinking establishment:  bar stools, bar, colorful bottles reflected in the big mirror behind the bar.  People sitting around imbibing what I assumed were spirits and chatting amiably.  But I was refused service, as it was a private club!  One could buy spirits by the drink only in these private clubs, and I was not a member.  Undeterred, I asked how I might become a member.  The bartended handed me a brief form:  name, rank, serial number, the usual.  Then, it asked for a reference, and the reference had to sign the damn form.  I was flummoxed, until a man standing next to me laughed, signed….and I was a member in good standing.  In recent years,  SLC has discovered the long green of tourism, and has loosened up considerably.

That brings me to today and Ft. Davis.  I planned to meet a new acquaintance for an early dinner at the Bistro.  Turns out it’s closed on Wednesday.  A very nice local person recommended a Mexican place just down the road, pointing out that it was on the right side of the street, so it couldn’t serve any kind of alcohol, but Uncle Buck’s was just across the road.  Uncle Buck’s consists of two side-by-side buildings, and never the twain shall meet:  a “Quick Shop” for beer and a store for spirits.  I wanted beer; my companion wanted spirits. 

 I could take the beer from the Quick Shop and pay for it in the spirit shop, but spirits couldn’t go the other way.  So, we bought and took it with us as we dined on enchiladas and huevos rancheros.  Huh??   Yes, apparently in Ft. Davis, the legal boundary to sell spirits runs down the white line on Main Street.  A dry precinct is on one side, and a wet precinct is on the other side. 

Now, Ft. Davis is in the County of Jefferson Davis, so we have a very good idea of those who were around when the county was founded. (Actually, I’m wrong about this; it was named after the US Secretary of War, not the President of the treasonous confederacy.)  Perhaps the southern blue law contingent predominated in what is now the dry precinct and the kinfolk of Matt, and Doc, and Miss Kitty settled on Uncle Buck’s side.  I’ve always wanted to be Miss Kitty and own the saloon; it’s her face paint, I think.

 On the Road Again

I tried to read the original On the Road, a few years back, but found it tedious.  Perhaps I’ve aged out of it; perhaps I should have read it when I blitzed through Ayn Rand, Herman Hesse, and Tom Robbins, none of which interest me at all these days.  Blue Highways, Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy and Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance are still eminently enjoyable.

First night out of Columbia, Tobey and I spent in  Jackson, Mississippi.  Yes, it broke my 500 mile limit by 100 miles, but there’s that driving into the sunset thing.  Moreover, when I reached 500 miles, I wasn’t tired, so……..

I’d called from the 500 mile mark and made a reservation forLaFleur's Bluff State Park,  an odd little place that must have once been out in the country, but is now more or less tucked into a suburb of  Jackson.  Think Sesquicentennial State Park in Columbia.  In the ‘60s, Mother and Daddy would pack a picnic, turn off the water, stop the mail….not really, but back in the day, it was a trek from our house.  Today, it’s on a crowded four lane thoroughfare.

LaFleur, like Sesqui, sits on a small lake, and my spot was lakeside. 

Dawn

 Of course, dawn was around 7:30....

Dawn

 And being right next to the lake was a treat.  “Big blue” (aka great blue heron) was out fishing and flying and making guttural big blue noises.  Two large white birds, at least as big blue, flew around.  Unlike big blue, their necks were long and curvy as they flew.  Not sure of identification, though I’m leaning toward swans.

I met a very nice couple from Winnipeg, and we exchanged itineraries, looked at maps, and raved about the joys of retirement.  Mother had made me several egg salad sandwiches, two of which I’d had for breakfast, so I finished them off, accompanied by potato chips and a glass of wine.  Devine!!! 

I didn’t unhook, so next morning, Tobey and I jumped in the car and headed out.  Here’s the advantage of the extra 100 miles:  Skipping through Dallas on a Sunday!  Had I not done that 100 miles, I would have ended up camping between Dallas and Fort Worth….and dealing with harried Monday morning commuters.  An uneventful drive brought us to Abilene, where we bedded down in a KOA.  But before I tell you about that, I must say something about the west Texas oil patch:  it’s bustling.

It's fake, but so many genuine rigs 

are pumping

 Tanker trucks, semis, trucks bloated with strange looking machinery, big trucks, little trucks,  pickup trucks going in tandem stuffed with sturdy four wheelers , pickup trucks driven by men looking like what I imagine a roustabout to look like:  grizzled, smoking, matted hair under a gimme cap.   West Texas is pumping oil, building pipelines, open for business.  The land itself is tired and sad, litter everywhere.

 As some of ya’ll know, I can talk to a stump (or I can be glacially off-putting….but that’s not part of this story).  I chatted with the clerk at the KOA, who turned out to be the manager of three months.  He’d been doing the KOA circuit.  Do you know there’s a KOA circuit?  Folks may work in the winter in Florida, then move up to Minnesota for the summer.  This young man had been at Mt. Rushmore (very overrated as far as I’m concerned), and heard about this managerial job in Abilene.  We talked about the adjustment and chitchatted as he checked me in.  I was paying for a back in site (they’re cheaper), and told him I was terrible at backing in, so pick one that would make it easiest for me.  I told him that other campers would come out to watch, and get their day’s entertainment by watching my pitiful attempts to back in.  I always manage, but it requires numerous tries, and the camper is never straight.  Sweet young man that he is, he gave me  a pull through site, while only charging for a back in.  Then he laughed and said his manager would probably say something about it to him the next day.  Of course, he is the manager.  

Unlike Lafleur's Bluff, this site was a tad more urban, though I'd much rather stay in my cozy camper than in the Motel 6.  At least in my camper, I know the status of my bedding!!

After two six hundred mile days (600 + 600 = 1200), I didn’t have far to go (comparatively) to reach my destination, so I treated myself to a leisurely breakfast at IHOP, and then hit the road once again.

Runnin' the road once more!!  Departing Columbia around 6ish in the AM, on Saturday, Dec 2.,  wending my way to I-20, where I will be for the next three days, until I am once again at Davis Mountain State Park in far southwest Texas.  I've been there before; it's wonderful for bird-watching.

Saturday will find me, I hope, at Frog Level Campground, in Philadelphia, Mississippi. (Yes, I could have used MS, but typing out Mississippi is just fun!)  Night #2 will be somewhere around Dallas...unfortunately.

But 500 miles (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ADN1lLEp3H0) is about my limit, and that puts me pretty much in downtown Dallas.

If I don't set a mileage limit, especially when driving west, I drive until I drop.  As long as there's a glimmer of light in the western sky....I drive.  Very foolish.  So I established the 500 mile cap.

As long as the campground is safe, it doesn't have to be fancy.  All I do is pull in, pop up the camper, walk the little canine, and curl up in bed for the night.  And this time, I have new flannel sheets and a new fleecy electric blanket.  I'm not sure whether I've gone up or down since the first time I backpacked....with an old boy scout pack....painful.  I confess, though, that keeping warm is now a priority.

I wake up, put down the camper, and drive on for another https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ADN1lLEp3H0.

When I reach Davis Mountain, I will unpack and relax....and write some more.
 

Runnin' the Road

The Roadrunner should be my totem...my logo... as I "run the road" as we say in my family.  As I've said before, I come naturally by my wanderlust.  My paternal grandmother would automatically get in the car whenever the door was open.  And my maternal great grandmother would walk to town....5 miles or so....pretty much up until the day she died.  So I've been wandering around here in Arizona on my three day weekends.  Haven't done anything particularly exciting or seen anything worthy of the National Geographic.  I wander simply because....

 

 

As of 2010, the population of Young, Arizona, was 666.  According to the website:  There are no strangers in Young, only welcomed guests.  As you travel through town, prepare to be greeted often by a pleasant wave and a friendly smile.   And it had played a role in the Pleasant Valley War, a cattleman/sheep herder range war, with a bit of bigotry thrown in range war.  
 
Pretty funky place, I gathered.  So after a good cup of my own coffee, I threw the dogs in the car (or rather, they saw the open car door and the devil himself couldn't have kept them out--kinda like me) and set off on State Route 288 for the 50 + mile jaunt.  I knew that some of the road was not paved but no concern.

And it was indeed a beautiful trip, from the desert to the ponderosa pine forest and the snow.

And as you can see, the paving had disappeared by this point.  However, it wasn't too bad, not nearly as bad as the Chaco washboard was 40 years ago.  And my little Subaru Outback was born to this kind of road. 

After a road trip of 50 or so miles and about 2 hours of on and off again road, I was looking forward to poking around in a funky little town, so it was with some eagerness that I spotted the sign.  Saw a few houses....rental cabins....a bar....a few churches...a cemetery.... and 

a rather chilly looking vineyard....the vines, not the people, as I had yet to see a human being.  Then...

Young is a wonderful place to photograph derelict buildings....but otherwise, not too much there there.