90. West Texas, January, 2015

Come, ride along with me. We’re headed west on Texas route 90 from San Antonio to the little town of Del Rio on the Rio Grand and the Mexican border. “Why?”, you ask. For some birding, but mostly because we have never been there before. It’s not a long drive, about 150 miles straight west.

Sorry about the car. It’s not much: a grey Toyota Corolla, but it will get us there — and back.

Once we navigate this maze of highway ribbons getting out of the airport, do 20 minutes or so on the ring-way (U.S. 410), we’re on our way.

The land is flat; the agriculture mostly grazing: cattle, sheep, (surprisingly) lots of goats, an occasional llama and a small herd of domesticated Elk. No, really, Elk. There is enough agriculture, together with the flatness, that I am reminded of the Imperial Valley — but without the amenities!!!

Small towns are strung out along route 90 like pearls on a necklace, except that they are hardly pearls and their distance from one another is more like 10 to 12 miles. Perhaps clods of dirt on a rusted fence wire would be a better simile. In one of these dust-covered little towns I spot, but too late to turn in, a drive-through grocery with a pickup inside and another in line. No need to leave the truck to get your smokes.

There are occasional groves of live oak and other trees I do not recognize, (e.g. a dark green conifer), scattered across the meadows. Red-tailed hawks perch on the crossbars of telephone poles, roughly one hawk every five miles or so, their backs are uniformly turned against the western wind (hence giving me a great view of their markings). Boat-tailed Grackles work the roadsides for whatever they can glean. The same weather that is freezing us in Maine is chilling these Texans — and they are not happy about the 40-degree temperatures or the grey, drizzling skies.

It was about 9:30 when we left the Budget car rental; it’s now after 11 and I still have had no breakfast. I am thinking an early lunch, but not in one of the many fast food places along the way. I want some real Mexican food, the kind you cannot find in Maine — or in most parts of the U.S..

It’s still early; some of the places look as if they are not open. Some look as if they closed years ago. Others look too authentic.

We drive on, through Castorville, Hondo, and Sabinal. I am getting more hungry by the minute. In Knippa I stop to ask a roadside Sheriff where I can get a good Mexican lunch; judging from his girth, he should know. And he does. He answers slowly in a thick Texas accent, “No food around here, I reckon.” (As if it was not clear who was doing the reckoning.) “Nothin’ for another 30 minutes or so until Uvalde; they’ve got everything there.” (Subsequent inspection reveals that not to be true.)

And so I press on, now snacking on a bag of trail mix I liberated from our meeting room in San Antonio. I was there for the annual conference of Student Veterans of America. With the exception of me, all my friends on the Board are former military. When they talk about “living off the land” it involves grubs and roots, not hotel trail mix.

In any event, we have made it to Uvalde and not a minute too soon. I pull into the first Mexican restaurant I see, walk in, have my choice of tables. The waitress comes over with two menus, one for breakfast, another for lunch. Since I am not sure just what meal this is, I ask her to leave both. Hard to decide, but I finally order enchilandas poblanas.

While I wait, four old men, (“old” as in about my age), wander in and sit at what I take to be their usual booth, (an assumption born of the familiar welcome from the waitress and their first-name responses.) They each appear to be of Mexican descent. Their conversation is in Spanish — as are many in this part of the country.

Each is lean, wearing jeans, a Stetson and “cowboy boots” — not the black, hand-tooled, high heeled ones people wear in Dallas, but real working boots with wide, low heels and just the right amount of dirt — not so much as to be rude to other diners, enough to distinguish them from wandering philosophers.

What a good lunch, not only because I was hungry, but because the food is the real thing. The enchiladas were as good as I hoped, well worth the drive, (and the sauce!!!). Even Annie (our Mexican housekeeper in San Diego) would approve.

So, we have about an hour left to Del Rio. Have you noticed how the landscape has changed? Not much agriculture anymore, at least not so you’d notice. The land has given way to a hard limestone crust, dotted with Creosote and Mesquite, and (non-tumbling) weeds. Occasional gates mark the entrance to ranches; their houses, barns, etc. lay far from the road, invisible to us. We see only a tall arch with the ranch’s name: “Gun Hill Ranch”, or “Rolling Hills Ranch” — each without benefit of elevation.

Not a lot of traffic now, west of Uvalde, mostly eighteen-wheelers. From the look of them I would judge that most are coming or going from Mexico. What other vehicles you see are most always pickups.

So, that’s Del Rio ahead; you can tell because we are just coming to Laughlin Air Force Base that lies on the eastern edge of town.

You’ll be pleased to know that I have put aside my usual cheapness and sprung for the finest room in Del Rio — $55. Comes with interior hallways (good in this cool weather). With no elevator you will be pleased to know that our room is on the second floor — which, as it happens, is also the top floor. Think of it as a penthouse suite. The hotel looks to have started life as a Holiday Inn, aged into Ramada, then perhaps a Howard Johnson’s. It is now a La Qunita, which, as you know, is Spanish for “fifth owner”.

So, the birding has not been all that great — just an excuse for an adventure. My thought, aided by some internet research was that the Amistad Reservoir, just north of Del Rio would yield great birding; in fact, not so much. The reservoir is low, as are the clouds. The wind is stiff enough to have driven most birds to ground.

I park the car in the parking lot and walk a mile or so along park paths, working my way down toward the shore. Here the land is semi-open. Light beige prairie grass, about a foot high spreads out between an occasional live-Oak. No birds to speak of, but I do flush two deer — a spring fawn (no longer spotted) and its mother. They are about 25 yards away when the (previously invisible) fawn bolts. It is only then that I see the mother, kneeling, frozen, watching me watching her. Finally, smelling philosopher, she nonchalantly rises and goes to find her fawn.

Once at the shore, (farther away then originally intended because of the low level of the reservoir), I see mostly Coots, though I do startle a Great Blue Heron that glides off majestically, it’s long wings beating more slowly than you would think necessary to keep it aloft.

So, it’s a bit out of our way, but I was thinking we might take Waylon Jennings’ advice: “Let’s go to Luckenbach, Texas…”, while we are in the area. Well, sort of in the area. We can just hang a left when we get back to Hondo and head north towards Fredericksburg. My friend, Mike Lehnert, recommends a visit — with stories of the “occasionally annual” chicken toss and such. I think we should go, just so I can buy a patch to send to him.

We make an early start from Del Rio. Having scouted the hotel the prior morning while having a pick-up, free breakfast, I have resolved to make myself some waffles for the road, (in their do-it-yourself waffle machine) to go with the banana and the orange I bought last night. Fine idea, but the waffles (which I execute perfectly) taste pretty much like warmed-over, semi-hardened latex as I reach for them, on their Styrofoam plate on the passengers’ seat, after clearing town and passing Laughlin once again.

As promised, we turn left at Hondo on Texas route 173, which puts us at last on an open two-lane highway winding through the empty Texas countryside. No eighteen-wheelers here. Speed limit is 70. Within 15 miles the countryside has changed. We are clearly in the Texas hill country. And it is as lovely as Ladybird said it was. The fields are now about 50/50 grassland and live oaks. By “grassland” I mean Cartwrights-riding-four-abreast-across-the-prairie-at-the-opening-of-Bonanza, grassland. And now the oaks and the grass seem to be taking turns: sometimes mostly oaks, sometimes mostly grass. Open enough that you can see the lay of the hills; textured enough that the horizon remains close-in. It’s mid-January now, but in the spring when these hills are covered with bluebonnets and lupine, they must be even more lovely.

So, Luckenbach, Texas is a complete, and delightful charade. As I approach I see signs to the “Town Loop”; the signs surprise me because I did not expect Luckenbach to be large enough to have a town loop. In fact, the “town loop” is a circular driveway. Turns out Luckenbach (population: 3) is not exactly a rockin’ place in mid-January. There are eight buildings, if you count the five porta-potties; otherwise three: the Post Office, the Beer Hall (which is an open stand) and another that I could not quite make out. More than enough for the three residents to maintain. The Post Office doubles as a general store, complete with a wood-burning stove (warm and inviting on this cold day) with two “locals” artfully arranged around it. I decline their invitation to join them. I am on a mission to find Mike a patch. There they are. And more. There is a sticker I can send to Matt in Afghanistan for his armored door and a Luchenbach guitar pick that will please Rick. I have my patch for Mike and one for myself.

Life is good.

Another guest looks at me and says, “You just gotta come,” as if to explain her presence. (She and I are the only “guests” there.) Turns out she works at the nearby LBJ Ranch. Alas, I am already 20 miles in the wrong direction and too lazy to retrace my “steps”. As I drive through the rolling hills, I regret not stopping at the ranch.

Now we continue on the back road for another half hour, speeding through the lovely hills, absolutely alone. When I finally “hitch up” with Interstate 10 I am only about 30 miles from the airport and my hotel.

I will catch a flight tomorrow morning for Houston, then Boston, then Bar Harbor.

I am told that cold and snow await me. May have to shovel my way into the house.

It’s been a good trip; glad you could join me.