You may never have heard of Big Bend National Park, off in southwestern Texas, far from any city, nestled in a bend of the Rio Grande river. It has pretty mountains, and Texans flock here, even in mid-winter.
The Rio Grande, which means "big river" in Spanish, is surprisingly small here because water is removed upstream in New Mexico and El Paso. Being narrow and shallow, it would be easy to wade or swim across, but of course crossing the river into Mexico is highly illegal and would result in your being caught, prosecuted, fined, and thrown in jail, so no one does it. It's even illegal to do business with a Mexican who swims over to the U.S. side bearing tourist trinkets for sale (your trinkets would be confiscated). As we all have heard, patrolling our borders is a top priority these days.
I stayed in an RV campground and drove around the park sightseeing each day. I enjoyed a couple of good meals in the park lodge's nice dining room, where I first tasted and came to like Shiner's Bock, a beer brewed in a little brewery in a little Texas town.
It was in the lodge's lobby that I overheard a woman talking — she was so loud, I couldn't tune her out. "When my daughter grew taller than me, she mouthed off and said she didn't have to listen to me any more. I grabbed her and threw her against the wall and she looked at me, terrified. After that, my word was law." I paused and reflected on this description of domestic violence. How typically Texan, I thought — the legacy of the state's legendary past, from the battle of the Alamo to child abuse today. But I was wrong. If I had been paying better attention, I would have noticed that the woman's accent was not Texan. Further listening revealed that she lives in Maple Grove, Minnesota! So much for easy stereotypes and hasty conclusions.
Just north of the park are three unexpectedly distinguished little remote towns. Alpine and Marathon each has an independent bookstore on its main street. So excited was I to see one that I parked the RV, went in, found three books I wanted to read, and gladly bought them at full retail price. The third town, Marfa, not only has a swanky independent bookstore but its own public radio station, as well as mysterious lights in the night sky which some people have seen. (I'll have to come back in warmer weather to look for them.)
Driving down a state highway, I came upon a ranch with a small roadside shack selling barbecue. Food lover that I am, I pulled off the road and parked the RV. Simultaneously, the rancher came out of the house and over to the shack. He turned out to be a happy, garrulous Texan who joked as he sold me some barbecued beef. (Having trouble opening a plastic bag, he remarked, "I guess you have to be smarter than the bag.") He introduced me to his new ranch dog, Blackie, a stray who had shown up just the previous week. A medium-sized mongrel with plenty of pep and a happy disposition, he had already made himself at home on the ranch.
We continued down the two-lane highways east and south toward the Rio Grande Valley.
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
Wednesday, January 30, 2008
Western Texas
Crossing from New Mexico into Texas, we immediately found ourselves in El Paso, a city of over half a million people. There was only one UU church, and it had less than a hundred members — one gets the feeling that these UUs are special, in their isolated outpost. Since we were there on a weekend, we went to their Sunday service (topic: Animal Rights; take-home point: Jeremy Bentham) where we met some friendly people and went with them to brunch at a Mexican restaurant.
The state of Texas is enormous. It's about 800 miles tall and 800 miles wide. For comparison, Minnesota is about 400 miles tall, so just think of how far it is to drive across Texas. Not many people live out in Western Texas. These are the wide open spaces, where the wind blows hard and we saw tumbleweed blowing across the road ahead of us. Some days, we'd drive miles and miles until we came to a little place with a gas station and a cafe, and if it had an RV park too, we rejoiced and stayed overnight.
Van Horn (pop. 2,000) has a lot going for it, located on Interstate 10, the main east-west highway for hundreds of miles. But all up and down the main street are vacant buildings and sites where buildings have been torn down. The place is withering away, part of the great migration from rural to urban.
We headed up to Pecos, just because it had a supermarket and because we liked the name. The name is shared by the river, made famous by Judge Roy Bean, "the law west of the Pecos." When the first railroad was put through Western Texas, outlaws made it difficult for the workers, and Bean was appointed judge to help civilize the territory. He was an uneducated bartender who held court sessions right in his barroom, and was famous for his drinking and thieving as well as his legal decisions.
From there we drove south through the part of Texas that actually has mountains, clear to the Mexican border. We stayed in the small town of Presidio, and although it's on the U.S. side of the border, you wouldn't know it. It exemplified what we'd observed in other border towns in other states — You don't have to actually go to Mexico to experience it, just visit a small border town on the U.S. side. The culture somehow leaks across the border — All the restaurants serve Mexican food, Spanish is heard more often than English, and if you leave the main street you find yourself on a dirt road, patrolled by a small skinny dog running loose.
The RV park in Presidio had an interesting tradition. Each afternoon at 4:00, fire crackers were set off and everyone headed to Happy Hour at The Lounge, a simple outdoor seating area. Beverages were bring-your-own and hors d'oeurves were pot luck. It was about the most interesting event in town.
From there, we headed southeast, bound for Big Bend National Park.
The state of Texas is enormous. It's about 800 miles tall and 800 miles wide. For comparison, Minnesota is about 400 miles tall, so just think of how far it is to drive across Texas. Not many people live out in Western Texas. These are the wide open spaces, where the wind blows hard and we saw tumbleweed blowing across the road ahead of us. Some days, we'd drive miles and miles until we came to a little place with a gas station and a cafe, and if it had an RV park too, we rejoiced and stayed overnight.
Van Horn (pop. 2,000) has a lot going for it, located on Interstate 10, the main east-west highway for hundreds of miles. But all up and down the main street are vacant buildings and sites where buildings have been torn down. The place is withering away, part of the great migration from rural to urban.
We headed up to Pecos, just because it had a supermarket and because we liked the name. The name is shared by the river, made famous by Judge Roy Bean, "the law west of the Pecos." When the first railroad was put through Western Texas, outlaws made it difficult for the workers, and Bean was appointed judge to help civilize the territory. He was an uneducated bartender who held court sessions right in his barroom, and was famous for his drinking and thieving as well as his legal decisions.
From there we drove south through the part of Texas that actually has mountains, clear to the Mexican border. We stayed in the small town of Presidio, and although it's on the U.S. side of the border, you wouldn't know it. It exemplified what we'd observed in other border towns in other states — You don't have to actually go to Mexico to experience it, just visit a small border town on the U.S. side. The culture somehow leaks across the border — All the restaurants serve Mexican food, Spanish is heard more often than English, and if you leave the main street you find yourself on a dirt road, patrolled by a small skinny dog running loose.
The RV park in Presidio had an interesting tradition. Each afternoon at 4:00, fire crackers were set off and everyone headed to Happy Hour at The Lounge, a simple outdoor seating area. Beverages were bring-your-own and hors d'oeurves were pot luck. It was about the most interesting event in town.
From there, we headed southeast, bound for Big Bend National Park.
Wednesday, January 9, 2008
Arizona
Leaving California, we entered Arizona at Yuma, way down south on the border with Mexico. A local laughed, "It never rains in Yuma, it just sprinkles a little," but our first night there, two months worth of rain fell overnight. We were drenched by the downpour and buffeted with winds that rocked the RV. It was a tropical storm that came up from Mexico and continued northeast directly to Minnesota, where it provided the first big snowfall of the season.
Another night, in a state park, a burro wandered through our campground. A burro is also called a donkey or an ass, and has been a beast of burden for thousands of years. Burros living wild in the desert are descendents of pack animals used by prospectors and other early settlers.
North of Yuma, in Quartzsite, we paid to park on barren land where RVs formerly parked for free — the feds now require a permit to park there, on what is unimproved public land anyway. Snowbirds flock here by the thousands to enjoy the mild winter weather and the huge permanent flea markets, but we were too early for the high season and were just as happy to find the place comparatively empty.
Headed for Phoenix, but still many miles away, we noticed a huge white cloud rising into the sky. We drove toward it and found that it came from the Palo Verde nuclear power plant, the largest such facility in the country, supplying enough electricity for 4 million people. All the other nuclear power plants in the country are built on large rivers, lakes, or oceans, to supply them with their enormous need for cooling water. This plant, in the middle of a desert, is the only nuclear power plant in the country to cool its reactors by evaporating water. Each day it takes in 55 million gallons of water and turns it into steam, which is what we saw climbing into the sky. The facility is located only 40 miles from Phoenix, and only one mile from the nearest public school. One fervently hopes that no nuclear incident (remember Three Mile Island and Chernobyl!) ever takes place here.
One day, while pumping gas into Cruisemaster, a fellow wandered over and introduced himself. "I see by your license plate you're from Minnesota," he said. Turned out he was from Burnsville and had moved to Arizona a couple of years earlier. He was unhappy with the move, complaining about lack of employment, and, of course, the heat in the summer.
By the time we reached Tucson, cold weather had arrived — frost on the ground! We hurried on, leaving to another time to visit Bisbee and the surrounding area in Southern Arizona.
New Mexico
Because the weather continued cold in New Mexico, we decided to postpone visits to the Carlsbad Caverns, Roswell, and White Sands, and instead headed directly south into Texas.
Another night, in a state park, a burro wandered through our campground. A burro is also called a donkey or an ass, and has been a beast of burden for thousands of years. Burros living wild in the desert are descendents of pack animals used by prospectors and other early settlers.
North of Yuma, in Quartzsite, we paid to park on barren land where RVs formerly parked for free — the feds now require a permit to park there, on what is unimproved public land anyway. Snowbirds flock here by the thousands to enjoy the mild winter weather and the huge permanent flea markets, but we were too early for the high season and were just as happy to find the place comparatively empty.
Headed for Phoenix, but still many miles away, we noticed a huge white cloud rising into the sky. We drove toward it and found that it came from the Palo Verde nuclear power plant, the largest such facility in the country, supplying enough electricity for 4 million people. All the other nuclear power plants in the country are built on large rivers, lakes, or oceans, to supply them with their enormous need for cooling water. This plant, in the middle of a desert, is the only nuclear power plant in the country to cool its reactors by evaporating water. Each day it takes in 55 million gallons of water and turns it into steam, which is what we saw climbing into the sky. The facility is located only 40 miles from Phoenix, and only one mile from the nearest public school. One fervently hopes that no nuclear incident (remember Three Mile Island and Chernobyl!) ever takes place here.
One day, while pumping gas into Cruisemaster, a fellow wandered over and introduced himself. "I see by your license plate you're from Minnesota," he said. Turned out he was from Burnsville and had moved to Arizona a couple of years earlier. He was unhappy with the move, complaining about lack of employment, and, of course, the heat in the summer.
By the time we reached Tucson, cold weather had arrived — frost on the ground! We hurried on, leaving to another time to visit Bisbee and the surrounding area in Southern Arizona.
New Mexico
Because the weather continued cold in New Mexico, we decided to postpone visits to the Carlsbad Caverns, Roswell, and White Sands, and instead headed directly south into Texas.
Sunday, December 30, 2007
Happy New Year
We took a few weeks vacation from blogging. Had Thanksgiving dinner at the home of a high school classmate, and Christmas dinner at an RV park potluck. We're in Texas now, and will resume blogging shortly.
Best wishes for the new year,
Jim & Menominee
Best wishes for the new year,
Jim & Menominee
Monday, November 26, 2007
California — Desert
Menominee loves the desert. We went for walks in the desert and hikes among some big boulders. Menominee had never seen boulders that large before, but she sized one up, leaped onto it, and walked right up its steep surface. Later, she walked back down. (Of course, she does have the advantage of full-time four-wheel drive.) When Menominee walked around a boulder and pulled her leash taut underneath, somehow it got trapped there. I tugged and tugged, but couldn't free it. So I disconnected Menominee from the leash and left it under the boulder! It awaits anyone who wants to try to solve the puzzle of loosening it.
Menominee is a real connoisseur of sand — digging in it to test its consistency, rolling in it as often as the mood strikes her, and of course using it as a bathroom. ("World's biggest litter box.") Most sand doesn't make much noise, but I noticed a type of desert sand that makes a squnching sound as I stepped on it. If I listened closely, I could hear Menominee's paws making tiny squnching sounds as she walked across the sand!
During the week, when the campground was nearly empty, we enjoyed the silence of the desert. Far from any traffic, the only sounds were the occasional call of a bird, howl of a coyote, or the faint sound of an airplane so high you couldn't see it. One day we were surprised to hear the unmistakable sounds of someone playing a bagpipe far, far away.
The desert weather was delightful, with clear blue skies and friendly temperatures. At night the sky was very dark and the stars sparkled beautifully. One night, examining the sky with binoculars, I saw a curious object that looked more like a gray cloud than a star. When I checked on the web, I learned that it's a comet named Holmes.
We spent several days in a campground in Southern California's Joshua Tree National Park. The Joshua Tree is a tall, odd plant that is adapted to life in the desert. (Photos at right.)
Menominee is a real connoisseur of sand — digging in it to test its consistency, rolling in it as often as the mood strikes her, and of course using it as a bathroom. ("World's biggest litter box.") Most sand doesn't make much noise, but I noticed a type of desert sand that makes a squnching sound as I stepped on it. If I listened closely, I could hear Menominee's paws making tiny squnching sounds as she walked across the sand!
During the week, when the campground was nearly empty, we enjoyed the silence of the desert. Far from any traffic, the only sounds were the occasional call of a bird, howl of a coyote, or the faint sound of an airplane so high you couldn't see it. One day we were surprised to hear the unmistakable sounds of someone playing a bagpipe far, far away.
The desert weather was delightful, with clear blue skies and friendly temperatures. At night the sky was very dark and the stars sparkled beautifully. One night, examining the sky with binoculars, I saw a curious object that looked more like a gray cloud than a star. When I checked on the web, I learned that it's a comet named Holmes.
We spent several days in a campground in Southern California's Joshua Tree National Park. The Joshua Tree is a tall, odd plant that is adapted to life in the desert. (Photos at right.)
Saturday, November 17, 2007
Cruisemaster — The Window Incident
We were driving down a San Diego freeway when suddenly WHAM! glass showered down on my head. Menominee, who had been asleep above my head, jumped for her life. A window had broken — how, we'll never know, although we didn't find a brick with a message attached. The wind whistling in continued to blow glass down on me.
We turned off at the next exit and examined the situation. The window was at the front of the RV, directly over the cab, and fortunately, it was safety glass, so the pieces were like pebbles, with no big knife-like pieces.
Our RV directory listed an RV repair shop about ten miles away, so we drove there slowly on surface streets. The owner took one look and said "Sorry, we can't help you. Tempered safety glass is impossible to get." Then he quietly recommended a plastics store a few miles away. Turned out to be a good recommendation — they were familiar with RV windows and had the skills to make a plastic window to fit. Unfortunately, it was 4pm on a Friday. Fortunately, they were open Saturday mornings.
I covered the window with a piece of cardboard and liberal amounts of duct tape, to keep insects out and Menominee in. We camped that night on a nearby street and the next morning we parked in front of the plastics store and got to work — digging the old glass out of the frame (work gloves and a screwdriver), removing old adhesive from the frame (razor blade), cutting a piece of cardboard to the exact size (carprt knife), and giving the cardboard to the guy at the plastics shop, who was very nice, offering suggestions and a cup of coffee. He cut the plastic, it fit perfectly, I glued it in with lots of silicone window caulk, and he charged me half the estimate. Whew! Happy ending! There are nice people in the world!
The new window has held up fine so far, but still awaits its first real test, when it rains. I'm pretty sure I used so much silicone caulk that it won't leak.
We turned off at the next exit and examined the situation. The window was at the front of the RV, directly over the cab, and fortunately, it was safety glass, so the pieces were like pebbles, with no big knife-like pieces.
Our RV directory listed an RV repair shop about ten miles away, so we drove there slowly on surface streets. The owner took one look and said "Sorry, we can't help you. Tempered safety glass is impossible to get." Then he quietly recommended a plastics store a few miles away. Turned out to be a good recommendation — they were familiar with RV windows and had the skills to make a plastic window to fit. Unfortunately, it was 4pm on a Friday. Fortunately, they were open Saturday mornings.
I covered the window with a piece of cardboard and liberal amounts of duct tape, to keep insects out and Menominee in. We camped that night on a nearby street and the next morning we parked in front of the plastics store and got to work — digging the old glass out of the frame (work gloves and a screwdriver), removing old adhesive from the frame (razor blade), cutting a piece of cardboard to the exact size (carprt knife), and giving the cardboard to the guy at the plastics shop, who was very nice, offering suggestions and a cup of coffee. He cut the plastic, it fit perfectly, I glued it in with lots of silicone window caulk, and he charged me half the estimate. Whew! Happy ending! There are nice people in the world!
The new window has held up fine so far, but still awaits its first real test, when it rains. I'm pretty sure I used so much silicone caulk that it won't leak.
Friday, November 9, 2007
San Diego — After the Fires
We relaxed up on the Central California coast while over a dozen wild fires burned down in Southern California. Days after the winds had died down, hundreds of fire fighters contained all the fires and we ventured back into San Diego county. The air was still a little hazy with smoke, a reminder of what had been.
We returned to the campground on the ocean we had evacuated from the previous week. Although there had been a warning that the fire upwind of here might be unstoppable until it reached the sea, it was five miles short when the ferocious winds died down and the firefighters contained it. The campground and seaside communities were spared.
Sunday morning we attended services at the UU church in Escondido, where one of the fires had destroyed many houses. The subject of the sermon was "Hope," which was the message the congregation needed that morning. It seemed nearly everyone there had been affected by the fire, one way or another — personally, or had neighbors who had been affected, or were active in relief work. One person I talked to felt fortunate that the fire had stopped half a mile from her house. Another said gravely that the fire had come with a quarter mile of hers.
The newspapers were full of stories about the fires. Were they prepared when the fires started? Yes, the Santa Ana winds had been predicted days in advance, which gave local and state government time to mobilize fire fighters and equipment. However, preparations were inadequate, as no one had foreseen the number or ferocity of fires. Only five water-bomber planes were ready to take off when the fires started, far too few to make a difference. A day later, other planes and crews, sitting on the runway ready to fly, couldn't take off because of bureaucratic red tape.
The winds fanned the flames so quickly that the fires overwhelmed all efforts to fight them, in the air and on the ground. Fire fighters were reduced to trying to save one house at a time, and then, after success or failure, moving on down the block.
And yet more people want very much to live here, and many new houses are built every year, in this area threated by persistent drought, horrendous fires and, of course, world-class earthquakes.
We returned to the campground on the ocean we had evacuated from the previous week. Although there had been a warning that the fire upwind of here might be unstoppable until it reached the sea, it was five miles short when the ferocious winds died down and the firefighters contained it. The campground and seaside communities were spared.
Sunday morning we attended services at the UU church in Escondido, where one of the fires had destroyed many houses. The subject of the sermon was "Hope," which was the message the congregation needed that morning. It seemed nearly everyone there had been affected by the fire, one way or another — personally, or had neighbors who had been affected, or were active in relief work. One person I talked to felt fortunate that the fire had stopped half a mile from her house. Another said gravely that the fire had come with a quarter mile of hers.
The newspapers were full of stories about the fires. Were they prepared when the fires started? Yes, the Santa Ana winds had been predicted days in advance, which gave local and state government time to mobilize fire fighters and equipment. However, preparations were inadequate, as no one had foreseen the number or ferocity of fires. Only five water-bomber planes were ready to take off when the fires started, far too few to make a difference. A day later, other planes and crews, sitting on the runway ready to fly, couldn't take off because of bureaucratic red tape.
The winds fanned the flames so quickly that the fires overwhelmed all efforts to fight them, in the air and on the ground. Fire fighters were reduced to trying to save one house at a time, and then, after success or failure, moving on down the block.
And yet more people want very much to live here, and many new houses are built every year, in this area threated by persistent drought, horrendous fires and, of course, world-class earthquakes.
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