West Texas by Ann Cabbot

My Tale of West Texas

I have agreed to go with an acquaintance to see autumn colors in west Texas, only three hours from Austin. West Texas--we're talking no McDonald's, not even Dairy Queen ice cream, no ethnic diversity and no cell phone reception. On the surface, it seemed like a fine idea, having enjoyable company, brilliant fall colors, escape from email. Sounds good, right? Well, let me tell you the REAL story�.

Our first night is spent at her camper trailer only an hour from Austin. The trailer is small, very small, just as she said it would be, but I have my own double bed sized sleeping area, so it's doable. She takes me to meet her neighbor, whose house is wall to wall marine shells and coral. Trust me on this, her inventory of shells and coral heads could repopulate the Gulf of Mexico. She has sea horses in the freezer, I'm not sure why, and Quaker Oats cardboard cylinders filled with hundreds of sealife specimens. I leave with a sick stomach. The rest of the first evening is more enjoyable. We walk around Wimberley's shops and then have dinner overlooking the creek and debate whether the other patrons are locals or tourists. The temperature drops twenty degrees, or so it seems, during dinner so the camper feels cozy. Since I choose only two light blankets instead of the electric blanket, I get cold in the night and dig out socks and a warm jacket.

It is still cold when we close up the trailer and head west to our first stop, Guadalupe River State Park. We discover something we are passionate about in different directions--she is a GPS fan and I am a map fan. Between us we have 3 maps of Texas. But I let her turn on Miss GPS. It's company, even if a little too monotonous. As we follow her directions, I don't recognize the two-lane roads Missy is choosing but hey, this is back country Texas. I begin to get suspicious when she starts telling us 'Turn right at the next dirt road'. Every dirt road has a barbed wire gate blocking the entrance. She is insistent and her recorded voice is emphatic. Before she can say 'Recalculating' we drive to the nearest intersection and ask two grey haired mechanics for directions. Luckily, we are close to our destination and I am grateful that, for the rest of the trip, Miss GPS is stowed.

At Bourne, lentil soup and grilled cheese and avocado sandwiches stave off the cold wind. We buy iced donuts for next morning's breakfast. Farther down the road in Medina, we buy apple strudel made from last year's apple crop. We arrive at our rented cabin by 6, just as the deer begin to congregate in the middle of the highway. Good timing.

The cabin is in Vanderpool, along with one post office and one general store. You remember general stores, right? Actually, the cabin is three miles beyond Vanderpool but it doesn't matter since there's no town to be near. The cabin thankfully has two bedrooms, a full kitchen and an adequate heater. Trouble is, neither of us thought to bring much food and the nearest grocery store is closed. No restaurants are mentioned. Regrouping, we take a walk along a little stream called the Sabinal River and watch dogs retrieve sticks for their owners. We take bets on how many guns per square mile there are in these parts and how many votes Governor Perry could muster against Sarah Palin. Privately, I consider our culinary fate. By the time we return to the cabin, I have hatched a plan. I dig down and find a packet of tuna fish in my suitcase and some sticks of processed string cheese. She has brought raisin bread and butter-like margarine. Make a mental image of all that together and you've got the idea of our dinner. Grilled tuna fish and cheese sandwiches on raisin bread. Your mental image is probably better than it actually tasted but we are not hungry for the rest of the evening.

My companion is thrilled with the lack of Wi-Fi or 3G for her tablet but annoyed when the absence of cell phone reception prevents her from calling her husband back in Austin. I am peeved at her delight and pout in my room playing FreeCell for the rest of the evening. We agree we should have brought wine.

As I go to bed, I look out and see the brightest set of stars I have seen in years. I toss and turn all night for no reason-except maybe dinner? I'm glad when morning arrives. The weather has warmed and we are excited to see the colors of the maple trees that put Vanderpool on the map.

We spend all morning at Lost Maples State Park looking for colored leaves. Though the Bigtooth Maples have not colored up due to months of draught, the Sycamore trees are adding brilliant yellow to the landscape. More color comes from Sumac bushes and Virginia Creeper vines, displaying amber and gold leaves. We explore two different paths, one I've hiked with my brother two years ago and one new for me. We walk in silence, taking in the natural beauty of flowing streams and overhanging oak trees. In the back of our minds, we remember a recommendation for the motorcycle restaurant that closes midafternoon.

In the mile between our cabin and the park is one lone white building, a place called Lone Star Motorcycle Museum. No kidding. We are told it is run by an Aussie couple (turns out to be an Aussie man and a Texas City native daughter who babysat his kids until his wife ran off). They serve really good British meat pies at the Ace Café inside the museum. I almost cannot continue with this narrative. I am so out of my element by now. But here goes.

I drive up to the singular white building in the middle of a grassy field. The building is surrounded by parked motorcycles, at least 100. Various bikers are on or around the bikes. I tell myself, 'they aren't going to shoot you. Go in.' My friend, meanwhile, who grew up on the Isle of Man, is right at home since the Isle of Man is home to annual bike races and she knows her bikes. Inside, there are wall to wall antique motorcycles and I lose her instantly to a British model in the corner. Also inside, are the owners of those 100 bikes parked outside, most in black leather and silver chains.

Left alone and feeling vulnerable, I 'amble' over to the food counter and get in line. 'You ride in?' I'm asked by a 6'3" member of the Black Angels whose group has taken over most of the tables. 'No, just heard the food was good' --I use my huskiest voice. When I order the veggie burger I have to give my name. Oh, I hope I won't have to publicly claim it amid all that black leather testosterone. Several bikers have been to the Isle of Man and we quickly fit right in, helmet-less though we are.

After frittering away time talking to the owner's wife, the babysitter, and hearing her bizarre story of marrying the father of the children she babysat, we grab our cameras and head to Utopia, population 816 (double that for the guns), for the annual Fall Festival parade in which our cabin receptionist, Kayla, is going to wear a moose costume to represent the school mascot. Our entertainment choices are this or another walk around the cabin.

In Utopia, we park on main street and set up chairs behind our car (since we don't have a truck with a tailgate to sit on). From childhood memories of small town parades, I know what's coming. Sure enough, the screaming red volunteer EMT vehicle leads the procession, followed by the slightly softer screaming black volunteer fire truck, followed by every class in the Utopia School, from kindergarten to senior high. Groups of children walk behind their class banners wearing colorful Halloween costumes, with some exotics among the seniors. Like rings of a tree, counting how many kids are in each grade seems to me to be a good way to tell how the town is doing on any given year. We wave to Kayla-she's a buxom moose. The grade groups are followed by floats for the taxidermist, the home schoolers and the local café. No horses or clowns. I time it-nine minutes flat.

But wait, after the parade passes, the townsfolk stay seated. Ok, I've never seen this before so let's give the town points for creativity. The parade vehicles go the four blocks through town and then come back again. We are told this isn't done every year, so we feel special to be here for this parade rerun.

In our defense, we are lured to Utopia not just to see Kayla but also because the Halloween carnival has food, nice hot food. We realize our blunder when we read the menu-- chicken, coleslaw and mashed potatoes. Oops. We are vegetarians. As the taxidermist float makes a second pass through downtown Utopia, we skedaddle to its general store for a can of New England clam chowder and a bag of mixed frozen vegetables. Also my creation, if I may brag.

For a long half hour, we check out the school's carnival-- big and little kids in simple costumes throwing darts, kicking footballs, dancing around a circle for a cake, getting their faces painted and eating pink cotton candy (the third grade booth). Parents, teachers, siblings, friends and neighbors are all here-probably most of the 816 white folk. I did not spot one African American or one Hispanic (but on that point I'll give them the benefit of the doubt because the light was fading). Our carnival highlight (besides the Kinky Freedman bumper sticker) is a display of 18 homemade and, shall we say, creatively decorated, cakes (think dark chocolate truck driving in milk chocolate mud), one for each of the 18 graduating seniors. Each cake will be auctioned off (bids not to exceed $300) to raise money for the class to fly to Disney for their senior trip. Seems these kids start early raising money for their senior do and this class has already amassed $35,000 or so. Probably started in kindergarten�.

Let's go home, my friend says and I know she means to the cabin though if it were me, I would have been on the road to Austin so fast. I am seriously homesick for a book store and fast food at this point. Instead, and unwilling to be in that cabin during daylight hours, I suggest we drive the 17 miles to Leaky (population 483), pronounced 'Lakey'. Who wants a town named 'leaky' when it's main draw is the scenic Frio River. Only two cars pass us coming in the opposite direction. The others are at Leaky's Halloween carnival and we wish we had checked out THEIR cakes. The drive turns out to be spectacularly scenic, overlooking valleys and distant hills covered with evergreens. Finally, I experience something grand and my spirits are lifted.

During this and earlier drives I've noticed a lot of tall wire fences, usually indicative of exotic game ranches. So I look hard for exotic animals while also keeping an eye on the winding road. I am rewarded with grazing impalas, curious Oryx antelopes and a lone zebra. A big burley guy in Utopia tells me his neighbor keeps rhinos.

This last evening ceremoniously concludes by observing the new moon and eating apple strudel with cinnamon ice cream, purchased from Medina. The stars are bright outside again tonight. Tomorrow, there will be a red car blazing its way back to citylife Austin, if the driver is still sane.