From Village Creek, we took the back roads around Beaumont, and aimed south towards the coast. We experienced our first taste of rural Texas, with fenced fields, and slowly pumping oil wells dotting the landscape. These are the low, one armed wells, set on a platform, with one end slowly and perpetually bobbing up and down, sucking the crude up from down below ground. They’re like those kid’s toys of the long necked bird and silly tail feathers that constantly dips its head into the glass of water, over and over again. (Does anyone else remember them, or is it a crazy image dredged up from my crazy imagination?) By heading due South, we soon reached the coast; and looked down on long strings of barges being pushed up the Intracoastal, as we passed onto High Island via a long, tall bridge. Traveling down the Bolivar Peninsula towards Galveston, we passed stretches of beach and roadway that had been torn up by storms, and then experienced similar scenes of fairly recent destruction in the town of Crystal Beach. A number of buildings were shuttered or abandoned, or were being rebuilt with business continuing and being run out of trailers, or temporary structures. There were damaged homes, stilts that once were topped with houses now were bare, and for sale signs adorned complete homes, damaged homes, empty pilings and building lots. In other areas we had witnessed the signs of the economic problems caused by hurricanes farther in the past; here it was obvious that the problems were caused by more recent storms. But hope springs eternal, or maybe there’s a sucker born every minute, but folks were rebuilding, and hoping to continue to cash in on the fact that people still dream of living on the ocean where the sun always shines…ignoring the reality that the number and destructiveness of hurricanes seems to be increasing as the years go by.
We soon came to the free ferry into Galveston from Port Bolivar. We had to wait for the third ferry before our part of the line had space on board, but four free ferries run endlessly, back and forth, carrying folks directly to the outskirts of the city; so our wait was less than an hour. While waiting, we enjoyed watching the antics of the seagulls, looking for crumbs; and the activities of the local police, as they periodically did searches of vehicles full of Spring Break partiers, heading over to the bright lights of Galveston. Neither seemed very successful, but both never stopped trying. It must be a fairly common practice, because there was actually a separate line for people when they were pulled aside and searched. If they made it safely past the police, they then were given priority in boarding the next ferry. We can harass you a bit, and try to intimidate or arrest you, but we’ll try not to inconvenience you more than necessary. Ah, America. Once on the other side, we rolled down the wide Seawall Boulevard, and again remembered the wonderfully wacky Mardi Gras we experienced here eight years ago. On that trip, totally by coincidence, we were in town for the big Mardi Gras celebration, and were able to park, with hundreds of other rigs, right along the Seawall, and have first a daytime, and then an evening Mardi Gras parade, dance, and wheel, and cavort right past our trailer. We caught buckets full of beads, thrown at Donna’s quickly made sign, emblazoned with “I’m from Halifax, Canada,” and a big bull’s eyed target; and then walked the streets and were offered free food from the elaborate, homemade barbecues on trailers that were parked among all the rigs; private feasts catering to the groups of people who had driven them in for the festivities. It was a time not to be forgotten, and possibly never again to experience. This year, we found a number of places we remembered either damaged, or gone altogether. The repairs and reconstruction here were happening more rapidly than in the smaller towns, but still the effects of last years\’s Hurricane Ivan (as we were told) were obvious, and widespread. Knowing we could never relive the good times we had here, we opted to carry on past the hectic city, and try to find Surfside Beach, a free camping spot at a quiet park farther down the coast.
It was dark when we paid the $2 toll to cross the bridge off Galveston Island, but we ventured on, with the memories of our night 8 years ago, and the notes from my journal leading us on in the hopes that the park would still be there. Eventually, at the end of a series of roads, and past the big bridge leading to Clute and Lake Jackson, we found the long pier that marked one edge of the park. There was a new liquor store tucked among the nearby beach houses, and the large brick and wood bath house was nowhere to be seen; but the parking lot was still there, still seeming quiet and safe. Farther along the pier, we saw three guys fishing by the light of big work lamps, powered by a generator they had carried from their trucks. When asked, they said sure, folks still stayed here overnight, the hurricane took down the bath house, but there were portable toilets just over there, and it was still safe. They figured they’d be here most of the night themselves. They said the fishing wasn’t any better, but it was a blast to fish at night. With the reassuring sound of their generator purring in the distance, we settled in for a good night’s sleep. In the morning, we walked the beach and pier, and chatted with the growing number of fisher folk who were arriving just after sunrise. They came in all shapes, sizes, and nationalities. Many had rigged out hand carts and wagons, to transport their bait and buckets, and with plastic tubes attached to carry their multiple rods. We then got into a long conversation with Scott, a gentleman about our age, who wasn’t there to fish, but just to watch and take in the morning. He worked in the oil industry selling valves, and had traveled all over Texas. He told us stories, and the best routes, and places to see up and down the coast. He told us about the Texas Revolution, when Sam Houston had led the Texans in their battle against the Mexican armies led by Santa Anna. He recounted that the actual treaty that gave Texas their independence was signed right at this very spot, at the mouth of the river. At that point, Texas became an independent nation, until it joined the United States a number of years later, and then subsequently seceded into the Confederacy. He had moved here a few years back, after his wife became ill, and they decided they needed a change in lifestyle and location. Now they just loved the quiet life in this sleepy town. Most of the time, only about 10% of the homes were occupied, with summer bringing the occupancy closer to thirty percent. But it was only during holidays that the place became crowded. However, the police force was geared to the few busy times, so for most of the year it was very quiet, and incredibly safe, with a per capita police force way higher than anywhere else imaginable. We finally said our goodbyes, after we had given him a couple of PEI garlic, and he had given us two different containers of Cajun spices (one amusingly called “Slap Ya Momma“).
The roads don’t connect the series of islands that line the coast here, so we had to head inland for a stretch. We stopped at Buc-Kees, a local chain of gas stations, that featured great prices, clean washrooms, food and a great coffee bar, and the widest selection of beach schlock we had ever seen. We passed on the line of red pajamas featuring the smiling beaver logo, Donna had a decaf coffee with some sort of silly topping, and we inspected the, yes, very clean washrooms. We ventured south, and then back out to Matagorda Beach. Everywhere along here you were faced with crossing over the Intracoastal Waterway, and here, as in so many other places, huge bridges spanned the waves, allowing room for the passage of the ships large and small in the protected waters along the coast. Tiny little towns, made up of only a few rundown homes and businesses, were connected by bridges that most have cost 100s of times the total value of everything as far as you could see. I’m sure the local economies boomed for the short time these structures were being built, then settled back down to gleaning what they could from the cars arcing way above and over their towns. The beach at Matagorda was pretty, with a number of unique shelters for the picnic tables, a wide beach, a breakwater under reconstruction, an RV Park/parking lot on the barrens, and a nature center. The center was part of a series of county parks that stretched most of the length of Texas’s Colorado River. In all of them, you could park and stay overnight for free. Actually, in Texas, it is legal to stay overnight in any roadside pull-off, tourist center, or picnic area. Yes, many are desolate, sun drenched pieces of pavement along highways with screaming trucks whizzing by at all hours of the day and night; but other places, like this one, are in pretty spots, along rivers or seacoasts, and actually quite nice for boondocking or dry camping. However, since it was only noon, we decided to only stop for lunch and a walk on the beach.
From Matagorda, we went back to the mainland, then down the coast and explored the wonderful little town of Palacios. The downtown was a bit of a time warp, feeling something like the downtown of Dartmouth Nova Scotia, across the harbor from Halifax. A lot of the stores and business seemed that they hadn’t changed much in the past forty years. There were a scattering of modern business, (the Green Iguana restaurant with an modern menu, and Funky Divas gift shop, featuring a wonderful assortment of flamingo kitsch), but most of the streets had the feel of a slower time gone by. We passed a grand old hotel near the water, that had an abandoned wing of motel units, that still featured private parking garages between each unit. We saw the huge ship yard and marina, and the large RV park that catered to the big rigs owned by the folks with the big boats in the harbour. We continued down to the tiny town of Magnolia Beach. Another spot where we had stopped on our last trip, this was a county park right on the water. There were a number of beach houses, and private lots with RV’s under shelters on either side, but there also is a long stretch of parking areas with picnic tables, and then open beach, where anyone can pull up and park for a night, week, or month. A rather rundown building houses the minimal cold water washrooms, but as a place that’s free, it offers clean air, sea breezes, the safety of numbers, and a free place to enjoy it all. We parked first near a shelter and table, but soon after we stopped and walked around to meet the group of Canadian RV’ers parked nearby, the folks in the RoadTrek, parked just upwind from us, fired up their generator, filling the air with noise and fumes. Remembering that’s one of the drawbacks of sites with no power (folks with bigger rigs have generators to power their gadgets and gizmos) we found a spot down on the sandy part of the beach, next to a little truck camper. Donna met the friendly inhabitant, who also expressed his dislike of generators, and we were welcomed to the quieter end of the Park. We angled our trailer away from the wind, set up our chairs, realized it was Happy Hour (a universal activity among Rv’ers great and small), and settled in for a cold Corona, a bowl of homemade guacamole, and a quiet night. The next morning, Dixie met and frolicked with a little feisty Chihuahua. After meeting and being somewhat intimidated by several really big, nosy male dogs the day before, she really enjoyed playing with this pint sized dynamo (until she stepped on him, and he retreated home with a yelp and a whimper). We walked down the beach, exploring the permanent residences, and found an interesting conclave of two old aluminums trailers (an Airstream, and a Silver Streak), in a yard full of crazy sculptures and pieces of art. We had a long talk with our neighbor in the camper. Ray, an incredibly happy, positive man from Quebec, had been on the road off and on for almost 25 years. He had retired early at 50, then followed his passion for skiing, and exploring North and Central America, for most of the years since. He skied the full length of the Rockies, being a guide and following the seasons until his knees gave out, then continued his travels wherever his heart desired. He said he learned a lot from his father, as he watched him grow old and die, sitting in front of the TV with a drink in one hand, and a smoke in the other. He decided life and the world was too wonderful not to experience as much of it as he could. He told us stories, and cheered our hearts, to hear from a man who was still following his dreams, wherever they took him. On his recommendation, when we finally left that noon, we stopped at the Beijing Buffet in Port Lavaca, and for $8.99 each, stuffed ourselves at an all you could eat, oriental seafood buffet. The selection they had was phenomenal, and we left not wanting to see another type of shrimp for weeks. Dixie also had a bit of a feed of chicken we smuggled out to her, so finally, by two in the afternoon, we were again heading south.
Back on the mainland, we carried on through Tivoli and Lamar, past Goose Island State park, and miles of developed and undeveloped beaches. Sand and scrub, and some ranches, and lots of for sale signs later, we arrived at the next ferry across to Port Aransas, and Mustang Island. We were greeted by a noble old pelican, sitting on a mooring post at the edge of the ferry slip; but that was about the only thing we found welcoming. Scott, our story telling friend at Surfside Beach, had spent his youth in Port Aransas. He said it was a wonderful time to be there; but now it was all too commercialized. We immediately saw what he meant. Beach shops, and tourist traps abounded, and we motored out to the public beach park where you could camp for a fee. But the wind was howling, the beach was crowded and dirty, and $10 to stay there seemed too high for the privilege. We searched other areas and found much the same, or worse. At Mustang Island State Park, there was one site available in a crowded big rig parking lot camp ground; and unfortunately, the beach camping, which we wanted, was closed for the day due to high surf and soft sands. Discouraged, we checked out a municipal park, also dreary and crowded, and then finally aimed towards Padre Island National Seashore. The sun had set, the gates were unmanned (is there a non-sexist way to say that? Unpersoned? Nonpeopled?), so we wandered over to the closest camp sites on the bay side. It was used mainly by windsurfers, as the water and winds pretty consistently were great for that sport.. We spoke to the volunteer host, and heard stories of his various stops in national parks, including his time as the overnight volunteer in the haunted mansion on Cumberland Island off the coast of Georgia (a light switch in a far away hallway that was mysteriously turned on every night, even though he was the only living soul there after 5:00; the Christmas decorations that were swept off a mantelpiece in a room with no one there). On his recommendation, we drove over to the seaside camp area, but found it full of generators running big rigs. So finally, we returned to the more modest bay side, pulled in at the end, and spent a peaceful, windy night overlooking Baffin Bay and our constant companion, the Intracoastal Waterway.
We left real early the next morning, and hearing that the miles of vacant sand beaches along the National Seashore were hard and safe, we aimed south away from civilization. After about three miles of traveling away from the first closely parked rigs, than scattered camps, we reached what we were looking for: a free spot to camp, with our closest neighbor a father and son tenting almost out of sight, way up the beach, and no one visible beyond us. Again, as on our last visit, it was windy, with clean air, miles of beach to walk, and only the occasional other vehicle venturing past us, further south. After relaxing most of the day, we also remembered two other features of the Padre Island: the sand is very fine and gets into everything, and when the wind dies down, the bugs return. But neither of these factors dulled the glow of that day and night on the edge of the Gulf of Mexico, watching the long lines of Pelicans patrolling the dunes and waves around us, enjoying the moon rise and the stars shine, hearing nothing but the waves singing us to sleep. Refreshed, we faced the morning’s light, decided to go for one last walk on the one the longest stretches of free beach imaginable, and then decided it was time to search out the Texas Tropics, the Rio Grande Valley, and the farthest points south in the Lone Star State.
No comments:
Post a Comment