We finally hit Summer, and it hits us right back !

After we left the sandy shores of Padre Island, we aimed for the only road south to Brownsville; Route 77 through Kingsville, and the King Ranch. We skirted through Corpus Christi, then went through Petronia, Driscoll, and Bishop. The last was a quiet little town, dominated by rusty oil tanks and machinery in one section, very Mexican in its population and existing businesses in another. We stopped at a small tortilla factory on the main drag, and had our first small-town tortillas. They were corn, fresh and warm, wrapped and packed in a ice chest (anti-ice chest?) at the end of the counter. We quickly devoured the first ten, with rice and beans from the night before; then went back for several more packets for the road. The wife of the man who sold them to us was surprised to see us back so soon, and then said we really needed some of their fresh salsa, down in the cooler. Sure enough, we did, and it was the same exorbitant price the tortillas were…75 cents. We left town, happy with our new store of grub, but saddened again by the fate of so much of small town USA…empty buildings, closed businesses, not much hope that anything will change for the better. We took the old route 77 into Kingsville, and found a larger town, hanging on a bit better, but still having seen much better days. You could see how prosperous the downtown was at one time. The size and facades of the buildings told of grander days in the fifties, when the postwar economy was booming, and every town had a full variety of stores to fill all the needs of the population for miles around. There were numerous small town, family run businesses, where today there are empty buildings and the Wal-Mart on the edge of town, replacing all of them under one roof, providing jobs for many, but not really a livelihood for any. The loss of livelihood is actually very descriptive, because the towns are now all dying, and are anything but lively. What businesses do exist are new spirits in old bodies, solar power businesses in old theatres, store front churches in what were department stores, discount stores with high end fashion shop trappings, for rent or sale signs when the landlords are optimistic, barren boards when more realistic. At one end of town we stopped into the King Ranch Museum, a large brick building housing the artefacts and memorabilia of one of the largest ranches in the world. But like so many places in Texas, shade is hard to find, and the hot mid day sun is not conducive to being stationary for long periods of time with a black long haired dawg; so we moseyed out of town.

Back on Highway 77, we experienced the actual scope of the King Ranch. For a majority of the 52 miles between Sarita and Raymondville, we were traveling through one ranch, still owned by one family. It was founded in 1853, when Captain Richard King bought 68,500 acres of old Mexican and Spanish land grants. He there developed the first strain of beef cattle originating in the Western Hemisphere (the Santa Gertrudis breed), and produced the first registered American Quarter Horse. The ranch since then has grown to 825,000 acres, is larger than the state of Rhode Island, and has over 60,000 cattle, and 300 quarter horses. The lady working at the museum said the Kings are nice folks, who still visit town and the museum itself on occassion, but I’m sure all that acreage puts them in a class different than most other cowboys and cowgirls. In the middle of the long stretch of King Ranch there’s a Texas state picnic area, which is quite pretty, with a long brick building with a fountain and courtyard, beautifully tiled washrooms, and picnic tables set under trees. We figured this will be a nice place to make some phone calls, only to discover that here, like so many other places, the public pay phones have been disconnected by the phone company. They’re too much hassle, and don’t generate enough income in this day of cell phones, so cut the wires and let em hang. Oh well. As we got closer to Harlingen, we left the King Ranch, and passed by smaller ranches (only 10’s of thousand of acres) all with gates and many with their names in elaborate iron work. There’s some oil, some cattle, but lots of wide open land. And it was getting hotter.

We pulled into Harlingen, one of the larger towns in the middle of the sprawling urban area that is north of the Mexican border, and east of the valley where so much of the Texas produce is grown. After driving through miles of modern strip mall america, we finally found the Texas Visitor’s Center, and pulled in to try to find info about the area. As we stepped out of the car, the heat almost flattened us. Suddenly, we were enveloped in 95 degree, high humidity weather, and it’s hard to function. We parked next to a big rig, as it was creating the only shade we could find, and I went in to the air conditioned center first. Minutes later, I emerged with stacks of literature, and the news that around the back, one of the three main highways that soared above this corner of downtown actually created another shady area to park longer term. As Donna left the van, for her turn in the cooler inside, she was so frazzled by the heat and miles traveled, that she walked right into one of the many cast iron Texas historical markers that appear out of nowhere along all the highways, and also in visitor center parking lots. Staggering a bit, and sporting a new goose egg on her noggin, Donna slumped into the front seat and said, I don’t care where, but get me out of here. Racing back inside, to catch them before they closed for the day, I asked the friendly man at the desk if there was anywhere that was quiet, and had shade, where we could camp. He said it was a ways away, but out on the coast, there was a county park that was at the end of the road, and in the middle of nowhere, where he often went fishing when hew had to get away from the bustle of town. Sounds perfect, I said, and clutching the highlighted map he gave me, I returned to a groaning Donna and headed for Arroyo City. It was about 35 miles away, next to a National Wildlife Refuge, and as we got farther away from everything but country shacks, and small family farms, and large dry fields, I prayed to the gods, please don’t let this place be hideous, because it’s too late, and too far, to go anywhere else. We passed by several private RV parks that did fit all the qualifications of hideous (crowded, in the middle of nothing but full sunshine, with a lot of the rigs seeming like they had retired there years ago with their owners because the seasonal rate was really affordable), and then, at the end of the road, just like we were told, the gates to the Arroyo City County Park appeared. We rolled in, and it was like an oasis. The pavement stretched along a waterway that went out eventually to the coast, but here it was lined with trees and yucca in full bloom, and flocks of birds, and a cool breeze. The office was closed, but a sign said pick out any site, and pay in the morning. One loop was away from the water and also the wind, so thinking it might be buggy, we opted for a spot right on the water’s edge. There were several big rigs in some of the spots near by, but since these were sites with water and electric, we knew generators wouldn’t be a nuisance. We backed in, levelled things out, and sighed a big sigh of relief, and thanks to the heavens above.

Later that night, we did experience several things that dampened our enthusiasm: swarms of mosquitoes, swarms of fishermen, and filthy washrooms. Not meaning to cast dispersions on all fisher folk, unfortunately, many of those who either fish from high powered boats, or who use public facilities and municipal docks, have little regard or respect for the campers who are sharing the facilities. They’re there to fish, drink, and then go home. If they trash the place, or leave a mess, who cares, it’s not their problem. I’m sure that the majority don’t act that way, but enough did, that in spite of the beautiful surroundings, it was impossible to stay longer than the following morning. We expressed our displeasure to the park workers when we paid on our way out, and they shared our sentiments about how terrible some folks can be. And they were the ones who had to face the mess each day, so we couldn’t be too upset with them. Feeling somewhat saddened by the way such a potentially wonderful spot was being ruined by those who paid $2 for the privilege of abusing the facilities, we decided to venture into Port Isabel, the gateway to South Padre Island.

The road down to the city was scenic, and peaceful, with citrus groves and small farms scattered along the way. However, all too soon, we were back in the urban, commercial doldrums that you can find anywhere in the US of A, except it was hotter here than most places. We abandoned our plans to see South Padre, and decided Brownsville, the southern most city in Texas, would be worth a look. But it was wall to wall stores, and non stop traffic, and higher heat, and more humidity, all the way from Port Isabel to Brownsville. When the map said we were in town, but our surroundings said we could have been anywhere that has a MacDonald’s and Burger King and Sonic and Pizza Hut and whatever, repeating every few miles, we realized that our northern systems just weren’t ready for this extreme dose of south Texas, and we should head for the hills as fast as we could. Maybe if we had eased into it, or knew where to find the older parts of town and the quieter back streets and neighborhoods, it would have been different. But not now, not this time for us.

We followed Military Highway, west along the border. Looking south, 100 yards away, we saw the high fences that line this side of the Rio Grande. For miles, the border was protected by twenty foot fences, and everywhere, the vehicles of the Border Patrol could be seen on the prowl. Spanish was the mother tongue of most of the people living along this stretch of the highway, and it was only the river and the fence that made the difference in the populous, not the culture or lifestyle. We stopped at a take-out, and in Spanish ordered papas and huevos, con frijoles and arroz, con cuatro tortillas, por favor; and pulled across the street to eat our potatoes and eggs with rice and beans on tortillas, in the shade of an abandoned gas station. Eventually, we headed north, and were bathed in the sweet perfume of millions of orange blossoms, as we passed through acres of citrus groves. We veered slightly west at one point, to go through the town of Donna, Texas, just east of Alamo. Neither were inspiring or worthy of their namesakes, so at 281, we took this road north. It ran parallel to 77 that we had taken south just the day before. It was still hot, but we felt we were finally heading in the right direction, away from the cities of the Texas tropics. About 50 miles north of the border, we also ran into a road block similar to the one we had passed on our way south. The Border Patrol’s first line of defence past the river was along the roads that run parallel, and just north, of the Rio Grande. If the unwanted can get over the river and high fence on the bank, then they face the stretch of range between the river and the first paved highway. At this road, there is always another fence, and then a dirt road between the fence and the pavement. These dirt roads seem to be the exclusive domain of the border patrols, as they can be seen everywhere , cruising in either direction, or parked in groups, checking out something. Often we saw them slowly driving, heads out the windows, searching the dirt for footprints or tracks. If the highway veered away from the river, gates opened onto other dirt roads that ran into these scrubby stretches of desert, and often the horizon would be dotted with small observation towers, looking, and I guess acting, like hunter’s blinds in other areas where the game was winged or four footed. So if one can get past this first stretch of no man’s land, or actually it seems the Border Patrol’s land; one still has to get farther away, and to the relative freedom of towns and cities away from the border. And to do so, you must travel the few highways that head north. And along every one, every vehicle gets stopped and checked by other groups of green uniformed, well armed Border Patrol agents. While one checks you out in person, inquiring about your citizenship, another with a well trained sniffer dog, circles your vehicle. If nothing seems amiss, and no stray scents arouse the dog’s curiosity, you get waved on. Of course, we travel with a dog of our own, who naturally barks at anyone with a uniform (from her days running away from the Park Ranger in Florida, before we found her) or anyone who approaches the car, or any dog that gets within range of her eyes, ears, or nose. So of course, Border Patrol stops for us have an added bit of excitement. But we pass through this one with no problems, and again find it remarkable that most of the members of this highly armed, well equipped police force, are Latinos themselves. Does it take one to know one, or are the cries of racism quelled when it is Latino versus Latino, or is it just that this is a well paid job, with room for advancement, that requires bilingual candidates, and therefore seems like a great employment opportunity…and I’m sure they get great benefits, and probably eventually, a pension. Hmmmm, maybe I should brush up on my Spanish a bit more. I’ve been told I look good in a uniform. Anyway, the Border Patrol is definitely a major part of life in all sections of the Southwest.

Eventually, we headed west on 281, aiming now for Laredo. The majority of the vehicles we had seen along one stretch had the green diagonal markings of the B. P.; but we also saw some much more interesting beasts. We circled back at one point, and watched a Road Runner jump off a gate rail, and the speed off into the undergrowth, but no, that little cloud of dust, and beep beep were not obvious. We saw a tiny herd (a hearsay) of bison off in the distance at another stretch. And the Donna saw the most interesting group of animals grazing in the middle of nowhere. There were buff and white, about the size of large deer, but had long black swept back horns, that must have been several feet in length. They watched us as we stopped, and returned to have a closer look, and then sauntered off, away from the fence. All except the largest male, who calmly sat through our arrival and subsequent departure. We still haven’t found a picture of what these beasts were, but they did seem more likely to have been found in Africa than here. But I guess hot and dry, is hot and dry, so why not?

As the sun was lowering into our eyes, and we were 30 miles outside of Laredo, I stopped to clean he windshield. When I got back into the van, I started it up, but it wouldn’t shift out of Park. No matter what I tried, and where in the linkage I checked, no go, we were idling in Park. For a second, I lost it. It was almost dark, the trucks were screaming past us doing 70 on a 2 lane highway, and we were stuck, motionless, in the middle of nowhere. Donna calmed me down, and I thought, check the owner’s manual. Sure enough, if the vehicle won’t shift out of Park, do this, this, and the this, to override the Park/Lock safety feature. If this works, and hooray, it did, check your #1 fuse, because your brake ands signal lights may not be working. Yup, blown fuse, no brake lights. Replacing the fuse solved the problem, but the first step on the brakes blew it again, so no brake or turn signals. But we were mobile, so we carefully drove the final 30 miles into Laredo, fortunately without anyone running up our back end. On the outskirts of town, we luckily found a friendly Wal-Mart parking lot (yes, it’s really a love hate relationship we have with this organization), and we pulled into a quiet corner to lick our wounds and rest for the night. I bought several packages of fuses, and then started my process of elimination to find the short. It wasn’t in the trailer, or in the taillights or bulbs, but stepping on the van brakes blew it every time. Knowing I could look no further, I figured sleeping on it might help.

Sure enough, in the early morning, I remembered the special control box for the trailer plug-in was installed in the body of the van, below the left tail light. Taking things apart, I found two suspect wires, and when the control box was away from metal, the problem seemed solved. So I taped things up, reassembled everything, and since then, no more problems. We were parked under the only shade trees in the lot, so we decided to have some breakfast. A friendly Mexican driving a garbage truck, stopped by, and asked if we needed any help, and gave us the name of a good mechanic. Gracias, pero no esta necessario. And then a semi hauling a horse trailer and seven horses pulled in the share our shade. Driving it was Ismael, an old caballero who was transporting these horses from a ranch in Oklahoma where one of his sons lived, to a ranch in central Mexico, where he lived. He knew enough English, and I know enough Spanish, that we spent several hours talking, and looking at the horses, and sharing a coffee and stories. Agilucho, as he is known to his friends, drove off to water and feed the horse before the next stretch across the border and into the Mexican deserts and mountains, but he left us his cell phone number for Oklahoma, and home phone number for Aguas Caliente in Mexico; and I won’t be surprised if we don’t look him up at one or the other place in some time in the future. Eventually, we got on the road again, and traveled further along the border, heading north and west. We went through Carrizo Springs, and found an interesting virtual Ghost town. This used to be a stop for the Overland stage coach, and recently it must also have served a traveling clientele, because there was a beautiful, large brick hotel and restaurant. It was three sided, and built around a central court, that had a small pool, and large palm trees. But now it was totally abandoned, and looked like it had been years since it last operated. There was also an amazing antique store, that had a variety of stuff that bettered anything in Halifax. It had not only western antiques, but clothes, jewellery, knick knacks, crazy stuff of all sorts. It was open, but when I went in and looked around, and the Donna did the same, the only being inside was a big old dog, who watched us, but said nothing. Feeling like we were in the Twilight Zone, we thanked the dog, and were glad the door hadn’t locked behind us when we entered. At Eagle Pass, right on the border with a bridge into Mexico, we discovered another interesting small town. We cruised the old downtown, and found the old storefronts had been taken over by businesses that were definitely more Mexican than American. Plastic flowers and consumer goods, Mexican food shops and electronics, all seemed to be catering to the clientele that probably passes north, then south, for shopping. We saw the flow of gringos going in the opposite direction, and were temporarily tempted, but the day was fading, we had the dawg, and not this time, not this trip.

We drove the last 60 miles to Del Rio, and again marvelled at the long stretches of barren land, the scattered oil wells, the few grazing cattle, the random gates to ranches, breaking up the monotony. Outside Del Rio, we came upon a huge modern building, with large parking lots, and well fenced grounds. It was probably the fanciest, largest, most expensive structure we had seen in days. As we got close, we realized what it must be, and sure enough, the sign announced we were looking at the Regional Headquarters for the Border Patrol. It must be the largest single employer in the whole southwest (except maybe for Wal-Mart), but I’m sure their agents are better paid, better armed, and maybe almost as mean. As we gassed up, ready for the final run to a nearby National Recreation Area, Donna looked at the setting sun, felt the terrific winds that were starting to howl, and said, Lance, I can’t go any farther, let’s stay here tonight. So once again, we graced the parking lot of the local Wal-Mart. Since all we were doing was sleeping, and we had run out of daylight, the presence of twenty four hour shopping and washrooms, and the periodic circling guard truck, all added up to make this free spot, tucked away in the far corner, the logical choice. It’s not romantic or idyllic, but spending 30 bucks for a crowded RV park, or 50 for a motel that probably would be so scented Donna couldn’t safely sleep there, seemed a foolish expense, so once again, it was hello Wally, good night America.