Top O’ (th’) Zark

Rain.

Just about every state around us was reporting record breaking rainfall—and roadways closed due to flooding.  We needed to continue our trek northward and had two options: take the more scenic and flood-prone backroads (89 miles/< 2-hours) through the Ouachita Mountains; or take the more reliable and longer Interstate route (280 miles/~4-hours) around Little Rock.  Why I even mention the more conservative path is beyond me.

Hank was pulling Glory through some beautiful mountain passages.  Along the way we were privy to the extent of the flooding; as large temporary lakes appeared on both sides of the roadway—with corn stalks serving as lily pads as they struggled to stay above the waterline.  The extent of the crop damage was a daunting sign as to what some people would have to overcome to pay this year’s bills.

Panorama sunset over Mount Magazine

As we transitioned from the Ouachita Mountains into the Ozark's, we crossed a low-lying (and flooded) plain that gave a great visual of our next destination—Mount Magazine.  Mount Magazine rises up from the valley in a spectacular fashion—giving the impression of a much higher elevation than the modest 2,753 foot summit.  The southern access road is a steep, narrow set of switch-backs that had Hank revving-up the RPMs while staying in the lower gears.  Glory wasn’t merely a spectator, as one particular exceedingly tight 180-degree hair-pin turn resulted in loud metallic creaks echoing from her flexing chassis.  Everyone was working hard that day.

When the kingpin that joined the two was disconnected, we found ourselves (again) in the relative solitude of a sparsely populated campground.  The wind weaving through the elevated forest provided ample oxygen to maintain a hearty campfire; and the traveling crew basked in the light of distant stars that were undiminished by light pollution.  With the exception of Buddy spontaneously escorting an uninvited raccoon to (by his definition) "the outside perimeter of our campsite," there was nothing stirring except the leaves in the wind; the crackling of seasoned wood; and the symphony of cicadas. 

Mount Magazine is situated in the northwestern corner of Arkansas, and is home to the highest point in all of Arkansas.  Adjacent to the campground is a trail that leads to the pinnacle point of this mountain—Signal Hill Trail.”  At the top of this short (<1-mile RT) trail is a horizontal stonework in the shape of Arkansas.  Of particular interest is that all of the stones used to create this work of art are stones representative of the various geological regions within Arkansas.  From sandstones of the southeastern river basin, to granite in the northwestern regions; this “to scale” exhibit reflects the variations of substrate across our 25th state.

Arkansas state map in native stone

The park as a whole is simply beautiful in every facet.  There is an enormous lodge that sits atop a monstrous bluff, providing incredible views across the valley below.  The interior is constructed of native timbers and stone, creating a fluid blending of the interior styles and the surrounding environment.  There are also a series of cabins situated along the same bluff, providing even more personal space while not compromising on the natural scenery integration.

Steep bluffs, lush forests, and a blanket of clouds above

The nearby Overlook Drive gives breathtaking views to the Northwest and Northeast of the park.  This one-way paved thoroughfare is adorned with numerous overlooks of the valley below.  These towering bluffs—coupled with the sheer cliffs—provide an inspiring and intimidating view into the distance.  In addition to the overlooks, there are a few stone structures and secluded outcroppings to find solitude in the clouds.  It was at one of these outcroppings that we were able to capture a lightening storm rolling across the valley below, and eventually moving onto the mountain where we were watching from inside a stone shelter.  The video below would've been longer, but the unpredictable lightening strikes forced us to move along before the storm-front passed over us.  Still, nobody puts on a show like nature.




For the pedestrian-minded, the Bear Hollow Trail is a 3-mile trail that has some of the most spectacular views in the park—crossing numerous creeks (which feed waterfalls below); overlooking towering bluffs; and crossing through some of the oldest uncut forest in the park.  

Capturing memories on a bluff adjacent to the Bear Hollow Trail

From within our parked location at the Cameron Bluff Campground, we could walk to most of these trails/overlooks while giving Hank a much deserved rest.  There was even a moderate trail adjacent to our camp that wound along mid-ridgeline as it made it’s way back to the visitors center.  The views were not as noteworthy, but the continual access to a multitude of springs made this a favorite trail of The Boys.

River trekking with The Boys

In our 7-months of travels, this easily ranked in the Top-2 of beautiful camping destinations.  The only possible way our stay could have been better, is if we were able to experience the explosion of fall colors.   We needed to keep moving, but we both knew that we would return again to this "Island in the Clouds."

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Charlton Recreation Area (AR)

Bucket List Update: Kicked-out of a federal campground. Check!

We really had no Plan B, as there was no reason to believe we would be forced to leave the campground.  With no real good plans, we started making-up a list of options—the first being a tip about a lesser-known US Forest Service Recreation Area nearby.  We followed the directions that our camping neighbors had given us and in under 10-minutes we had arrived at the Charlton Recreation Area. 

The entry drive was big and spacious, but beyond that the roads were steep and more narrow.  We slowly proceeded down the winding, tree-laden road until we came to a hair-pin curve that crossed an even narrower bridge, continuing its steep ascent on the far side of the river.  We took that road and found ourselves stuck in a big pile of good fortune.  At the top of the incline was a small campground with about a dozen level and paved sites.  All of these sites provided full (electric/water/sewer) hook-ups, so watching tank levels would not be necessary.  As I navigated the last 90-degree turn at the top of the hill, we were greeted by refugees from the Tompkins campground.  I momentarily lost focus on driving—taking time to wave to the folks who had informed us of this place—and cut the last corner too sharp.  Glory lurched off the asphalt drive and into the branches of the nearest tree — knocking all the dust off her right side.  Another 15-minutes of putting items back in the cabinets was just added to the day.  Regardless, we were lucky to be able to find a suitable relocation site so quickly and easily; and especially lucky as this was the LAST full hook-up spot in the park.  

Future "Darwin Award" Winner?

For the past few weeks we had been battling the weather.  We outran flooding in South Texas, moved along when storms gathered again in North Texas, and were evicted due to potential lake flooding.  We had flooding on the brain.  So when we backed into our RV site—which was up on a bluff overlooking a picturesque babbling stream—it was a little unnerving to see “Flash Flood Hazard” signs posted at EVERY site marker.  Not that it mattered; we still didn’t have a Plan B.

Hidden springs run through the flora and stone to replenish Walnut Creek.

The Charlton Recreation Area is another creation of the Civilian Conservation Corps.  The park is actually a hidden gem; complete with a large swimming area, nature trails, and fishing spots.  It really reminded us of our camping excursions in the Shenandoah’s of years past; with the dense thickets of hardwoods and spring-fed streams racing to the lowest point in the valley.   The original structures are made from native stone, and are constructed to withstand both time and tourists.

"You must be at least this high to breathe during a flood"

There are three camping sections in this park.  The upper loop—which is the smaller, full hook-up RV section that sits atop a bluff; the lower loop—which is on lower ground across the stream from the bluff; and the tent loop—which sits atop an adjacent hill and is intended for tent and group camping.  When walking along the lower loop, we observed numerous camping sites that were permanently closed.  Debris was scattered amongst these sites, indicating a significant past flooding event.  To confirm that notion, there were “high water markers” in that section of the campground that indicated most of that loop had been submerged when the river broke loose from its banks.  With no end in sight to the rainy forecast, the upper loop—situated on much higher ground— was looking REALLY good right now.

No "Mad Dog 20/20" consumption?

With a new venue to explore, we set off checking out the local trails.  Being in a less crowded park, The Boys were able to go “off-leash” for longer periods of time, as well as having a much larger area to roam.  Being more remote and even more wooded; the wild animal scents kept them on a perpetual olfactory rush.  There was this one area which suggested that "dogs" were not welcome; but we weren't sure if it was all dogs or just "Mad Dog 20/20."

As with other stop-over locations, we decided to check-out the local venues.  This area is of particular interest to Kristy, as she is a bona fide “Rock Hound.”  It is not just a hobby, but a genetic trait.  She has more minerals in her body than the average person, and it would be easier for her to walk by a "Benjamin" lying on the ground, than to walk by an interesting rock without picking it up.  We have traveled across the globe, and with very few exceptions, she has some type of rock or mineral to prove it.  She has no favorite variety of minerals or rocks, although I'm partial to one: Leaverite (as in "leave 'er right there").  Thirty minutes away is the town of Mount Ida.  Mount Ida isn’t well known for much, but it is well known for the natural crystal formations that are present in the area.  You can likely guess how this story ends…but I’ll tell you anyway.

During one of our relaxation moments around the campfire, Kristy asked, “Did you know that Mount Ida has natural crystal formations, and that you can go there and dig them up yourself?”  This my friends is known as “double rhetorical question.”  We both knew that I was unaware of the geological composition of the nearby town; and we both knew that this was a greased invitation for the two of us to go dig rocks.  A few days later we’re at Wegner Crystal Mines, one of the areas largest “dig-your-own crystal mines.”  We called ahead to see if The Boys could accompany us (being occasional diggers themselves), to which they said it would be no problem.  We arrived at the property; paid our entry fee; received a safety briefing; signed an injury waiver; received a bucket and a few garden trowels; and loaded-up in the back of a modified flat-bed truck.  

A "Rock Hound" and two regular hounds canvas the red clay surface for crystal treasures

The truck suspension was as giving as a narcissistic 2-year old; while providing the comfort of a charlie horse.  We slowly made our way up the rut-festered path— bringing back memories of driving a deuce-and-a-half down washboard roads— while staying attentive to low-hanging tree branches.  This was obviously where the injury waiver came into play, and we were mindful not to get "bushwhacked."  Accompanying us to the top was a father/son team who had flown in from Florida just to dig for crystals.  They went into elaborate details about the rocks they had collected, and how they brought a couple of duffel bags with them to haul their bounty back home (as checked baggage?).  

The excitement of digging up rocks was so thick you could cut it with a pretend light saber from a geek-filled Star Wars convention.  I tried to contain my emotions, but the ride was bludgeoning my bladder —making me squirm and giving the impression of unbridled anticipation.  We reached the top of the hill where a group of weary rock hounds (rock groupies?) were waiting for the "Bruisemobile" to take them back to their cars.  With the exception of the three individuals struggling to get a 100-lb chunk of rock up the hill in a dilapidated Red Flyer wagon; everyone else looked more tired than happy.  

The Boys supervising my trenching efforts under the shade trees

We unloaded The Boys and our instruments of destruction; headed to the quarry site; and began to dig.  The father/son team had a plan to scour the entire 5-acre site in the 2-hours that we were allotted.  They started at one end and carved an erratic path that is normally seen when observing pre-adolescents during full-contact Easter egg hunts.  Kristy headed to an open area that had lots of small crystals lying exposed on top of the ground—courtesy of the prior evenings rainstorm.  Me and the boys walked to the edge of the tract and parked it under a big patch of shade trees.

A few hours later, the rumbling echoes of the contusion chariot became louder as it wound through the woods towards the dig site.  In addition to being more filthy and smelly that our two hounds combined, I had managed to dig a hole about 3-feet deep.  The father/son team commented as to how impressed they were by the size of the hole I was able to dig with a plastic garden trowel.  I told them it was my years of military experience digging foxholes.  Even more impressive than the half-grave I dug was the permanent red-clay stains on my white shirt.  With a respectable excavation yield in hand (bucket), we were unceremoniously bounced off the mountain and returned to our campsite to ogle over our daily take.  The gallons of red clay water that we generated while rinsing the crystals, was put to good use.  I soaked my severely stained shirt in it, hoping to add another "burnt orange" garment to my limited wardrobe.  I ended up with another severely stained "work shirt."  In all honesty, this was one of the funnest days of the trip.  I really enjoyed (and missed) digging in the dirt. 

Not really a "job," but Mike Rowe still might approve of the effort!

After our enjoyable time amongst the timbers, we looked to press northward.  I had asked Kristy if she could find us a location where we wouldn't be forced out due to rising water or have to look at those ominous "Flash Flood Hazard" signs.  Kristy returned with our next potential stop.  I looked at the distance—which was reasonable; then I looked at the primary route —which looked like Dick Cheney’s EKG.  I asked, “Is there a Plan B?”  I was guilty of my own “double rhetorical question.”  We both knew there was no Plan B; and we both knew she had picked out the perfect location.  We were headed to high-ground.  Much higher.

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Tompkins ACoE Campground (AR)

While enjoying the company of our dear friends—Rev. (Dr.) Robert and Kim Gibbs— during our extended San Antonio jaunt; we discussed some of our possible destinations in the coming months.  After relaying that we were leaning towards heading northward through Arkansas, they shared some of their memorable trips into the Hot Springs area of Western(ish) Arkansas.  They also had vivid memories of running from threatening weather, and finding relaxing refuge in the Ouachita Mountains.  Taking a recommendation from trusted friends, we cleared northeast Texas and headed East on I-30 towards Hot Springs.

Kristy performed searches for potential bed-down locations, and we set our eyes on one that was located on Lake Ouachita—Tompkins (Army Corps of Engineers) Campground.  Unable to secure an on-line reservation, we make a leap-of-faith and showed up at the park gate; hopeful that a few (non-reservable) first-come/first-serve sites (also known as “walk-up sites”) would be available.  When we pulled into the campground, it was fairly full, but there were a couple of open sites for us to choose from.  We picked one located at the furthest point of the peninsular loop; less than 50’ from the lake, with no camping sites to obstruct our water views, and easy access for The Boys to take an occasional swim.

Buddy takes a break from his mid-day swim to try his luck at fishing

Tompkins campground sits on the banks of Lake Quachita—the largest lake (solely) in Arkansas—with over 690-miles of shoreline surrounding the 40,000-acres of surface water.  The lake is home to a rare species of “stingless” jelly fish, and was not timbered when the impoundment was flooded in the 1950’s.  This makes for interesting diving, as there is a literal forest that lies beneath the surface of the water.

Next to the campground sits a private resort that goes by the name of “Shangri-La”.  It did not look like the secluded utopia described by James Hilton in his 1933 novel “Lost Horion,”  but it did have one thing that made it a magical enclave—homemade pies.  The pies at Shangri-La are locally notorious.  When diners arrive at the Shangri-La Cafe for dinner, they normally order a piece of pie first; which ensures they will have their favorite dessert before it runs out.  This has become such a common practice, that the waitresses simply puts a fork, customers name, and pie variety on the plate to “hold” a piece until the patron is ready for their pie.  They are made fresh each day, and the varieties are as impressive as the taste.  Apple, dutch apple, cherry, lemon meringue, coconut cream, butterscotch, pecan, and peach are all mainstays.  There's normally an additional “what the cook wanted to make” selection to fill the pastry cupboard.  The owner of this resort has been making pies at this cafe for nearly 6-decades.  Even when we had dinner cooking in Château Glory, I would occasionally sneak away for some take-away pie.  I didn’t sample all of the varieties, but I gave it a good shot.

The constant rains was no picnic

Although Arkansas had not received the amount of rain that we experienced in Texas, they had still received a generous portion of precipitation over the past few months.  With this increased rainfall, the lake was unusually high, with a few RV sites closed for the foreseeable future; and a few of the tent sites completely underwater.  Unfortunately, there was more rain in the forecast for Western Arkansas—the recharge point for Lake Ouachita—and the lake level was projected to continue to rise.  It was not unusual for us to observe 2"-6" increases in lake level from overnight squalls.  We visited another ACoE campground nearby, and most of the camping sites were inaccessible due to water over the internal roadways.

End of the line for Hank.  The entire campground (ahead) was inaccessible due to the rising lake.

This initially proved to be beneficial for us, as the unpredictable weather deterred many campers from staying; and the closing of campgrounds kept others from arriving.  The campground began to thin out, leaving us with the space and privacy that had come to define most of our trip.  The campers who remained were not daunted by weather.  They were there to fish, and no amount of rain was going to keep them from their angling adventures.




With Memorial Day weekend approaching, we found ourselves in another pseudo-bind; where to stay.  Fortune smiled on us, as we were able to extend in-place and secure pleasant surroundings on one of the biggest camping weekends of the year.  This allowed us to focus on more important things, like…watching sunsets.




A few storms rolled through sporadically, but most of them just put on a short rumbling light-show, then moved on.  The real activity was in the western part of the state, which was getting hammered by cell after cell of torrential rain.  After a night of peaceful sleep, I started to stir.  The fresh morning breeze trickling through the bedroom window and cooling my face and pillow.  The Colors were gently swaying in the wind off the front of The Rig; occasionally making a soft “pop” in response to an errant gust.  As I eased my transition from slumber to awakening…

KNOCK!!!   KNOCK!!! KNOCK!!!

As if recreating a bad sequel to the trailer fire in Episode 43, I went into full Three Stooges mode while The Boys barked at imaginary objects on the walls and ceilings.  I hastily threw on some clothes and fought my way through confusion to the door.  When I opened the door, I was surprised.  It wasn’t an overly excited policeman barking commands.  It wasn't a foul-mouthed military training instructor projecting spit into my face.  Standing at the bottom of our steps was a nice park ranger.  She said, in a very calm and informative tone:

“The lake is expected to significantly rise and we’re going to shut down this part of the campground.  We don’t have any open slots in this park, and we don’t have any recommendations for other parks.  The maintenance crew will be coming by in a couple of hours to turn off the electric and water.  We’re sorry for the inconvenience.  Good luck.”

With a no-notice travel day thrust upon us—on the precipice of the Memorial Day weekend—we quickly broke camp.  We knew it was going to be a long day.  We had no follow-on campground reservations.  We were pseudo-remote in an area that is surrounded by National Forests—a feature we normally prefer—but this also brings with it the fact that there is a paucity of privately-owned RV parks.  The whine of the pneumatics resonated as the slides were retracted into travel mode.  Other campers—in a similar lodging bind—began to file out of the campground.  One of our “neighbors” pulled up—trailer hooked-up and ready to roll—and told us of a “recreation area” a few miles up the road that had a few RV walk-up sites as of early this morning.  We got directions to this recreation area, thanked him for the very timely info, and hitched-up Glory.  We were unsure where we would sleep tonight—or how far we would travel to get there.  We were back to living on-the-fly.

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Tyler State Park (TX)

Sitting roughly equidistant between Dallas and the Louisiana border on I-20 is the town of Tyler, Texas.  Named after our 10th President, John Tyler, this piney-woods Texas town is host to the annual Texas Rose Festival.  A benchmark sign of being close to Tyler is the presence of roadside vendors selling rose bushes at ridiculously low prices.  Take any interstate off-ramp and there will be a display of various rose varieties awaiting you at the stop sign.

Tyler State Park sits on the northern side of I-20, which separates it from Tyler “proper.”  The park is close enough to interstate to make it an easy stop-over for touring parties; but is far enough away from interstate to make it suitable for a longer hiatus within a wooded sanctuary.  Like several Texas State Parks, it was built decades ago by the Civilian Conservation Corps. The park is medium in size, with over 100 campsites offering a variety of amenities.  Although it offers over 13-miles of trails, the centerpiece is the 64-acre multi-use spring-fed lake.  

Panorama of the lake at Tyler State Park

With northeast Texas receiving a generous measure of rainfall this year, the humidity was high; the lake full; and the plants in full-bloom.  Although not the type of hiking trails that we intentionally sought out, these trails surprised us with a natural walk down memory lane.  The yucca—which adorned our San Antonio property—was proudly displaying its ivory blooms.  We loved the lily-white blooms that protruded atop the pokey plant, and always thought it brought a certain of "Southwest Stateliness" to the landscape.  

Yucca blooms with a glazing of morning dew

Honeysuckle was sporadically interwoven with the accompanying blackberries; providing a hedgerow along one of the spring fed streams leading to the lake.  The unique smell of the honeysuckle transported me to my youthful years in rural Virginia; where we would spend hours performing the delicate ritual of drawing the single drop of nectar through the blooms apex.  The blackberries were a double-edge sword; providing a tartly-sweet mid-day snack, but almost always ensuring a sleepless night while we clawed away at our chigger bites.

Blackberries and honeysuckle crowd the spring-fed stream

A multitude of smaller plants and shrubs were in various stages of blooming, but one that really took me back to my youth was a small stand of mimosas.  These trees just have that laid-back look to them, with their fern-like foliage and the pink power-puff blooms.  Many hours were spend in the shade of this species during my early years, and it was a pleasant surprise to see several of them along the banks of the lake.

On the opposite side of the lake sits a day-use area; complete with group pavilions and a (not-dog friendly) swimming/beach area.  Our visit just happened to coincide with a field trip by a local high school, so there were dozens of teenagers scattered throughout the park.  A decent number were swimming and just strolling around, but there were a few couples who were obviously planning a reenactment of John Cougar Mellencamp’s famous song, “Jack & Diane.”  More specifically, the verse “Jackie say, 'Hey, Diane let's run off behind a shady trees.  Dribble off those Bobby Brooks, let me do what I please.’”  We weren’t in “bear country,” but we utilized some of the same tactics of making a LOT of noise while walking the trails.  We wanted to see nature…but not too much nature.

Kristy & The Boys traversing a narrow trail while trying not to flush out humanoid adolescents performing their mating dance.

Tyler was not a destination, but rather a lily pad en route to more northern locations.  Storms were again developing, and we needed to keep moving along.  We pulled chocks and headed along a familiar interstate; as we had traveled the opposite direction 3-months earlier.  Creating our new itinerary on-the-fly, we headed back to Arkansas.

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Jacob's Ladder

On a daunting Wednesday morning, we made plans to pull chocks for the first time in 8-weeks.  We were understandably slower, as the rhythm-of-movement was not as familiar.  The skies darkened, as another storm approached to escort us away from our latest port.  As the landing gear lifted, lightening cracked overhead, and obese raindrops quickly saturated everything not under cover—including me.  The last item was for me to pull the 30-amp shore-power and stow the cord away.  I'd always been cautious during the execution of this part, as the higher level of electricity could yield a serious injury.  The moment I pulled the plug, a flash went off...followed immediately by a sharp clap of thunder.  Getting dangerous.  Time to go.

With Glory and Hank in caravan formation, we pulled out of the Lackland FamCamp and headed...East.

It was much too late in the year for us to consider touring the southwest U.S., so we decided to head north where the climate was more favorable for trailer life.  But first, we needed to make a quick pit-stop.  New Texas transportation regulations require all trailers to be inspected prior to getting their plates renewed.  Our plates were set to expire in September, and we didn't want to trek back to Texas just for an annual inspection.  We found an RV service center outside of La Vernia, Texas, so we made a bee-line towards their location.  It only took the inspector a few minutes to tell us that Glory was healthy and in good condition.  After trading a few dollars for a wet receipt, we were back on the road. 

"The clouds prepare for battle in the dark and brooding silence." — Rush; Jacobs Ladder

Over The past few weeks we had been watching North Texas, Oklahoma, and parts of Kansas get hammered by violent storms.  We wanted to head north, but not actually venture through the dragon's teeth.  We agreed that a less risky route would be to trek up the western side of Arkansas.  As we headed East on I-10, the weather radio continued to chirp, notifying us of tornado and flash-flood warnings.  The clouds were heavy, dark, and pendulous; and we were convinced that we would spot a tornado at any moment.  

"Bruised and swollen storm clouds have the light of day obscured." — Rush; Jacobs Ladder

As we approached each roadway that led northward, another NOAA advisory would give us cause to not travel that route.  We soon realized that the storm was trekking along with us, and we could either keep driving further out-of-the-way towards Houston, or bite the bullet and turn into it.  

"Looming low and ominous, in twilight premature." — Rush; Jacobs Ladder

Almost exactly half way between San Antonio and Houston lies the small interstate town of Schulenburg.  We pulled into a vacant parking lot, gave the dogs a quick run to the bushes, and checked the current radar.  The storm was indeed trekking along with us, and the edge was starting to spit on us while we planned our move.  

"Thunder heads are rumbling in a distant overture." — Rush; Jacobs Ladder

With no great options, we pointed Hank north on Highway 77 towards La Grange; a point were we estimated we would meet-up with a bad storm.  The back roads were expectedly slower, and the deteriorating weather slowed them further.  NOAA updates continued to broadcast, and roads to the west that we had opted to avoid were now reporting areas of impassable flooding.  The storm barely beat us to La Grange, and the rain coming down so hard that it was impossible to see "The Shack Outside" made famous by ZZ Top.  After an hour of really intense driving, we got ahead of the storm...again.  The roads were dryer, and we started to make better time.  So much better time that we caught up to another storm as it passed through Franklin.  

"All at once the clouds are parted; light streams down in bright unbroken beams."         — Rush; Jacobs Ladder

We drove through a lesser storm, and began to see clearer skies ahead.  We had already logged some solid hours, and we weren't quite ready to park it—especially with storms so close in our rearview mirror.  With the roads getting better and the skies getting lighter, Kristy started looking for a bed-down location.  It didn't take long to find a spot far enough north for safety, but not so far that we'd be setting up in the dark.  One more stop to get Hank a drink, then it was on to Tyler State Park, just north of Tyler, Texas. 

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5150 in 210

5150:  Emotionally disturbed individual (police code)

210: San Antonio Area Code

The "Cajun Crooner" for Ford F-350

Want that edgy look for your dually diesel pick-up exhaust but don't have the $40 for one of those fancy after-market exhaust tips?  Hortense "Ho-Bee" Decoudreau—owner and staff of Kajun Kar Kustoms in Tickfaw, LA—has revolutionized the exhaust tip industry the same way Calloway's "Big Bertha" revolutionized the golf industry.  Made of recycled aluminum, the "Creole Crooner" (pictured above) spices-up any dull exhaust system.  The extra-wide opening allows for even dispersal of by-passed emission systems, while also providing ear-rattling resonance for your straight-pipe modifications.  Removable within seconds using the patented twin handles; toss a license plate or crushed beer can (sold separately) over the hole, and you're ready to whip-up some down-home tail-gate cuisine.  This highly-polished "Bumper Bling" will not only turn heads every time, but it'll keep 'em staring...we Ga-Raun-Tee!

Driving on Lackland between Thursday afternoon and Saturday evening is similar to pushing a shopping cart through a toy store on Christmas Eve--with lots of people in a hurriedly confused state.  The parents—most if who have never been on a military base—are awestruck by the uniformity and "proceduralism" that goes into every aspect of the military community.  The trainees—now reprogramed to always be thinking in terms of uniformity and "proceduralism" (even if it means betraying common sense)—are eager to show their military-naive parents just how worldly they have become in just a few short weeks.  So I found myself driving on the "training-side" on a Friday afternoon, when I see a trainee—with family in tow—approach a crosswalk.  Now my responsibility is to bring my vehicle to a stop, giving the pedestrians adjacent to the crosswalk their legal right-of-way.  The pedestrians "should" wait curbside until they see my vehicle stopping; then proceed across the crosswalk when they have reasonable assurance that I have yielded right-of-way. 

This is crosswalk etiquette on most military bases; with the exception of Lackland AFB IF you are marching a Flight of troops.  In the case of a marching a Flight of troops: the formation leader calls the formation to a halt, waits for traffic to clear, walks into the roadway to put all risk on themselves (versus the formation), calls the road-guards to post in a manner which ensures traffic remains stopped, marches the formation across the roadway, then calls in the road-guards.

This highly motivated, almost-graduated, basic trainee; stopped his family at the roadside (halt), walked to the center of the roadway, assumed the role of multiple road-guards and stopped traffic in both directions, then told his parents it was safe to cross. After they crossed, he scurried out of the crosswalk to rejoin his family.  I can't imagine what was going through his parents minds, but I'm sure they will now believe all of the Hollywood portrayals of how exceedingly regimented ALL military personnel are in ALL of their daily routines.

Tired of finding your goats lying on your doorstep exsanguinated? Concerned about your sheep being killed and their organs missing? Worried that your children are being stalked by a 3-foot tall, hairy predator with razor sharp teeth and the ability to elude authorities for eons?   Perhaps you should leave the Chupacabra problems to the experts.  The professionals at the Chupacabra Bait Company can provide you with the appropriate bait to catch your problem Chupacabra; or they can simply do the whole job for you.  Next time your Uncle Jeno is found slashed in the driver's seat without any traces of blood...make the call.  We're ready to believe you.  

wWw

Back to Basic(s) II

As the temperatures increased, so did the severe weather patterns.  San Antonio has always had a propensity for heavy rains, but tornadic activity was not as common in South Texas as it was is West & North Texas.  Like clockwork, the squalls would suddenly appear in far West Texas, and—depending upon what the weather was doing in Colorado—move across North Texas or head right for The Alamo City.  

Screen shot souvenir tells the tale of a rough night in the single-wide

Kristy and I have never lived in a trailer, mobile home, or any other structure that was not initially bolted to the ground when it was built.  We have seen some really nice mobile/trailer homes, but we have also seen some really tragic photos of tornadoes obliterating trailer parks.  Every night during stormy weather we would keep our weather radio next to the bed, and every night it would sound its rude alarm when we were in perfect REM sleep.  This would initiate a Three Stooges-type awaking; with me trying to fumble for the iPad to check the local radar for signs of imminent “death-clouds” vortexing overhead, while Kristy fought to get two shaking dogs off her head. The Hounds had apparently associated NOAA weather radio alerts with “bad news”, and ranked them high on the “UOSS” (Uh-Oh Severity Scale).  Unfortunately, my world view looks frightenly similar to someone participating in the “dizzy bat competition” when I’m not adequately caffeinated.  Regardless, it was important for us to do this in a hurry, as weather lore had shown us that sometimes you only have a few minutes to get your act together should dangerous weather present.  

On two occasions spanning three days, we left the confines of our single-wide adventure shack and headed to the Wilford Hall parking garage to ride out the possible 70-MPH wind gusts and quarter-sized hail.  After a few days of pulling “pseudo all-nighters," we were mentally exhausted.  Then came a break in the weather pattern.  Dry air abounds all around!  The local weather forecasters were high-fiving themselves for the outstanding weather that “they” were responsible for bringing.  We slept like log corpses.  The air was cool and the humidity low.  We slumbered with open windows and a light breeze trailing across our pillows…

…OH DEAR GOD!!! I’M BACK IN BASIC TRAINING!!!

I quickly sprung into my Three Stooges posture—tripping over the dogs as they barked at the unexpected awakening—and hurriedly dressed as I made my way down those “back breaking steps” to the door.  I opened the door to see a multitude of blue and red disco lights dancing across all of the RVs at our end of the park.  An Air Force Security Policeman relayed in a very excitable voice:

"YOU NEED TO LEAVE NOW!!!  WE ARE EVACUATING THE CAMPGROUND!!! THE RV NEXT TO YOU IS ON FIRE AND THE PROPANE TANKS MIGHT EXPLODE!!! GET OUT NOW!!!"

The "inside voice" began to develop a dialogue to reason with this individual who had so rudely interrupted my sleep.  
"Ha. A ha ha. A ha ha ha ha.  Really?  You expect me to get my wife and two hounds out of this trailer now?  At this hour?  My good man, you must realize that we have a few minor items to pack before we could possibly leave...not to mention that neither of us looks presentable enough to show ourselves amongst our RV neighbors.  Give is 10-minutes, OK?”

Luckily the "outside voice" had been in big trouble before and simply said, “Ok.”

We threw on a enough clothing items to keep us from being arrested and embarrassed, grabbed the dogs by the collars (no coffee = no leash), and scurried across the road a to an approved safe viewing area.  I now completely understand how people die running back into burning buildings to save their stuff.  While the neighbors trailer shot out flames, I kept thinking about how much insurance we had on Glory; and if it was possible for me to sneak back in and get my wallet.

The Lackland Fire Department was setting up, and soon they began to pump water onto the 26-foot pull-behind trailer parked 8-feet away from our trailer.  The front of the trailer was on fire, as the battery cables had shorted and caused a small flame.  The plastic battery cover fueled the fire, as plastic melted and "dripped fire” onto the propane tank hoses below.  The propane tank—mounted inches away from the battery on the trailer tongue—had the supply lines burned in half by the melting plastic, and became a modified flame-thrower.  This is what the Fire Department encountered when they arrived; and this is why the security policeman seemed very excitable in his conversation with me.

All the ingredients for a really bad outcome

Make-shift flame-thrower with twin 30-lb tanks

I would like to say that after the fire was extinguished, we all went back to sleep…but that would be a lie.  We had so much adrenaline in our systems that we had to drink some coffee to dilute the on-going rush and calm down.  The hero of the day was a readiness instructor who was driving into work in the pre-dawn hours and noticed the small flame.  He had enough concern to call the base EMS folks, and make sure nothing bad happened.  Didn’t get his name, but I owe him a beer of his choosing upon demand…anywhere on the planet.

wWw

Beautiful Perennials

Wildflowers, cactus & barbed-wire; a perennial South Texas tradition

Although not intentionally timed, we arrived back in San Antonio for the emergence of the Hill Country wildflowers.  As the South Texas weather began to warm, the reports of wildflower activity began to intensify on various forms of media.  Just like any botanical, some years are better than others, and we had witnessed the last "great" display in 2010.  We set out to travel south of San Antonio, where the temperatures had been more consistent than the more northern areas that had been under winter storm warnings intermittently over the past several weeks.

Wildflowers blanket the children's cemetery at Christ Lutheran Church of Elm Creek

The Boys acting pure as the driven snow

Seasonal colors bring new life to everything

Crimson waves ripple across the South Texas pastures

Although not the spectacular display that we witnessed in 2010, the wildflowers had faithfully turned the normally-brown South Texas landscape into a palette of mixed pastels.  The light breeze made their blooms dance back and forth, creating a depth unattainable by camera as the shadows constantly adjusted their colors.  Some areas were quite mesmerizing.

Nature's kaleidoscopic performance was impressive, but there were even more beautiful perennials for us to experience.  After residing in San Antonio for 12-years, we were blessed to have such a collection of loyal and supporting friends.  These individuals always greet you with a smile, and would give you the shirt off their back.  They are Beautiful friends.  They are also fiercely loyal to their friends; available to help them in time of need 24/7/365.  They are Perennial friends.

The best neighbors we’ve ever had—Eddie & Paula Williams—treated us to an over-the-top dinner at “Eddie’s Place.”  Okay, it’s actually “Cured at the Pearl Brewery Complex,” but Eddie is so well known there that it should have his name over the door; and he’s also the brains/taste-buds behind the Dining With Class & Style website.  Although it had been nearly 5-years since we last spoken in person, it was as if only a day had passed.  The conversation continued to be light & easy; just like it was when we were talking over the fence while doing yard work.  

Reunited after 5-years (L-R: Paula, Wes, Eddie, Kristy) over exceptional food

From Kristy’s professional past came Larry & Mila Kirkpatrick.  Larry was a former First Sergeant who gave Kristy a tremendous amount of support early in her diamond-wearing days, and the support and friendship did not end with the shadowbox presentation.  Speaking of…Larry hand-crafted a beautiful shadowbox for my retirement as well, and Kristy presented it to me at a semi-formal dinner hosted by my parents.  These are easy-going friends who ensured that we had a place to go on Easter, and mutual-friend get-togethers at local venues.  

Reverend (Dr.) Robert & Kim Gibbs came from my past, as he was my Old Testament History professor while finishing my undergraduate degree at Wayland Baptist University.  After graduation we became closer friends, and he has always been a trusted friend and confidant.  He has always been available for us, and even gave the invocation at Kristy’s retirement ceremony.  He and his wife Kim (plus the small pack of quad-peds) also opened their home up to us and ensured that we received a home-cooked feast, and a few meals in-town.  

The most distant (in time) friend that we visited with was John Yevick; a retired Senior NCO who we both knew and socialized with during our dating years in the late-80’s.  John's career had crossed paths with our careers on several occasions, and he has always been a loyal friend to the both of us.  He visited us for a RV-park cookout, then invited us to his beautiful home for dinner and the pay-per-view Mayweather/Pacquiao fight.  

Although it was difficult to say goodbye—again—to those who have been a blessing in our lives, we know that we can always find them growing there; making dull landscapes beautiful, year after year.

wWw

Back to Basic(s) I

If anyone would’ve told us in October that we would be parked in the Lackland Air Force Base FamCamp within 6-months, we would’ve have asked them if they had recently opened an herbal-remedy store in Colorado or Washington State.  The weather forced us south; the prior campsite amenities forced us to Lackland; and the delay in available medical appointments forced us to park longer than we preferred.

The Lackland AFB Family Campground (FamCamp) is a smallish campground capable of accommodating 3-4 dozen RVs.  The spacing between the sites is tight, and the “normal” view is that of another RV about 20-feet away.  We were fortunate to get a space on the end of the loop, which provided us with a little more “yard” and a view of the adjacent wooded area. 

Unlike several other military FamCamps, this site does not have a camp host—a volunteer who “runs” the campground in exchange for a no-cost RV pad.  This campground had a dedicated staff, but unfortunately the manager had experienced a serious health setback and the staff was being piece-mealed from other base agencies.  Regardless of this challenge, the staff was nothing less than wonderful.

So much of our lives were influenced by this base, it was only fitting that it would be part of our "detox tour"...as we found ourselves relegated to a different (military) social status than when we left.  We were now bystanders on a high ops-tempo base.  This was important to experience, as some fail to realize when they're not part of the starting line-up....but still insist on drawing-up plays.  We will forever be a part of The Team, but we were no longer a part of The Mission.

“All is well, safely rest. God is Nigh.” (Taps; Horance Lorenco Trim)

It had been a many months since I last laced-up my combat boots, and I wasn’t sure how we would react to the sudden re-immersion into a military community after purposefully trying to “un-militarize” ourselves.  

The mornings began with Reveille sounding from one of the large “Giant Voice” speakers adjacent to the RV park.  Although this occasionally stirred us from our sleep, we quickly honed the skill of rolling over and returning to our slumber.  THIS was a good sign that we were embracing the retired life!  All those months of walking dirt paths amongst the tall timbers was working!

As the sun moved westward across the sky, the Giant Voice sounded Retreat.  Retirees would pour out of their RVs to pay end-of-day respect to The Colors, and we stood amongst our RV community and followed suit.  This was not some type of regression into “needing” to be part of a rank-and-file group, but rather a show of gratitude to the symbol of a country that has given us so much to be thankful for.  

A few hours later, the Giant Voice sounded Taps.  We were normally sitting under our awning, discussing the topic du jour.  These 24-notes brought a calm over the base, and provided a moment of daily reflection.  We certainly appreciated this moment, as it gave us the opportunity for brief introspection as to how wisely we had spent the past 24-hours of our lives.  This was important to us, as our “immortality account” continued to dwindle on a daily basis.  Even though this was polar-opposite to sitting on the Cumberland Plateau next to a campfire while listening to the sounds of nature; there was still an excellent opportunity presented for personal reflection.

"Older times we're missing, spending the hours reminiscing." (Little River Band; Reminiscing)

An unexpected opportunity presented while we were on Lackland; the 31st Anniversary of my induction into Basic Military Training (BMT).  Being a sucker for nostalgia, I trekked to the site of my military indoctrination to walk my own personal hallowed ground.  

3708 BMTS - East Wing

Thirty-one years earlier I stepped off of an Air Force “Bluebird” bus in front of the 3708 BMT Squadron; was shuffled up a perfectly manicured sidewalk; and was put in a symmetrical formation with a host of similarly apprehensive teenagers under an expansive overhang that surrounded our future digs.  I was safely embedded in the middle of this technicolor formation, with at least 3 trainees providing “cover” on all sides of me.  

The brown, steel door of Doom

Without warning, the large brown-painted steel door in front of us violently flew open, and out stepped a chiseled warrior wearing a rounded “Campaign” hat with a Blue Rope encircling the base of the crown at the break.  He walked up to the front of the flight and began speaking as if he were giving a mission briefing to a thousand troops.  It went EXACTLY like this (Note: all of these words are his, as we did not utter a sound during this entire process):

“Stand at attention." (in a moderately commanding voice)

“My name is Technical Sergeant Wurdabaugh (pronounced “word-a-baugh”).  My first name is “Sergeant” and my last name is “Wurdabaugh.”

Although I was trying to be as small as possible and not draw attention to myself — intently staring at the back of the guys head directly in front of me — my efforts to remain stealth failed.  Sergeant Wurdabuagh immediately dropped his clipboard and walked through the formation of my fellow trainees--directly towards me.  With a contorted face of utter disapproval, he purposefully put the brim of his Campaign hat on my left temple and monstrously screamed a short and concise phrase into the side of my head; lubricating the high-decibel sound waves with copious amounts of high-velocity saliva.

"PIN YOUR [insert the mother-of-all-vulgarities here] HANDS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

I didn’t know what “PIN” meant.  To be honest, I’m not sure I could’ve identified either of my hands at that moment.  Being the nurturing instructor that he was, he quickly trained me on how to properly “PIN” my hands, while simultaneously making it obvious that he questioned the martial status of my parents when I was conceived.

So here I stood…31-years later...to the day...in that very spot where I began my long journey into an Air Force career.  If I had known then what I know now, the yelling would’ve been more of a "right-of passage" than a no-notice exercise in bladder control.  I proceeded up the squadron stairwell—one I vaguely remember running down every morning (in a semi-conscious  fog) before the sun was awoke—to stand in formation and make sure all of us were available to be yelled at throughout the day.  I reached the door to my dormitory—a door that I occasionally guarded like a starving dog guards his only bone; and I walked through the door to find…an office.

The 26 perfectly aligned beds have been replaced by perfectly aligned office cubicles (and you're allowed to walk down the "center isle.")

My old dorm had been re-purposed into office space, with cubicles lining the once perfectly polished and aligned open-bay area.  The floor was not the "highly polished and free of scuff marks from leather combat boots" floor that I remembered, but was covered in "un-polishable" carpet throughout.  The only item that remained from my training days was the threshold plate that I was responsible for keeping in "inspection order" during my BMT tenure.  

In its day, this gleaming alloy threshold could not be looked upon without welders goggles.

There it was.  Lying there.  Waiting for my return.  It looked as though it had not been polished in ages.  It missed me.  People had actually placed their footwear on this sacred piece of metal—an absolute taboo action that would have assuredly resulted in compressed sound waves and saliva bouncing off one’s tympanic membrane a few years earlier.  I felt sad for my old friend who suffered from years of neglect.

I was curiously greeted by a Master Sergeant and I quickly told him that I was just revisiting my old BMT dorm.  We chatted for a minute and he told me to take my time and look around all I wanted.  My rack (bed) was 3rd from the front.  That area was now encapsulated in a modular office.  Not being officially relieved of my housekeeping responsibilities since basic, I entered the office where my bed and locker once stood in meticulously perfect condition.  The Major who was working at his desk in that office looked up as I entered.  I explained to him that his office was sitting on top of my sacred personal area; informed him that the area needing to be vacuumed and dusted; and then I quickly departed.  He was nice enough to not call security.

I had revisited a major crossroad of my life—but just as other major crossroads in our lives—it was not the same road that I once travelled.  The opening quote from Episode 18 resonated in my head: "No man ever steps in the same river twice, for it's not the same river and he's not the same man.” 

wWw

Lazy, Swayze, & Purple Hazy

South Texas was not on our original travel itinerary, but it was easier to manipulate our travel plan than the weather.   Being months into our Odyssey, we had not seen our primary care provider for well-over 6-months.  It had also been a few months since Kristy’s fractured vertebrae detailed in Episode 13.  Hank was coming up on a visit to the shop for some routine maintenance; and we probably needed to follow suit. 

After spending a dozen years in San Antonio and the Texas Hill Country area, we were familiar with the type of surroundings we could expect.  Since hiking was not one of the tourist draws to San Antonio, we focused on a more rural area with an RV park.  This led us to Boerne, Texas.  Boerne is located 40-minutes from The Alamo, so that put gave us the rural setting we desired, with the convenience of big city amenities and a large military medical care network.  

“Lies, Damn Lies, & Statistics.” - Mark Twain

Statistically speaking, we were going to experience our “least favorite” destination at some point in this trip.  Normally this unpopular promulgation would occur at some future time whist retrospectively pontificating over a favored libation.  Unfortunately, we knew early-on that this was not going to be a positively-memorable location. 

Glen Quagmire endorsed quagmire

The park was not the most well-kept park we’d seen.  Tree limbs were low enough to knock the wax off most RVs.  The pads were a combination of gravel and muddy depressions—with some being just mud with muddy depressions.  The manager was extremely effective at swiping a credit card, but was reluctant to entertain the idea of having UPS dropping off a package for us. We quickly got the impression that the staff was not really interested in the business attributes (friendly, customer oriented, maintenance upkeep, etc) that we had experienced in private campgrounds up to this point.  Kinda Lazy.

There are two notable features of this campground, with the most recent being that it served as a filming location for the 1-hour and 34-minute Patrick Swayze movie Father Hood.  One of the prehistoric props still stands guard over the muddy, rutted parking lot.

Another on-site attraction is the 230’ subterranean cavern where you can “swim in the Edwards Aquifer.”  After residing in San Antonio for 12+ years, and knowing that all of the drinking water provided to the residents of The Alamo City originates from the Edwards Aquifer…I decided to be nice and not alter the water’s palatability.

"I never drink water because of the disgusting things that fish do in it." — W. C. Fields

During our short stay, we met a few fellow RVers who were traveling to and from various locations, but we were the minority.  The majority of the sites were filled with long-term residents, who had a creative menagerie of accompanying structures in/around/affixed to their trailers.  There was one particular trailer parked adjacent to us that was in serious need of repairs, as there was significant separation at the seams which exposed the insulation and inner infrastructure.  The sole resident was a dog, who spent his days guarding the trailer and listening to Jimi Hendrix.  Occasionally a beat-up pick-up truck would visit, as would a Mercedes-Benz SUV.  They would bring some supplies, visit with the dog for a few hours, then leave.  I think the dog’s name was Jesse Pinkman, as he looked like the type that could “break bad” at any moment.

We began our journey into the retiree medical system and were given an initial appointment about 7-10 days out.  That initial appointment came with the indication that there would be more follow-up appointments—all spaced out a couple of weeks each.  As we looked at our appointments on the calendar—and then at the potential for how long we may be required to remain in the Hill Country area—we made a decision that even Nostradamus could not have foreseen.  With several days still paid for at the private park, we pulled chalks and headed back to our humble Air Force beginnings— Lackland Air Force Base.

wWw