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.” 

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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.

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Goin’ South

"Lady love an outlaw like a little boy love a stray dog." — Henry Moon

With the impending ice & snow event moving towards us from the west, we decided to head southward and possibly get below the sleet/freezing-rain line.  The skies were the blue-grey that I remember from my childhood—signifying that there would probably be no school tomorrow.  We hit the road, and made our way towards Dallas/Fort Worth—with Kristy keeping a watchful eye on the ever-changing forecast.  In addition to being navigator and meteorologist intern, she would also be serving as housing coordinator; as we had not figured out where we would eventually park The Rig today.

The roads to Dallas were straight & dry & FAST!  It seemed like everyone was in a hurry to get to Dallas in time for afternoon traffic.  The Navigator charted a course that took us around the city, but a major accident left us with the option of admiring the graffiti on the underpass where we were sitting, or take a nearby freeway through the city.  

"Fools rush in where angels fear to tread." - Alexander Pope

Not knowing how much worse the traffic would get as the day progressed; and not wanting to spend the night in Dallas—we took the more scenic route that bisected the city.  Surprisingly enough, the route was not as bad as I thought it would be, and the eco-friendly micro-mobiles seemed to respect the 23,000-lbs of rolling inexperience that would occasionally crowd their lane.  We popped out the bottom side of Dallas and were now trying to decide where would be a good place to set-up camp.

We weren’t sure how far south we’d need to travel to stay out of the ice; and the forecasts were now calling for “inches” of ice followed by a snow event…but they still couldn’t say just where that event would turn into all-purpose rain.  A perfect storm of incompetence and indecisiveness was brewing across the airwaves; with “weather professionals” elaborating on the many possible variations and outcomes associated with the “arctic front” from the north and the “increasing moisture” from the west.  A long diatribe of “ifs” and “buts” ended in the generally agreed forecast of, “we’ll just have to wait and see what happens.”

Genius.  If only I could make a living being a “let’s-wait-and-see fortune-teller.”

The next conundrum facing us was the bed-down location.  Of the very few RV parks that were open, they were either unable to handle the length of our rig, or they were quite a ways off interstate on some questionable roads.  Questionable…as if the ice storm does come this far south, we didn’t want to get stuck in an area where the roads will not be cleared for several days.  We really needed to know where that freezing rain line was going to be!!!

With a paucity of RV sites to choose from, we moved into Plan B.2.  This was new territory for us, as we were now considering an option that we’d not remotely thought of before: parking The Rig and getting a hotel room.  This did not come without it’s own set of micro-complications.  The first was (again) “where.”  We found ourselves guessing as to where the freezing rain line would end.  Since we had as much clue as the weather experts, we just made a worst-case assumption that we would encounter the ice & snow.  That didn’t help us decide the "where," but it was one less thing to worry about.

The second issue was what hotel to use.  La Quinta—with is Spanish for “The Quinta”— is a pet-friendly establishment that has nice rooms and a complementary breakfast.  We utilized them while traveling from Seattle to Virginia a year earlier and really liked their chain.  If at all possible, we’d prefer to stay with them.   

Then came the final two issues: how much further to drive, and finding one that will accommodate 56’ of RV in their parking lot.  The “how far to drive” was potentially a big deal, as we figured that business travelers and vacationers heading towards DFW may decide to get a room for the night and see how the weather plays out.  If we drove further (and later in the day) and waited to get a room, the availability may quickly decrease.  

The access into the hotel parking lot was kind of an issue (at least for me), as I worried not so much about getting into the parking lot, but getting turned around and being able to leave.  Again, Kristy was pulling up satellite images of potential La Quinta hotels to determine if we had enough turning radius to navigate 50+ feet of our stuff.

When all was said and done, we decided to exit the road earlier than later, and get a room while the getting was good.  Halfway between Dallas and Waco is the small interstate town of Hillsboro, Texas.  The hotel was a half-block off the interstate, and we arrived early enough to turn The Rig around the mostly empty parking lot; leaving it pointing towards the exit at the far end of the lot.  The staff was very accommodating in allowing us to take up several spaces in the absence of an existing RV parking area.  We settled in, and did something we hadn’t done since we started this trip…watch hours cable TV!

"You have chosen...wisely” — Grail Knight from Raiders of the Lost Ark

Our expectations that we’d experience the ice held true.  The assumptions that travelers en route to Dallas would seek shelter and ride out the storm further south held true.  The hotel filled to capacity within a few hours of our arrival.  Travelers arriving later waited in the lobby to see if existing reservations would cancel and free-up a room for them.  The ice hit Dallas with a vengeance.  We watched cable TV for hours as they covered The Great Ice Storm of 2015.  Tractor-trailers were doing 180’s on the interstate.  Cars would attempt to drive up the “High-5”—a five level interstate interchange—only to lose traction and stop (or keep spinning and run into the concrete walls).  Four-wheel drive trucks would easily navigate to the top of these interchanges, only to "luge" out-of-control as they began their decent.  It was some of the best television we had watched in 5-years (overt AFN reference).

Another unexpected benefit from this unscheduled lay-over was the availability of familiar and authentic Texan vittles.  Across the street from our lodging was the El Conquistador restaurant--voted  Trip Advisor's Top-14 of all restaurants in Hillsboro, Texas.  We were surprised at that ranking, but when we saw the culinary competition that ranked higher than them, (#2 Braums; #4 Schlotzsky's; #6 Starbucks; #7 Pizza Hut; #11 IHOP; and #12 Whataburger), we think that ranking is pretty accurate.

Across the parking lot is another Texas-style grub-stop—The Original Fried Pie Shop—co-located inside the corner Exxon station.  This place has every imaginable type of filling that can be crammed into a fried, rectangular pastry shell.  Kristy and I have not been lifelong fried pie consumers; however, prior to leaving Virginia we were treated to dinner at our friends home where homemade fried pies rounded-out an authentic Southern-style dinner.  It was at this dinner that we learned that sometimes these pies are called "grieving pies," as they appear in large numbers at the home of the recently deceased (via caring friends and relatives).  If you're from one of these localized areas, engorging on fried pies is a much more somber event.  (Thanks Kristen!)

Professional presentation of the plethora of pabulum-packed pastries, provisionally preserved in protective parchment paper.

After spending 48-hours in a room with two dogs and a hotel full of anxious travelers, we decided to head out.  With the weather forecast less than positive, our options were limited.  The roads south of us were fairly clear, with only an occasional patch of "black ice" on overpasses.  Although not part of our original plans, we headed where the weather was warmer and the surrounding familiar.  We were "Goin' South" to Texas Hill Country.

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Bonham State Park (TX)

Thirty-two azimuth miles northwest from the Cooper Lake South Sulfur Unit lies Bonham State Park.  During our exploration of the communities around Cooper Lake, we discovered that the most direct route to Bonham SP was not necessarily the most maintained.  In the interest of having intact dishes and glassware upon arrival at Bonham, we chose to take a route that ended up being over 50-miles.  Still…fifty miles on a “travel day” was a breeze, and we arrived at the park well-rested and stress-free.

Bonham State Park is an intimate little jewel in the Texas Parks system, with a tiny footprint (as far as state parks go) of 261-acres.  The park had less than 20 RV sites with partial hook-ups, and in the winter they scale back to 14.  The baker’s dozen +1 are all closely situated in a small gravel oval pad that sits adjacent to the parks modest-sized 61-acre lake.  The history of the park—as well as the history of several Texas state parks—is rooted in the Civilian Conservation Corps.  As part of “The New Deal” program, this park—as well as other parks, highways and various public infrastructure—were constructed by young, unemployed males.  The history of the Civilian Conservation Corps is fascinating; and the work performed is a gifted legacy to our prodigy.   

Kristy & The Boys pose atop one of the many legacy structures crafted by the Civilian Conservation Corps

The park is sits 5-minutes south of the town of Bonham, named after James Butler Bonham (not John Henry Bonham of Led Zeppelin) who was mortally wounded defending The Alamo.  The town is similar to other small towns we’ve visited, with a deep history of better days and a struggling desire to keep-up with an ever-changing world.  Track-side stations—once flourishing with agrarian commerce—have been reutilized as mercantile shops with a throw-back appeal.  The town square—a symbolic pillar of most county seats—shows the wear and aging that accompany declining revenue.

Although this park is a under one-half square mile, it has an extensive walking/hiking trail system, as well as a very technical mountain bike system.  There seems to be an on-going project to expand the mountain biking trail system, as single-track routes bombardering through narrow glades of salt cedar can be discovered throughout the main trail system.  

The group camping sites are an amazing display of natural utilitarian design.  In various secluded spots within the park, small campsites comprised of natural stone couches and chairs encircle a focal point of either a rock table or fire pit.  It is rather surprising to be walking through the dense cedar thickets and come upon a clearing that looks so natural and inviting. 

An intimate place to gather under the vast Texas sky

The wildlife within this small parcel of land is respectable.  Sunrise would bring the daily regimen of Canadian geese on the lake, squirrels and rabbits in the nearby thickets, and at least 100 vultures—who take flight from one of the taller cottonwoods at the end of the lake.  On a few occasions we discovered what looked to be bobcat trails, and actually did flush out a coyote mid-day.  The deer population was easily observed moving across the park boundaries onto the adjacent farmland.  With aged boundary markers of 3-strand barbed-wire in disrepair, the deer could safely bed-down inside the park during the day, and browse the adjacent pastureland as twilight set in.

While getting quite accustomed to the warm Texas weather, something very unexpected happened…it started to snow.

It snowed.  Then it snowed again.  Just a week earlier we were sitting in shorts by Cooper Lake and basking in the much sought-after warm Texas weather.  Temperatures dropped below freezing, and the wet snow turned to a crusty ice sheet.  The RV pads were at the bottom of a fairly steep incline—and without tire chains, Hank would never be able to pull Glory up that hill.  We were kinda stuck.  Two days later it warmed enough to melt the snow/ice on the semi-circular pad.  When all was said-and-done, we experienced more snow in Texas than we had all of the prior states...combined!!!

"By-Tor and the Snow DogSquare for battle, let the fray begin."  - Rush; By-Tor and the Snow Dog

Never one to let a good snowfall go to waste, we took the unexpected weather in stride and reacquainted ourselves with Winter's Harvest.  First order of business was snowballs...

The Boys playing catch & fetch with an unlimited supply of snowballs

...followed by the age-old tradition of making snow angels.




Our current trajectory was designed to route us across North Texas and into New Mexico and Arizona.  The weather forecast was bleak.  A large snowstorm was advancing across West Texas, and was projected to drop up to a foot of snow between us and New Mexico.  We couldn’t travel west…at least not right now.  It would be too risky to get into a remote stretch of West Texas and get trapped in a snowstorm.  

The forecast grew worse.  That same system was projected to bring heavy ice, sleet, and snow to North Texas…including Bonham.  If we stayed here, we’d be stuck…again.  It would certainly be a challenge to get the RV up a steep incline with an inch of ice on the road.  With the western route a no-go; and the northern route looking like the western route, our choices were limited: go eastward from where we just left, or go South. 

We prepared The Rig for another move, fueled Hank, and charted our course away from the impending storm.

"Hank" and the "natural clear-coat"

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Cooper Lake - South Sulphur Unit (TX)

Cooper Lake is a man-made impoundment created in 1991 by the Army Corp of Engineers, and covers over 19,300-acres spanning two Texas counties.  The lake has two camping facilities: Doctor’s Creek on the northern shore, and the South Sulphur Unit on the southern shore.  

Panorama of arid Cooper Lake shoreline

With the exception of the common use areas, this park is maintained in a conservative manner.  Dense wooded areas abound, and straying off existing trails will net a respectable work-out of bush-wacking your way through briars, cedar stands, and numerous micro-habitats under the sprawling post oaks.  There are pedestrian and animal trails just about everywhere, but the park only boasts 3 recognized and maintained trails: a half-mile and 2.8-mile hiking trail, and a 10-mile+ equestrian trail.  The equestrian trail (naturally) sits within a well-designed “horse-centric” area of the park; complete with horse trailer sites, hitching areas, and watering points along the narrow, winding trail.

"Get along little doggies" on the equestrian trail

During our visit, we were amazed at the lack of water in the lake.  After walking down an unofficial trail, we jumped off the bank and proceeded to walk another 200-meters until the lake bed became too mushy to continue…but we still hadn’t stepped into water.  We continued to walk “off shore” until we came across the dry channel leading to the boat ramp.  The “No Wake” sign lying in the tall grass was a grim reminder of the on-going drought that is punishing Texas.  When I asked the local ranger when he thought the lake would return to normal, he relayed that it would take a LOT of rain…and then some.  In addition to a deficit of natural precipitation, the water from this lake was being diverted to the Dallas/Fort Worth area.  Even in rural areas, high population can impact your daily life.

No Water = No Wake

One (perhaps the only) advantage to the extremely low lake level is the ability to practice animal track identification.  All of the animals make their daily treks to water’s edge, and the softer clay-soil enhances the outline of individual tracks.  On any given day we could find tracks for deer, coyotes, feral hogs, raccoons, ‘possums, and the nine-banded armadillo.  

Coyote tracks

Feral Hog tracks

The nine-banded armadillos have always been a favorite of ours.  They were a frequent visitor to our campsite, digging around in the leaf-litter for omnivore snacks.  Perhaps the most entertaining characteristic is their (seemingly) absolute deficit of any situational awareness.  Intently focused on the next few inches of leaf-covered soil, only to be surprised when they realize they are only feet away from another mammal.  Their started surprise always makes me laugh (‘cause I know people who are just like this).

We spent a few days touring the local area, as we planned on ranching in northeast Texas after the Chrysalis-L tour ends.  As we toured our potential stomping grounds and “dated” the communities, we started to get a more refined idea as to what ranching in northeast Texas would entail.  We continued to discuss our future, and explore the agrarian lifestyle around us.  It was time to move on…westward.  Time to see more of this great state and experience our potential homestead.

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TEXAS!!!

Warm winds blowing, heating blue sky; And a road that goes forever. — Chris Rea; Texas

We awoke to a warmer morning and the expectation of a great travel day.  It had been a long time since we had been this far west, and today we were going to put our feet in some familiar soil—TEXAS!!!

Anxious to get back to The Republic, we merged onto I-30 and drove into the sun.  The skies were mostly clear, with enough clouds to make the hemispheres interesting.  The winds were warm from the southwest, and we enjoyed a day of driving with the windows down—Kristy with her foot out the window, and the hounds with their air-inducted jowls flapping in the wind.

When we crossed over Route 59/71 in Texarkana, we began to see the familiar “lone stars” on buildings, fences, and highway infrastructure.  We could feel the Texas swagger in the air.  An hour further brought us to Mount Pleasant, home of Pilgrim’s Pride (chicken) and a place where Hank could stop for a drink.

I’m trying to get to Heaven in a Cadillac, My chariot’s a big ol’ Coupe De Ville — Eric Stuart; Heaven In A Cadillac

While we were filling our tanks with diesel, an American Classic pulled up to a nearby pump.  This well-preserved uber-cruizer was in pristine shape, and the owner continued to preen the body while fueling an equally impressive powerhouse engine.  When I asked him if I could take a few photos, he proudly agreed.  Both he and his car had that "Texas Swagger.”

Classic Americana roams the highways of Texas

Another 45-minutes and we were at Sulphur Springs and headed north on Texas 154—an arrow-straight country road with interstate speeds and wide shoulders where one is expected to use as the “slow lane” if there is a faster vehicle behind you.   A left onto FM (farm-to-market) 74 at Birthright, Texas…and we were practically at the park entrance.

The park was mostly empty (surprise…surprise).  The camping pads are very well spaced, and you would likely not see much of your neighbors even if the park had an increased census.  We backed Glory into our site, leveled the rig, and familiarized ourselves and the hounds on the flora & fauna that surrounded us.  During my teaching years at Brooks, we would routinely brief students (prior to going into field conditions) that everything in Texas either bites, stings, pokes, scratches, urticates, infects, or envenomates. We made our walk-around to identify the few scattered fire ant mounds (bites & stings); armadillo trails (bites & infects with leprosy); and poison ivy patches.

Jo Bob's place; Birthright,  Texas

I unloaded the firewood, set up the grill, and placed our sling-back chairs next to the fire-ring.  All that was left was a quick run back into “town” (Birthright; population: 40) for some celebratory Shiner Bock.  I headed back to the intersection of Texas 154/FM 74 to Jo Bob’s—a roadside market that has just about anything one could possibly need in rural Texas.  Once through the front door, you pass the lotto station, smokeless tobacco display, ginormous jerky offering, and a multitude of pre-packaged pastry selections.  From there you have a choice of working the chip/canned food/toiletry/medicine isle; the candy/magazine/bagged charcoal isle; or the hunting/fishing/boating/tire repair/work boot/cover-all/hats/coolers isle.  Like I said…this place had everything.  On the back wall was the object of my attention…the coolers.  It is here…past the stink bait…past the Farmers Almanac…past the Geritol…that I found………………

The hardest thing they serve in a glass...is ice.

……………that I was in a “dry" county.

I won’t walk a mile for a Camel, so I definitely won’t drive 40-miles round-trip for a Shiner.  I returned with two traditional Texas beverages: Dr. Pepper and sweet tea.  We cooked our dinner, sat around the campfire, and listened as the local wildlife tramped through the leaves just inside the darkness of our camp perimeter.  The new moon and lack of light pollution made the darkness and visible stars more pronounced.  It had been a long time since we had been able to sit comfortably outside—observing the heavenly bodies and enjoying the quiet solitude.  

It felt great to be back in Texas.

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50 Shades of Gray Squirrel

As we took our last evening walk through the scenic and peaceful riverside setting at Maumelle, we strolled a bit slower; taking in the beauty and majesty of the towering oaks that line the campground.  The Boys were maintaining their slow pace, making sure to leave no scent unsnapped.

Suddenly there was the sound of cracking from above, followed by a double-“thud” as if someone was dropping bags of flour from the lofty bows above.  The four of us jumped, startled at what could have possibly interrupted such a peaceful evening stroll.  This was when we saw the source of the commotion; two gray squirrels had apparently decided to attempt a double-suicide…and failed miserably.  Somewhat shaken, the two confusingly scampered away to (I guess) shake the cobwebs out of their noggins after experiencing a rude introduction to the laws of physics, gravity, and asphalt density.  It looked something like this...



The “Topic du Jour” had been selected by fate.

Not really understanding what we had just witnessed, I called an old friend who that I thought would be able to shed some light.  He was a PhD in Entomology, grew up in Arkansas, and claimed to have eaten hundreds of squirrels in his lifetime.  If anyone would be able to distinguish between suicidal tendencies of squirrels (because they are forced to live in Arkansas) and abnormal behavior of severely inbred squirrels (because they are forced to live in Arkansas), THIS guy would have THE answer.

After explaining what I had seen—followed by a few “Uh huh”…”Hmmmm”….”I seeeeeeee” (and other high-falutin’ PhD jargon)—he informed me that this was completely normal behavior for squirrels during their mating season.

Always the jokester—I immediately realized that he was pulling my leg and trying to “punk” me into believing that one of the smartest mammals with some of the most impressive aerial skills was going to simply going to take a 20’ dive onto pavement over a mating ritual?  Yea.  Right.

40-Year Flashback

This was not the first time someone had tried to punk me on the laws of science.  When I was but a boy of 9,  I overheard my father talking to someone about a couple who had just had their first child.  There was some discussion about the child’s birthdate and their wedding date, when my father—very convincingly—stated, “Well…you know…the first child only takes 7-months.”  The very next week I confidently walked into my 3rd-grade classroom and told my teacher that I knew something about babies that most people didn’t.  I accurately parroted the information that I had heard, but instead of getting a “You’re so smart Wesley” from her; all I got was a laugh and a dismissive comment of “That’s not right.”  If there was a 9-year old version of Robert “Bobby” Boucher, Jr., and his disappointment in the state of academic integrity in Gloucester County, Virginia—I was it.  I would not be "scientifically punked" again!

Back To Real-Time

We ended our small talk, wished each other well, and ended the call.  I IMMEDIATELY went to my most trusted source for all scientific truths—Google.  I became obsessed in understanding this rodent; wanting to get into it’s head and understand why it behaved in such a life-threatening manner.  

As I began my research, my first contact with the scientific descriptions were unexpected, almost to the point of being (dare I say?) sensual.

“...slender bodies,” “…large eyes,” “…soft and silky,”  “…long hind-limbs…”  (1)

Whoever was writing this must have spent a LOT of time alone in the woods studying these things…maybe TOO MUCH time.  Moving on to the next site, I found more examples of their observed ardent behavior; and this time they were getting aggressive.

"Fights between dominants and subordinates normally occur in the breeding seasons, and involve chases and wrestling.” (2)

"Males are attracted to the scent of oestrous females. Several males will frequently follow one female and often end up chasing her.  A male chasing a female does not give up so easily.” (2)

Mental images of lovable cartoon characters clash with their lewd behavior

The words leapt from the internet pages and shocked me.  How could this be?  Could these lovable cosmopolitan critters have a dark side that has been hidden behind the reputations of Rocky and Tommy Tucker?  The search continued, but it took me to a place…a dark place, inside the lewd rituals that are hidden within the hollow trunks of silent oaks.

“...the large scrotum of the males is conspicuous.” (2)

“...the nipples of breeding females are easily seen when they are sitting up.” (2)

“...a relaxed affair...often lying on her back for up to an hour to give access to her nipples.” (3)

STOPPPPPPPP!!!!!  This was WAY too much for me.  I began to see the towering trees through a different lens.  I was now camping under a canopy of lustful animals who were acting like they ate the whole rhino horn!  How could I ever look at one of these creatures again with thoughts of innocence?  Even worse; what if Kristy stumbled across my internet surfing history!!!?

Then I found the most disturbing piece of info.  As raunchy and obscene as the gray squirrel is, their behavior pales in comparison to their red-haired cousins; who seemingly wrote the book on promiscuity. (4)

I turned in for the evening with volumes of images swirling in my mind that needed reconciling.  Kristy and I made small talk, and discussed how retirement has changed our lives.  As she ran the back of her hand against my face, she said, “I really like your longer hair and beard.  I especially like all the gray."

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