Sagging West Texas

Today's guest blogger is Dan Fishwick.

And now for something of a different perspective, although Holly and Bill, sag drivers of the first two weeks, also logged in on the blog.

Personally, I’ve been getting in ten to twelve miles on the bike each day. Not great, I realize, but my average speed across Texas is probably 55-65 mph. Not bad, eh. You see, I have a job to do. It’s to zoom down the highway fifteen miles ahead of the cyclists, set up in a “shady” place and wait a few minutes before throwing out bananas and nutra-grain bars to a ravenous throng of three. That usually leaves plenty of time later for fiddling, looking at the wide vistas, and on foot exploring the nearby selection of succulents and cacti. Then I drive to town and get us set up in the pre-planned luxury accommodations. After everyone has come in, I try to jump on the bike myself and check out the back side of these dying west Texas towns. You won’t believe how many great shots I have of roofless barns, fallen windmills, rusted tractors and sagging signs advertising “home cooking” to bygone generations.

This morning we left Indian Lodge in Fort Davis. Quite a place. Indian Lodge looked like something out of Georgia O’Keefe’s file—thick adobe walls, courtyards, up a canyon with a brilliant night sky and a long look out to the desert in the morning. Indian Lodge and the Bear Restaurant was a 1930s WPA project completed just after the extirpation of Indians (and bears and bandits). So, inexplicably, they called it Indian Lodge. Coming down that canyon we had our first look at a group of peccaries or javelinas. These are, I suppose, feral pigs, similar to boars, but small, more like boar-lites.

If you’ve not been in western Texas, don’t worry, you’ve seen it. You can’t help thinking of the movies you’ve grown up with. As we headed out of Fort Davis, we were dwarfed by massive boulders on both sides. I imagined being ambushed just like the Lone Ranger and Tonto in every one of their episodes. And in this territory of old forts from the days of the post-war (Civil) Indian troubles (theirs), I kept expecting John Wayne to ride up on a white mount in his crispy-blue cavalry uniform to let me know I couldn’t park this van for more than five minutes at the turnout. The Border Patrol guys had to stand in for the Duke. They took me for a good guy.

But really the movie that I keep coming back to in these parts is

The Last Picture Show.

It’s about living in western Texas 30 or 40 years ago, clutching to a thread of livelihood and sanity. Not much left of the thread now. History out here seems to be measured in decisive chunks—1.before white men, 2. after Indians, 3.the train era, 4.the highway era, 5.interstates passing it all by. And what’s left is probably not a lot different from what it was a long time ago. Vast. Bright. Sparse.

After traversing some of the most beautiful country in this country, we came to Marathon, Texas. The main street has a few solid-looking stone buildings from the late nineteenth and early twentieth century. Smart enough looking to encourage a crop of boutiques and galleries, but this is west Texas, and in the corner of nearly every window was a “for sale” sign. Could be yours for a song. We are at Captain Shepherd’s Inn, a fabulous old home of the town founder. But it, too, is for sale and I had to run to a motel down the street to get the key. It’s a comfortable carriage house, complete with fireplace and full kitchen where we cooked a grand meal, the four of us celebrating another great day. From what I can tell, it might even be better than Marv’s, whose invitation to stay for free at his hostel we had to decline. Scott may be able to fill you in.

I like this place. I could live here. But not for long.

To see a map of our ride so far, follow this link:
http://www.mapmyride.com/route/us/ca/san diego/708128770032090074