I. Parades In Paradise

The upcoming 4th of July weekend allowed me a break from work and a chance to do a short ride. Of course, Big Bend was the perfect destination to make me feel like I’d gone someplace special… except the idea of the murderous heat that would be there. Checking the weather forecast, I was surprised to see “relatively” mild temperatures predicted for the region.

The next morning, July 4th, I awoke suffering badly with allergies and feeling like I had the flu. The weather was overcast but reasonably cool considering it was July in Texas.

Pig Pre-flight

With watering eyes and feeling lousy, I headed down Highway 16 towards Kerrville and I-10, gassing up at the Shell station at the junction.

Another rider was fueling up and I had the feeling we were heading the same direction.

Expecting scalding heat, I’d suited up in my mesh pants and Joe Rocket Phoenix 4 mesh jacket. I also decided to wear a new MX helmet I’d just purchased since I hadn't had a chance to try it out yet and I hoped the open face would help with the heat. Since I had no idea whether the new untested helmet design would catch the high west Texas winds badly, at the last minute I stuck my old helmet on the back seat.

The temperature was unseasonably cooler than I expected and after my 20 minute ride into town, I was praying for the sun to come out. I got on the highway about 7:30 am, just as the clouds began to break. The air was still chilly but the sun came out in earnest about halfway between Kerrville and Junction.

Luuuuke... I am your faaather...

Sun at last - woohoo!

About 15 miles from Junction I entered a heavy fog bank which lasted until I had passed Junction. Visibility was bad - maybe 100 yards max. The fog condensed on my glasses so heavily I had to constantly turn my head to let the water run off. To make matters worse, I was feeling REALLY sick and debated whether to turn around and head back home. Deciding I'd rather be sick with allergies in Big Bend than at home, I pushed on. The chill was pretty strong, even after the sun had come out. I'd been expecting to be sweating by 9 or 10 am, but there was definitely unseasonal cool in the breeze.

Breaking out the other side of the fog

About halfway to Sonora, the rider who'd filled up next to me in Kerrville passed me going about 90 in the 80 mph speed zone. Eventually he slowed and we both exited for gas in Sonora. Turns out he was heading for Roswell from Houston. I didn't get his name, but he was originally from Paris, France and riding a Honda 919.

He asked if I knew where the gas stations were along the way, since his range was about 120 miles. I told him they were spaced pretty far apart for the next few hours, but not to worry - I had spare fuel cannisters on the GS and if he was out on the side of the road, I'd gas him up. He laughed and headed on.

Passing Ozona and Bakersfield, the terrain changed into large plateaus and vistas, including a few wind turbines.

Texas seems to be becoming a little like Holland - only not.

I could tell the weather was a little different since the air was still cool when riding and I almost had to stop and put a jacket liner in. Mind blown in a Texas July.

I reached Ft. Stockton about 10:30 and gassed up, my first tank of $4.50 gasoline. Gas is always higher in the region, whether due to lack of competition or greater delivery costs, I have no idea.

Still feeling crappy, I hit the local Walmart to get some Sudafed red, but no luck.

The pharmacy was closed so I headed on to check out the town before going south to Marathon. A run through the old downtown and surrounding neighborhood was interesting. Some really old adobe house remains are there.

Paisano Pete

Where’s Michael Jackson???

After getting a shot of "Paisano Pete", the giant roadrunner, I headed on down 385. A couple of blocks later, a guy on a bike pulled in front wearing a US flag shirt. I followed him for a ways, miles actually, wondering if he was going to Marathon as well. We reached a stop sign and chatted for a sec before heading on. After a ways, I got the feeling I wasn't going the right direction and stopped on the shoulder. He pulled over and informed me I was NOT on the road to Marathon but on the way to a prison. Aargh.

I told him thanks and headed back into town, where I found the turn sign to Marathon covered by an untrimmed tree limb.

My "slight detour" had been about 20 miles or more, so I topped off the tank again in case the stations in Marathon were closed on the 4th. Having lost almost an hour in Ft. Stockton, it felt good to finally be zooming southward.

The road was nice and easy, with only oilfield trucks on the way. I arrived in Marathon about 1pm and gassed up to $4.70 a gallon. Marathon was a way-station and water stop for the old railroad and currently is the gateway for the north entrance into Big Bend National Park, being the last stop for gas and supplies. It’s small but features a great old hotel with high end dining room.

Deciding to get lunch, I found my voice had disappeared to just a whisper and had trouble ordering the burger. A glass of sweet tea helped and I talked with a lady and her little baby boy for a while outside the little cafe. She had recently moved to Marathon and was strolling the baby around. The burger appeared and was delicious, despite my allergy hangover. Several folks spoke with me and I was asked to come back Saturday evening for the "Post Dance” and barbecue.

Locals catch up on news while I catch up on fat…

Jalapeno & grilled onion cheeseburger - mmmmm

The dance sounded interesting to me and I appreciated the invitation. I sought out the "post road" to check it out before heading south for the BBNP.

The ride into Big Bend National is always so nice, just beautiful and amazing scenery. At the park entrance, the gal informed me that Old Maverick road to Luna's Jacal was impassable from recent rains and that the Rio Grande had flooded, possibly filling the hot springs with mud.

At 45 mph, it took a while to reach Panther Junction, which sits roughly half way between east and west parts of the park.

Luckily they had gas and I refueled with a chocolate ice cream sandwich, called “Mississippi Mud”, to carry on the flooded hot springs theme. Woohoo! After hours in the sun and wind, the cold creamy goodness was awesome. The temperature had risen noticeably in the park and I was now sweating like crazy. My poor little sweat glands were exhausted, their tiny tongues hanging out to cool.

Don't hate me because I'm beautiful...

I rode on west out of the park to Study Butte and Terlingua, enjoying the views and stunning scenery. Rain drops came sporadically under the billowy clouds and I enjoyed the cool drops that hit my face.

Rain in the desert - a beautiful sight to see

I rode on through Study Butte and Terlingua, checking prices on a couple of motels and then looped through the Ghost Town, swinging by World Famous Uncle Roger's place. Sho' nuff he wasn't there as I expected, but the place looked good.

His gazebo was almost finished... either that or he was building a cedar version of Stonehenge.

I ended up at the Chisos Mining Company motel next to the hot pink Kathy's Kosmic Kowgirl Kafe. The motel clerk informed me that there was to be a parade that evening, starting in Study Butte and ending up at Kathy's about 7pm. The shindig was to benefit the Emergency Medical Services for the Terlingua area and there would be free food - donations accepted of course.

I checked in and cooled down some, finishing up with a shower before heading out to watch the upcoming parade.

Locals had begun to gather at Kathy's and you could see the parade a mile away in Study Butte forming up. The pre-parade tension was palpable.

After a while, the show arrived - a panoply of decorated International Scout 4x4’s, horses and riders, four wheelers, trucks, fire trucks, law enforcement and whoever else wandered in. At the same time, a couple of horsemen charged up the hill across the way with flags. The float people (floaters?) tossed candy to the crowd. Unfortunately we were across the road and the candy shattered and splattered on the hot asphalt.

Kathy was parade marshal in the lead Scout. The whole shebang was a hoot!

"Los Diablos" - a brush fire team from BBNP - received the biggest cheers by far!

The crowd thickened and food was served to the sounds of Texas music. I gorged on a combo of health food - hot dogs and chili, donated for the dinner and then bought a Terlingua EMS shirt to help the fund. Kathy came over, despite being busy running the show and told me that this was actually the “2nd Annual” 4th of July Parade to benefit the EMS. I was disappointed to find out I’d missed the 1st version the previous year, but then again I had no idea they had a parade anyway so I got over it.

Finally tiring of all the autograph hounds, stalkers and sycophants who wouldn’t give me a moment’s peace, I left the party for a ride down to the ghost town at sunset, wandering in the old cemetery and around the buildings for a few photos.

The General Store porch was derelict since the party was at Kathy's, save a couple of tipsy locals who’d had their own party and welcomed me to Terlingua with voluminous beer breath.

From there I headed back past Kathy's, where the shindig was continuing until late, to the motel adjacent for some sleep, exhausted from the ride in the heat and the hellacious allergies. Still, it was wonderful.

More tomorra...

Continue to Page II

II. Dance Marathon

July da 5th!

I woke up feeling a little weak but better than yesterday. The morning sun had that hot sting to it and I could tell today was gonna be hot and miserable. Still, the view from my motel doorway made life better.

Breaking tradition terribly, I headed for the Ghost Town Cafe for breakfast rather than fabulous Kathy’s Kosmic. It turned out to be a blessing in disguise.

When I sat down at the table, I noticed a slightly grizzled character across the way, eating breakfast with his huge glass of ice tea. As I studied him, the face looked somehow familiar. I got up and approached the table, introducing myself and asking if he was a photographer by any chance. It turns out he was Blair Pittman, a National Geographic photographer I'd met in Big Bend way back in 1981 on my first trip to the region. I was on a college photography trip and Blair had been the guest speaker and guide to the area. Blair was an expert in the Big Bend area, doing books and articles on the region.

We chatted a little and caught up on 36 years of history, though of course he wouldn’t have remembered me. Turns out he was heading to the barbecue and dance in Marathon a little later and I told him we might bump heads again if I headed that way.

National Geographic photog and Big Bend expert Blair Pittman

I headed up to "the porch" in the Ghost Town after breakfast, to find a couple of locals already following tradition... Lone Star beer and coolers, enjoying the shade and watching little of nothing wander past. I sat on the bench to upload my ride report with the free wifi before heading into the park for a late morning ride…

Three hours later, I was still engrossed in the hilarious conversations and gossip on the porch. Of course I felt like a dweeb in all my riding gear with a laptop while the locals drank beer in shorts and t-shirts. It didn't go unnoticed and I got my share of ribbing. The sheriff showed up with a dog he'd found on the road, delivering to its owner who was quite happy - the dog had run off during all the fireworks the previous night.

The sheriff sat down next to me and we all talked for an hour or two. Topics ranged from oppressive government to high fuel prices to the sexual persuasion of the "artists" in Marfa... whom they call "Marfadites"... Pretty much everything else was covered in the conversations.

Terlingua had an outlaw radio station in the old derelict mansion run by host "Uh Clem", who wandered up and sat with ubiquitous "Doug" on the porch. He and Doug explained to me that broadcasting had been interrupted because the antenna at the top of the radio tower needed fixing. They tried to get me to climb the wooden radio tower and install something. I told them no, since I knew they only wanted to see a stupid tourist fall to his death. Then Clem upped the ante by telling me if I did climb the tower and fix the antenna, I could take over his role as radio DJ since he was having to deal with glaucoma now and things were far more difficult for him. The thought intrigued me briefly, keeping the locals entertained and informed with my wit and wisdom between songs from George Jones and Led Zeppelin, but somehow "Wolfman Joe" just didn't fit, nor the idea of climbing a rickety tower so I politely declined.

Having passed Uh Clem and Doug’s initiation test, Doug told me I was now officially on the Terlingua SWAT team, then handed me a flyswatter and told me to do my part.

As always, I enjoyed the banter and bs of the folks who choose life in Terlingua - so much more fun than the shallow plastic cookie cutter people I live around.

By now it was dead hot and I was getting sleepy in the cool breeze on the porch. If I didn't leave for the park soon, I'd never leave. I got on the bike to well wishes from my porch friends - except for one who told me to “take chances, ride dangerously and do foolish things.” I laughed and headed out.

The first foolish thing I did was passing “Passing Wind” and sure enough Jimmy had finished his submarine. My last trip out, Jimmy the owner had been talking about adding a submarine to his naval fleet, but hadn’t yet started it. Jimmy was a retired Navy sailor from Brooklyn, who fell in love with Terlingua, moved there and began building a fleet of ships in the desert. There was a pirate ship, whom the telephone company had helped build by installing telephone poles as masts and other nautical things which I can’t remember at the moment, not to mention a statue of liberty. He’d also built a flaming volcano, powered by propane with propane powered flaming lava flowing down the side and a tiki bar to complete the south seas feel of "Passing Wind". Somehow I had expected more than just a conning tower for the submarine, but at the same time I really didn't expect much either, so all was fine. I felt warm and fuzzy and patriotic knowing our Navy was protecting Big Bend.

After leaving the Ghost Town I didn’t make it far, the first dangerous and wild thing was a stop at the Study Butte store for a root beer to cool off before entering the park. The second foolish thing I did was sit down by a wild and dangerous dog. I was lucky to survive.

Happy to live through the dangerous canine encounter, I hit the road for Big Bend National Park.

The park was absolutely spectacular. The rains had cleared the air and greened up the place. I was feeling greatly better than the day before, likely from the lack of allergens in the desert. I just rode slowly, taking in the colors and aromas. The clouds were gorgeous and made every direction a photo op.

Needless to say, there were very few visitors and no motorcycles. Of course most intelligent people would avoid the desert heat of mid-summer on a motorcycle, but there are plenty of spots to cool off.

I headed on up to the Chisos Mountains Basin, enjoying the cooler air and slow, winding road up to 4 or 5,000 feet. In the gift shop at the lodge and campground, I bumped into an 80 year old man who'd been sitting on the porch earlier when I was there. He and I gabbed while his 40 year old girlfriend bought out the place. He shared a few stories and advice on a couple of roads to take. Figured I'd avoid marriage advice from him though, but come to think of it maybe I should have listened? I bet his advice would be to get rich to find true love at half your age.

Heading back down from the basin, I was engaged by the scale of the valley ahead. That's one thing I love about the Big Bend region is the massive scale. It reminds of a little of Wyoming or Utah hidden away near the border.

Rio Grande Village on the far eastern side of the park called my name and I headed that direction from the basin, watching the gigantic valley ahead. Traveling west to east across the park is roughly 60 miles, with the basin entrance closer to the western side, with Panther Junction Ranger Station being roughly half way across the park. The heat grew more intense as I dropped into lower elevations on the eastern side and I sucked my Camelbak dry in short order. The temperature difference from the east side to the west side was stark. The west side was certainly hot, a few showers keeping the temps a little cooler, but the eastern side was significantly hotter. For sections it was so intense I felt I couldn’t get my breath and wondered if I’d pass out and run off the road. It was stifling.

Heading for the eastern valley of Big Bend National Park

I finally made the campground and general store at Rio Grande Village and ate a snack about 4 pm, then gassed up the Beemer.

The attendant told me the old river crossing at nearby Boquillas was no longer accessible since the 911 terror ban, which was a shame since it was fun to float over into Mexico on the 55 gallon drum boats. One could walk or ride a donkey up to the village of Boquillas for Mexican tacos and a cerveza. Oh well, at least I have the memories.

I headed on towards Boquillas Canyon and the old crossing anyway to make the farthest point and to see what it was like now. The heat kept its hands around my throat.

At the river overlook, I could see the old Mexican town of Boquillas del Carmen and a good view of the river. Which might be why they call it a river overlook.

Across the Rio, I spotted a suspicious cow in the edge of the water, suspecting it was indeed two men in a costume who would surreptitiously graze their way over to the U.S. side then trot north for a large metropolitan city.

However, next to my bike and taped to a rock was a hand written sign with "Walking sticks for sale. Scorpions $5" and a little jar of money on the ground beside the rock. The sign also mentioned donations for the school children or something. I desperately wanted to buy a scorpion since I have no pets and waited but there was no one around. Despite my calls of “Hey scorpion man” no one appeared and as there were no scorpions to be found I assumed they’d sold out for the day and instead rode on.

By now it was really hot and I was having paranoid delusions induced by the heat and lack of root beer in my system. My plan was to ride to Marathon from the park and spend the night, attending the "Post Dance" this evening.

Realizing I still had to go all the way through the park and then up to Marathon, I raced out at the mind-numbing park speed of 45 mph. It was now so frickin hot I thought I was gonna die.

It seemed like hours before I finally got out of the park, heading north and into somewhat cooler temps. Woohoo!

I’d forgotten the Feds were waiting a couple of miles south of Marathon at the border checkpoint. The officer began asking me questions but I couldn't hear with my ear plugs in so I shouted "Wait, I gotta take my ear plugs out" and started trying to undo my helmet, finally getting one plug out of my ear. The officer said "Take it easy, I just need to ask a few questions."

Maybe it was my sunburned face, maybe it was me talking louder than normal since I had earplugs in, but I have no idea why he thought I was NOT taking it easy... anyway, he asked me if I had come from the "Legion"? ... frantic thoughts raced through my head "The French Foreign Legion?", the demon Jesus talked to named "legion"?

I had no idea what he was talking about and said "What are you talking about?" Then he said something about the Legion meeting down south. I said "No, I didn't know anything about that. I was in Terlingua and just rode through the park." I didn't mention the scorpion set-up and was glad I hadn’t bought an illegal Mexican scorpion after all, knowing I would have easily broken under questioning. He looked at me for a bit and then said "Ok, be safe" and waved me through.

The last coupla’ miles to Marathon were nice, but it was getting late and I had a feeling I’d have trouble finding a room. My fears were confirmed when I saw all the cars on the street outside the historic Gage Hotel. I rode down to the Marathon Motel and the attendant was kind enough to call the few lodgings for me, but said nothing was available. She said aside from the Post Dance which brought in ranch families from all over the region, somebody had died the day before so the whole town was full.

I figured going to the dance wasn’t in the cards and I was very drained from the day in the heat, so I grudgingly decided to head east for Sanderson and spend the night there, making the next day a shorter ride back to Kerrville. On a whim and despite the cars, I pulled in at the Gage just to check. They’d just had a cancellation and had a room upstairs in the old hotel. They have newer and more modern villas and rooms built adjacent, but I was happy for anything.

The hotel is pricey and a little upscale, or rather the guests and restaurant are. I felt awkward in my smelly shirt and disgusting helmet hairdo. Lots of guests were all duded up for the dance and unfortunately I’d left my tux in Kerrville.

Lobby of the Gage

I carried my stuff upstairs to the tiny room and would have taken a photo but it was so small I couldn't raise my arms to do so. All for $106 bucks as well. What I always forget about historic hotels is the tiny beds and tiny rooms, but at least they’d have quail's tongue brazed in kitten's milk on the swanky menu.

Took a quick shower and changed into my least smelly clothes - the ones from the previous day - then wandered around the hotel. It was a very cool place. I flopped in a chair to work on the blog on my laptop, across the lobby from the most realistic stuffed mountain lion I’ve ever seen. It actually made me nervous.

About dusk I hopped on the Gehlland Strasse and took the road to "the Post". The air was actually quite cool and chilly in my t-shirt. About 100 yards from the park entrance, the local pickups had begun lining the side of the road. I pulled on in to the actul parking lot and swung the kickstand down next to a Harley just as I heard the band singing the National Anthem in the distance. I paused with the crowd and put my hand over my heart, surrounded by cowboys and country boys, proud of our flag.

Upon further reading, I discovered that the "Post" was an original U.S. Cavalry post built at the local spring to fight the Commanche raiding parties that came through on the way to Mexico. The large spring had been used by the Indians for ages and the cavalry post was established to block their access to the life-necessary water. Robert E. Lee was stationed as commander there for a while.

The local ranchers and others were dressed up for the dance in pressed Wranglers and starched western shirts, cowboy hats centered perfectly. The folks were bringing chairs and coolers in a constant stream of arrival. There were probably about 150 there already and by dark I guessed the number was close to 500.

The band was already playing and the dance had begun.

As the western music played and the darkness fell, the boot scootin’ grew on the sand covered concrete pad.

I wandered around the little park as the crowd grew and the crescent moon rose over the hills. It was fascinating watching the ranch families and folks enjoying themselves, me an oddly dressed outsider like an astronaut floating through.

Watching the dance beneath the tall trees fed by the spring, a cool night breeze blowing and 4th of July fireworks exploding overhead, I was swept back many years to a time in America's past. The families, the cowboys and their wives and girlfriends, the young teen boys dressed up hopefully. It all came rushing in and for a second I got choked up and felt a tear in my eye. It is good to know America still exists in hidden places.

More tomorrow my friends...

Continue to Page III

III. Punishment & Pecan Pie

The Post Dance lasted officially til 1 am, but after being a wallflower I left about 11pm and headed back to the hotel for some down time. I was a bit hungry and let me tell you there ain't even a vending machine in Marathon after 10 pm.

I came into the lobby of the Gage to sit down and finish the ride blog, the only place they had wifi in the hotel, and asked the desk clerk if she knew of any place I could find a vending machine since I hadn't had supper. I tried to look extra emaciated but it just doesn't work since I'm not. She said "hang on a sec..." and in a couple of minutes appeared from the Quail Tongues kitchen with two goodies for me. She dropped them in my helmet and gave a belly laugh, saying "They'll never miss 'em!"

I thanked her profusely and upon inspection in the room found one to be a chocolate muffin and the other a small travel size pecan pie. Woohoo! Nothing like a late night sugar rush when you need to sleep.

Figuring the pecan pie had too much sugar, I scarfed the chocolate muffin and washed it down with a complimentary bottle of water from my nightstand. It was right next to the complimentary earplugs. More on that later…

Well, the chocolate muffin had it's revenge. I had a horrible nightmare in which I was sitting on a couch next to Tommy Lee Jones. He sat at the other end of the couch and stared at me with an angry look. It was a huge eternity of silence while he looked at me over his folded newspaper and I couldn't think of anything to say to him. This went on forever it seemed. I realize Tommy always looks angry, but he was not a conversationalist. Maybe I had a near-death experience and went to Hades for a moment. Shudder.

Anyway, I actually like the Gage Hotel - it's a beautiful place and decorated nicely. You should stay there at least once if you get the chance. One word of caution, the floors squeak like you wouldn't believe and the walls and doors are paper thin. Toilet paper thin. About 1 am when I finally made it to the room, I was painfully aware of all the folks sleeping and tried to be quiet. Of course I had to go from the bed to the potty right before sleeping and I blanched, thinking of all the noise my footsteps would make. I tried to tiptoe quietly, but each step sounded like 2000 sweaty thighs sliding on naugahyde and vinyl. My God it was noisy. It seemed to take an eternity to make it to the bathroom and back.

I thought maybe the earplugs were for the squeaky floors, but later realized they were for many things, including the trains across the road.

The bed felt good for a while, until I realized my 6'4” body was in a 6' bed frame with footboard. I wrestled with it all night eventually sleeping diagonally across the bed. Damb those old historic hotel beds! When I finally woke up and sat up, I actually heard the person in the room next door putting on their jeans and could hear the zipper zipping. Yikes! God only knows what he thought when I put my boots on... hearing huge patches of velcro ripping and the snapping of many buckles...

I carried my gear through the lobby, my big ziplock bags of clothes stuffed proudly under each arm and one held between my teeth (both arms were full). Outside it was threatening rain and very cool and my instincts told me to eat breakfast. I stuffed my gear in the side cases and headed into the Quail Lips Cafe for breakfast. The menu featured no exotic breakfast fare - much to my disappointment, so I ordered the Biscuits and Wild Sage Sausage Gravy with fruit side.

All I gotta say is "You can't fool momma's little biscuit eater". Beneath the free range sage gravy lay two pre-made biscuits like the ones that come from Sam’s Club. With the reputation of the chef there, I was expecting at least handmade biscuits. Man my life sucks sometimes.

All foolishness and stupidity aside, the Gage is a cool hotel and a fun place to stay...

I filled up at the Shell station in the drizzle and cool wind. The horizon was ominous and threatening rain. A front had blown in from the Davis Mountains to the north and since the elevation of Alpine and Marathon was around 4000’ it was usually cooler than Terlingua and the desert of Big Bend.

Heading out for Sanderson, there was a chill in the air and spats of rain. I didn't see a single car for miles, instead enjoying the fantastic scenes made by light and shadow on the hills around me. I really felt like I was in New Mexico or Wyoming. A very surreal ride but enjoyable despite the threatening rain.

Somebody tell me I'm in Texas...

The thing about rain is it has a tendency to suck you in until it's too late when you’re on a motorcycle. It sprinkles then stops, sprinkles then stops, sprinkles then stops until you are drawn into the "maybe I don't need to stop and put on my rain gear cause it might not last" syndrome. Miles later you are shivering from hypothermia, finally stop and put on all your gear, only for the rain to end.

Guess what...

I finally suited up and was glad I did this time. The rain came in spurts and stops, stinging my face at 75 mph in the open face MX helmet. The ride to Sanderson continued the surreal atmosphere, surrounded by billowy grey clouds just above ground level.

Gassed up in Sanderson, where fuel prices were a bit better than further west. It's a busy little town for such a small place.

The obligatory shot of someone taking the obligatory shot.

This old motel in Sanderson played a bit part in the Coen Bros movie “No Country For Old Men”

I had been traveling east on Highway 90, my preferred route though slower than I-10, but decided to cut north up to Sheffield and see Fort Lancaster from Sanderson, so I headed north on 285. About a mile out of town, the rain got a lot stronger and lasted for miles until I reached FM 2400 to cut east towards Sheffield.

Nothing warms my heart more than seeing a sign like this when it's raining and you've got 39 miles to go on a road you've never ridden...

Each of the dips and wash crossings were fresh with signs of recent flooding - piles of rock, dirt and brush that had been pushed off by road crews. Apparently they'd had some serious flooding earlier in the week. I stayed on my toes for the ride, since it continued to rain and it's easy to hit unseen standing water in the dips. After about 30 miles, the sporadic rain stopped and it dried out a little.

The road is a nice winding road with zero traffic - a good alternative as a cut down to Big Bend for someone wanting a back road trip. All I gotta say is out there is a whole lotta nada, a whole lotta notta-lotta out there.

I caught up to my first car as I turned north on 349 for Sheffield.

As I came up to the car and made a pass on a long straight, I saw a single buzzard sitting on the yellow line nibbling on something (ancho crusted quail probably). The stare down began, and since my speed was high from just passing the car and I couldn't hit the brakes hard, I watched in slo-mo as his brainless beady-eyed and nasty red head tracked me.

Sure enough, 20 feet from me, he launched directly at my front fender. I dove against the tank bag and felt his wings brush over me. Good gawd I can't believe he didn't hit me... I'm sure the car behind me was enjoying the show but I wasn't. Last summer I had a pigeon hit dead center on my face shield on a busy freeway and I saw double and almost blacked out from the impact. I hate to think what a big buzzard would have done had it smacked me in the head at 75 mph.

Thankfully, I carry spare shorts for just such occasions and now wide awake, I rode on for Sheffield.

Sheffield was a simple, old oil field type town with not much there. I continued west on Highway 290 for Fort Lancaster.

I had only ridden a short time before my next animal test appeared.

Multiple Choice Question for Motorcyclists:

Do you:

A. Swerve left to avoid the steer with horns on the right?

B. Swerve right to avoid the steer with horns on the left?

C. Hope the two cows hidden by the branches don’t go insane?

D. Stay straight and challenge the hyper-acting steer with horns on the edge of the roadway?

E. Curse Mr. Buzzard for his horned friends?

F. All of the above

Anyway, I slowed quickly and the squirrelly cattle began acting squirrelly. The ones on the side bolted differing directions generally away from the road, but the crazy one in the middle ran to right, then immediately looped back onto the road in front of me, where he then ran for a ways in the middle of the highway before going left into the ditch and running alongside me for about 100 yards before heading off into someone’s driveway. The joys of riding.

By this time I was tired of chasing cows, buzzards and rainbows and needed a butt break.

Fort Lancaster State Historic Site came up soon after.

I was the only person at the Fort and the lady working there wasn't too friendly. I wandered through the exhibit, which seemed focused on one thing mainly:

Now known as riding a KTM...

For BMW riders it’s like wearing non-BMW branded gear...

An old Boy Scout trick...

Some might say… marriage?

Now they make you watch videos of Hillary Clinton telling jokes

I hope you found that as interesting and informative as I did.

From learning about punishment of wayward soldiers, I wandered outside and onto the old fort's parade grounds.

It required much imagination.

It's cool to see the old remains, but it ain't exactly an exciting place to wander.

This centipede and I were the only visitors. Sadly for him, it’ll take a lot longer to do the tour than it did me.

This reminds me of a motel I stayed at in Cody, Wyoming...

The time seemed right to eat my lunch and tank up on water. It just so happened that I had a travel size pecan pie from The Gage Hotel riding shotgun. Poor guy.

Post pecan pie and fueled by a health food of sugar and pecans, I headed for I-10, briefly stopping at the overlook at the top of the hill for a snapshot. Nice view of the area.

The sun came out just as I eased onto the Interstate and hammered the throttle for Kerrville. The weather was definitely weird though - clouds and spattering rain alternated with bright sunshine from Sheffield all the way to Ozona, where I whipped in for gas.

After topping off, I headed downtown to see the place, circling the square and eventually pulling up to a statue of Davy Crockett, his quote of "Make sure you're right then go ahead" carved along the bottom. I pulled out the camera for a shot, still wearing my Darth Vader helmet. As I turned back straight, I was shocked to see the Sheriff sitting right alongside me with his window rolled down, saying something to me. I yanked my helmet off to get my earplugs out, forgetting I had my sunglasses on and launching them to the ground under his truck. He laughed and apologized, then asked me if I'd noticed the dark area on the statue. He then told me some teens had napalmed Davy Crockett's crotch and burned that area of the statue black the previous year but now it was mostly gone.

He asked where I was from and where I was heading.

I told him I'd never seen Ozona before and had swung off the freeway. We ended up talking a long time - he gave me the history of the town, which isn't really a town since it was never incorporated. He pointed out the old jail with its hanging pole still intact. He said the county was 3000 square miles and a very interesting place to live. I enjoyed talking with him and he told me some routes to ride in the future. He also said the non-town had grown up around an old well which overlooked the area and suggested I ride to see it. He genuinely told me to be careful and try to stay off I-10 if possible. I wished him well and offered the same blessing to be safe and I hoped to meet up with him again.

The old jail and current Sheriff's HQ

I found the old water well site and though it was nothing to really see, it did have somewhat of a view.

Back on the freeway, I burned premium towards Sonora and then on to Junction. The bizarre weather continued, with gusts of severe winds from the south.

About 30 miles outside Junction, two ominous black storm clouds billowed ahead with pouring rain. As I hit the rain, I pulled off the highway under a tree to suit up in rain gear. Not particularly safe but there were no exits anywhere close...

After riding in the rain a few minutes, the sun came out, of course and I sweltered until Junction and a gas stop where I could get out of the rain gear.

The classic Isaack Restaurant and “The Hills” motel in Junction where I’d stayed in the spring for the Two Wheeled Texans Dual Sport event.

From Junction on to Kerrville, there was no more drama other than high winds and the realization my 3 day 4th of July weekend was now history.

I rolled into the Shell station where I'd gassed up Friday morning in Kerrville, just as the odometer rolled over to 1002 miles for the trip. Add another 12 to my home and call it done!

it was a fun and funky weekend in Big Bend!

Thanks for reading and stay safe my fellow travelers…

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