tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-54449150563207300482024-02-02T12:39:44.455-08:00The Texas Perimeter HikeBeing the story of Texas, its people, and the first 3000-mile trek along the perimeter of the state.Smatthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08728966785725757302noreply@blogger.comBlogger103125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5444915056320730048.post-44177589320894622302010-12-18T07:43:00.000-08:002010-12-18T08:59:20.429-08:00For Those Just Tuning In...This site represents a very long year's worth of blogging. For those of you just coming to it, I've put together a few page links below which will give you a good smattering of my trek around Texas.<br />.<br />I get asked a lot of questions about people, animals, weather, and more with a certain amount of frequency. The following blogs will address these issues with a specific story.<br />.<br /><a href="http://texasperimeterhike.blogspot.com/2009/10/scary-incident-at-beach.html">The Scary Incident at the Beach</a><br /><a href="http://texasperimeterhike.blogspot.com/2009/10/panthers-scream.html">The Panther's Scream</a><br /><a href="http://texasperimeterhike.blogspot.com/2010/01/childress-texas.html">The Ice Storm in the Lower Panhandle</a><br /><a href="http://texasperimeterhike.blogspot.com/2010/04/muleshoe.html">The People of Muleshoe, Texas</a><br /><a href="http://texasperimeterhike.blogspot.com/2010/06/big-bend-national-park.html">Big Bend National Park Thoughts</a><br /><a href="http://texasperimeterhike.blogspot.com/2010/07/hostel-in-marathon-la-loma-del-chivo.html">The Funkiest Hostel in Texas</a><br /><a href="http://texasperimeterhike.blogspot.com/2010/07/border-patrol-and-my-daytimenighttime.html">My Nighttime Border Stretch</a><br /><a href="http://texasperimeterhike.blogspot.com/2010/07/seminole-canyon-state-park.html">Sneaking into a State Park</a><br /><a href="http://texasperimeterhike.blogspot.com/2010/09/end.html">Reflections</a><br /><a href="http://texasperimeterhike.blogspot.com/2010/10/final-map.html">The Final Map</a><br />.<br />Faces of Texas was a recurring blog post about the people I met along the way. Click on the region to see who I met and what their stories are. There will be some overlap between regions, but by and large, it'll be accurate. Also, when a region is mentioned multiple times, just keep in mind, I was walking, not driving, through these places. I spent a LOT of time in each corner of the state.<br />.<br /><a href="http://texasperimeterhike.blogspot.com/2009/09/faces-of-texas.html">The Gulf Coast</a><br /><a href="http://texasperimeterhike.blogspot.com/2009/09/faces-of-texas-aransas-national.html">The Gulf Coast</a><br /><a href="http://texasperimeterhike.blogspot.com/2009/09/faces-of-texas_26.html">The Gulf Coast</a><br /><a href="http://texasperimeterhike.blogspot.com/2009/10/faces-of-texas-shangri-la-botanical.html">East Texas</a><br /><a href="http://texasperimeterhike.blogspot.com/2009/10/faces-of-texas.html">East Texas</a><br /><a href="http://texasperimeterhike.blogspot.com/2009/11/faces-of-texas.html">East Texas</a><br /><a href="http://texasperimeterhike.blogspot.com/2010/02/faces-of-texas.html">North Texas</a><br /><a href="http://texasperimeterhike.blogspot.com/2010/02/faces-of-texas-caprock-canyons-state.html">The Panhandle</a><br /><a href="http://texasperimeterhike.blogspot.com/2010/04/blog-post.html">The Panhandle</a><br /><a href="http://texasperimeterhike.blogspot.com/2010/05/faces-of-texas.html">The Panhandle</a><br /><a href="http://texasperimeterhike.blogspot.com/2010/06/faces-of-texas.html">West Texas</a><br /><a href="http://texasperimeterhike.blogspot.com/2010/07/faces-of-texas.html">West Texas</a><br /><a href="http://texasperimeterhike.blogspot.com/2010/08/faces-of-texas.html">South Texas</a><br />.<br />Finally, here are my days and miles with journal entries mixed in. It's basically a log of how much I'd done for the day with pictures of things I'd seen.<br />.<br /><a href="http://texasperimeterhike.blogspot.com/2009/09/days-one-through-eight.html">Days 1-8</a><br /><a href="http://texasperimeterhike.blogspot.com/2009/09/days-nine-through-twenty-two.html">Days 9-22</a><br /><a href="http://texasperimeterhike.blogspot.com/2009/09/days-twenty-three-through-thirty-two_28.html">Days 23-32</a><br /><a href="http://texasperimeterhike.blogspot.com/2009/10/days-thirty-three-through-forty-seven.html">Days 33-47</a><br /><a href="http://texasperimeterhike.blogspot.com/2009/11/days-forty-eight-through-eighty-five.html">Days 48-85</a><br />(Break for Toe Fracture)<br /><a href="http://texasperimeterhike.blogspot.com/2010/01/days-one-hundred-twenty-eight-through.html">Days 128-145</a><br /><a href="http://texasperimeterhike.blogspot.com/2010/02/days-one-hundred-forty-six-through-one.html">Days 146-185</a><br /><a href="http://texasperimeterhike.blogspot.com/2010/04/days-one-hundred-eighty-six-to-two.html">Days 186-231</a><br /><a href="http://texasperimeterhike.blogspot.com/2010/06/days.html">Days 232-290</a><br /><a href="http://texasperimeterhike.blogspot.com/2010/09/days-two-hundred-ninety-one-to-three.html">Days 291-359</a><br />.<br />Hope this works out for everyone. If you have any questions or additional comments, please feel free to write me at smattathias@gmail.com. You can also find me on Facebook under Steven Matthew Read.<br />.<br />Enjoy!Smatthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08728966785725757302noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5444915056320730048.post-54420625794875547602010-10-26T07:11:00.000-07:002010-12-12T14:58:29.960-08:00The Final Map<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNdfQx8p8R9WwxClh1ExNViF5e95clL3-oyHcFCouFpyH2aAPvoVWuWjVAaXlHstZjYmvcLBQlGgfmtPreCOLOrxOWNGHz0k9OfkDCn6SAW4FDO-HVtc6GCJCfJsFfpb2xGBAzbdsQDaxG/s1600/TPH+map+normal.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 311px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5532357506748111330" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNdfQx8p8R9WwxClh1ExNViF5e95clL3-oyHcFCouFpyH2aAPvoVWuWjVAaXlHstZjYmvcLBQlGgfmtPreCOLOrxOWNGHz0k9OfkDCn6SAW4FDO-HVtc6GCJCfJsFfpb2xGBAzbdsQDaxG/s400/TPH+map+normal.JPG" /></a> .<br />This map has been LOOOONG overdue. All the green dots are where I either camped, stayed in a hotel/motel/someone's house, or stopped for the day (and didn't sleep there). You can see the places I went slowly and the places I went fast. I think the biggest stretches I covered were in the last push to Corpus.<br />.<br />It's wild to see the map of the trek. Of course, I'd been updating along the way and regarding it, but somehow seeing it all together like this is a different experience.<br />.<br />While I have forgotten a handful of my campsites, I remember so many of them vividly, which side of the road I was on, how high the grass was, the temperature of the evening. I don't remember even a quarter of my camping spots on the Appalachian Trail.<br />.<br />So there you have it. Mission accomplished. What's next is in the making, so until then, follow your dreams.Smatthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08728966785725757302noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5444915056320730048.post-89019568535319368162010-10-04T22:37:00.001-07:002010-10-04T22:39:04.024-07:00In the News...<a href="http://www.caller.com/news/2010/oct/03/walk-around-texas-ends-with-questions/">My final Caller-Times column is here.</a> No further explanation is needed.<br />.<br />So I was wrong about this blog being done. I guess there's always more that can be written. A few days ago, I got a gig for 2011 with the Austin American-Statesman! So there you go.<br />.<br />Until whenever!Smatthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08728966785725757302noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5444915056320730048.post-72309255594641925822010-10-04T21:51:00.000-07:002010-10-12T13:40:44.306-07:00St. James Classroom Visit and Mrs. Linda Stalmach<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9D4yOhC0CYKjc8HUO3jHqLN13Pewhc0qA8pDpkn30hJBml3z7BPttYfz07Gbfe9dkbJTt2Af762BjUzLOuWy4_mq-kaUIwV1_XzQxTD36QkvAhl21luYlvwGWB6uP5-6ODKcN-oKbhRao/s1600/Mrs+Stalmach%27s+Class.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5524421944378895826" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9D4yOhC0CYKjc8HUO3jHqLN13Pewhc0qA8pDpkn30hJBml3z7BPttYfz07Gbfe9dkbJTt2Af762BjUzLOuWy4_mq-kaUIwV1_XzQxTD36QkvAhl21luYlvwGWB6uP5-6ODKcN-oKbhRao/s320/Mrs+Stalmach%27s+Class.JPG" /></a> .<br /><div>Throughout most of my hike, I corresponded with a group of fourth grade students at St. James Episcopal School. I sent postcards to Corpus, and on occasion, I'd receive a huge package of letters from the kids filled with questions about the hike and updates from their lives. This back-and-forth was one of the highlights of my trip.</div><div>.</div><div>I wrote about it as well in a Caller-Times article several months ago. <a href="http://www.caller.com/news/2010/jan/31/del-mar-instructor-helped-hiker-schoolchildren/">You can read that here.</a></div><div>.</div><div>Their teacher was Mrs. Linda Stalmach. On the morning of my departure, my friend's mom Tommie Nattinger mentioned that Mrs. Stalmach had expressed interest in my project. I immediately said that I'd be more than happy to write the class, though I hadn't spoken with Mrs. Stalmach directly.</div><div>.</div><div>I wrote that very day. Then I wrote once or twice a week for the better part of a year. When they wrote a bunch of letters, I did my best to reply to every one of them.</div><div>.</div><div>Little did I know, Mrs. Stalmach was teaching her last year in a wheelchair. She had been diagnosed with ALS or Lou Gehrig's disease and had lost the use of her legs. This didn't keep her from doing a superlative job, though. More than one student mentioned that they had the greatest teacher on earth.</div><div>.</div><div>When I came back, the details of her condition came to me bit by bit. I was going through my own wind-down, and on top of that, I didn't think it wise to go over without permission. I had asked a couple of times through postcards if she'd like to meet. By that time, however, she had lost a lot of weight and was having trouble breathing, let alone writing.</div><div>.</div><div>I was oblivious to her rapid decline. Instead, I said yes to a classroom visit at St. James. I'd been excited to see the kids and see what they were like.</div><div>.</div><div>The talk went well. The kids asked a lot of questions, played with Raisin, and tried on my backpack (some fell backward, though many stood straight). Afterward, we took a group picture, shown above. It was a lovely way to start the day.</div><div>.</div><div>The teachers and admin employees informed me that Mrs. Stalmach was doing extremely poorly. They encouraged me to call and go over. So I did.</div><div>.</div><div>After getting the number from Tommie, I called and was given the OK by John Stalmach. I asked my friend's mom to accompany me, and she accepted. As we were driving over, she tried to prepare me for what was coming, but really, nothing short of direct experience will give you what you need to know.</div><div>.</div><div>My former teacher had disappeared. In her place was a much smaller woman, sitting in a wheelchair, whose arms and hands moved slowly, whose voice was barely a whisper. We both gave her awkward hugs.</div><div>.</div><div>Tommie lead the conversation, talking about whatever snippets she could discern from Mrs. Stalmach. There were times when it was clear Mrs. Stalmach was a little confused, not responding to our prompts or muddling up what we'd just said.</div><div>.</div><div>However, in these difficult moments, Mrs. Stalmach asked if I had seen the kids. We had told her earlier in the visit that I had, but in the haze of her condition, she hadn't understood. But now she was asking. She was dying, could barely talk or understand, and was still thinking about her students.</div><div>.</div><div>Mrs. Linda Stalmach died the following day.</div><div>.</div><div>It's been my privilege to have worked with Mrs. Stalmach and to have been a part of her last year of teaching. She will be missed by everyone.</div>Smatthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08728966785725757302noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5444915056320730048.post-26485266690510784302010-09-09T00:40:00.000-07:002010-09-09T01:01:03.695-07:00In the News...I didn't think I'd be posting any more, but I suppose there's always more.<br />.<br />I've got three articles left, two of which I'll post here. I've concluded my self-syndicated column series with the following newspapers: the Booker News, the Bowie County Citizens Tribune, the Brackett News, the Brownfield News, the Canadian Record, the Clay County Leader, the Eden Echo, the Fairfield Recorder, the Jefferson Jimplecute, the Lone Star Iconoclast, the Lufkin Daily News, the Pulse, the Seminole Sentinel, the Vernon Daily Record, the Victoria Advocate, the White Oak Independent, and the Wise County Messenger. I thank the publishers and editors of these papers for trusting me with this year-long writing project and for inviting their readers along on the journey. Without you, this walkabout wouldn't have been possible.<br />.<br /><a href="http://www.victoriaadvocate.com/news/2010/aug/28/txperimeter_082910_109101/?news">Click here for the last syndicated article.</a><br />.<br />The Corpus Christi Caller-Times publishes a separate column series, also about the Texas Perimeter Hike. Due to a clever early decision by Cynthia Arbuckle, the paper publishes my columns a month after I submit them, so as to form a safety net of one column. They only recently published the 11th article and will this month publish the finale. Though some themes may be similar between the two column series, this one is entirely independent of the self-syndicated series above. Thank you to Cynthia and the newspaper staff for their interest and support.<br />.<br /><a href="http://www.caller.com/news/2010/sep/02/feeling-humidity-of-home-on-last-leg-of-trek/">Click here for the 11th article in the Caller-Times.</a><br />.<br />I dug up a few interviews from Beaumont and Lubbock that I'd forgotten about after the panhandle. Unfortunately, the Beaumont paper doesn't put the entire article online, but you can still see one of my blog photos here and a bit of the text:<br />.<br /><a href="http://www.beaumontenterprise.com/news/local/tour_of_texas__nation_isn_t_always_by_car.html?showFullArticle=y">Click here for the half article in the Beaumont Enterprise.</a><br />.<br />The Lubbock paper on the other hand has posted the entire article online. The reporter Alyssa Dizon was amazingly thorough. She not only interviewed me but also my supervisor at Caprock Canyons State Park and a family I stayed with in Muleshoe. Incredible! No other reporter did this much work for a story. The Lubbock paper would be wise to trust Alyssa with more assignments and a commensurate raise!<br />.<br /><a href="http://lubbockonline.com/stories/050210/fea_631637627.shtml">Click here for the Lubbock Avalanche-Journal article.</a><br />.<br />Until next time? There's always room for another, I suppose. Keep checking!Smatthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08728966785725757302noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5444915056320730048.post-20414662872488790432010-09-05T11:12:00.000-07:002010-09-05T13:03:16.165-07:00The EndOn Saturday, August 21st, 2010, Raisin and I arrived in Corpus Christi, completing my circuit around the perimeter of Texas. With my sidetrips, I estimate I've walked around 3200 miles. Raisin must have made some records too breaking 1000 miles traveled, herself walking about 700 miles of the distance.<br /><br />Several people accompanied us in the home stretch: my cousin Ted walked over 5 miles from Ennis Joslin in flip-flops, his dad Tony joined us about 3 miles out, and three neighbors, Tony, Alicia, and Nora, jumped on about 2 miles from home. Several other neighbors came out to the corner including a busload of children (or so it seemed), and my mother forced a big American flag into one of their hands (a flag of Texas may have been more appropriate, I don't know). Pictures were taken, smiles and handshakes flew, and then we retired to home.<br /><br />Some surprising details: Mrs. Perez (Alicia) who had had some kind of internal surgery last year was the fastest walker (faster than me!) and was practically skipping. My uncle Tony, an athlete in his youth, overheated in the sun and had to cool off with ice water and a wet towel on his head. Ted got blisters from the flips. And Raisin, who had walked 100 miles in 4 days, had gone lame, so I had to carry her home.<br /><br />At my parent's house, there were even more relatives and another neighbor, and we all sat down to eat some tamales my mother had made especially for the homecoming. (Actually, I slipped away and took a quick shower. I weighed just under 140!) An hour later, everyone was full and tired and went home to clean up and relax.<br /><br />* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *<br /><br />It's been two weeks now. I got sick some time around Laredo and was hoping that the Airborne I took from Becky Garcia would help me out. Nope. If anything, the whole thing lasted even longer. I walked with this chest infection for the better part of a month, and only today finished off a five-day antibiotic treatment. Ironically, my friend and doctor believes I've had walking pneumonia!<br /><br />Perhaps as a result, I've found myself sleeping and goofing off. It's easy to fall head first into the ocean of the internet. I was late with my last syndicated column and still have one more Caller-Times column to write. Maybe I don't want this thing to end.<br /><br />Raisin, on the other hand, has wiped her paws of the whole hike. Since finishing, I've taken her on two short walks, but she's acted suspicious and uncooperative the whole time, like we could hit the road any minute. She's a 14 lb dog, in general a little thing, and that last 125 miles really took it out of her. Raisin's doing great now, her disdain for walking replaced with a disdain for the bathroom and baths.<br /><br />Have I learned anything from all of this? Am I a changed person? The answers to these questions will always be yes because there's no way to undo the past. Yes, I've learned a thing or two, tons of things actually, and yes, I've grown in the last year. But it doesn't end there. I expect my experiences to have a profound influence on the rest of my life. However, I could have said the same thing about elementary school, the Peace Corps, or my first girlfriend, whom I affectionately refer to as G-1.<br /><br />Life builds on top of life. Any given experience exerts its influence both up and down in time, illuminating past events and making it easier for a person to navigate future ones (in theory, at any rate). My project, while unusual, is no different in this respect than any other ways in which people choose to spend their time.<br /><br />On the other hand, perhaps the questions demand a little less philosophy and a little more straight talking. Though it goes against my general principle of avoiding the dissection of a life event, I will nonetheless list ten things that I've learned in the last year:<br /><br />1) I shouldn't fear a homeless person any more or less than I do another person on the street.<br />2) There are more good people in this world than bad.<br />3) Walking on sand for more than an hour is a brutal way to treat feet.<br />4) There's a lot more in the Texas Panhandle than open space.<br />5) Visiting my dad's childhood friend was the best way to learn about my dad.<br />6) The value of a handwritten letter in the middle of nowhere is inestimable.<br />7) God is out there and right here.<br />8) 115 degrees is really hot.<br />9) A kindness to a stranger can be as simple as a conversation.<br />10) Texas is really big.<br /><br />Take from that what you will.<br /><br />As per me, I have several writing projects left which will keep me busy for a few weeks, and then... who knows. There's a bicycle in my future which - given my history with my legs and feet - is my parents' worst nightmare. I want to learn to speak and write Spanish, swim better, make a business teaching boardgames to families, and solidify a career in writing.<br /><br />One at a time, though. First, the bike.<br /><br />Until next time, travelers...Smatthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08728966785725757302noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5444915056320730048.post-35434290592993958572010-09-01T07:59:00.000-07:002010-09-04T01:20:31.779-07:00Days Two Hundred Ninety-One to Three Hundred Fifty-Nine<div align="center">A week and a half ago, Raisin and I arrived in Corpus Christi. It still hasn't sunk in. This stay with my folks has been like any other, wide open and laden with time. The way it feels we could have just come back from Guinea, Montana, New Mexico, or any other place I've lived.</div><div align="center">.</div><div align="center">There's so much to say I want to say it in its own space. So for the last time, at least in a long while, scan the mileage, look at the photos, and read these little snips of thought. Enjoy.</div><div align="center">.</div><div align="left">Days 291-293: More zero days in Terlingua Ghost Town</div><div align="left">Day 294: Just inside Big Bend, about 5 miles</div><div align="left">Day 295: Near Castolon, BBNP, about 19 miles</div><div align="left">Days 296-297: Two more zero days in Castolon (did day hikes around BBNP)</div><div align="left">Day 298: River Road, BBNP, about 18 miles</div><div align="left">Day 299: Mariscal Canyon Trail, BBNP, about 21 miles</div><div align="left">Day 300: Juniper Canyon Trail, BBNP, about 30 miles</div><div align="left">Day 301: Grapevine Springs, BBNP, about 17 miles</div><div align="left">Day 302: Hwy 385, BBNP, about 20 miles</div><div align="left">Day 303: Hwy 385, about 15 miles</div><div align="left">Day 304: Hwy 385, about 9 miles</div><div align="left">Day 305: South of Marathon, about 17 miles</div><div align="left">Day 306: Marathon, about 14 miles </div><div align="left">Days 307-311: Several zero days in Marathon during hurricane </div><div align="left">Day 312: Hwy 90, about 10 miles</div><div align="left">Day 313: Hwy 90, about 20 miles</div><div align="left">Day 314: Hwy 90, about 19 miles</div><div align="left">Day 315: Sanderson, about 5 miles</div><div align="left">Day 316: East of Sanderson, about 3 miles</div><div align="left">Day 317: Dryden, about 17 miles</div><div align="left">Day 318: Hwy 90, about 15 miles</div><div align="left">Day 319: Hwy 90, about 16 miles</div><div align="left">Day 320: East of Langtry, about 15 miles</div><div align="left">Day 321: Seminole Canyon State Park, about 16 miles (1 mile to get there off road)</div><div align="left">Day 322: East of Comstock, about 21 miles</div><div align="left">Day 323: West of Del Rio, about 13 miles</div><div align="left">Day 324: Zero day at Broke Mill RV Park outside of Del Rio (second evening here)</div><div align="left">Day 325: Hwy 277, about 15 miles</div><div align="left">Day 326: Hwy 277, about 15 miles</div><div align="left">Day 327: Normandy, about 12 miles</div><div align="left">Day 328: Eagle Pass, about 17 miles</div><div align="left">Day 329: Outskirts of Eagle Pass, about 6 miles</div><div align="left">Day 330: Southeast of El Indio, about 16 miles</div><div align="left">Day 331: Old Mines Road, about 20 miles </div><div align="left">Day 332: Old Mines Road, about 20 miles</div><div align="left">Day 333: FM 1472, about 20 miles</div><div align="left">Day 334: Laredo, about 25 miles</div><div align="left">Days 335-338: Four zero days in Laredo</div><div align="left">Day 339: Southeast Laredo, about 12 miles (3 miles were made just to get to starting point)</div><div align="left">Day 340: Hwy 83, about 16 miles</div><div align="left">Day 341: South of San Ygnacio, about 13 miles</div><div align="left">Day 342: South of Zapata, about 16 miles</div><div align="left">Day 343: Just past Falcon, about 20 miles</div><div align="left">Day 344: Hwy 83, about 18 miles (visited Falcon Lake State Park)</div><div align="left">Day 345: Hwy 83, about 12 miles</div><div align="left">Day 346: East of Rio Grande City, about 15 miles</div><div align="left">Day 347: East of La Joya, about 20 miles</div><div align="left">Day 348: Mission, about 10 miles</div><div align="left">Day 349: North of Hidalgo, about 12 miles</div><div align="left">Day 350: Old Military Hwy, about 20 miles</div><div align="left">Day 351: Los Indios, about 15 miles</div><div align="left">Day 352: Brownsville, about 21 miles</div><div align="left">Day 353: Northeast of Brownsville, about 12 miles</div><div align="left">Day 354: South Padre, about 20 miles</div><div align="left">Day 355: South Padre, about 30 miles</div><div align="left">Day 356: North Padre, about 21 miles</div><div align="left">Day 357: North Padre, about 29 miles</div><div align="left">Day 358: North Padre, about 19 miles</div><div align="left">Day 359: Home, about 16 miles<br />.</div><div align="center">(I haven't added up my miles. I'll have a rough estimation soon.)</div><div align="center">. . .<br />Day 300: Got a really early start. I'm behind on my schedule and need to finish by tomorrow. That means a 30-mile day today. I gots to get crackin'! [If a hiker, especially a solitary hiker, doesn't check in to the Big Bend Headquarters when he/she finishes, the rangers send out an alert and go looking for you. Didn't want that to happen, and the likelihood increased a bit because I added a 20-mile detour to wrap over Mariscal Canyon.]</div><div align="center">. . .<br /><br /><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5512116025742354434" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXm9_WvQvDKnYFUH0HBQhrlBZsQyfM8-svF-f1W4dQw87jAY8SG1QQMsp76kP1yvQcnyY1fQH2t27DiK4SBHEztT8rdHZu-S7uYMdrYt_O6ihszgkZoHQFGiPRz8HZprfgWpwV_aoGqOhi/s320/DSCN2769.JPG" /></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:78%;">Infinite, Brewster County, Day 301</span></div><div align="center">. . .<br /></div><div align="center">Day 301: Reunited with Raisin! Patricia drove little Raisin out to me and was a real sweetie, even offering to take her. Nope! Raisin and I are out of here! [Patricia and husband Jim took care of Raisin while I hiked around the park. Though having a puppy around mixed things up, especially for their older bigger dog, the family warmed up to Raisin by the end of the few days.]</div><div align="center">.</div><div align="center">[There are millipedes all over West Texas. Raisin would sniff and bark at them, but they would often curl up in self-defense like the picture above. They are harmless and should not be confused with a centipede, which has about a dozen segments to the body and longer legs, and is dangerous to the touch. I saw both during the trip.]<br />. . .<br /></div><p align="center"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5512113180533175634" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwgu4hRxJixhofILBM3WplZR6WJZ_NeApgpAUrFX4NZXp1zYXckgaRY6lUgAzLpFdCM95GpTFye73RwTxHBjvIMbAuq5ktAlPdTp0HxaURnmM1Y212SNTewNydPSbTNCEnRII5BlGSRpwY/s320/DSCN2802.JPG" /></p><p align="center"><span style="font-size:78%;">Fireman, Marathon, Brewster County, Day 309</span></p><p align="center">. . . </p><div align="center">Day 309: Chopped chicken breasts, then rode and drove a fire truck! Ali had to do some fundraising. [In Marathon, I was volunteering quite a bit with the local fire department. I helped with food prep and clean up, drove a fire truck which was crazy big, and also judged two chili cook-offs. Daniel, the fire chief, was happy to have the help, and I was happy to be part of a group. I got involved through the volunteers at La Loma del Chivo hostel who were also fire department volunteers. Working for free and being part of the Marathon community for a few days was one highlight of the entire trek.]<br />. . .<br /></div><div align="center"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5512113172966652594" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqW43hAuUcEN0x32fyGPtLsc0EaEhINUOE2VoiF-H1Zyzo0JnOY0K_SyeDPz9IBE7yRBqD4SdkLg6KK5dGYcLvBBEtllbsgdDYytt5ntTu6iU8MqRNcQtSkmQvvk5-rLie_JOmq2UOkz1h/s320/DSCN2884.JPG" /><span style="font-size:78%;">Pretty in Pink, Brewster County, Day 312<br /></span><div>. . .</div><div>Day 315: [Stayed at a motel. Manager asked me the following:] "Do you smoke?" "No." "Do you drink?" "No." "Do you pray to Almighty God every morning?" "No." "Then what do you do?" [She was incredulous that I didn't have any vices that she related to. I told her in response to her last question that I walk.]</div><div>. . .<br /><div><div><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5512113158867847058" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYmyuA26oQu7COdJd1HnqQ72rVmhTumg5RHgU5oz6Ck_Onz9s0vlamvxAobKIWwCCTx4pDlZaAD22Hh64qPxh9OjeFXCshJWcACWr-Ktk1PlmiWBBJVVcJeF9tOBOKN5Xr_rbg6OeSzfba/s320/DSCN2886.JPG" /></div><div><span style="font-size:78%;">King Me, Sanderson, Terrell County, Day 316</span></div><div>. . .<br />. . .<br /></div><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5512086834500960738" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEBjk_9YomAlmAZtRo9Qb1yszlsTZNAaJBY0FJD1wyE1jF0nzOi_PDkG9pl-AVGmNZbI6wLDzoc1xZLPVlctsUGzHJ_ecefE59aMTwde0EFCBxI0wH_UEQ_SQ3UEMSUIoDHtzzGVhQQ1Ox/s320/DSCN2900.JPG" /></div><div><span style="font-size:78%;">Wisdom, Dryden, Terrell County, Day 317</span></div><div>. . .<br />Day 317: Then Mike - who also got invited to eat [at the store] - invited me to crash on his couch. He had heard about me from Marfa! [Imagine walking for nearly a month, then having someone recognize me through word of mouth! This is what happened in Dryden, and I am still shocked by it. I guess not too many people walk around the area and never in the summer.]</div><div>. . . </div><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5512086823876838466" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirJ6HO-STYf8MxlMlB9I4DWYnnaGopDXoo3IzFvxPth-9_W8qQP8a5lwQ1OB0hyphenhyphenB7O0ZkyBGfF14DFszZ2v8_t6IGuRSSJ_vwG8-hs2UWrH_VKJJjaBzjcuLQJyLzU4rml7600hL_8cY9L/s320/DSCN2909.JPG" /></div><div><span style="font-size:78%;">Lozier Canyon, Terrell Canyon, Day 319</span></div><div>. . . </div><div>Day 319: Found an awesome canyon after sunrise. Decided this would be better than a picnic area. Fenced off. Went down anyway. We ate, I read, played in the running stream, cleaned up, washed clothes, finished The Devil's Highway by Urrea, finished Charlie's article on George Schaller, are more, relaxed with Raisin, moved on to Dead Man's Walk from Mike & Sandy. Enjoying cool white rocks and the breeze. The overhead traffic is 30 ft above us and mostly drowned out by the rapids. [I was told later that the canyon is usually dry!]<br />. . . </div><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5512086818114073058" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoOKppUjiHqMTjetL6PJdIuNV8oUhsnlI4L7_SITjemaejnwZ-Qyf4swNMA8oeJplRjqzYEG_wD3BwmZJICnmANoTM-v8WFRGu5RFNuPDbjJIG37qBKq7xNMwHasY6Qk-Fgd44jqrIx1NS/s320/DSCN2910.JPG" /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">Under the Bridge at Lozier Canyon, Terrell Canyon, Day 319</span><br />. . .<br />. . .<br /><br /><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5512084355825249042" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiL7LpKRQo_ixCCuq8aqO72aOpxTNnfFkPSEqbZ6F3pbRHFlduQRGt40CTf_HWV3SbWbsRP4DpLJeQ63sezVrQkroJ8omn76AwLhDbwNpkfH5TlNRMD0bIOgyN1bUMdcjCxMouz9eA3TxQC/s320/DSCN2919.JPG" /></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:78%;">Judge Roy Bean's Place, Langtry, Val Verde County, Day 320</span></div><div align="center">. . .<br /><div><div><div><div>. . .<br /></div><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5512084347971062402" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg93wKc2g8xvQM87onGQxR_yS8eMHqwy48aMtexEmkt025CgcLuIRVLTC92uI0fxZJgXMtyzehia7khqLdxAc8jpxiw0LFA3l9eHNHfpFUGJiJODLShivbke6buwFFAOLd5ruDkPxRcv7PK/s320/DSCN2925.JPG" /></div><div><span style="font-size:78%;">Make it a Double, Langtry, Val Verde County, Day 320</span></div><div>. . .<br />. . .<br /></div><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5512084340477640194" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEia3vFg1OjwH6AlOBmyw09Pn0X0bhlgaRi5S_iaIJi5E5hgyY4wT_1XCGSiq7a9CPp26QEMIBNkPcD2bbXfJ9B_Zb3hsRvCE3qWc3ZBfIMnenrkwkE2XxgyLAEmYLdQwt5OKFQYTsmhUboZ/s320/DSCN2928.JPG" /></div><div><span style="font-size:78%;">Purple Sage, Langtry, Val Verde County, Day 320</span></div><div>. . . </div><div>Day 320: Shrubs with purple flowers are everywhere now. So pretty. [The purple sage turned the countryside into a painter's palette. The purple stretched to the horizon, splotches as far left and right as I could see.]<br />. . . </div><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5512019997331879570" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4PXxRPrEA3mEm1U8yr02JwSHAkWoxmaWXw7aHngaGrxFyloPXF2nGdJ4wDQ_1zZldaeX4jFcwV4YVa2t8mX6lRDjAHaa0kKIAoug3hOfFjV4P6HnoAviNIDFSi-v1CIZwaldylhS9udU8/s320/DSCN2932.JPG" /></div><div><span style="font-size:78%;">Prickly Pear Fruit, Langtry, Val Verde County, Day 320</span></div><div>. . .<br />. . .<br /></div><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5512019987292557346" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2IaB6_X5-FaIu1NbffV7WO8UOGvoAGv13JuFxJP8Mn_0thW1Ti6vDqOKSFrduUZsT3sVP1BoSL4N1uiQj7KI2jFgrfO1iN0BM9JOcS7eYdSx1mwJza6AGmVI3V_4c2qfxv01MkU8FAwC6/s320/DSCN2943.JPG" /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">Country Humor, Val Verde County, Day 320</span><br />. . .<br /><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div>. . .<br /></div><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5512019981644061938" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCb0VXRRh31Up2ka8d3SVJt7ezD_e2zX4mlhYIV4Xk73jfsIUZmbILJEYYUCExsBwHxSE7SBDq1J-fMYYHEx5jTc7nP4bFKZrNTq3HWgxhuHRjMR3YWKlJggBUtbPcvtpDQIMbFzibrjaf/s320/DSCN2945.JPG" /></div><div><span style="font-size:78%;">Border Patrol Drag, Val Verde County, Day 320</span></div><div>. . . </div><div>Day 320: [The above contraption is known to the Border Patrol as a 'drag.' There are dirt roads that run parallel to the border which are 'dragged' every day or two or three. The tires smooth the road and make it possible for agents to 'cut sign' and see exactly where people are crossing.]<br />. . . </div><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5512014454322508482" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimreAVuK0XI0lrmsR_qsV_4XWOCGAAIZ1jnLLJGUZVyzBu8rFKzGrOto10KCCOwgBEzYRzMNioFXFCKvM5YR9iuZGESMr37J7tSqt1kLZSzTJsrlv8wi07K33gmXaB8OZRaH1h2gIgqNMb/s320/DSCN2952.JPG" /></div><div><span style="font-size:78%;">The Pecos, Val Verde County, Day 321</span></div><div>. . .<br />. . .<br /></div><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5512014447940051218" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiB5_mNsQ6oSJp5Pe1NaHKaL9rwMg5_kpCZh47JfskheB-ITmhKzIoRhE0s2g3O7AWdJTwOJ9My5ENdIVdXV0v0KnGgnhuOHXJYEF4GQYd3Y1dQSBWLbHcQ_RH1OH32K23DMdMw2_rOBcsE/s320/DSCN2959.JPG" /></div><div><span style="font-size:78%;">Seminole Canyon, Val Verde Canyon, Day 321</span></div><div>. . .<br /><div>Day 321: [Raisin and I snuck into a forbidden canyon. We played in the water for hours before finally camping out on a ledge at night. People probably hadn't slept on that ledge for over 150 years. I tried to make a fire from sticks and failed. Even so, the evening felt sacred.]</div><div>. . .<br /><div><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5512014436442768802" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYpaOghej9ApLMNTmQKzspMmwRh5sOdpTfPE58PwuJWJKTFRYvyZJ5at9fxuEbbdqWTOZ2MVwB3LySh0NCrn8Fpig92-III9uYiVl3zYC39mOBfyYbPsb2GoeDrQKjVaHEp7-XrkV1jqWP/s320/DSCN2968.JPG" /></div><div><span style="font-size:78%;">Hesles Motel, Eagle Pass, Maverick County, Day 328</span></div><div>. . . </div><div>Day 329: Talked with the owner Mr. Hesles-Shroeder about a work exchange. We had started the conversation yesterday. I wanted to work by the hour $10/hr and quit after 2.5 hrs. He wanted the job - weeding - done in its entirety. What if it took 5 hours? No way. "Mr. Read, I don't think anything can be arranged." There you have it. "This is a border town, Mr. Read. This isn't Montana." While interrupting me, he added, "I can find many more people like you who will do the job." Like me? What irked me is that he wasn't paying me, per se. It was a barter. After receiving the world's trashiest room, all of a sudden he has standards? I would think that 2.5-3 hrs was a good deal, but he obviously didn't. Raisin and I checked out 30 min later.</div><div><div><div>. . .</div><div><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5511961264950429218" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGM1bDCE5RZl7OSEC-wrtcAHrl8DZt5I9VXg5I6IMvK8noxNxmEpe-cuqlw8H3LTyOLIQG9rsIuQKKm8x8e3E9QkISc4KUwtd5ReQcvcu6mWdpV4eitJd2MFW8mDxf9a2XvSFD749gG-VJ/s320/RSCN3006.JPG" /></div><div><span style="font-size:78%;">Nest Egg, Laredo, Webb County, Day 339</span></div><div>. . . </div><div>Day 339: [I watched a spider guard her egg for thirty minutes while Raisin and I were waiting out the heat inside a culvert. The images I took are big and bold, though the actual spider was no bigger than a quarter. Fascinating creature.]<br />. . .</div></div><div><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5511987786735394834" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy4ychVM2DuDdNXGoIlVlx4ukEJE_ycQOzvMOZkwxCEegB57lkDT1aJ-AejMj_8XFxUcrNJpEv-jAWcn9uqy236qVEdey6vIk9IeDXOxHTGqkJEb7C1Fko7AFJAMhIuF4Aqxc_39SEU7JP/s320/DSCN3015.JPG" /> <div><span style="font-size:78%;">Hot and Spicy, Falcon Lake SP, Zapata County, Day 344</span></div><div>. . . </div><div>Day 344: [I've seen grafitti the entire trip, but this person made a special effort for his/her writing to stand out. I found this underneath a picnic area roof at Falcon Lake State Park.]<br />. . . <img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5511987769905921298" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqzXMTq0SAZHUm8DSuwJbYNws0zd4pWdC9Fz3B0hueQJznbVIZSnWXwZcp81-pnJk2-j7bwfgrF_KgeCDTt5Ng0PnyEgciIS757nRkdz457p3wLaA2PMVh5rIkWTzJRbVKn3fI8Y0sg971/s320/DSCN3022.JPG" /></div></div><div><span style="font-size:78%;">Lady Dog Dog, Rio Grande City, Starr County, Day 346</span></div><div>. . . </div><div>Day 346: Dog 2 was there in the morning! Actually, I knew she would be because Raisin barked at her movements throughout the night. Crazy thing: this Dog 2 does not make any noise! [I later named her Lady Dog Dog and because of her behavior and disposition I decided to try to get her to a humane society. The poor thing was so hungry, that she stuck with us for two days with no encouragement from me. I finally caved and poured some dry dog food on the ground in front of her and Raisin. During the last few weeks, I had noticed Raisin getting uppity about dry food (as opposed to wet dog food or yummy human food), but when Lady Dog Dog started inhaling the dry food I'd put out, Raisin, who was momentarily shocked that any dog would eat dry dog food so fast, got possessive and started barking "Hey, that's mine!" (or so I believed). Sadly, a day or two later, Lady Dog Dog got hit and killed by a car in Mission. I had called two humane societies that morning - both closed.]<br />. . . <img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5511985671709352114" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPoYmQxJdBh7c-7xtjEaAU4NP9DQDuDLTT0tuoAFil9grkMf8YeiyHqRbfv_2euWrGTCljmu9MmQMmO1tk3DKKH_XaxUbFAPrkv0UwcpbO06bw3mvAfpsSwIwGmwrjDxEo5k3o19zPBh3B/s320/DSCN3033.JPG" /></div></div><div><span style="font-size:78%;">Charlie, Hidalgo County, Day 349</span></div><div>. . .<br />Days 349-350: [My brother Charlie hiked with me. All told, we did about 20 miles together in 6-7 mile chunks. Our conversations traveled all over, which was reflective of the lifestyle, but we had a good time. We took a short-cut along some run-off created by the hurricane several weeks before. We got away from the traffic for a little bit and didn't have to scream to be heard. A good stretch.]</div><div>. . . <img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5511985664086119218" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipqmdN_iz4yXNXIqEjFAZXRvGIQaf_WHWpOViLeC_j9keiKxJD8BMlZgZ6OKU62haaNTB1V87m0AJl429BXFv7rStODzB_-7X2qCKC63fZbEc7RjKt4_TeL8xnm_1YjaQpI_86Xo2sIqKk/s320/DSCN3039.JPG" /></div><div><span style="font-size:78%;">Runoff, Hidalgo County, Day 349</span></div><div>. . .<br />. . .<br /></div><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5511985657357946946" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjse0h7RLN8XGQxwti552rsbPsfSDrADe92VDdip0MrlXkfpU8A5zN1ZUawXHqLnou1hLToA4lqNMEdHu3UIzxuUJB13-5IMA3EykL9qYiJmLEuCqdGY3sOOs9B3fHoC-2rF2E-h2KB_qj1/s320/DSCN3047.JPG" /></div><div><span style="font-size:78%;">My Parents, Hidalgo County, Day 350</span></div><div>. . . </div><div>Day 350: [My parents Nolan and Esther were real troopers during the hike. They visited in the first couple of months as well as the last month. Everything in between, they checked the blog like everyone else. This picture is so them.]<br />. . . </div><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5511983308312116210" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyloKNHOnJ7GQIr-bji93J9lRdAjXbuArO37y1EsGncWuJxTCWyQHAyICYVQix9cubwmAR0Zf60wmfbI-dHPoIZF-d0oHeFILS2LAeVyF87uce1vRDJt1-vpdX_FDY-bQbXFzOd9EkSoRG/s320/DSCN3051.JPG" /></div><div><span style="font-size:78%;">No Wall, Hidalgo County, Day 351</span></div><div>. . .<br /><div><div><div><div><div><div><div>. . .<br /></div><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5511983288849931634" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTnOxo2TXXAlMxJj9xyMAH80-xy_T_P2fhHI-IYTBLoUoVuf0kzrIWtHPhP5gbxvp8iK0hdujB4KIrgiAyLm7YuczZioUcZZgM9_JBGaYBT548KWPmDwu1V4lArNGxWjYqTCM2ob-zgGzr/s320/DSCN3067.JPG" /></div><div><span style="font-size:78%;">University Campus, Brownsville, Cameron County, Day 353</span></div><div>. . . </div><div>Day 353: [The campus of the University of Brownsville is one the prettiest academic places I've ever seen. I received a tour from Professor Medrano, who teaches several history courses about the border, the general area, and Mexico.]<br />. . . </div><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5511977332726308370" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxWZFqhiwkQvAlR7Siige-hDyjbsCdA2G4OXSIgonCUIZqywzRF0pvFwlHjrlv-RVvk__zmz1x2pJqdjG6apip26NvHrU1M8pRMyaFFToZXCEvQ0K0bkmaq7val12N22tz1VdsJiDZeh1d/s320/DSCN3068.JPG" /></div><div><span style="font-size:78%;">Homecoming, Brownsville, Cameron County, Day 353</span></div><div>. . .<br />. . .<br /><div><div><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5511977326968597154" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmGN7q2BXsXanzeWX1Fr-LoUTl1BpZHhDnecc50EXfRUcxDEmT_YXeSywvNOVz8bIIlOLsVOloa5swo5HCpsCsduWaQLVLbbWE7QFkbn0yBd86rg8l2-7y8NJlgrJEr1rFQI-7BeSosidR/s320/DSCN3074.JPG" /></div><div><span style="font-size:78%;">Amigoland!, Brownsville, Cameron County, Day 353</span></div><div>. . .<br />. . .<br /></div><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5511977321048687954" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1f5ZwovE7S36aPclr7SPaCHmCTL1bTWmwkDnAxR_b2eO7rKrCpr68wnLjA6i7KYMnjLzSISTTN93XL56qkMcLRVTPjwvW1v3EPYES4mV1IsFqXFb-O7Fvz15zS2zlbF-XFBdcuo9MEJIu/s320/DSCN3075.JPG" /></div><div><span style="font-size:78%;">End of the Wall, Brownsville, Cameron County, Day 353</span></div><div>. . . </div><div>Day 353: [The wall, as in other places along the border, just ends. The river was to the left, a small developed park area to the right. We saw a border patrol vehicle parked in some shade directly behind where this picture was taken.]<br />. . . <img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5511977313178109586" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpJm4iUBsYT7B7_rQyfiC82uXlYdKfXqO_7k8nOqXvOnL0jbokXAECh4IgS3fLvrOpZ7Xxi5XPtCi9IVSvuZH11aZtsWxiQRmP7-xIdBk8uGoHMmr4n5IN1W8hpUN3qt2NOAYT9M9TYved/s320/DSCN3085.JPG" /></div></div><div><span style="font-size:78%;">Sand Pyramid, South Padre Island, Cameron County, Day 354</span></div><div>. . .<br />. . .<br /></div><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5511961288839578626" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgt8ZdSvZW-HO1LFxFTMRbCJ2e-P6ya5-z2XfGtVilWB0Pz_U441a1nOgWRHIr6NdRE9aOYX4CsyQYMLJwvrq3SM0LeHwytnYvLE8ZXdluTboUUQaXJpY-TLGwnk7wIT-bYjogoAgDiwh7l/s320/DSCN3088.JPG" /></div><div><span style="font-size:78%;">Unidentified Grounded Object, South Padre Island, Cameron County, Day 355</span></div><div>. . .<br />. . .<br /></div><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5511961269211577442" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6VjNeACT4grGFLvt2pXvhztWEwsHA1Yl8mx5xVqAD2VDQa3vdMyDhJWqdUXtTS44IC9AWYkm-Ze-3M99-pQIzLalgVAb5sfO7S-_vVjaKBWEkgLEIUN5WPS1sJF04r0igPEECEDbCjGwG/s320/DSCN3096.JPG" /></div><div><span style="font-size:78%;">Sand Crab, South Padre Island, Cameron County, Day 355</span></div><div>. . . </div><div>Day 355: [Raisin loved chasing these little suckers. They're pretty fast, too!]<br />. . . </div><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5511961257021381122" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgE5CypT52Pzz9BdMsdIi1lrYCgHthT6Jnxbvm_W8hbN1ftMLKAXz8GSuGx2N1A7Kqr3fni2xziKZa_NfXsgtO8kgyW60vE7ZlZut5n0XfkpSqd3ms-1X0SeyC7PgJgeuZZiWCXMD4KLTRb/s320/RSCN3106.JPG" /></div><div><span style="font-size:78%;">Design, South Padre Island, Cameron County, Day 355</span></div><div>. . . </div><div>Day 359: [Padre Island will forever be a place of blisters and sandal sores. It was five days of pure pain, every step a shock. It didn't help that I pushed for home either. Luckily the weather was on our side. Easily ten degrees cooler than places inland, the island also had a breeze which made it very pleasant in spite of my injuries. Raisin too got chaffed and was walking at an angle for several miles. Felt bad about that. I pushed her so hard that I ultimately had to carry her most of the way home on the last day. But we made it.]<br />. . .</div><div>More is coming, but not much more. Stay tuned...</div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div><br /></div>Smatthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08728966785725757302noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5444915056320730048.post-29713481702931354782010-08-30T12:28:00.001-07:002010-09-15T14:19:25.060-07:00Faces of Texas<div align="center">. . .<br />. . .</div><div align="center"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5511288575872414738" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMumBtrbzJ4LRBnewD0S33Z2FcEK0xA86UwSc0xJiiHrr0-spYnYXDVcs5P_5w502yhiY80KS49dw0jCj1e5d0jRyGogCYpyZjiSa52s0xcOU8cuS-aoxzOToDDGUcVOeyqlx-dIJD9qOe/s320/DSCN3050.JPG" /></div><div align="center"><strong>"Well, there's me, my wife, my son, my daughter. Four."</strong></div><div align="center">.</div><div align="center"><em>- Joe Martinez, owner and operator of Smoking Joe's BBQ, on the population of El Zacatal. I met 75% of the community on a hot, humid South Texas day. The kids and the family's several dogs were playing in a boat while Joe was working his barbeque stand. I hadn't really considered getting anything hot, but Joe was a friendly, talkative salesperson who convinced me to go for a brisket sandwich. While I ate my mouthwatering meal, we chatted, and I found that his children are the family's fourth generation at that very location. Joe told me that there were supposedly three wagons of gold buried somewhere on his property, a treasure tale passed down from the early days of El Zacatal. He smiled and assured me that he hadn't spent any time looking for them. "This is my gold mine," he said, gesturing to his barbeque wagon. After watching several customers come and go and polishing off my own sandwich, I knew he wasn't exaggerating.</em><br /></div><div align="center"><em>.</em><br /></div><div align="center"><em>El Zacatal (east of Progreso), Texas</em><br /></div><div align="center">. . .</div><div align="center">. . .</div><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5511288591931190098" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNmpURSYwXu1BUEMXzF23FctDbtthE9V-51mmudI9FFAZXhXkZw8pGQwrzYvvdn9cG8UYhc-uFMTDyQDfMH03dlyALYopKGIFQsmAS36jRc54nw5CuvQXid99XWv9jZAuuIaSnUuklJb_Y/s320/DSCN3080.JPG" /> <p align="center"><strong>"I'm blessed to have a great wife, wonderful sons, and a job in which I've accomplished most of my career goals."</strong><br /></p><div align="center">.</div><div align="center"><em>- Dr. Manual Medrano, standing next to his wife Chavela and sons Estevan (left) and Daniel (right), on a life lived almost entirely in the Rio Grande Valley. A history professor at the University of Texas at Brownsville, Dr. Medrano was kind enough to open his doors to me and give me a tour of campus and town. His knowledge of the area was vast, and he seemed familiar with just about every subject I could think to talk about. Aside from teaching at the university, Dr. Medrano has also published half a dozen books in ten years, the most recent about friend and colleague Americo Paredes. When I asked him if Brownsville had treated him well, he was quick to cite family as his first proof, then his job as his second. It's a telling detail. As many hours as Dr. Medrano has put into his career, he defines himself first and foremost as a husband and father, as someone surrounded by love.</em></div><div align="center"><em>.</em></div><div align="center"><em>Brownsville, Texas</em></div><div align="center">. . .<br />. . . </div><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5511288603641582962" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYJ-6qm7IpyGgQ3AE_mIJF4kck6EZ5vhlBnB-qTpuf-nhlqT8wDs-rFh3ES8JjNPokBsTrjQkf-PSJGE4tpm-t49rjyu79PTbCiyYNVA5CDBr6ps0b9G-MruNY8uCFu0fpJurAJGIAfso6/s320/DSCN3090.JPG" /> <p align="center"><strong>"Anyone can put themselves out there, but you have to make a special effort to stand out against the crowd."</strong><br />.<br /><em>- Producer/Reporter/Cameraman Joseph Fenity on the competition in his field. Based out of Austin, Joseph has worked in broadcasting since he was a teen. He contacted me several months back, and during the hike, he interviewed me twice by phone. Determined to get video footage, he drove down to South Padre and met me going north. Armed with an assortment of gadgets, Joseph managed to get over an hour's worth of footage and audio. He is in the process of creating the first few episodes of a homegrown news program, due out in September, and is excited about starting something different. His attitude was pure positivity and optimism. He added, "Hey, if Oprah can do it, why can't I?"</em><br /><em>.</em><br /><em>South Padre Island, Texas</em><br />. . .<br />. . . </p><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5517248239529666850" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgouqTzcRfFRnD4E6M4RUhPX6AglpkTcJLrfQT7W8kwxozhubF4RcCaw53LMoULTDhGdiQp6spoIuVC6x72vwAthtI2byQl-3O_RMiHrDokczLwbPMuLrG9Vx8M4og7h6erjqwJ1u6USan/s320/faces+of+texas+Jordan.jpg" /> <p align="center"><strong>"Three weeks. That totally sucked."</strong></p><p align="center"><em>- Jordan Thompson on his former girlfriend's inability to break up in a timely manner. A recent college grad traveling the country from temp job to temp job, Jordan took one look at me and Raisin at the Padre Island National Seashore Headquarters and knew that we were hurting. Though he saw us eating, he offered up the second half of his own meal. When I declined, he offered up his story which I gladly accepted. We spent the next few hours in happy conversation, trading backgrounds and girlfriend woes. In the above story, he mentioned how his girlfriend had traveled abroad to study and how he had remained faithful during the six months apart. In the final month, she broke off the relationship, leaving Jordan feeling like he'd just got back from a five-and-a-half month visit to the cleaners. He made light of it, though, and what's more, it made for a good lesson in life.</em></p><p align="center"><em>North Padre Island, Padre Island National Seashore, Texas</em></p><p align="center">. . .</p><div align="center">. . .</div>Smatthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08728966785725757302noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5444915056320730048.post-63294139935841245722010-08-12T05:53:00.000-07:002010-08-12T06:20:47.812-07:00Mission, McAllen, and My FamilyMy parents and brother showed up in Mission the day before yesterday. They are a funny trio, prone to excitement and chaos. It's a constant battle in the car over simple things like speed and direction, but I'm glad they came. Raisin, having already met my parents in Laredo, was delighted.<br /><br /><div id="ms__id8">My parents are both retired, my dad a former lawyer and my mother a former CCISD employee, and my brother is going strong as a computer programmer in Silicon Valley. There's a lot of potential there for enlightening conversations, but there's no sense bringing up what might possibly BE because what might possibly BE is accompanied, inherently, by what might possibly BE NOT.</div><div id="ms__id9"> </div>Said another way, we yell a lot.<br /><div id="ms__id13"> </div><div id="ms__id10">But all is well in the Read family history. It's loud, yes, but loud in this family is par for the course. It just wouldn't be the Reads if we could only whisper.</div><div id="ms__id11"> </div><div id="ms__id12">Charlie walked with me yesterday, part of the point of his visit to Texas. We got dropped off at the Speer Public Library in Mission (this library was like a palace with computers everywhere) and walked to a point a couple miles north of Hidalgo. We went from 9am to 12pm and 6:30pm to 8:30pm. He's atheletic and had no problem with the pace (not that I walked fast).</div><div id="ms__id17"> </div><div id="ms__id14">During the first segment toward the end, I was about ten degrees away from feeling miserable, but Charlie was in the midst of his limit. California's made him soft, I guess. The weather had put the temperature around 95 degrees with a heat index of 110, but I'm told the weather peaks between 2pm and 6pm. I wasn't yet at my limit, but both Charlie and Raisin were ready to when noon rolled around.</div><div id="ms__id16"> </div><div id="ms__id15">We slowed down for two spots along the way: the McAllen Nature Center and a US Border Patrol Headquarters on the old Military Highway in the south of the state. The nature center was a maze of paths in a wooded area, very green and very quiet. It helped that it was closed to visitors for we had the place to ourselves. We snuck in through a separate open entrance.</div><div id="ms__id18"> </div><div id="ms__id19">The US Border Patrol Headquarters was a little different. We got as far as a little lobby. We wondered who would visit the headquarters, but sure enough, the visitor registration sheet was filled with signatures. I got some cold water from a fountain, said hi to the man behind the glass (who was completely unimpressed by the way), and we continued on our way.</div><div id="ms__id20"> </div><div id="ms__id21">The evening hike was a little different. Raisin sat this segment out, something she hadn't done since Big Bend National Park, and Charlie and I continued. When we got to what looked like a big river, we started hiking along side of it.</div><div id="ms__id22"> </div><div id="ms__id23">The river, it turns out, was the flood waters that are still coursing through the area. Several north-to-south roads which dip low are covered in water and are closed to the public. The massive flooding was a few weeks ago, but the flow here was still a couple of feet deep. We saw a few people fishing on the road who reported a small bass catch. It was so nice to get away from the traffic.</div><div id="ms__id24"> </div><div id="ms__id25">Today, Charlie and I will hike a bit more, then he and my parents will take off. Raisin and I will be left for the final stretch home. Whether that will be on Padre Island or the parallel road is up to the fates.</div><div id="ms__id26"> </div><div id="ms__id27">Until next time...</div>Smatthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08728966785725757302noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5444915056320730048.post-5829846650177356922010-08-04T14:57:00.000-07:002010-08-04T15:53:46.230-07:00Laredo, San Ygnacio, and ZapataLaredo was one big place. It's supposedly the biggest inland port in the USA, which is believable considering the amount of traffic this supposedly small town has. Raisin and I spent a happy few days with my folks in a hotel, then with my friend Becky Garcia at her home. All this heat and humidity makes A/C all the sweeter.<br /><br />I had no one to talk to after seeing Inception with my parents. The movie was just too much for them, and they had lots of questions like "Was the wife dead or alive?" and statements like "I just didn't like all that floating nonsense." I can see how the movie was a bit difficult to follow, but it explains itself perfectly with enough holes to inspire subsequent thought and conversation.<br /><br />My folks and I ate at a little hole in the wall called "El Something-Or-Other." I remember it meant "The Hunter." It was right next to a closed down restaurant called El Metate. I don't pretend to understand why I can remember the shut-down place that we walked by and not the place we actually ate at, but there you go. It was delicious food. I ordered pozole, or meat stew, and it was thick and wonderful. My mom got some caldo, or soup, and was pleased; my dad ordered a side of beans, which he claimed only had ten or so, and was thus disappointed. Their presentation sucked - we were served in on styrofoam plates and bowls and cups - but the flavor and consistency of the food was superb. And the name? For all you know, I'm keeping this one to myself.<br /><br />I did a little bit more historical investigation of Laredo with Becky. The area is the only place in Texas which can claim that SEVEN FLAGS have flown over it (once upon a time, Mexican insurgents created The Republic of the Rio Grande which lasted less than a year). As such, it has some very old stories which survive in family histories and - as I was soon to learn - in the buildings themselves.<br /><br />Casa Ortiz (in the previous post, I mentioned Jesse Gonzalez and Casa Ortiz) is one such place, among the oldest houses in all of Laredo. There was a sizeable courtyard which had a thick staircase which made cutbacks all the way down to the river. Jesse, who lives there and gives tours, told us that the cutbacks were intended to slow down invading indians and give the family enough time to hide. You can say with accuracy that they don't make em like that anymore.<br /><br />We could see the Rio Grande from the elevated grounds, and the damage from the recent flooding was evidenced by several bent or broken light poles. The river apparently covered a part of Laredo's International Bridge Number One (there are four) and came close to reaching the top of Number Two. Crazy!<br /><br />After parting ways with Becky, Raisin and I took a few days getting to San Ygnacio. San Ygnacio is made up of a government building (library included), two gas stations, and one restaurant. I hit up the restaurant for an agua fresca (she just had lemonade, which was good), and then later for a meal. There were only two choices on the menu, so I chose the first one: picadillo a la Mexicana. As can be imagined with just a couple of options to focus on, it was fabulous. Soup for starters, corn tortillas and salsa (you had to break up your tortillas to make chips), and then homemade tortillas to go with the meal. Yum! Beans looked to be out of a can, but the meal as a whole was really delicious.<br /><br />The kids I spoke with in San Ygnacio had a lot to say. One claimed to be seventeen but had the voice of a kid barely thirteen. He asked me about my trip, and I asked him about the Border Patrol. Specifically, did they bother the townspeople? He nodded, and I asked why. Any cars that are too full or hang too close to the ground are suspect, he told me. I had gotten carded earlier that day just hanging out at a picnic area, so I understood completely. He didn't elaborate, and I didn't push, but the entire issue felt like I was touching a local sore spot. An older kid taking a few courses at Laredo's TAMIU showed up and confessed he was doing community service for 8 unpaid traffic tickets. He complained about the lack of things to do in town, confused by the disbanding of a local rec center, and longed to get out. I was impressed with the level of conversation and interest.<br /><br />The librarian gets a quick mention here. She showed up late and closed up early, BUT she let Raisin relax inside in the air-conditioned room. She gets points for the latter.<br /><br />Now, we're in Zapata. A few people honked coming into town, possibly because they saw the Texas Country Reporter last week. Makes me smile.<br /><br />I spoke with a lovely couple at the first grocery I saw. The older gentleman told me about his days as a migrant worker, bouncing around and doing all the picking and digging jobs that machines do now. His wife, who was tending the register and doing the work of the store, listened and commented occasionally. We talked about obesity, charity, and prosperity. We talked about the USA. Again, there was a real sense that the times have changed in this country, some things for the better and some for the worse.<br /><br />Until next time...Smatthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08728966785725757302noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5444915056320730048.post-31883545946395373722010-08-03T15:46:00.000-07:002010-08-04T14:13:49.631-07:00Books on the Edge<div><div style="text-align: center;">. . .<br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">. . .<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUotwYM2Zc_w5tpt2S5WENh5CwRrjzrVl2Z9pa4_RFHi_P9suhURgOBoX13C8f0AwQm8RXLpqSC3rtgwpCofZqGy_j6KhyphenhyphenHcAsM7GLFN3V6Ry1e7Ds8HHGl90u36OW1MsxUrDkRTi3heQx/s1600/RSCN2902.JPG"><img style="text-align: center; margin: 0px auto 10px; width: 240px; display: block; height: 320px;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5501319258716849762" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUotwYM2Zc_w5tpt2S5WENh5CwRrjzrVl2Z9pa4_RFHi_P9suhURgOBoX13C8f0AwQm8RXLpqSC3rtgwpCofZqGy_j6KhyphenhyphenHcAsM7GLFN3V6Ry1e7Ds8HHGl90u36OW1MsxUrDkRTi3heQx/s320/RSCN2902.JPG" border="0" /></a>. . .<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">The Devil's Highway</span> by Luis Urrea details the disastrous border crossing of some two dozen Mexicans in the Arizona desert. Wherever you stand on the issue of illegal immigration, Urrea's book delves into the details of the entire operation, from the men both young and old who look north for an answer to life's troubles, to the smuggling chain of command, to the Border Patrol and their methods for handling this unending assault. In his retelling, Urrea has a somewhat annoying habit of driving home a point using extremely colloquial language, but his eye for detail and drama make this an essential read for understanding the border conflict. A reviewer on the back of the book said something like "Read this book now." I thought at first that this was just the kind of garbage that publisher's love putting on books, but he was right. You need to read this book right now.<br />. . .<br /></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNtdgH3Vd_iwj5CyRRKa9Oys-yRmq8FLub_9Z_PmNTXQe-QioxohnzsOVGWjiryz6YTL6Ohu5UDTa2HphV3qEsNjtWEVk3uuwNUV7T0VM8WFcOqrce8e6D4EVJNy827FLGwdTsyGinfCde/s1600/RSCN2906.JPG"><img style="text-align: center; margin: 0px auto 10px; width: 240px; display: block; height: 320px;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5501319254598567202" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNtdgH3Vd_iwj5CyRRKa9Oys-yRmq8FLub_9Z_PmNTXQe-QioxohnzsOVGWjiryz6YTL6Ohu5UDTa2HphV3qEsNjtWEVk3uuwNUV7T0VM8WFcOqrce8e6D4EVJNy827FLGwdTsyGinfCde/s320/RSCN2906.JPG" border="0" /></a>. . .<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Dead Man's Walk</span> is the first of the Lonesome Dove tetralogy detailing Gus and Call's beginnings, both as friends and Texas Rangers. It's a light read, full of everything you might expect from a non-<span style="font-style: italic;">Lonesome Dove</span> novel. The bad guys range from the indomitable Comanches and Apaches to the Mexican army, and the good guys count among their numbers the famous Texan Bigfoot Wallace. You also get to read the first few moments between Gus and Clara (frankly, I read the story mainly for these passages). It's good fun, more popcorn for the <span style="font-style: italic;">LD</span> fan, but perhaps less meaningful for someone unfamiliar with the original story.<br />.<br />A side note: My longtime friend admitted to me that he had neither seen nor read <span style="font-style: italic;">Lonesome Dove</span>. If you are a born-and-raised Texan, you have got to carve out some time to experience this story. You'll get more out of it by reading the 900 page epic, but the 6-hour miniseries was so well done that the whole thing's become a toss-up. Fiction at its best.<br />. . .<br /></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcoBGLOO4s82ObgUOCLPVT3jU4_DHcLSYQa870LPuMXN2w5ui0ugriY4sFtOrKY5ABXc39IoLrKRWszDTDPlBJklzLbGz9XSViXSIvn1dGcmbR-TRA_OHspCdt7Z7zexk82kJgTIOv7hyphenhyphenO/s1600/RSCN2963.JPG"><img style="text-align: center; margin: 0px auto 10px; width: 240px; display: block; height: 320px;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5501319246444603666" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcoBGLOO4s82ObgUOCLPVT3jU4_DHcLSYQa870LPuMXN2w5ui0ugriY4sFtOrKY5ABXc39IoLrKRWszDTDPlBJklzLbGz9XSViXSIvn1dGcmbR-TRA_OHspCdt7Z7zexk82kJgTIOv7hyphenhyphenO/s320/RSCN2963.JPG" border="0" /></a>. . .<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">The Tecate Journals</span> is Keith Bowden's thru-adventure down the Texas section of the Rio Grande river. Sometimes with friends though mostly alone, he bikes and paddles every mile of this no man's land, spending time on both sides of the river and seeing the spectrum of humanity through everyone he meets. While the book does have its moments, there's a lot left to be desired. I got tired of reading that a couple of beers hit the spot or that some interaction was superlative in some way or another. There's a lot in the book for the canoeing enthusiast, especially if you're about to tackle little known sections of the Rio Grande, but the book falls short of the mark for the rest of us.<br />. . .<br />Until we meet again...<br /></div><div></div></div></div></div>Smatthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08728966785725757302noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5444915056320730048.post-72078147836676983472010-07-31T10:09:00.000-07:002010-08-04T13:04:04.827-07:00Faces of Texas<div align="center">. . .<br />. . .</div><div align="center"><img style="text-align: center; margin: 0px auto 10px; width: 240px; display: block; height: 320px;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5501318599111721890" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUp0M2-Gtg99L0hr4bUOkOWb1LIqH1k_Dbk379qmNdVlNcqjRfb8-YD49edhjVUIArtlVlik4DsbIL8FRd3cV9YtybWIAIP07eGXBhpSyqdSjqPEc9hic-4B_JFkHJTL0SPY69wu4GlTt6/s320/DSCN2620.JPG" border="0" /></div><div align="center"><strong>"It was 40 miles of tarantulas. I've never seen anything like it."</strong></div><div align="center">.</div><div align="center"><em>- Robert H. Lee on riding a motorcycle in West Texas after a heavy rain. I met Robert on the Terlingua porch in the middle of one of his motorcycle roadtrips. Originally from Texas, he told of a heavy rain that slowed down a bike trip for him and his buddies. When they finally resumed the ride, they discovered that the road from Presidio to Marfa was inundated with tarantulas trying to stay away from the heavy water. With nowhere to go but onward, they drove the spider-filled road for an hour, covering their wheels with a thick layer of smelly arachnid guts.</em></div><div align="center"><em>.</em></div><div align="center"><em>Terlingua Ghost Town, Texas</em></div><div align="center">. . .</div><div align="center">. . .</div><div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgY4BhkUnYgPM2rg3S_HnlMxbUZPfoSXVAbNSKfA-wNdt-jdeaZHZ5SPSt6lifDnu1_tH8PSuTaCbupyuRbi8VI5WKm5_ECPFg9fSNoDPbXwjOCzX04R2sVsUDYimSmGx-T9B1hHRoAUnSA/s1600/DSCN2813.JPG"><img style="text-align: center; margin: 0px auto 10px; width: 240px; display: block; height: 320px;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5501318592367943586" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgY4BhkUnYgPM2rg3S_HnlMxbUZPfoSXVAbNSKfA-wNdt-jdeaZHZ5SPSt6lifDnu1_tH8PSuTaCbupyuRbi8VI5WKm5_ECPFg9fSNoDPbXwjOCzX04R2sVsUDYimSmGx-T9B1hHRoAUnSA/s320/DSCN2813.JPG" border="0" /></a></div><div align="center"><strong>"I still log on about six hours a month, say hi to people, shoot some fireballs, gain some experience, whatever."</strong></div><div align="center">.</div><div align="center"><em>- Brian Alexander on his post-"everything's about my on-line adventure game" life. I met Brian at the La Loma del Chivo hostel in Marathon while he was visiting his friend Ali. We worked together building a goat shed, volunteered for the fire department chief, judged the chili cook-off. After my week there, Brian walked with me for a few miles and talked about his former intense obsession with Everquest, an on-line adventure game. He was years into it when he realized that it might be better to branch out. His visit to Marathon only served to reinforce the decision he had made several years prior, but he still makes time to dish out the occasional fireball.</em></div><div align="center"><em>.</em></div><div align="center"><em>Marathon, Texas</em></div><div align="center">. . .<br />. . .<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7At_M9m1C6Zu-FTvAaemXMMiSTyUA5JiD5xmj6K3H6INXZicLuaRONbgWupKB34LWz2RMIuNjk11POjDMGNzT5GyC0Od6mFE82pnqUhdo_ffT5VWzpp0iQM7VQ888-ilM6-ElSsORY8TD/s1600/DSCN2793.JPG"><img style="text-align: center; margin: 0px auto 10px; width: 240px; display: block; height: 320px;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5501317959068531090" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7At_M9m1C6Zu-FTvAaemXMMiSTyUA5JiD5xmj6K3H6INXZicLuaRONbgWupKB34LWz2RMIuNjk11POjDMGNzT5GyC0Od6mFE82pnqUhdo_ffT5VWzpp0iQM7VQ888-ilM6-ElSsORY8TD/s320/DSCN2793.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><strong>"So is this some kind of free-loving hippy place?"</strong><br />.<br /><em>- Dan, a cross-country bicyclist, on the hostel La Loma del Chivo. Dan only stayed one night in Marathon, but we had a couple of long conversations before calling it a day. He was recently out of a career, a marriage, and a subsequent relationship, and was literally rebuilding himself as he biked across America. Dan confessed that he had never experienced the kind of intensity of the road that allowed total strangers to become close in a relatively short period of time. When the hostel caretaker told him that bikers weren't required to pay, Dan couldn't believe it and spouted the above question. He followed that with, "Hey, this is all new to me."</em><br /><em>.</em><br /><em>Marathon, Texas</em><br />. . .<br />. . .<br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtSupN0m5_mSeeyUDt8UaX-nONBs938EvRA6qK_MpMmXrtIisTgEfwATiz_2ZihCmZa2x0fIUjFw1JVDbSctRMTnReMdWMIkUarVMCkC1eCw77VUoWUfO1ZAQlGJZ8_mrUj-eyz8_nxMmB/s1600/DSCN2899.JPG"><img style="text-align: center; margin: 0px auto 10px; width: 240px; display: block; height: 320px;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5501317952966887714" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtSupN0m5_mSeeyUDt8UaX-nONBs938EvRA6qK_MpMmXrtIisTgEfwATiz_2ZihCmZa2x0fIUjFw1JVDbSctRMTnReMdWMIkUarVMCkC1eCw77VUoWUfO1ZAQlGJZ8_mrUj-eyz8_nxMmB/s320/DSCN2899.JPG" border="0" /></a></div><div><strong>"From the courthouse [in Sanderson], the nearest traffic signal is 65 miles."</strong></div><div>.</div><div><em>- Mike Millican on the remoteness of the entire region. I met Mike in Dryden over dinner at the grocery store (we were both invitees). His friends in Marfa had told him I was coming some time ago, so he wasn't surprised at all by my arrival and invited me to crash on his couch. During the evening and following morning, he told me about his plans to create a primitive bicycle campground, something that would break up a 150-mile stretch of Adventure Cycling's southern route. He even had a name picked out: El Escondido. With nothing in all directions, "The Hideout" seems like a perfect fit.</em></div><div><em>.</em></div><div><em>Dryden, Texas</em></div><div>. . .<br />. . .<br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgW2dVsKWwlxxe5-02g2uNPGetYrT3MWQnaUQYnkM8z9RmzzxmCaIi42Fti0O_JNST1Y0h7rmjVicVxD9rlEP2uQgBMOJiLKAt1OjPxZ7rja4gRAxcjYpM8uwolbbJAiPgejK6m32epBItz/s1600/RSCN2938.JPG"><img style="text-align: center; margin: 0px auto 10px; width: 240px; display: block; height: 320px;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5501317944528608610" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgW2dVsKWwlxxe5-02g2uNPGetYrT3MWQnaUQYnkM8z9RmzzxmCaIi42Fti0O_JNST1Y0h7rmjVicVxD9rlEP2uQgBMOJiLKAt1OjPxZ7rja4gRAxcjYpM8uwolbbJAiPgejK6m32epBItz/s320/RSCN2938.JPG" border="0" /></a></div><div><strong>"When I'm here, you know they can't find anybody else."</strong></div><div>.</div><div><em>- Keith Mann on working at the Lillie Langtry gift shop. Looking at the picture, it might not seem like Keith was working, but he most certainly was. Sitting comfortably on the porch and facing the not-so-busy Judge Roy Bean museum, he only went inside when there was a customer or two, which on this particular day happened at a rate of once per two hours. Keith lamented not being able to work on his porch on an overcast day, but there were moments playing his music when he didn't seem to mind. "This is my little Spanish guitar," he told me. Then he'd gently play another tune, looking off to see who might be blowing through his lonely West Texas town.</em></div><div><em>.</em></div><div><em>Langtry, Texas</em></div><div>. . .</div><div>. . .<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGuJkCO0q1llG0C8YUB1owQy03vR2E9wjNTWppE6RjjwrjotCmcJJdFmKUghqH_3Rq00Jc5KhhSoZFXMGzUDwe8Btl5otu8xkOvyxaGXnc6c6Sj3YKO3MduItZXl-LkoT4ZIxAhmaz2BCc/s1600/DSCN0523.JPG"><img style="text-align: center; margin: 0px auto 10px; width: 240px; display: block; height: 320px; cursor: pointer;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5500119414128530610" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGuJkCO0q1llG0C8YUB1owQy03vR2E9wjNTWppE6RjjwrjotCmcJJdFmKUghqH_3Rq00Jc5KhhSoZFXMGzUDwe8Btl5otu8xkOvyxaGXnc6c6Sj3YKO3MduItZXl-LkoT4ZIxAhmaz2BCc/s320/DSCN0523.JPG" border="0" /></a> <strong>"My son said, 'Daddy, who's that girl over there in the purple dress?'"</strong></div><div>.</div><div><em>- Jesse Gonzalez on his son's witnessing an apparition in his home. Jesse lives in Casa Ortiz, a historic house in downtown Laredo. One of the first questions I asked him was if it was haunted, and he answered 'yes.' Stories, we agreed, usually have a logical explanation, but there was no explaining his son seeing another person in an otherwise empty house. Jesse gave me and Becky Garcia a tour of the house, going through all the rooms with extra history thrown in for fun, but I didn't see any girls in purple and didn't feel the air go cold. Of course, I wasn't there at night.</em></div><div><em>.</em></div><div><em>Laredo, Texas</em></div></div><br /></div>Smatthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08728966785725757302noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5444915056320730048.post-7787194392782868632010-07-30T11:05:00.001-07:002010-07-30T11:08:20.817-07:00In the News...I just posted a big blog below, but I also have a couple of articles that have just come out across the state.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.caller.com/news/2010/jul/25/trouble-turkey-burgers-and-border-agents-in-far/">Click here to see my Corpus article on my Marathon Border Checkpoint woes.</a><br /><a href="http://www.victoriaadvocate.com/news/2010/jul/24/perimeter_trail_072510_104128/?news"><br />Click here to see my self-syndicated column in the Victoria Advocate about solitude.</a><br /><br />Sorry there's not more information, but the columns are self-explanatory once you get into them!<br /><br />Until next we cross paths...Smatthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08728966785725757302noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5444915056320730048.post-3423678376158613102010-07-29T05:17:00.000-07:002010-07-30T11:05:15.153-07:00The Border Patrol and my Daytime/Nighttime Strolls down Old Mines Road<div>I just finished a stretch between Eagle Pass and Laredo. Twenty miles after the former, I passed a town called El Indio, an aerostat radar unit a few miles after that, and then a whole lot of nothing for the remainder of the walk. The pavement petered out, and Raisin and I walked Eagle Pass Road, though nobody calls it that. People call it the Old Mines Road, and it goes all the way into Laredo.<br /><br />We met TONS of border patrol agents on this road, and because they don't communicate too much with one another and not well at all between regions, I had to introduce myself countless times. As a benchmark for comparison, anywhere else but the border I might have met one law enforcement agent in 100 miles. On Old Mines Road, I met a few dozen in 50 miles.<br /><br />The BP agents all do a double take. Several pass us, then turn around to ask questions. It's usually the same conversation, but there are notable exceptions due to the agent or circumstance.<br /><br />On the first day off the pavement, some agents stopped and got out of their car (You never know. Sometimes they stay in and talk to you from the comfort of an air-conditioned car; other times they get out and meet you halfway.). I thought, "Here we go again," but they didn't approach me. They were bent over something by the side of the road. When I got closer, I saw many many foot prints, fresh and about a half-inch to inch deep in the somewhat firm mud. They were trying to learn as much as they could from the prints before continuing any kind of search. I didn't stick around, but thought it was pretty interesting.<br /><br />Raisin and I hunkered down in the shade on the same day and were resting when several cars passed us on the road. There were BP cars, sheriff cars, fire rescue vehicles, EMT vans. There might have been ten in all. On a lonely dusty road, ten cars turn your head.<br /><br />A bit later, a couple of BP agents stumbled upon our resting spot while doing a drag pull. The Border Patrol have a system with which they identify the general location of a hiker or hikers. There are several dirt roads on which they drag several huge chained-together tires to make the road flat and mainly smooth. If a walker disturbs the road's dust and stones by crossing it, the BP agents are trained to spot the trail he leaves. This is called cutting sign. By monitoring which roads have been crossed, they can specify the general location of a hiker or hikers.<br /><br />So the agents were dragging a couple of tires, and I flagged them down to ask about all the cars. Apparently, an 18-wheeler collapsed on a man changing a tire. On the 18-wheeler was a house. Yeah, think about it. All of that came crashing down on a man who, believe it or not, may have survived. But in what condition, I'll never know. Other 18-wheelers were brought out to disassemble the house and lighten the load so the emergency personnel could do their job and get the guy out.<br /><br />That was day one. At the end of it, we found a decent camping spot hidden off to the side of the road. Little did I know I would be betrayed by my own.<br /><br />At 2:30am, I could hear a BP truck driving slowly down the road, looking for signs of a crossing. When it got close and the slow grinding of their tires on the caliche road made the rubber growl, Raisin started barking. The car stopped, and a flashlight beam cut through the night. I called out to the men, and the first thing the driver said to me, keeping in mind that we hadn't yet seen each other, was "Do you need any water?" These guys were looking out for me, and though I think Raisin has a lot to learn about stealth camping, I felt good about the encounter. We had a brief conversation, and then on the flip-side of their tour of the road, they stopped to talk for a bit longer. It was bizarre to be having a conversation in the middle of the night while I was in my sleeping bag and these armed agents were standing nearby, but Raisin wasn't intimidated. She was wagging until they left.<br /><br />The mosquitoes, by the way, were bad on Old Mines Road. They weren't terrible, but it only takes a handful to make your nighttime sleep a little harder to hold onto.<br /><br />Once the guys left, I got attacked again. I hid under the sleeping bag which was rated at 20 degrees Fahrenheit and way too hot for South Texas hiking. I lasted a couple hours, then got up and took off, saving both our breakfasts for later.<br /><br />I started the hike with about nine liters of water and knew that I'd have to rely most likely on either mud puddles or the Border Patrol. Since the BP agents usually keep their water cool, I preferred theirs. All the agents I encountered were very helpful with the water resupply, even giving me food in the process. Between Eagle Pass, Carrizo Springs, and Laredo, they've got a really nice team of men and women working for them.<br /><br />We got stopped again, though Raisin never officially got carded. It's a good thing, too, because dogs have to have a chip in them in Laredo - city ordinance. I didn't understand the sentence, "Are you a US citizen?" due to various factors, the main one being that some agents choose to ask the question all of a sudden. Like this:<br /><br />"So you're just walking?"<br />"Yep."<br />"Where'd you start?"<br />"Corpus."<br />"Where are you going?"<br />"Corpus."<br />"Where are you from?"<br />"Corpus."<br />"Are you a US citizen?"<br /><br />The question is not a natural extension of the conversation and has tripped me up because of its inherent awkwardness. The majority of agents will ask, so I know it's coming. Still, I sometimes flub it, like going up a staircase carrying something big and thinking there's going to be another step.<br /><br />So I flubbed, and this raised their suspicions. They asked for my ID, which I gave, and they soon realized I was telling the truth. During this time, another BP car pulled up, and the drivers got out. They walked right up and said, "We got one."<br /><br />A man had been abandoned by his coyote group and wandered around for five days, totally lost. He was hungry and thirsty and needed to give himself up to survive. So he sat on the road and waited for a BP truck, which given enough time will always come.<br /><br />I really wanted to see him but refrained from asking. The guys were friendly, gave me some water and a few power bars, and then the same fellow who had spoken of getting "one" warned me of the emptiness of the upcoming stretch of road: "The only people who use this road are oil men, truckers, Border Patrol, and the wets."<br /><br />It's weird to hear that word "wets," but I know the crossers are using similar terms to describe their hunters like "gringos" and "migra." So strange that with just one word, hundreds of thousands of people can be summed up and brushed off, divorced from their humanity. The fact that it happens in both directions does not make it any better.<br /><br />The following morning, I woke up at 2:30am again, this time from the mosquitoes alone. I packed up and left, disgusted with my inability to wipe them out (I usually fight them. I've got good techniques, too.). We hit the road and after 30 minutes or so saw the lights of a BP truck coming our way. We walked directly into the light.<br /><br />While I have a hard time understanding people's general weariness of me when I show up during the day, I have absolutely no problem understanding how unusual it must have been for these men to see a hiker at 3am on a road heavily used by illegal migrants and drug-runners. They rightly had a hard time believing me. I got carded, as usual, but gained their confidence once I cleared. They gave me a refill on water and an MRE, a military "Meal Ready-to-Eat" ration. (One hour later, Raisin and I sat down to our first meal like that. We gobbled it up.) In parting, one agent said, "See you in the morning." And we did, a few hours later with the rising sun.<br /><br />I was hoping we'd be done with the mosquitoes in the evening, but it just wasn't in the cards. For the third day in a row, I got up at 2:30am to 3am, and started hiking, Raisin by my side. This time, we didn't see Border Patrol for several hours. What did happen took me off guard.<br /><br />We were walking by moonlight and could probably be seen for quite some ways. I know this because a vehicle honked at me. I stopped and looked off to my left and could see the brakes of a car come on and off. They were telling me, "We're over here. Now come on up." I got very tingly and continued walking, all the while glancing at the hill. They never honked again.<br /><br />When we finally hit the pavement again, I felt as if several days had passed when in fact I'd only been out of touch for two and a half. We walked a few miles then sat by the road for a break from the heat. A few moments later, a BP car pulled up with a cameraman in the passenger seat. He was videotaping me! From his seat, the agent asked me a few questions, then got out and came over to us. The cameraman and two others got out, and they crowded me and Raisin all while the BP agent was giving me information and asking questions. <br /><br />Turns out, the non-BP passengers were from National Geographic! They were doing a story on the border on the stretch of road I had just hiked. They asked me some questions, videotaped Raisin drinking some water, and were full of pure energy. During this time, three other BP vehicles showed up, everyone clearly excited about the presence of National Geographic. I asked the first agent about the honk that had happened earlier, and he explained that it was likely a coyote, not a drug-runner, who had called me over and that it was a common technique.<br /><br />Then just as soon as they had appeared, they were off!<br /><br />Raisin and I took another day to reach Laredo and stayed with my folks in a hotel for a couple of nights. We're now with a childhood and high school friend named Becky Garcia, and she too is giving us a healthy dose of Texan hospitality. R&R! Read & Raisin!<br /><br />And that is that. Until next time, folks...<br /></div>Smatthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08728966785725757302noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5444915056320730048.post-15938992107447457032010-07-21T14:45:00.000-07:002010-07-21T15:35:03.589-07:00Del Rio, Quemado, and Eagle PassOne of the exciting things about being on the southern boundary is the inundation of Mexican food. To be fair, though, I started noticing a lot of authentic Mexican restaurants from as far back as the north-central panhandle (yeah, think about it). As unlikely as it seems, I've been eating good Mexican food for about 1500 hundred miles.<br /><br />However, facility and ease are important to me, especially being on foot. Before hitting El Paso all the way until now, I had to sort of take the Mexican food whenever I chanced upon it. I got burned a couple of times, but I also found some real gems in the desert.<br /><br />In Del Rio, locals and tourists alike really enjoy Fisherman's Headquarters, a little bar-restaurant attached to a gas station. For me, I could walk there from the Broke Mill RV park where I stayed on Hwy 90 (which, as far as RV parks go, is a swank place; I still can't believe the owner Mike cut me a deal at $12 bucks a night). I've been on a chicharron kick lately (also known as 'pig skin'), and this place did a pretty good job.<br /><br />In Quemado, I couldn't figure out what locals most enjoyed, but I went to a little grocery which also had a restaurant. I missed the name, but it's the only place in the north of town (and it's a really small town). I wanted some quick tacos, but they didn't have chicharron. All they had was barbacoa (barbecue) and chorizo con papas (hot sausage and potatoes). I didn't care too much for the former, but the latter was fantastic. I got the last of it, and I was glad for it. I got Raisin a scoop of barbacoa, and she was really really excited (Quick disclaimer: I'm not saying it was dog food. It was good, just not as good as the other.).<br /><br />Smack in between Quemado and Eagle Pass was a little place called M&M Cafe. There was literally nothing around it, not in the way of development. I stationed Raisin in some shade and went in. It was mom and pop operation, and I greeted the woman in English. She wouldn't have it. She replied in Spanish, saying - and I'm guessing here - "Now, now. We'll have none of that in here. Why don't you speak Spanish to me?" I obliged and asked her how she was doing. She smiled and asked what I would like. Chicharron, I said. Haven't these people figured this out by now? She brought it out about ten minutes later, a single perfect taco of pig skin. The skin was crispy and mixed with eggs, and there was salsa on the side. I carefully put some aside for Raisin (if she's going to hike with me, she's going to eat pig skin). Delicious. Outside, Raisin looked at it and was skeptical at first, but in a moment devoured what I'd given her. My kind of dog.<br /><br />In Eagle Pass, I foolishly filled up on camping food on the outskirts of town. I'm also wondering what happened to my infinite appetite. While I'm processing trail mix and what not, I'm keeping an eye out on every place I pass, and I've passed several. To borrow a phrase from Clerks, I feel like a salsa shark.<br /><br />Anyway, we're having a good time and enjoying all this good food. Andale, perro!<br /><br />Until next time...Smatthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08728966785725757302noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5444915056320730048.post-12065576222991947862010-07-20T11:29:00.000-07:002010-07-20T11:37:42.264-07:00In the News...I'm at the Quemado Public Library. I tied Raisin up outside, but because of the amount of slack I had given her, she managed to slip inside to the air-conditioned room. I hadn't known this until I turned around and saw her lying down on the floor, being good, like she was supposed to be there. I just laughed and let it slide. The librarians haven't said anything yet.<br /><br />If you're into Raisin anecdotes like the one above, you might like this. I wrote a Raisin article some time back for my self-syndicated column. <a href="http://www.victoriaadvocate.com/news/2010/jun/26/texas_perimeter_062710_101237/?news#postcomments">Click here to read it.</a><br /><br />Also, the Texas Country Reporter did a segment on me when I was hiking from Presidio to Terlingua. <a href="http://www.texascountryreporter.com/show.htm">Click here for a blurb and possibly when the show will air in your area.</a> By the way, I make no promises here. While I hopefully sound somewhat articulate, I'm scared I won't. It's a little nerve-wracking to be speaking off the cuff with a big camera in your face.<br /><br />That's all for now. Until next time...Smatthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08728966785725757302noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5444915056320730048.post-65812297716207398372010-07-18T14:48:00.000-07:002010-07-18T15:01:00.980-07:00Seminole Canyon State ParkWhile this post should have some pics, I'm specifically not going to post any as they could potentially be submitted as evidence in a court of law. Oh no, you might be thinking, what's this rascal gone and done now? Not much admittedly, but there were signs saying to do otherwise, thus the picture ban.<br /><br />Raisin and I showed up at Seminole Canyon State Park after hours. I had wanted to stock up on food, read a few interesting displays, get to know the park. Not this visit. So we hung out while I read a book and contemplated our next move.<br /><br />As the sun approached seven o'clock, I decided to go into the canyon. Raisin was game. But the signs prohibit such action. "Canyon Open to Guided Tours Only." That's pretty clear to me. So I asked Raisin if I could guide her down, never mind that she's a puppy, and she said 'woof.' Done.<br /><br />We went down the stairs to the bottom of the canyon and paused. It was pure magic.<br /><br />The beauty was astounding. Pools of water, a wide canyon perfect for walking, trees, cool air. We went back several miles toward the Rio Grande. It was like walking through a wonderland, where every step provides a new picture perfect view.<br /><br />We checked out the wall paintings, the reason the canyon is off limits, but the natural beauty of the place quite frankly put them to shame. We swam, played around, and as it got quiet and dark, found a nice overhang to camp in. The night was crisp, mosquitoless, and perfect.<br /><br />I love this place.<br /><br />Until next time...Smatthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08728966785725757302noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5444915056320730048.post-30735019446104445702010-07-08T15:08:00.000-07:002010-07-08T15:59:22.384-07:00A Hostel in Marathon: La Loma del Chivo<div align="center">Raisin and I walked into Marathon, Texas, population roughly 450. Having seen and experienced dozens of small towns about this size, there was no reason to expect anything out of the ordinary. However, West Texas has a few tricks up its old dusty sleeves, but we didn't know that. Not yet.</div><div align="center">.</div><div align="center">After walking into town and sharing a few treats at the Burnt Biscuit, we headed for the library. I got some work done while Raisin took a nap outside (Just for the record, she hates libraries for the simple reason that she must wait <em>outside</em>.). From there, we hit the grocery store, The French Grocer, and while choosing cans of beans and bars of Snickers, our fates would become intertwined with the Hill of the Goat.</div><div align="center">.</div><div align="center">A man named Daniel Eaton noticed I was traveling (with a huge backpack, it's hard not to.). He was nice enough and recommended I check out a hostel a few blocks away, even offered to drive me. He told me its name fast, then repeated it slowly: "La Loma. Del Chivo." I declined the drive but made it out there anyway. </div><div align="center">.</div><div align="center">This is what I saw:</div><div align="center">. . .</div><div align="center">. . .</div><div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnlFfzh1tSBmLjc9toE1EJK_YMS5H85Is-jIm3lFBoFoBjAd-5RtNDYL8HFNK1-UHsIrA2vkkW9Xfras6BH2XDeDoU_B8SYcJnza_6AGmn-Hvd4oo22GfTKTYCjrHqkAIAungfskxjS9Oh/s1600/DSCN2795.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5491664898502317650" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnlFfzh1tSBmLjc9toE1EJK_YMS5H85Is-jIm3lFBoFoBjAd-5RtNDYL8HFNK1-UHsIrA2vkkW9Xfras6BH2XDeDoU_B8SYcJnza_6AGmn-Hvd4oo22GfTKTYCjrHqkAIAungfskxjS9Oh/s320/DSCN2795.JPG" /></a> . . .</div><div align="center">The fairyland quality of this place is the first thing that hits you. I could see the bright colors from several blocks away. We didn't find anyone at first, and because I'd had a short conversation with Ali on the phone, Raisin and I made ourselves comfortable in the above abode.</div><div align="center">.</div><div align="center">There's a lot of construction going on. I have taken a couple of shots of places that are pretty much done, but many more cool buildings are on the way.</div><div align="center">.</div><div align="center">The owner and manager do not call it a commune, but as far as definitions go, it basically is. Three people live and work there, 20 hours a week, in exchange for a monthly stipend and all rent and utilities paid. Their job ranges from welcoming clients, answering the phone, working in a garden, managing building projects, and general clean-up.</div><div align="center">. . .</div><div align="center"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5491664003306488194" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrEk75MML3ht5qfj4y3Fz6BqkVQgjQpyU7BCVbNUMd3cWTvFONjvQVTqllEsMNPTHmDjrZ8moYR3JNk6c_jWTb26pGN8fLggEuqvoYng9pKgVeyvGGGJp16m8zMETgA5ooyqRFOiRzbDMB/s320/DSCN2796.JPG" />. . .</div><div align="center">The above building is a bathroom. Just an FYI. If you want to put on a princess dress before entering, that's up to you.<br />. . .</div><div align="center"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5491663984345732898" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEge5LDMzs6G6ye0dcVyKV9N4JW23l2cz7-7N6MpJxp-5cJ4eugxHGCFW4keDDGbtGrFrZ7trn4JjY0KjQP5VKYrpnGtWNsHXyJHjNsF2Aab_LF-r-LcFfk_Bb90rVj0G5acgSc-rvOcjUXn/s320/DSCN2829.JPG" />. . .</div><div align="center">This is Mike. Give him a good look over. He's probably the smiliest, laughiest person of the three, and for good reason: he lost much of what he had spent his life earning in the economic crunch and has made a home here at La Loma. He has three dogs, his own place, and contributes by doing lots of stone and building projects.<br />. . .<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-atkZ2OBgIaLYVWRCJKA2wsmRsVTkrrrykRIl8osMUj2E64p0Is_eQr6Ib_4MHD-t443ZfpN49pqO6YSh5bDBSB0vSH7tuaXW_Dov2N-uavNRIVhf030y5g2TlYWFivQcZKXu0GnHZwYo/s1600/RSCN2821.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5491663994493939858" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-atkZ2OBgIaLYVWRCJKA2wsmRsVTkrrrykRIl8osMUj2E64p0Is_eQr6Ib_4MHD-t443ZfpN49pqO6YSh5bDBSB0vSH7tuaXW_Dov2N-uavNRIVhf030y5g2TlYWFivQcZKXu0GnHZwYo/s320/RSCN2821.JPG" /></a> . . .<br />This is Ali. She greeted me on the phone and made me feel at home before I even got there. She's not actually sitting in La Loma in the picture (she's in another wonderful place in town, a B&B called Eve's Garden), but she is an animal lover. (Her dog Piper runs all over La Loma and played a sort of Big Brother-Big Sister role for Raisin.) Ali is a total sweetheart and loves the quiet of West Texas, a stark contrast from her native Houston. She's figuring life out from the safety and security of a small town, and even invited her best friend Brian from Houston to experience some of the same.<br />. . .<br /><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5491662279468594658" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOOipxX90JiMtoG7Aq6FX5ENHirB-tjs4J6FU_gmQNtDcZ6LAKJUCFpXZcI6rtMoq4K79zqMRcndof9kVeKoQXzbSk7trmSEERKP7DTucYrnVXsJk1FLtBrIbIy9Ieoi2bbdyxY7ygAIi0/s320/DSCN2820.JPG" />. . .<br />This is Jerot. I'm not even sure I'm spelling his name right, but I know it ends in a 't.' He too is figuring out what comes next in life, but for the moment, he's doing great. His dad and brother came out to visit him and after his dad left, Jerot was charged with taking care of Logan. Logan turned 16 while he was there and thoroughly enjoyed his visit.<br />. . .<br /><br /><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5491662254442001762" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgArhmhb5L5est4XbQxa8pxhrsaxlmH9aePGawXiUTG1ApcmRXUW2Wee8_ZaNhxCBuxin7a6jIy76-xxDmbib_P1d260FGEFwGINMlDPrlt80VV2Dmy_PURSlg5omM580T3zJRtWuJkSO8V/s320/RSCN2811.JPG" />. . .</div><div align="center">This is Billy, La Loma's new mascot. It makes sense, obviously, to have a goat, but it makes even better financial sense. I think it's a ride-off.</div><div align="center">.</div><div align="center">I had a great week and already miss it. I shall return, hopefully to some of the same faces, in the future.<br />.</div><div align="center">Until next time...</div><div align="center">. . .<br /></div>Smatthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08728966785725757302noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5444915056320730048.post-6792831840355515522010-06-29T13:53:00.000-07:002010-07-08T11:48:57.073-07:00Faces of Texas<div align="center">. . .</div><div align="center">. . .</div><div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIQJA6iqNLBj2GzUlEM8YvnjLv-uAduCvHgcF3-_9mv2uR7_Kqwa4Sc1Tdf8SiT0RJlybzXtms5M4MUiX642iBfVrL_y3QS-Oq1ddlKqf5zI6Pf_Y2QTYAJIErhUMURJZKaQs7D7qHYxvg/s1600/DSCN2490.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5488303733793647762" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIQJA6iqNLBj2GzUlEM8YvnjLv-uAduCvHgcF3-_9mv2uR7_Kqwa4Sc1Tdf8SiT0RJlybzXtms5M4MUiX642iBfVrL_y3QS-Oq1ddlKqf5zI6Pf_Y2QTYAJIErhUMURJZKaQs7D7qHYxvg/s320/DSCN2490.JPG" /></a></div><div align="center"><strong>"After the Beatles, everything changed. And the war."</strong></div><div align="center">.</div><div align="center"><em>- Lorenzo, pictured with his grandson, on life in the United States in the 60s. I met Lorenzo in Clint, and while his grandson played in the parking lot, we chatted. He recalled the sort of cultural revolution that occurred in the states, led, he believed, by the popular music quartet. Later, Lorenzo was drafted, like many others, and did a tour in Vietnam. When he came back, he recalled the looks that people gave him in uniform, like he was a baby-killer, scum of the earth, and he shriveled inside. Lorenzo got quiet for a moment, remembering those stares of hatred, shaking his head. The memories still burned.</em><br /></div><div align="center"><em>.</em><br /></div><div align="center"><em>Clint, Texas</em><br /></div><div align="center">. . .</div><div align="center">. . .</div><div align="center"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5488303718927545138" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwwpQlBKvmcTgvztSLwYD46QNJMuQATy22k7tY6SBeBHK1vFTSHqDfV7QtHNqpHXeAhVbGPFTac6CoN6EBo1Hz24cIJ8trtA14GsI6N8iq7EdZJoBCGB_N_P-HTO3EGA_Cuc25XOoO3rDC/s320/DSCN2498.JPG" /></div><div align="center"><strong>"Does the border look secure to you?"</strong></div><div align="center">.</div><div align="center"><em>- Mary Miller, seated next to husband Craige, on the security of the region. The couple gave me a night's stay at their place in Fort Hancock, and we talked for an hour before going to bed. A huge hole in the border used to exist directly behind their land, a mere stone's throw away. Illegal migrants used to cross right by their home at all times of the day. They would call the border patrol who often came too late to apprehend the crossers, long gone in a vehicle. </em></div><div align="center"><em>.</em></div><div align="center"><em>A fence has since been erected south of Fort Hancock, but it is not continuous. A gaping hole now exists several miles to the west, forcing the same problems on those closest to the gap.</em></div><div align="center"><em>.</em></div><div align="center"><em>Fort Hancock, Texas</em></div><div align="center">. . .<br />. . .</div><div align="center"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5488302778106088882" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEQqSWGkfRVAs0FoXlWCXMMdIB0DkKcxt4LXjZa3PJx5wXLfU_X_3wRoABwUBLG7jcLbqgM3JBsJcz48aXtSsORlS0LDlUwYkzfYbwbgiFFmlnDre7oqrcOZEoG6oWAbnosQXWXsM6mWMA/s320/DSCN2704.JPG" /></div><div align="center"><strong>"I couldn't destroy something beautiful to accommodate mediocrity."</strong></div><div align="center">.</div><div align="center"><em>- Former teacher Carmen Ganser on her teaching curriculum. A six-year LA veteran, Carmen developed a multi-media course to engage an apathetic classroom. When new requirements adopted by the district became mandatory, she elected to get out. It was too much to redesign her class, to throw out everything she had worked years to create. She went on what she calls "a working vacation," joined her father in Terlingua, and though he went back north for the summer, has lived in Terlingua ever since.</em></div><div align="center"><em>.</em></div><div align="center"><em>Terlingua, Texas</em></div><div align="center">. . .</div><div align="center">. . .<br /><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5488302770833978162" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6PTdFV7E4_dt0Wp7KK-ycXDJOsWxUhbSXxrbtbMV-beKbtivhec7nWlAcANTSFTl1xvcmPwgaCeAbs-oE1B2YNytEUX0pYAV89LEzeYDELDqZDtS1pR-oNSVgEjoy-SwQ0nyDIKlVFbUE/s320/DSCN2718.JPG" /><br /><strong>"Life. Ain't it beautiful?"</strong><br />.<br /><em>- Jean, an Appalachian Trail thru-hiker, on our serendipitous encounter. I was sitting at the Study Butte grocery store, waiting for the heat to die down before going into Big Bend National Park, when Jean pulled up. I wouldn't have seen the Appalachian Trail decals on the back his vehicle, but he parked backwards and went in. When he came out, I asked him if he had hiked or worked on the A.T. He said one word: "Ballpahk." I stood up, mouth gaping.</em><br /><em>.</em><br /><em>I met Jean in 2003 when he gave me a ride to Trail Days, an Appalachian Trail festival for hikers. He had hiked the A.T. in 2002 under the trailname "Ballpahk" (he's a baseball fan from Boston, MA). Jean later picked me up in Maine and treated me to a meal and conversation.</em><br /><em>.</em><br /><em>After he said his trailname, I said mine: "Rubberband Man." Smiles all around. We gave each other a big hug and caught up on our lives.</em><br /><em>.</em><br /><em>Study Butte, Texas</em><br />. . .<br />. . .<br /><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5488302761504988114" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHj9KDjQpoRYi-OCsEwMly57fMzs8fgaos8hCDidqTojMEtkPOQ8eG0wFA9wF8iSHJTtwJD9rH0JxejD2mLoqwLpUGpDYyqAE_tYKf3X-OX0LZigFXZZKZzRhU1J9YoEZ0CtrqU4IleZtO/s320/DSCN2771.JPG" /><br /><strong>"I didn't urinate for three days."</strong><br />.<br /><em>- Brennan Black, a Big Bend seasonal employee, on the aftermath of his first case of heat exhaustion. Brennan, who is approaching his last semester of college at Ohio State University, wanted a break from all the people, so he opted to live and work in Big Bend National Park, one of the most remote places in the lower forty-eight. </em><br /><em>.</em><br /><em>A serious runner, he never ran with more than a liter back in Ohio, one of the coldest, snowiest places in the USA. After moving to West Texas, he hadn't considered changing the practice and took off for an 8-mile run with his usual liter. The run went by without a hitch, but shortly after getting into his car and driving off, he started halucinating and shaking. Brennan saw the world change shape, spoke with friends and family that he knew weren't there, and started losing muscle control in his arms and hands. He pulled over to the side of the road, tried to take in more liquids, vomited, then ripped out an emergency IV (he had previously received EMT training), and hooked himself up (he missed his artery the first two times because of the shaking and involuntary muscle movements). For the next eight hours, he would stay in his car by the side of the road, waiting for the symptoms to subside.</em><br /><em>.</em><br /><em>As you can see, Brennan's made a full recovery.</em><br /><em>.</em><br /><em>Pather Junction, Big Bend National Park, Texas</em><br />. . .<br />. . . </div>Smatthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08728966785725757302noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5444915056320730048.post-70652036416019671282010-06-29T12:23:00.000-07:002010-06-29T13:53:08.050-07:00Books on the Edge<div align="center">Don't be surprised here by the number of books. One's a comic book, another is really short, and I'm not yet done with the last one (but I'm getting there). There is a wide variety of genre and subject matter represented, and I like it that way. Enjoy.</div><div align="center">. . .</div><div align="center">. . .</div><div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3FDeC1AXrly1Ulgvn5lrRu-0LiK99aXrx5UrrwYwpJrdUpmcZyXGdwekX18vZtDk_odihUGtMDZ4uxhcRGiCmxDVwvDYAM2er1gM49plLGE-hqLDWoPNfSA4XVp1eDha0atWUb_etDpxP/s1600/DSCN2501.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5488281766127415186" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3FDeC1AXrly1Ulgvn5lrRu-0LiK99aXrx5UrrwYwpJrdUpmcZyXGdwekX18vZtDk_odihUGtMDZ4uxhcRGiCmxDVwvDYAM2er1gM49plLGE-hqLDWoPNfSA4XVp1eDha0atWUb_etDpxP/s320/DSCN2501.JPG" /></a> <strong><a href="http://www.powells.com/biblio/17-9780743242486-6">That Old Ace in the Hole</a></strong> by Annie Proulx was, to be brutally honest, a letdown. Her story takes us into the heart of the Texas Panhandle, a region that I thoroughly enjoyed on my trip, but doesn't quite touch the real beauty of the place. I recognized several names from the Acknowledgments, and that was exciting. But it was all pretty much downhill from there.</div><div align="center">.</div><div align="center"> Bob Dollar is paid to investigate potential sites for hogfarms, on behalf of a big corporation, in the panhandle of Texas. It doesn't sound like much of a plot (and it's not), but that's not the problem. Bob is unbelievable, a paper thin shell of a character, who never really makes the reader gave a darn about what happens to him. </div><div align="center">.</div><div align="center">The novel is propelled primarily by speech, and I smiled more than once at the way people talked. If Proulx did one thing right, it was in imitating the cadence and word choice of people in the region, but this skill does not and cannot hold the book up. Lovers of the panhandle might find some comfort in her talent, but they will have to dig much deeper to enjoy other aspects of the story.</div><div align="center">.</div><div align="center">Enough. The panhandle deserves a great book about its hardy population. This book is not it.</div><div align="center">. . .</div><div align="center">. . .</div><div align="center"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5488281033154162626" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHWGLFkyE87_WJ6Av2Rrqu5y7leHhJj8VFw3MKhYnpgYXXMRAYf9Nft49eZoHhDPs04lDrzjnSJeHh8o3c79jqbwlzkbKeYoWmztFZvFw2iCL4JCAFmA0RKM6t5Mu0DuxZlLj8vG4DaQVg/s320/RSCN2540.JPG" /></div><div align="center"><strong><a href="http://www.powells.com/biblio/17-9780140238280-12">The Tortilla Curtain</a></strong> by T. Coraghessan Boyle is a fast-paced and enjoyable look at illegal immigration through the eyes of an upper-middle class family in California and a dirt-poor Mexican couple who just illegally immigrated to the same area.</div><div align="center">.</div><div align="center">There is no plot, per se. Events keep happening to each family which both directly and indirectly combine their fates. A California man accidentally hits the Mexican man with his car. Thus starts a whirlwind of related events, both understandable and tragic, distinct yet interconnected. Each man negotiates the ups and downs of his individual life, grappling with prejudice against the other and the injustices of life.</div><div align="center">.</div><div align="center">Boyle tears into the American family with sarcastic and searing remarks, and while it made me laugh, it also seemed a little unfair. He treats the Mexican family much gentler, tries hard to make them seem normal and hardworking, which they are. But the presence of judgment against the California residents and the absence of judgment against the illegal migrant workers is highly noticeable. There are a few nasty Mexican characters, yes, but it isn't judgment. Boyle mocks his white characters and their hardships while seeming to protect his Hispanic characters from the same narrative injustice.</div><div align="center">.</div><div align="center">I'd definitely recommend this book. Sure, a plotline was left unfinished, the ending is more poetic than final, but the story reads like a thriller. I couldn't put it down (not that I had a table) and laughed out loud many, many times. The author's prose is crystal clear, his pacing enjoyable, and as per the discrepancy between how he treats his characters, well, that's his choice.</div><div align="center">. . .</div><div align="center">. . .</div><div align="center"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5488281049841428162" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGjkv7_U_m_l2Y0GDg_xJkJqNWVneNW6lF_1ImzMrY3ffqUWzK03_d3dno08CTjHhGpqhzik5ZZOwmvwhx965sEnISO2OkLcK717A60toXM60tvvPpd5tE3QmxHKottFphg94F2BseuxFp/s320/RSCN2619.JPG" /></div><div align="center"><strong><a href="http://bigbendbookstore.org/store/index.php?main_page=product_info&products_id=624">Tales from the Terlingua Porch</a></strong> by Blair Pittman is a collection of stories, maybe a lot of hot air, from the many, many characters who visit the Terlingua Porch season after season. I read this book in an afternoon and was charmed by some of its informal tales. Pittman isn't J. Frank Dobie (who is?), but you get the feel for what people talk about in Terlingua Ghost Town. You might even learn a thing or two about life. There's a Part II, as well, if you can't get enough.</div><div align="center">. . .<br />. . .</div><div align="center"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5488281076273719122" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHn4JOolPoBAl_Af5l6IIu3j18AVa_AIc7smb-Ekc2E-Ww8lt5IIiGY6ym8RAXXmD1eZrRoGelKybI_zBucnW5H727y3kYleBhX4x2xWOO6H81WnLLhQ0pa0K2TBaoZT8l2zFzbndlN9pJ/s320/RSCN2729.JPG" /></div><div align="center"><strong><a href="http://www.jackcomics.com/store/ghmouse01.html">Night of the Grasshopper Mouse!</a></strong> by Chris Ruggia is a short, interesting comic about an aberration of nature, the cruel and unusual grasshopper mouse. Unbeknownst to me, a very small portion of mice turn into meat-eaters and attack their own kin. The comic details one such tale. This little story doesn't really target adults, but I think older elementary kids would like it.</div><div align="center">. . .</div><div align="center">. . .</div><div align="center"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5488281059809797282" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg15-EslIFzDKUddijqSkzwrwTQmYo61wVn6MnD7v9yHWHSc0YQz6f47AHFxWTIHiaTQFzJoPHDiW4-_7GUgD0-G6EnuOR5UeH41Hl2zal4Mk5CIHl39G8ntnLy0of-dE705xKvwR8EuWGl/s320/RSCN2644.JPG" /></div><div align="center"><strong><a href="http://www.powells.com/biblio/17-9780394755182-5">Coyotes</a></strong> by Ted Conover is a first-person account of the trials of Mexican migrants crossing the border and finding work in the United States. Conover's tales are not information heavy, but they are fascinating nonetheless. He travels to Mexico and crosses multiple times as one of the millions who do so illegally every year, using coyotes and later experimenting with the coyote lifestyle himself (briefly, I might add). He makes friends, slaves away in orchards, crosses the USA in the worst kind of vehicles, and documents all the little details along the way. He was very sympathetic to his Mexican friends back in the 80s when he wrote this book and still seems very much on the side of the men and women who just want to make a living, even if that means breaking the law. Like Boyle does in fiction, Conover puts a human face on these individuals, which to me far outweighs any bias he may have imposed on the telling of his tales. A good read. </div><div align="center">.</div><div align="center">(Notice the cover, by the way. This book got completely soaked in Big Bend.)</div><div align="center">. . .</div><div align="center">. . .</div><div align="center"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5488281091026799938" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHz5MafdPlSM2-1eRZpNrbW0A2rCawCMXG6LDZYBu4BDkBqA5mBfp_CcvGkuMogD9Ay5eoGfoW6WLuDSpoE7_ZNPVrjwupgw86Qodmik6OstiLDEzZIdidf2YLC4ox-9HinTxpeXFvqqP9/s320/RSCN2790.JPG" /></div><div align="center"><strong><a href="http://www.powells.com/biblio/2-9780671695880-5">Desert Solitaire</a></strong> by Edward Abbey chronicles his six-month stay in Arches National Monument. I'm not actually done with this book, but I've read enough to comment a bit. Abbey is a hardnose environmentalist who admires nature and all its harshness and glory and relates more to the past than to the realities of today. It's a wonderful read (that is, full of wonder). What I like about Abbey is what Republicans liked about George W. Bush: he makes a statement or opinion and then defends it until the end of his life. (The Democrats could stand to learn a thing or two from this kind of hardlined perspective.) Abbey rips into the National Park Service, the condition of the modern Native American and cattleman, and even into his own capacity for hard work. If you want to read a book by someone who fiercely loves life and nature, who doesn't cower when he has to give a difficult-to-hear opinion, who represents much of the aggression that the rest of us lack, then pick up <strong>Desert Solitaire</strong>.</div><div align="center">.</div><div align="center">(Notice this cover, too. On one particularly feisty night, Raisin got her teeth into this one.)</div><div align="center">. . .</div><div align="center">. . .</div><div align="center">Enjoy! Until next time...</div>Smatthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08728966785725757302noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5444915056320730048.post-72795431629014569112010-06-29T11:27:00.000-07:002010-06-29T12:23:35.050-07:00The Marathon Border CheckpointFor those of you not accustomed to traveling through the bottom part of the United States near Mexico, allow me to be the first to tell you that there are checkpoints. What I mean is that if you are entering the US from Mexico, there is one checkpoint directly on the border and an additional checkpoint some 30-50 miles up the road. <br />.<br />Every route has a second checkpoint. There is no avoiding it if you want to visit the rest of the US. The second checkpoints operate in a similar capacity as the first checkpoint: looking for illegal crossers, scouting out drugs, weapons, and other contraband, trying to detect anything illegal.<br />.<br />I have now crossed four checkpoints. One going into El Paso, one exiting El Paso, one between Marfa and Presidio, and this last one near Marathon. This story comes from the last one which I crossed twice.<br />.<br />How can someone traveling on foot pass a checkpoint twice? Simple: Catch a ride with a friend who wants to make sure you get a good lunch, restock your food bag, and refill your water; then get dropped off where you stopped hiking. It seems in some ways like a bit of a cheat, but when people tell you they thru-hiked the Appalachian Trail or Pacific Crest Trail, I assure you they took full advantage of similar situations.<br />.<br />So a new Terlingua friend agreed to meet me on Sunday and do all of the above. Unfortunately for us, she had contraband on her in the form of 1/4 oz of pot. Legal in California where she was a few months ago but illegal in Texas, she has yet to conform to the region.<br />.<br />Claire found me on the road and took me to Marathon. Only we didn't make it. The good folks at the checkpoint had a dog who "gave indications" that there might be contraband material in the car. I got out, hoping she didn't have any, and sat on the station seats. Though I wasn't around to hear, the agents asked her if she had any drugs and she told them the truth, that she did. Some agents escorted her indoors, past my seat, and that would be the last time we each other for five hours.<br />.<br />All the agents were exceptionally professional, courteous, and for the most part, pretty darn friendly. I struck up conversations with several, not really knowing what was going on (but figuring it couldn't be good), and found out some interesting things.<br />.<br />None of the agents are allowed to share any opinions, personal or political. As a former Peace Corps volunteer, this seems pretty standard, but it was good to hear it. That said, one agent vaguely shared that he understood the point of view of the illegal migrant much better now that he was a border patrol agent. He didn't say anything else, but I got the feeling that a comprehensive view of the border issues would lead one away from a hardline position.<br />.<br />I joked around with all the agents. It was pretty hard to get them to break their reserved demeanor, though. I had no idea that at this time they were reading Claire her rights. Shortly thereafter, one agent came out to me and told me that while they weren't charging me with anything I was still being detained. "So what you're saying is," I started slowly, "I'm a detainee?" I was really excited. "Where's my white hoody?" I added. I didn't add anything about doberman munching on my privates because, quite frankly, that would be the end of my fun.<br />.<br />I tweeted a lot, read my Desert Solitaire book (I'm sure Abbey would have LOVED that.), and just waited. The wait, while exorbitant for US standards, was nothing out of the ordinary for someone who's lived in Africa. I once waited three days for a cab ride that only went 70 miles (I could've walked that in the same time.). However, five hours can kill a day, and that's just what it did.<br />.<br />A deputy sheriff showed up, a real good 'ol boy who had a really jubilant attitude. When he saw my knife (a standard camping tool), he asked if the rust on it was blood. He didn't wait for an answer. "Boys," he said to the agents in the room, "we got the Rest Area Killer here!" Fun and games in Brewster County.<br />.<br />The deputy sheriff then explained that he was considering giving me the same citation that he was giving Claire. Um, what? He gave the following example: "I didn't rob the bank, but I was driving the vehicle." Um, huh? I reminded him that I got picked up 15 minutes prior and that I wasn't aware of any contraband in the vehicle at that time. He reconsidered.<br />.<br />Ultimately, Claire got a $300 dollar fine and a Class C Misdemeanor for possession of marijuana. I got nothing but a five-hour wait and a bad name (A day later, another deputy sheriff asked me, "Are you the one the sheriff picked up a day ago?" Great. I've run into half a dozen law enforcement officials in one day, none of them having communicated to the others that I was walking around the outline of Texas. But I get detained with someone who gets a citation, and now everyone knows about me.). <br />.<br />We followed the deputy to Marathon and went to the judge's house to finish the business. The judge, operating out of one of the messiest home offices I've ever seen, was a kindly looking older woman. She signed the fifty plus pages of paperwork required to charge Claire (1/4 oz of pot, I remind you) and then gave her a receipt for payment.<br />.<br />The deputy sheriff walked us to our vehicle, happy as ever. "You'd just as soon laugh as cry," he said, trying to make up for the lost day. I can't fault him for attitude. He was a gentleman until the end.<br />.<br />Until next time...Smatthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08728966785725757302noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5444915056320730048.post-88628589976612188762010-06-29T10:08:00.000-07:002010-06-29T11:26:36.418-07:00Big Bend National Park<div align="center">Big Bend. The name refers to the bend of the Rio Grande, but it has come to connote mountains, desert, beauty, ruggedness. I came here during my junior or senior year in college for spring break, but I made one mistake: my traveling companion wasn't really a hiker. We drove 500 miles in 10 hours and didn't hike but half a dozen miles. This time around, I didn't intend to make the same mistake.</div><div align="center">.</div><div align="center">I hiked over 100 miles of Big Bend National Park, about 50 of those with Raisin, canoed Santa Elena Canyon, visited the Rio Grande hot springs (via car), and visited Mariscal Canyon. I drank from mud puddles, hiked through 30-40 mph winds, startled a rattlesnake, spied two bears, and climbed a vertical mile in a single 30-mile day. I washed my face with water from the Rio Grande and night-hiked up a canyon trail while shining my light into the trees looking for lions. In almost every way, I tried to do the opposite of my first trip to Big Bend, and I do believe I succeeded.</div><div align="center">. . .</div><div align="center"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5488250054905616050" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0y66fORjfY7T5-tftWnPgnyaI02HKCCeXzDGCn-gEO313Xv5jeuYwgsHxmxrA7XUAaqyeVKHAU82gfiiqXM8jUzv0JBnQYjWylSqTAqVn5JAHk6yBRgrxt-7sLr0tfEM12XAM9HEq5nm7/s320/DSCN2757.JPG" /></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:78%;">South Rim Vista, BBNP, Day 301</span></div><div align="center">. . .</div><div align="center">There's a lot more to say, but I'd prefer to hang on to some of it for an article. I want to add a few scattered notes, though: 1) The No-Pet-on-the-Trail Rule. Not my favorite rule, but it makes sense. Between Terlingua Ghost Town and Terlingua, I stayed up half the night thinking Raisin was being hunted by local fauna. At one point, I heard a semi-circle of coyote yelps around us, and they were close. So not allowing pets into the hot zone of Big Bend protects both the pet owner from loss and the indigenous predator population from depending on imported meat. It put me in a big bind, of course, but with a little luck, it worked out. (Thanks, Patricia and Jim of Castolon!) 2) The Desert and Water. I packed out 11 liters of water yet found myself needing more along the way. The big storm I mentioned outside of Castolon filled various spots in the desert with fresh rain water. I stumbled upon three decent water holes (clayish earth which acted as a natural cachement) in the first 20 miles. I skipped the first two but thankfully thought better of it at the third and filled up. I treated my water with Grapefruit Seed Extract (better known as GSE) which is an unofficial water purifier. It makes the water really bitter, but after seven years of using it, it's not so bad to me anymore. The desert really took it out of me, slowing some of my walking to a snail's pace, but I was able to bounce back with the water. I was most proud of finding a little water hole at the start of Mariscal Canyon Trail (I was looking). I needed it, and there it was. 3) Solitude. I didn't see anyone for 72 hours. It was during this time that I saw some of my most amazing views, drank mud water to get by, and saw two bears. It was an altogether splendid stretch.</div><div align="center">. . .</div><div align="center"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5488250069209736562" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyp3Ue7rLSUZbXseujOmsiBVuT_W9kwydi_wpI2xdGu7GXCMdXpObMIjszArScRhUgd682ULKld3g8zc-k9VSKwDvB2pFhrDv2aiOMFIKzjlunzszzwhQ6clpnwhrv3yN9KIXbE8ykn53j/s320/DSCN2764.JPG" /></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:78%;">Chisos Basin Vista, BBNP, Day 301</span></div><div align="center">. . .</div><div align="center">Even casual views of Big Bend are like this one: vast, beautiful, perfect. This shot was taken from a paved road and was shared by all that day. However you feel about the road network (I'm currently reading Edward Abbey who has some choice things to saw about the roads of the national parks.), the natural beauty of the place will get your attention and keep it. It is a wonderland.</div><div align="center">. . .</div><div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZlJ_j6nvaoRDIwCcskkpxkTHIuEZn_h3hDVMJboo9oUzds3ffWGNJRBwiktX87KrlEqksXz94twqTBmdbHpmrp5q9Vmf2M7xLu4Likotp-CQfySsZrGvdNv8xeoKWb8cH57QyyIpbGMtI/s1600/RSCN2776.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5488250073110799570" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZlJ_j6nvaoRDIwCcskkpxkTHIuEZn_h3hDVMJboo9oUzds3ffWGNJRBwiktX87KrlEqksXz94twqTBmdbHpmrp5q9Vmf2M7xLu4Likotp-CQfySsZrGvdNv8xeoKWb8cH57QyyIpbGMtI/s320/RSCN2776.JPG" /></a></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:78%;">Panther Junction R&R, BBNP, Day 302</span></div><div align="center">. . .</div><div align="center">Like all trips, you need time to recuperate. Ours is no different. Even though Raisin spent most of the time eating, sleeping, and enjoying A/C, even she needed to recharge after her first few miles back. We rested and then at 5 o'clock got back up and headed north toward Persimmon Gap and the park exit. </div><div align="center">.</div><div align="center">And we're still going.</div><div align="center">.</div><div align="center">Until next time...</div><div align="center">. . .</div>Smatthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08728966785725757302noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5444915056320730048.post-13885415051171774822010-06-15T17:23:00.000-07:002010-06-15T17:35:13.066-07:00In the News...<div>After that monster post, it's a small pleasure to just link to things. Below you'll find a couple of news items and links to a couple of articles. Enjoy.</div><div><br /></div><div>I passed through Marfa briefly but made time for the Big Bend Sentinel. I had a great conversation with their staff before continuing along my way south to Presidio. Raisin was a hit too, though she was mistaken for a he. Oops! <a href="http://www.bigbendsentinel.com/index.php?option=com_content&task=view&id=4277&Itemid=38">Click here for the article.</a></div><div><br /></div><div>In Presidio, I found Bob Phillips and his Texas Country Reporter crew. They put up a short teaser picture on their Facebook page with a few lines. <a href="http://www.facebook.com/TexasCountryReporter">Click here to see, then scroll down.</a></div><div><br /></div><div>Rewind just a bit to my trek down the southern panhandle. You can read a few more observations from my article in the Corpus Christi Caller-Times. <a href="http://www.caller.com/news/2010/may/30/dust-bowl-tales-provide-perspective/">Click here for the article.</a></div><div><br /></div><div>Continue west to El Paso and Fort Hancock and my first real taste of the border. I wrote about them here in my self-syndicated column, this time in the Lone Star Iconoclast. <a href="http://lonestaricon.com/index.php?option=com_content&view=article&id=650:the-texas-perimeter-hike-installment-9&catid=36:guest-commentary&Itemid=70">Click here for the article.</a></div><div><br /></div><div>And that's all the news that's fit to link.</div><div><div><br /></div><div>Until next time, clickers...</div></div>Smatthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08728966785725757302noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5444915056320730048.post-54171955935224284162010-06-11T15:30:00.000-07:002010-06-14T16:44:46.574-07:00Days Two Hundred Thirty to Two Hundred Ninety<div style="text-align: center;">There's really no excuse for the delay in this post, which is more or less the equivalent of two or three posts. However, the reality of hiking without a computer has made writing and blogging in West Texas somewhat of a challenge. If I have an article due, then I spend my time doing that and ultimately neglect my blog. I could spend more time in one spot, like I am now in Terlingua/Study Butte, but that comes at the sacrifice of distance and days.</div><div style="text-align: center;">.</div><div style="text-align: center;">As always, here are my mileage estimates and stops with scattered journal entries. Enjoy.</div><div style="text-align: center;">.</div><div style="text-align: left;">Day 230: Zero day in Muleshoe</div><div style="text-align: left;">Day 231: Highway 214, about 18 miles</div><div style="text-align: left;">Day 232: Enochs (with a short side trip to the Muleshoe Refuge), about 11 miles</div><div style="text-align: left;">Day 233: Beyond Lehman on Hwy 125, about 19 miles</div><div style="text-align: left;">Day 234: FM 769, about 22 miles</div><div style="text-align: left;">Day 235: Just outside Plains, about 26 miles</div><div style="text-align: left;">Day 236: Just beyond Plains on Hwy 214, about 6 miles</div><div style="text-align: left;">Day 237: Beyond Denver City, about 15 miles</div><div style="text-align: left;">Day 238: Outside of Seminole, about 15 miles</div><div style="text-align: left;">Day 239: Hwy 385, about 9 miles</div><div style="text-align: left;">Day 240: Andrews, about 21 miles</div><div style="text-align: left;">Day 241: Highway 128, about 23 miles</div><div style="text-align: left;">Day 242: FM 1218, about 20 miles</div><div style="text-align: left;">Day 243: Kermit, about 13 miles</div><div style="text-align: left;">Day 244: Zero day in Kermit.</div><div style="text-align: left;">Day 245: Hwy 302, about 10 miles</div><div style="text-align: left;">Day 246: Mentone, about 22 miles</div><div style="text-align: left;">Day 247: Hwy 285, about 14 miles</div><div style="text-align: left;">Day 248: Orla, about 12 miles</div><div style="text-align: left;">Day 249: FM 652, about 12 miles</div><div style="text-align: left;">Day 250: FM 652, about 18 miles</div><div style="text-align: left;">Day 251: Hwys 62/180, about 30 miles</div><div style="text-align: left;">Day 252: Backcountry, Guadalupe Mountains National Park (also started hiking on park trails), about 11 miles</div><div style="text-align: left;">Day 253: Dog Canyon, Guadalupe Mountains NP, about 18 miles</div><div style="text-align: left;">Day 254: Park Headquarters, Guadalupe Mountains NP, about 15 miles</div><div style="text-align: left;">Day 255: Williams Ranch House, Guadalupe Mountains NP, 9 miles</div><div style="text-align: left;">Day 256: Williams Road near Dell City, about 20 miles</div><div style="text-align: left;">Day 257: Dell City Junction (by way of Dell City), about 20 miles</div><div style="text-align: left;">Day 258: Hwys 62/180, about 20 miles</div><div style="text-align: left;">Day 259: Hwys 62/180, about 24 miles</div><div style="text-align: left;">Day 260: El Paso, 35 miles</div><div style="text-align: left;">Days 261-262: Two zero days in El Paso</div><div style="text-align: left;">Day 263: Anthony, about 22 miles</div><div style="text-align: left;">Day 264: El Paso, about 15 miles</div><div style="text-align: left;">Day 265: Zero day in El Paso</div><div style="text-align: left;">Day 266: El Paso, about 18 miles</div><div style="text-align: left;">Day 267: Fabens, about 18 miles</div><div style="text-align: left;">Day 268: Fort Hancock, about 22 miles</div><div style="text-align: left;">Day 269: I-10, about 15 miles</div><div style="text-align: left;">Day 270: Sierra Blanca, about 20 miles</div><div style="text-align: left;">Day 271: I-10, about 12 miles</div><div style="text-align: left;">Day 272: Outside Van Horn on I-10, about 19 miles</div><div style="text-align: left;">Day 273: Hwy 90, about 18 miles</div><div style="text-align: left;">Day 274: Outside Valentine, about 20 miles </div><div style="text-align: left;">Day 275: Hwy 90, about 19 miles</div><div style="text-align: left;">Day 276: Marfa, about 19 miles</div><div style="text-align: left;">Day 277: Hwy 67, about 15 miles</div><div style="text-align: left;">Day 278: Beyond Shafter, about 25 miles</div><div style="text-align: left;">Day 279: Presidio, about 20 miles</div><div style="text-align: left;">Day 280: Zero day in Presidio</div><div style="text-align: left;">Day 281: River Road, about 7 miles</div><div style="text-align: left;">Day 282: River Road, 12 miles</div><div style="text-align: left;">Day 283: River Road, 12 miles</div><div style="text-align: left;">Day 284: FM 170, about 20 miles</div><div style="text-align: left;">Day 285: Just beyond Terlingua Ghost Town, 8 miles</div><div style="text-align: left;">Day 286: Terlingua, about 3 miles</div><div style="text-align: left;">Days 287-291: Five zero days in Terlingua</div><div style="text-align: center;">. . .</div><div style="text-align: center;">. . .</div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcLq0d5B1jTURrO6wrmO01ZXchRBO9fZh6Qqj5RR03jwdDc3_Jgm3hCexZhQifP1o2ucLCjopV6rv55_mK4k3uImy4IrZUzaHHAqBN7N4LNJNa7C9EIcJhnss1OZ2xKJJzr7FxVW32NlLq/s1600/DSCN1852.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcLq0d5B1jTURrO6wrmO01ZXchRBO9fZh6Qqj5RR03jwdDc3_Jgm3hCexZhQifP1o2ucLCjopV6rv55_mK4k3uImy4IrZUzaHHAqBN7N4LNJNa7C9EIcJhnss1OZ2xKJJzr7FxVW32NlLq/s320/DSCN1852.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5481947822079229250" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">The World's Biggest Muleshoe, Muleshoe, Bailey County, Day 230</span></div><div style="text-align: center;">. . .</div><div style="text-align: center;">Day 232: Camped in Enochs at a cotton gin! [A trio of men approached me and inquired as to what I was up to. I told them and we shot the bull for quite some time. One of them told me to just go ahead and camp at the gin if I wanted. I told him that I didn't really like to trespass if I didn't know for sure, and he said, "Shouldn't be a problem. I'm on the board of the coop!" I love small towns.]</div><div style="text-align: center;">. . .</div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5MqqR4_0zf-wwhX2GRX6bzUF-ZCMG5VLg_PO6QPaI8E6oS0EHhmxVZGOXMrHzTiGMtWcH2x9QwPeT2TgACqkaPc-koA1pycS8z4FZay75L6D8Kc47uUHFAfy3_GS11krW95t8Z16JrOFc/s1600/DSCN1874.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5MqqR4_0zf-wwhX2GRX6bzUF-ZCMG5VLg_PO6QPaI8E6oS0EHhmxVZGOXMrHzTiGMtWcH2x9QwPeT2TgACqkaPc-koA1pycS8z4FZay75L6D8Kc47uUHFAfy3_GS11krW95t8Z16JrOFc/s320/DSCN1874.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5481945320394480994" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Clarity, Bledsoe, Cochran County, Day 234</span></div><div style="text-align: center;">. . .</div><div style="text-align: center;">Day 235: Nothing in Bronco. Chatted with old woman at store. [It's amazing how vague I can be, even when I'm my own audience. I ran out of food in the morning and hiked into Bronco hoping for some grub. The store was closed, but I knocked anyway. A squat older woman answered, and I asked about food. Unfortunately, she only took cash. So I continued my trip into Plains and knew that I'd get food in the morning. Sure, I was hungry, but a 26 mile hike on a little trail mix and a health bar is no big deal. I still chuckle at the terseness of my journal entry, though. It's a good reminder that there's usually a lot more going on than a person cares to explain.]</div><div style="text-align: center;">.</div><div style="text-align: center;">Day 236: So walking out of Plains from the library, I was talking on the phone, and an older hispanic lady was walking my direction [on the opposite side of the street]. She stopped to cross the street - no cars, nothing - but didn't go because that would have put her near me. It's bizarre to be having a nice conversation with someone and to simultaneously be feared by someone else.</div><div style="text-align: center;">. . .</div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSMiGfNXdYh_mB0lzt4jL7s8aPLqsHtUTGMxDg0YKhySwYRd2Hro863O705muMDrEXjY9t7tdIB7id3XGc500FmfcrwcyHlMrg3KOpq9EB9snlifBQeSFqVv0ZQdxyPfa5fYilV098R_6K/s1600/DSCN1890.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSMiGfNXdYh_mB0lzt4jL7s8aPLqsHtUTGMxDg0YKhySwYRd2Hro863O705muMDrEXjY9t7tdIB7id3XGc500FmfcrwcyHlMrg3KOpq9EB9snlifBQeSFqVv0ZQdxyPfa5fYilV098R_6K/s320/DSCN1890.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5481945314179890914" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Memorial, Gaines County, Day 237</span></div><div style="text-align: center;">. . .</div><div style="text-align: center;">. . .</div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3BeRHo3hOq4LpeKUQMxCR-ulJmQoGbWhcOvx-sIVIFQ-Pp7BnssoIt-b6NCkq_b3nfyFhKbClT2EwYILz1g3a3BAWwhlj1sBJSnrHp40PdeDgJFNOhkn-0IEZyAcIuEPYRgEZtDDdPs5_/s1600/DSCN1896.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3BeRHo3hOq4LpeKUQMxCR-ulJmQoGbWhcOvx-sIVIFQ-Pp7BnssoIt-b6NCkq_b3nfyFhKbClT2EwYILz1g3a3BAWwhlj1sBJSnrHp40PdeDgJFNOhkn-0IEZyAcIuEPYRgEZtDDdPs5_/s320/DSCN1896.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5481945304340311810" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Food for Thought, Gaines County, Day 239</span></div><div style="text-align: center;">. . .</div><div style="text-align: center;">Day 240: I've now read about 700 pages in 5 days, or 1000 in 15 days. That's a lot for me, far more than average. True, I'd already read [one of the books], but the other two were new. Am I tuning out my hike? [Note: I'd like to think that I'm coping for the lack of mental challenges out here. Physical, emotional, and spiritual challenges abound, but sometimes you just want a good book or puzzle.]</div><div style="text-align: center;">. . .</div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhY09uEmCQ4YnDVTWu7nyEa-kY4k3cX7n7LgVXz0-bgM4jHouLvcTZKc6zEzLYJJETdOzFaBrIuZ4S43hDk2HBltkL1jZUvA7zNDTPd6-3XUWQ6Qli0HFUlXzzhj4EXj1_Tygfz2CDkHjDP/s1600/DSCN1916.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhY09uEmCQ4YnDVTWu7nyEa-kY4k3cX7n7LgVXz0-bgM4jHouLvcTZKc6zEzLYJJETdOzFaBrIuZ4S43hDk2HBltkL1jZUvA7zNDTPd6-3XUWQ6Qli0HFUlXzzhj4EXj1_Tygfz2CDkHjDP/s320/DSCN1916.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5481942356027746450" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Dunescape, Andrews County, Day 242</span></div><div style="text-align: center;">. . .</div><div style="text-align: center;">Day 242: [An interesting side note to these Winkler County days: My brother Charlie was looking at Google maps before I entered this section and was worried by all the blank spots on the map, the blankness being sand dunes. A lot of the desert plants had grown over the terrain, but it was crazy to see a few miles of land that looked like it was imported from the Middle East. Long story short, it was no big deal, but some of the technology available to my family and friends is sometimes a little less helpful than they'd like to believe.]</div><div style="text-align: center;">. . .</div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiR2G4FUaGmOZGUSu7Q67VqsVz3y6WW9cQODmMD0uCFLhrRP1-p3eHf9ZzDgvKTfukIN762Cg6gN5pXtd8IbrYxN7OXEvqwf_ku3VPSMIF40omHUPckWBEo9SLgy7LIcn5xsllX16EPnFRq/s1600/DSCN1917.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiR2G4FUaGmOZGUSu7Q67VqsVz3y6WW9cQODmMD0uCFLhrRP1-p3eHf9ZzDgvKTfukIN762Cg6gN5pXtd8IbrYxN7OXEvqwf_ku3VPSMIF40omHUPckWBEo9SLgy7LIcn5xsllX16EPnFRq/s320/DSCN1917.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5481942348918454898" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Bottom-left Corner of Texas Panhandle, Winkler County, Day 242</span> </div><div style="text-align: center;">. . .</div><div style="text-align: center;">. . .</div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQ9g6TWjYO-YJa0Mr9gqf1aJLepeeVJXKPpP5DIgXh99PuFONbLAHnlieKQp4rbzHeqHGHvYZaVl5iXh4stf8VKP9y_cMzZnR75qBcL7cXKuu-VBoedObuerOEbVLMIBVy-rp-sXb6wyHD/s1600/RSCN1942.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQ9g6TWjYO-YJa0Mr9gqf1aJLepeeVJXKPpP5DIgXh99PuFONbLAHnlieKQp4rbzHeqHGHvYZaVl5iXh4stf8VKP9y_cMzZnR75qBcL7cXKuu-VBoedObuerOEbVLMIBVy-rp-sXb6wyHD/s320/RSCN1942.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5481942339561809026" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Unidentified Object in Bag of Peanuts, Winkler County, Day 242</span></div><div style="text-align: center;">. . .</div><div style="text-align: center;">Day 242: [I bought Spanish Raw Peanuts from the Ellis Pecan Company in Andrews, Texas, but took the picture a day or two later in Winkler County. I found the above object in my bag, and it was a little disconcerting, to say the least. I wrote the company and received a pat answer, that it was probably a root or something. I don't claim to know what this is, but it's hard, really hard, and I find it difficult to believe that it's a root. That said, I have to take the company's word while I'm out here and look into more thoroughly later. I like their product, but if I find out that this is something less benign that root matter, I am going to be one unhappy camper.]</div><div style="text-align: center;">. . .</div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwDO6Rnwur05dp3f9TcDS_PqMD9mtTk8tp0a58OLhQvw-FB68-Vkks0Fp_HJVZrwhQOf_XHz2_upV5ufysMUHaYUsWOCkSqcN62kV9sRl7PQImO43SMKcHd50YqK7V5CqTyHzR_XI9gY8h/s1600/DSCN1970.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwDO6Rnwur05dp3f9TcDS_PqMD9mtTk8tp0a58OLhQvw-FB68-Vkks0Fp_HJVZrwhQOf_XHz2_upV5ufysMUHaYUsWOCkSqcN62kV9sRl7PQImO43SMKcHd50YqK7V5CqTyHzR_XI9gY8h/s320/DSCN1970.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5481942332222462258" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Lined Up, Loving County, Day 246</span></div><div style="text-align: center;">. . .</div><div style="text-align: center;">. . .</div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCwPjvAyjrAxBdWiKDsRMfPAoxwk3Iv53cdh8KCaRjbyhnejmTsxwMjTenZOwCRcU-NLPrs_ZNb8Zbc_ipDrRnHsMdBvq9RbKYMvEj2VqVMeDu3A4Lnm6o-x3iCUVewfaT7F7TT1B_j70Y/s1600/DSCN1985.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCwPjvAyjrAxBdWiKDsRMfPAoxwk3Iv53cdh8KCaRjbyhnejmTsxwMjTenZOwCRcU-NLPrs_ZNb8Zbc_ipDrRnHsMdBvq9RbKYMvEj2VqVMeDu3A4Lnm6o-x3iCUVewfaT7F7TT1B_j70Y/s320/DSCN1985.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5481676794901673154" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Tan Lines, Loving County, Day 249</span></div><div style="text-align: center;">. . .</div><div style="text-align: center;">Day 249: [I realized my farmer's tan was intense when it looked like my feet were put on. Had to share.]</div><div style="text-align: center;">. . .</div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiu5_MEjh1rVQsxsR-aFuqBxS7G2Wn1FBdPg2xwpa04MmjYwcW3s8Q2xO2oHac50ywoh7WH4PJhSqus58EkoVcTJKf1D5nevZ9qqwUcArVF0xXbAZS8iV_v4sfIYqAPhyZa4kjL9mZunyQi/s1600/DSCN2012.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiu5_MEjh1rVQsxsR-aFuqBxS7G2Wn1FBdPg2xwpa04MmjYwcW3s8Q2xO2oHac50ywoh7WH4PJhSqus58EkoVcTJKf1D5nevZ9qqwUcArVF0xXbAZS8iV_v4sfIYqAPhyZa4kjL9mZunyQi/s320/DSCN2012.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5481676788256495010" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Beginning of the Day, Reeves County, Day 250 </span></div><div style="text-align: center;">. . .</div><div style="text-align: center;">. . .</div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwUS6OU43KZq2v_JGJfMyYh4bkq2Wa_vdcGn_zZcc0HUI43u7QIrI3Ng8kZuvt_7JKUkrGAp4xv1V8TIYfUmGsVewEMRegPTR8mVLCBe8M4RUu1JVVZ7PIFXfT8KFtrrvjRlf460uQ_wkl/s1600/RSCN2238.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwUS6OU43KZq2v_JGJfMyYh4bkq2Wa_vdcGn_zZcc0HUI43u7QIrI3Ng8kZuvt_7JKUkrGAp4xv1V8TIYfUmGsVewEMRegPTR8mVLCBe8M4RUu1JVVZ7PIFXfT8KFtrrvjRlf460uQ_wkl/s320/RSCN2238.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5481676776589338914" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Roadside Minutiae, Culberson County, Day 251</span></div><div style="text-align: center;">. . .</div><div style="text-align: center;">. . .</div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmNdfBEa161J5z57_WRBUjFagHUrU3cSeWmRxogx03PiYXpxXlptrOONz54bM-3AmnTGjNu2bwDSJOsdp3C6Hcs-dq_SoPdjig8A65vYFjIRmdEgq1nNk8PgubuGATZsa0hipLcAvIHF48/s1600/RSCN2337.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmNdfBEa161J5z57_WRBUjFagHUrU3cSeWmRxogx03PiYXpxXlptrOONz54bM-3AmnTGjNu2bwDSJOsdp3C6Hcs-dq_SoPdjig8A65vYFjIRmdEgq1nNk8PgubuGATZsa0hipLcAvIHF48/s320/RSCN2337.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5481676769193149826" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Guadalupe Peak, Culberson County, Day 252</span></div><div style="text-align: center;">. . .</div><div style="text-align: center;">. . .</div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAqQKLODX1EGfzWSqwCNns7gbYRMYvtXiw0HUqCFMcygoCoQrqjk3fwQwJGqfxC3z7zW0VBehEI_kbKSaAdpyD0rZfVU5tTe8WmMGxjZQGzzOXBd1Hv6oQyiNXOXSu0XuQ6igyDLceubso/s1600/DSCN2357.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAqQKLODX1EGfzWSqwCNns7gbYRMYvtXiw0HUqCFMcygoCoQrqjk3fwQwJGqfxC3z7zW0VBehEI_kbKSaAdpyD0rZfVU5tTe8WmMGxjZQGzzOXBd1Hv6oQyiNXOXSu0XuQ6igyDLceubso/s320/DSCN2357.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5481671924381061058" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Guadalupe Mountains National Park, Culberson County, Day 252</span></div><div style="text-align: center;">. . .</div><div style="text-align: center;">Day 254: Might have camped at Pine Top Campground, but there was a loud obnoxious family there. Kids out of control. I was 3.6 miles from headquarters with the sun 30 minutes from setting, and I went for it. Arrived at night. Found an M&M and a Rice Crispy wrapper on the way down. Hmm...</div><div style="text-align: center;">. . .</div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK_0XjCVL9SzNWZHbXd26vmu9qZVmDoyPhgPLMm1uHyLOGjtyGsLl8NT5WYqR7DN0jTnIyxkmEKBu3QI_a7FLVZV1ILw_wblkn0ZtzCj-mQInhjM2uuP_cWQMBy8qYK0gMUZRYr2iQ5IhR/s1600/DSCN2428.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK_0XjCVL9SzNWZHbXd26vmu9qZVmDoyPhgPLMm1uHyLOGjtyGsLl8NT5WYqR7DN0jTnIyxkmEKBu3QI_a7FLVZV1ILw_wblkn0ZtzCj-mQInhjM2uuP_cWQMBy8qYK0gMUZRYr2iQ5IhR/s320/DSCN2428.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5481671915006799138" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">The Cairn Sentinel of El Capitan, Guadalupe Mountains National Park, </span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Culberson County, Day 255</span></div><div style="text-align: center;">. . .</div><div style="text-align: center;">. . .</div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGELcLIuiWK6r9RPxa_vacWl0YAt7LEvlp14CnADGaIQPNWQAAVEZ-wSl6qQK0nwSY7scprTVbRi7LdohBiTMfd6CT5RlOeO3DAk-FzQ7smLs6sy7uevu15isK4KhpmAM0l46so2m9Crvk/s1600/DSCN2442.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGELcLIuiWK6r9RPxa_vacWl0YAt7LEvlp14CnADGaIQPNWQAAVEZ-wSl6qQK0nwSY7scprTVbRi7LdohBiTMfd6CT5RlOeO3DAk-FzQ7smLs6sy7uevu15isK4KhpmAM0l46so2m9Crvk/s320/DSCN2442.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5481671910591079490" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Sunset from Williams Ranch Home Porch, Guadalupe Mountains National Park,</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Hudspeth County, Day 255</span></div><div style="text-align: center;">. . .</div><div style="text-align: center;">Day 256: When I made it to the main road, I entered the world of sand and dust. The wind had started back in the dunes, but out on the road, the conditions got nasty. It's not the big granules that do it; it's the little ones. They cover everything and make it hard to open your eyes. And the little ones are never-ending. They're on my hands as I write this, on the notepad, on my mat, shirt, hair, everything with the possible exception of my mouth, but when I eat or drink, that will be another casualty.</div><div style="text-align: center;">. . .</div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhg7uEo98Cu8uxS3tn0eZsyQHTaWA5JbWeT1yDF1kpTYGZ6cxNVe17QQY4SjNbM8D3XdZ-Eg9txCIbAwHS9GsA-xTQBF0XUzrVm-qzB2Gy8nED16I_VsyhD1y4ERv-eDgUFKZGvFtTcrML7/s1600/DSCN2464.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhg7uEo98Cu8uxS3tn0eZsyQHTaWA5JbWeT1yDF1kpTYGZ6cxNVe17QQY4SjNbM8D3XdZ-Eg9txCIbAwHS9GsA-xTQBF0XUzrVm-qzB2Gy8nED16I_VsyhD1y4ERv-eDgUFKZGvFtTcrML7/s320/DSCN2464.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5481671897274973602" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Looking Back, Hudspeth County, Day 257</span></div><div style="text-align: center;">. . .</div><div style="text-align: center;">. . .</div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7w0POV-RzpOSQw-r2_B62AiqeTha0iq1-xcDJV12YoSWlSrGgzI8NEfDpney8jROwF3MaY_v7hwQerH_moY_25VxSX-3x1a9lTgcHGub9HsXQyBoVxRjM4Fgd-YLPAEYXdu0YkZXgM36s/s1600/DSCN2470.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7w0POV-RzpOSQw-r2_B62AiqeTha0iq1-xcDJV12YoSWlSrGgzI8NEfDpney8jROwF3MaY_v7hwQerH_moY_25VxSX-3x1a9lTgcHGub9HsXQyBoVxRjM4Fgd-YLPAEYXdu0YkZXgM36s/s320/DSCN2470.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5481669252243650418" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Oasis, Cornudas, Hudspeth County, Day 258</span></div><div style="text-align: center;">. . .</div><div style="text-align: center;">. . .</div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhd5poRHknpvgoBgF57HSR6vYVuP_do1Z4q-tMZi6YoNbFz4T2HSUzWOrhzaBpUby_7DEep2G5l_ieMMLmq2xTheMeRkyTdliuq426shKcTUbWEBEyf4ve1P8UEBuIYSvR4jPlCDt6a-7sm/s1600/DSCN2472.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhd5poRHknpvgoBgF57HSR6vYVuP_do1Z4q-tMZi6YoNbFz4T2HSUzWOrhzaBpUby_7DEep2G5l_ieMMLmq2xTheMeRkyTdliuq426shKcTUbWEBEyf4ve1P8UEBuIYSvR4jPlCDt6a-7sm/s320/DSCN2472.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5481669245574087362" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Sunbather, Hudspeth County, Day 259</span></div><div style="text-align: center;">. . .</div><div style="text-align: center;">Day 259: Checkpoint. Chatted with two officers; both reluctant to talk about border.</div><div style="text-align: center;">. . .</div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZNHGQjMC8EZWLgdqfmgg5ETq-EvO9tSb66433s5_viNzOMVwP-qaGSK_asX0FjPjHwjRw9xx3U_dteAYdhOw1uR6dK5jBmV7LBJAWH0rTLtx3H9lo29iocmRhM-lxopbj6kN8-yrdSne3/s1600/DSCN2473.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZNHGQjMC8EZWLgdqfmgg5ETq-EvO9tSb66433s5_viNzOMVwP-qaGSK_asX0FjPjHwjRw9xx3U_dteAYdhOw1uR6dK5jBmV7LBJAWH0rTLtx3H9lo29iocmRhM-lxopbj6kN8-yrdSne3/s320/DSCN2473.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5481669234545710050" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Western Corner Marker of Texas, El Paso County, Day 263</span></div><div style="text-align: center;">. . .</div><div style="text-align: center;">. . .</div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhB_TI39zeQXtCMEqJXCcsH4SR-6LNPyYpkWjm8J8zW8Bvdl27Au-5BLJi6TE_SCVjzkWjrRokzGiLgA1u03Z7yLHBvfQspQbiz8z6uPVTrdgGJM-enoYtD5lANnzOCzltgY-TTwkMV4G9V/s1600/DSCN2486.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhB_TI39zeQXtCMEqJXCcsH4SR-6LNPyYpkWjm8J8zW8Bvdl27Au-5BLJi6TE_SCVjzkWjrRokzGiLgA1u03Z7yLHBvfQspQbiz8z6uPVTrdgGJM-enoYtD5lANnzOCzltgY-TTwkMV4G9V/s320/DSCN2486.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5481663905355822498" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Checkpoint, El Paso County, Day 266</span></div><div style="text-align: center;">. . .</div><div style="text-align: center;">. . .</div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFTl5tTjVCBSOcdpyI_cUMcOWcvDjoP9Da92AZQiNwqeZDrqL2dC5BrKXeBB1VJLS0YN1YN66EFTV2-jTFYGuHBUdXcWi88QOEKHBPvCdkKV4yOZoh7ad3GxQ2Ddc-jaQrtmj3BakrJ-jM/s1600/DSCN2488.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFTl5tTjVCBSOcdpyI_cUMcOWcvDjoP9Da92AZQiNwqeZDrqL2dC5BrKXeBB1VJLS0YN1YN66EFTV2-jTFYGuHBUdXcWi88QOEKHBPvCdkKV4yOZoh7ad3GxQ2Ddc-jaQrtmj3BakrJ-jM/s320/DSCN2488.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5481663897855228642" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Mission of Corpus Christi, El Paso County, Day 267</span></div><div style="text-align: center;">. . .</div><div style="text-align: center;">. . .</div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcwRZUYsq6PoziFbnFOiAthbF1CJz8PAsA5nZ6JYBCO2A5euUMI_CgKHsXc4uc5kWBl9AVDmbxE8yeBilANBEe06zEN7ZuZyvZfWXVY9Za7-2wUfcfDyWpACRnnoj3NvoXhpXGnCqYCG2v/s1600/DSCN2500.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcwRZUYsq6PoziFbnFOiAthbF1CJz8PAsA5nZ6JYBCO2A5euUMI_CgKHsXc4uc5kWBl9AVDmbxE8yeBilANBEe06zEN7ZuZyvZfWXVY9Za7-2wUfcfDyWpACRnnoj3NvoXhpXGnCqYCG2v/s320/DSCN2500.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5481663892312558306" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Enter the Raisin, El Paso County, Day 268</span></div><div style="text-align: center;">. . .</div><div style="text-align: center;">Day 268: Made it to Fort Hancock... with a dog! I found a small, dark, and dehydrated terrier mix puppy in Fabens, and she put her stock in me. I fed her a little peanut butter, then trail mix, and loads of water. She was tick and flea infested - no telling how long she's been out. She walked with me, complaining along the way until we reached Clint. She was begging for food from everybody, not yet attached to me. I got her some rice and chicken (after a conversation with my cousin Cat) and she ate well. I call her Raisin d'Etre, or Raisin for short.</div><div style="text-align: center;">.</div><div style="text-align: center;">Day 271: I met I guy earlier named _____. He drove me to the courthouse [in Sierra Blanca]. Kind of a nut. Talked about black ops, having two PhDs, knowing the president. I just let him ramble.</div><div style="text-align: center;">. . .</div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj65dAJwwZLegJxZdg8g4SAn3RnxRJD4K8JFEUXvQiQnhSO9GXzI2IvyoXk8Q3nMhyXoFxVV2IEF8nJJGlGnj4IE8h4mDXJGoKnQAevHGW1ltn-LHLUHmHtCQbnGOaVUVaW7fCkp1zOOSBv/s1600/DSCN2511.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj65dAJwwZLegJxZdg8g4SAn3RnxRJD4K8JFEUXvQiQnhSO9GXzI2IvyoXk8Q3nMhyXoFxVV2IEF8nJJGlGnj4IE8h4mDXJGoKnQAevHGW1ltn-LHLUHmHtCQbnGOaVUVaW7fCkp1zOOSBv/s320/DSCN2511.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5481663887317631634" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Cloud Cover, Hudspeth County, Day 272 </span></div><div style="text-align: center;">. . .</div><div style="text-align: center;">. . .</div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqqDqB9O0ydHOALAiHuo6x-US-xr-IIl6EEUx7fM-asghmB3BpEDwLAo1dqxB6JDQ0AtqVko0i3DZNOj0YfGve2QZICwnkWzHdnVR6Kj1mjIw98JAw_mFPOIf6fiaEcPrl4JIuQHGii7DV/s1600/DSCN2521.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqqDqB9O0ydHOALAiHuo6x-US-xr-IIl6EEUx7fM-asghmB3BpEDwLAo1dqxB6JDQ0AtqVko0i3DZNOj0YfGve2QZICwnkWzHdnVR6Kj1mjIw98JAw_mFPOIf6fiaEcPrl4JIuQHGii7DV/s320/DSCN2521.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5481659390369590210" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Beware of Fish, Hudspeth County, Day 272</span></div><div style="text-align: center;">. . .</div><div style="text-align: center;">. . .</div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjG2q8Z7_lqjznXnvHQxxcG60Lv4PmD1TaGpykZiAC6FhFaubjD0SAnYRdNrjzKe6tUS4-NTPgGdWcD7Br9Ryu_dNNa7BqWMdf-NOJ12jdvq4f5L9UQyiIX1gtTKMuiVuCBw13VGvEKaIPj/s1600/DSCN2526.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjG2q8Z7_lqjznXnvHQxxcG60Lv4PmD1TaGpykZiAC6FhFaubjD0SAnYRdNrjzKe6tUS4-NTPgGdWcD7Br9Ryu_dNNa7BqWMdf-NOJ12jdvq4f5L9UQyiIX1gtTKMuiVuCBw13VGvEKaIPj/s320/DSCN2526.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5481659384813062450" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Hiking for Love, Culberson County, Day 273</span></div><div style="text-align: center;">. . .</div><div style="text-align: center;">Day 273: [I found this little popsicle cross beside a roadside marker made by Carol Cruise. Ms. Cruise, wearing a prosthetic leg, is walking around the entire United States. She started in 2002 and is hoping to finish this December. She is a reverend and is reminding people of God's love. Notice that her odometer stands at 8,592 miles. By now, she's in central Texas.]</div><div style="text-align: center;">.</div><div style="text-align: center;">[In Van Horn] people kept complimenting Raisin, and she ate it up. One woman gave me a leash! She had a spare and was heading to Arizona. She thanked me for "saving another one."</div><div style="text-align: center;">.</div><div style="text-align: center;">Day 275: Took a break under a train trestle. NOT the most peaceful place when the train rolls by at 40 mph.</div><div style="text-align: center;">. . .</div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEbIjdGqA2ZHmxpGEBq9zkJliI7xBhoYGa80V9K09XScc9BVKSaQ0fD5XhyUrecNmQEVdfs_OmsdxgZHi2-6AO_q0oM5yLQIcqMw4R790Mc91J64Y-pDqG62FjWIGw2kKDQ8jKCxW1lZgC/s1600/DSCN2544.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEbIjdGqA2ZHmxpGEBq9zkJliI7xBhoYGa80V9K09XScc9BVKSaQ0fD5XhyUrecNmQEVdfs_OmsdxgZHi2-6AO_q0oM5yLQIcqMw4R790Mc91J64Y-pDqG62FjWIGw2kKDQ8jKCxW1lZgC/s320/DSCN2544.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5481659372801727570" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Street Jesus, Marfa, Presidio County, Day 277</span></div><div style="text-align: center;">. . .</div><div style="text-align: center;">. . .</div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDHg2KOhy0EYUFsZXQI7fnImDqifIs0TTcBFxus0Cb7KKKxJWV1qJWPjeBGeU375qjk9U1hNFHXZb5Ib4_iygBbKA6Dp0tzIeYf9p3bqNyD76SSJDjVlrWEYUG1YFiDRXhgBp0BM4KQH0I/s1600/DSCN2545.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDHg2KOhy0EYUFsZXQI7fnImDqifIs0TTcBFxus0Cb7KKKxJWV1qJWPjeBGeU375qjk9U1hNFHXZb5Ib4_iygBbKA6Dp0tzIeYf9p3bqNyD76SSJDjVlrWEYUG1YFiDRXhgBp0BM4KQH0I/s320/DSCN2545.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5481659367059543778" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Country Art, Presidio County, Day 277</span></div><div style="text-align: center;">. . .</div><div style="text-align: center;">Day 280: [Bob Phillips and his Texas Country Reporter crew showed up in Presidio. I spoke with Bob about recent developments in his life (he got married two years ago), and we chatted about my hike and Raisin. I spent the bulk of my time with one of the producers Mike and the cameraman Dan, both really nice fellows. The show comes out in mid-July.]</div><div style="text-align: center;">. . .</div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzH_7oKJQeh_Lu9eV6QYIAM5UBG8Sab5S-wkhYHlyP-_cNOjFP2tXG9V4laDIMJ-hfyu9yYBsIyTgamMHc_b8hR0Ug1blU6FAuof3rm3ZYq3ZJO1SLxKDIEN9euLBikV44BFCne7H5oZ1d/s1600/DSCN2575.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzH_7oKJQeh_Lu9eV6QYIAM5UBG8Sab5S-wkhYHlyP-_cNOjFP2tXG9V4laDIMJ-hfyu9yYBsIyTgamMHc_b8hR0Ug1blU6FAuof3rm3ZYq3ZJO1SLxKDIEN9euLBikV44BFCne7H5oZ1d/s320/DSCN2575.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5481654115318316226" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Mary, Redford, Presidio County, Day 282</span></div><div style="text-align: center;">. . .</div><div style="text-align: center;">Day 282: Found a church in Redford and got water... later found out that it tasted like rubber because of the water hose. Ahhh!!!! [I lost two liters to this mishap and lucked out by finding a water hole in Closed Canyon, shown two pictures below.]</div><div style="text-align: center;">. . .</div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWGRZ4efyX4aS2NhsQX3TXFiLN2fyzkkCs4Dgok5EMHxW87qRluUyFichcmn-sPmu-meyK8wielg_txmvRHMx7JEipQdBboZl1yl6J3Dj78dLRfFX0mkdFxNW0YcBXcV-7FF91rCdBpgdr/s1600/RSCN2590.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWGRZ4efyX4aS2NhsQX3TXFiLN2fyzkkCs4Dgok5EMHxW87qRluUyFichcmn-sPmu-meyK8wielg_txmvRHMx7JEipQdBboZl1yl6J3Dj78dLRfFX0mkdFxNW0YcBXcV-7FF91rCdBpgdr/s320/RSCN2590.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5481654103828721042" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">View from the Ruins, Presidio County, Day 282</span></div><div style="text-align: center;">. . .</div><div style="text-align: center;">. . .</div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgG03jSJ6_AsaXWOkhudXt4q0uGFPRoEcBSR_Qo4TrzPW5wWPDtffC9QAF1EL_X63SfTtk0T8V6wadORzfUlrEBpJaWHdQ5rmHF5DI8lmYIg3w2kkBj-2qeHAgzHt-ItyRatvKgtGNeZbNI/s1600/DSCN2596.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgG03jSJ6_AsaXWOkhudXt4q0uGFPRoEcBSR_Qo4TrzPW5wWPDtffC9QAF1EL_X63SfTtk0T8V6wadORzfUlrEBpJaWHdQ5rmHF5DI8lmYIg3w2kkBj-2qeHAgzHt-ItyRatvKgtGNeZbNI/s320/DSCN2596.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5481654096987102802" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Closed Canyon, Big Bend Ranch State Park, Presidio County, Day 283</span></div><div style="text-align: center;">. . .</div><div style="text-align: center;">. . .</div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5EzkRucXG6R5FQlns2aRgdByfLnCcubV8xn_FfnJkRaApPyZHhup1GnFKSKBT1GpVN0k2-qvSg7UEPEbjRswaYnA7NaL0CVV-x4YFblGfeWDVpPOvjijdC5AfbKSxcTii4uwiOvuiQKaT/s1600/DSCN2607.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5EzkRucXG6R5FQlns2aRgdByfLnCcubV8xn_FfnJkRaApPyZHhup1GnFKSKBT1GpVN0k2-qvSg7UEPEbjRswaYnA7NaL0CVV-x4YFblGfeWDVpPOvjijdC5AfbKSxcTii4uwiOvuiQKaT/s320/DSCN2607.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5481654089498275042" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Another Roadside Attraction, Presidio County, Day 283</span></div><div style="text-align: center;">. . .</div><div style="text-align: center;">Day 283: [Annie sent me a book called "Smile While You're Lying" by Chuck Thompson. There's one line in it that haunts me: (paraphrased) "We revere what we destroy, but we destroy it first." The teepee rest stop seems to illustrate this perfectly.]</div><div style="text-align: center;">. . .</div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZpdp2hYeQZLy3glpcc_1KYX3f4Zvg0L9AihtDmAQ2zEG3tbl6P38GjTMbYKUgfEZbhdMuE2Vfw8NqtVz6VrSemdB0fBrIYzfj6P6s73yxX4byyVXOIj8znuToJQRhMt-VUdGx5agK4mgT/s1600/DSCN2612.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZpdp2hYeQZLy3glpcc_1KYX3f4Zvg0L9AihtDmAQ2zEG3tbl6P38GjTMbYKUgfEZbhdMuE2Vfw8NqtVz6VrSemdB0fBrIYzfj6P6s73yxX4byyVXOIj8znuToJQRhMt-VUdGx5agK4mgT/s320/DSCN2612.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5481652139544389090" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Contrabando Set, Presidio County, Day 284</span></div><div style="text-align: center;">. . .</div><div style="text-align: center;">Day 284: Strange to visit the Contrabando movie set after already having seen it three days ago [with the Texas Country Reporter crew]. Maybe I'll watch Streets of Laredo. [Contrabando was a B movie set in the old west, filmed about 20 to 30 years ago. They abandoned the set which was later adopted by the park service. It's kind of neat in its own way, but a bizarre sideshow to the area. There are only a few buildings, all constructed for the purpose of making one movie and later adopted by other movies. It's not real, and yet people, myself included, stop to investigate it.]</div><div style="text-align: center;">.</div><div style="text-align: center;">Found a camping spot called Rancho Topango. After mild negotiations, I secured an indoor place and shower and hard-boiled eggs for $13. I didn't know what to expect [when I showed up]. When I started calling out "Hello? Hello?", no one answered. Then I found an older fellow sitting down looking at me. I said, "Hi, how are you doing?" and he continued to look at me saying nothing. It wasn't exactly uncomfortable, and he cut it off before it became weird. "What can I do for you?" he began.</div><div style="text-align: center;">. . .</div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj47sfSbApxG0ytB1qZAkterNXNOVPNboJ9VoRSQNbj6UoBO7EEBfMqp5hqNVwUp8c_YjzFziJFMHWGRFFd0wTb3UKidqj56JLNAbDT7IbAsAmf3i94wNsnXMWo0FJx0rEUydbprxGbTUkA/s1600/DSCN2624.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj47sfSbApxG0ytB1qZAkterNXNOVPNboJ9VoRSQNbj6UoBO7EEBfMqp5hqNVwUp8c_YjzFziJFMHWGRFFd0wTb3UKidqj56JLNAbDT7IbAsAmf3i94wNsnXMWo0FJx0rEUydbprxGbTUkA/s320/DSCN2624.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5481652131152904258" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Ghost Town Art, Terlingua Ghost Town, Brewster County, Day 285</span></div><div style="text-align: center;">. . .</div><div style="text-align: center;">. . .</div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinGIMqGQrDWvz5sRn2_6xCKHISuMttU0osQObF82haQvjIWlAaSm3RYrLgBUU8j761Pqd2m72GFG8ypNJxuNks2T9jTB1qzqsQ9pamZnOdsRhUgCFE2rIOHH3JLTZ1lt3lZ1i9omdLAq1W/s1600/DSCN2640.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinGIMqGQrDWvz5sRn2_6xCKHISuMttU0osQObF82haQvjIWlAaSm3RYrLgBUU8j761Pqd2m72GFG8ypNJxuNks2T9jTB1qzqsQ9pamZnOdsRhUgCFE2rIOHH3JLTZ1lt3lZ1i9omdLAq1W/s320/DSCN2640.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5481652120165768898" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Terlingua Local, Brewster County, Day 285</span></div><div style="text-align: center;">. . .</div><div style="text-align: center;">Day 286: I arranged with Greg and his maintenance man Mike to do some work for a river trip... only not immediately. [The trip has kept me in town for several days now. I just went yesterday on Day 290.]</div><div style="text-align: center;">. . .</div><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaDkaCYcEdTh36SmQcl_t2el2tF4HS_92P2PYsNvwsEE9Qz2axEXDh490sC1gf0TVVJlbzCINu3_mjxjNkv8wHKPpoGpzTZUHZUow4dCTFZ6E2ECrciDhO_ThyphenhyphenGaBOiIVc7BQApUqsnEUF/s320/DSCN2645.JPG" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5481652111353237970" /><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Art for Sale, Terlingua Ghost Town, Brewster County, Day 287</span></div><div style="text-align: center;">. . .</div><div style="text-align: center;">Day 290: [Beautiful day. There was a group of about ten of us and two guides, and we hit the water by nine o'clock. We canoed up Santa Elena Canyon. The water felt great, and the upper body exercise was good for me. There were five kids in the group, and they kept us adults in check, fooling around in the water, jumping off rocks. There was one boulder in particular that stood just a bit back from a large pool of water. The kids were afraid to jump because of the distance, but I went for it, hitting my legs against the shallow bottom. I warned them, but it was too late. Several more went for it, enjoying the challenge and scariness of it. I love being an instigator.]</div><div style="text-align: center;">. . .</div><div style="text-align: center;">That's all for now. Until next time...</div>Smatthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08728966785725757302noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5444915056320730048.post-25606246098864743632010-06-03T16:13:00.000-07:002010-06-03T20:43:48.717-07:00Raisin the Dog!<div align="center">Say hello to my little friend.</div><div align="center">. . .<br />. . .</div><p><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5478694267584432658" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCmW8gR8qZQpjs6sup4FNivwjXQlp1f4w493XakaihfCQkCaKE50AdJ23Of9VD4i6sur4ESKrSMjImnt_XAV0c6sciV7VP9IHmhFkanhoEr7MQ5HPzoM0mdozbP669KOh3s3X0D8uScJfI/s320/DSCN2550.JPG" border="0" /></p><p align="center">. . .<br /></p><div align="center">. . .<br />I found a little dog on the outskirts of Fabens, Texas on the morning of May 22nd, and I decided that she would be my birthday present. She was small, dark, and dehydrated, so I called her Raisin. Upon further reflection, I named her Raisin d'Etre, a pun on 'raison d'etre,' a reason for being here.</div><div align="center">. . .<br />. . .<br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5478757453109007058" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiW98XoJ6dZLm1RSifldEvfNNfUOzkDz4IDVYDExirF_pNdRvRaBvmOhd0jObe2dnBUgs3RLtrkZW4o7xPW3KOZIdWLqXXaTo59Cn0HCqSypqd1IkNGcPcClumoRvCfKDe1ucKfqMJy2OTe/s320/DSCN2547.JPG" border="0" />. . .<br />. . .<br />Raisin is little and very cute. She chases butterflies and barks at antelope and beetles. When I caught a butterfly in my hands and let it out in front of her, Raisin wagged her tail. In the morning, Raisin wakes me up by licking me, and I like to think she's excited about the day, though she's probably just hungry.<br />. . .<br />. . .<br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5478694276476036866" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_5NwMCo1vz-5-QZvdJZrHBecRYtXCqFCwGqnv4gpgVrrpJollQ2PsSCLUAIiOlIN_oIU121ZQOrU9XF2O9yBwQi3JnEPJ0ByfvpGvkvjORceQrB8yaVEGiDiUdQdujPrzFaHrgOAWRkbt/s320/DSCN2557.JPG" border="0" />. . .<br /><br />. . .<br />Raisin is headstrong and likes to get her way, but we are learning about one another. This is a tough hike for her, and she gets worn out pretty quickly (Although on some milder days, she's surprised me with how much she's walked. Her one-day record is around 19 miles!). In the short time we've been together, she's grown on me, perhaps me on her too.<br />.<br />Enjoy the pictures.<br />.<br />Until next time... </div>Smatthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08728966785725757302noreply@blogger.com4