Now the cool breezes of Autumn are stirring. A little later than the days of yore, say 10 or 15 years ago when the I used to mark the peak of the Autumn’s colored leaves in Missouri as the week of October 20. Somehow, that was always the week of peak color. Lately, the peak occurs 1-3 weeks later.
I recall during the Fall of 1982, precisely that week of the 20th, Diane and I, along with Bob Breidenbach and his wife, Laura, took a four day float on the Jack’s Fork River deep in the St Francois Mountains. The baseball Cardinals were in the World Series that year. The colors were astounding then. The diversity of trees along that river are such that during the Fall you get a really wide palette of color. Sometimes in Missouri you get a single tone of color due to the universality of one species of tree dominating the hillsides. Not so on the Jack’s Fork. For four long drifting days we meandered down the river, coming out of the mystery above...down into the mystery below. We explored caves along the way and we caught the mighty Smallmouth Bass. We cooked dinner on the riverbank. We slept on sandbars at night with the soundtrack of the river; the whippoorwills, the owls, the coyotes, and the raccoons shuffling off to their nightly raids of food and celebratory after-parties. Not one human, outside of our little band of explorers, was seen the entire length of those four days and nights. If you can catch the upper Jack’s Fork during the middle of the week when the crowds are gone and take a float for a day or two...maybe four... you will have held a rare and wondrous bird, so elusive in today’s world.
It is the 7th of November and we are launching into yet another exploit of the 50 Amp Vision Quest, our hearts full of the warm laughter and our eyes yet visualizing the smiling eyes of family and dear friends. Our trip to St Louis has been one blessing heaped upon another. But, Diane and I have the traveling bone buried deep inside our core and so off to the southland we are headed. We will be camp hosting at Pedernales State Park again this year from December through February. Our daughter, Suni, and her family lives in nearby Austin.
We’ve adopted a little routine during the most recent years where we are rotating camp host jobs in Texas, Arizona, and Colorado. In March we will break away from that circuit and point ourselves towards Canada for the Summer, spending ample time in Tennessee, Kentucky, North Carolina, and Michigan before turning east to the Maritime Provinces. We have never been to Canada’s rocky eastern coast. We are already anticipating great adventures along the way to and from that coast. Then, in September (or so) we will start our drift southbound through Maine and New England, stopping for a time in Washington DC, to see my brother, Michael, and his family. Back to the more present sojourn, however, we are bound for Arkansas before arriving in Texas.
I mentioned in the prior post that we opted to join the Harvest Hosts program designed for RV’ers. I searched for locations for us to stay along the way to help defray our cost of travel as well as park ourselves for the night in an interesting place...a winery, a farm, perhaps a museum. I couldn’t find a spot that turned us on along our route, but searching for that spot led me to find “Turpentine Creek Wildlife Refuge” just outside of Eureka Springs, AR. This would be a perfect spot for us since one of the points of our trip southward is the Crystal Bridges Museum in Bentonville, AR. We would only be an easy hour away if we spent a couple of days at Turpentine Creek.
Big Cats in Arkansas...
Turpentine Creek Wildlife Refuge turned out to be a captivating camping stop. While not generally regarded as an RV park per se, the facility does have 6 RV camping spots complete with water and electricity. This is a refuge that caters to tourists and does so to raise finances for the big cats that are refuged there. It’s location, just 5 miles south of that artisanal gem called Eureka Springs, is resplendently perched atop a minor mountain so that the views over the adjoining hills give you pause to meditate and luxuriate in the canopy of the Ozark forest. Within this wild and scenic Arkansas setting, however, the point of the wildlife refuge beckons you to venture inside the compound. The occasional huffing and roaring of the big cats steals your attention and sends the hair on the back of your neck to standing up. When the big cats get to howling together, spread out over the hillside as it were, they call it caroling. Well, maybe that word fits if your idea of caroling if at Christmas time you long for 20 or so frightful, simultaneous bellows from MGM studio’s movie beginnings.
Turpentine Creek does a wonderful job taking care of these big cats. All of them are outcasts from roadside attractions. Think "Tiger King", the television series and you get the idea. Somehow, there is a not-so-cottage industry in this country of raising and displaying big cats for big money. One of the seedier aspects of this industry is the cross-breeding of tigers and lions. If you’ve ever read the “Island of Dr Moreau” you get the picture. Lions bred with tigers wherein the female is a tiger are called “Tigrons”. The same cross-breed featuring the lion as the matriarch are called, “Ligers”. Sure enough, this facility has a few. Once bred and born, they are prone to all sorts of physical maladies due to the fact that they are genetically altered...man-made. Turpentine Creek has an on-site clinic where proper and immediate care can be given all the animals. The staff’s care for these cast-off animals is inspiring to say the least. Many, in fact, are volunteers who are studying to become specialists in animal care of one type or another. They really seem driven in their work as we spent an entire morning touring the facility and observing and talking with many of them.
Other lions and tigers, and a couple of Grizzlies to boot, have come from bankrupt roadside attractions where the care for the animals has been non-existent or haphazard at best. Sometimes the facility will become aware of private individuals who have, for whatever reason, obtained a lion or tiger cub and thought it would be a great idea to raise them in their backyard. Yeah, that really happens. The saddest cases the staff told me about are the “businesses” that try to make the cats mate and produce as many cubs as possible. They then feature the cute cubbies front and center in their shows, allowing visitors to cuddle with them for a fee. “Look, here’s Betty Sue actually holding a lion kitten! Isn’t he cute as a button?” Well, the back story is once these “kittens” reach a year or so old they are discarded, killed, because they cost to much to feed and house and they are no longer good for premium ticket selling. Sometimes the animals are sold for their parts and meat. I suppose some folks simply can’t say they lived a successful life until they’ve eaten lion.
This practice is a cottage industry within a cottage industry. We wish these cats could be free in their homelands. Turpentine Creek, at this point, is their next best alternative. There is a bill before Congress currently that would curtail a lot of this misuse and abuse, but no vote has taken place yet. I wrote my congressman, one Dusty Johnson of South Dakota, to urge him to action, In fact, on Turpentine Creek’s website you will find a form ready for you to sign that you can email your congressman or woman urging them to take action on this bill. It takes but a few minutes to do.
After spending a good part of the day touring the facility we relaxed outside during the evening. As we watched the trees put on their sunset show accented by the low angle of the sun’s beams filtering through the auburn and amber leaves of the mountainside the belly-low bellow of the lions echoed through the valley. It was feeding time. Who knew you could transport yourself to the African savanna in northwestern Arkansas? Occasionally throughout the night from the safety of our little bedroom in Nell, our motor home, we were strangely serenaded as the lions and tigers felt thithin a cottage industry. We wish these cats could be free in their homelands. Turpentine Creek, ae nudge of nature deep within their genes and let out a roar to assert themselves over the mountains and the valleys of this Ozark retreat. It was oddly reassuring to us.
“Attention Wal Mart Shoppers” High Culture in Bentonville...
Our reservation at Turpentine Creek lasted two days so we took one of those days to travel the short one hour drive to Crystal Bridges Museum in Bentonville, AR. Crystal Bridges is a pretty amazing place to visit. Set in a little valley with a pretty creek running through it, one of the matriarchs of the Walton family has envisioned and built an elegant American-artist themed museum. All manner of American artists have their work showcased here where you can walk about the various rooms and feast your eyes and your imagination on their genius. Some modern, some folk-art, some romantic, it all comes together as a feast for your senses.
In addition to the art itself and the sublime elegance of the building built to surround the creek, you can walk through the grounds on several nature trails along the creek. One path leads to a Frank Lloyd Wright house that has been transported here to the grounds as an art object, which it truly is. This house is one of his “Usonian” examples, meaning more or less for the middle class. Originally conceived as costing $5-10,000.00 in mid 20th century his vision was to see this style of house dot the landscape across America. Useful, purposeful, well thought out, as well as affordable he, alas, only was able to see 60 built. This particular model is a museum piece in its visionary use of combining practicality with style. As in all Frank Lloyd Wright houses this one seems to fit into the natural setting of the woods with grace and ease, as if it is supposed to be part of nature itself. You can tour the grounds as well the interior of the house for free. As a matter of fact, the entire museum save one particular exhibit was free. Anyone who can get here can savor what this matriarchal Walton has collected from the artists of America and come away without spending a solitary dime. Contrastingly, you will have been enriched in your soul.
Eureka Springs, a Personal Time Capsule...
We couldn’t come this close to Eureka Springs without visiting the town itself, if only for a short visit. Though we have been here several times before spending ample time exploring the steep hills and streets, even tasting the spring water, we came back one more time for a look-see. What’s changed here? What’s new, what’s disappeared? Almost reassuringly, its as if nothing has really changed in the town proper itself over the past 50 years. Surely, motels and tourist traps have sprung up on the outskirts of town along the highway, but once you get into the town proper it all seems to have been retained in all its gilded-age charm.
During our last trip through here Diane and I took a “ghost tour” through the Crescent Hotel. It’s somewhat famous for its ecto-plasmic spirits. Though we didn’t see any ghosts it felt as if they were there, or at least the proprietors did a good enough job convincing us they were there. My first experience here was back in the very early 1970’s. The Road Apple band that I was a part of performed on the outskirts of town in what was called, “The Eureka Springs Folk Festival”. This event was modeled in part on Woodstock ‘69 and the other huge musical events that were popping up across the country at that time. There weren’t any rock and roll bands per se featured here. More along the lines of Americana, Bluegrass, and Folk, the groups were all “down home” so to speak. We were slated to perform Saturday morning during the weekend event.
Friday night as all the revelers were arriving and setting up tent cities on the steep hillsides a terrific thunder storm erupted lasting most of the night until about 4:00 AM. Our little band and our close followers were camped out together in cheap little pup tents clustered together so we could enjoy each other’s company while we practiced our songs and passed around the pipes and the bottles. Right up until the first blast of lightening struck overhead all were having a peaceful and blissful experience on the hillsides and down in the valley where the stage was set up. Smoke from campfires and dozens of self-rolled “cigarettes” wafted into the night sky. Then, without sufficient warning...Boom! All manner of Hell broke out as torrential rain and howling wind along with seemingly never ending thunder and lightening turned the peaceful scene into a madcap flurry of people running and ducking for cover. Some folks, having somehow not thought about needing cover for the night were left out in the storm with no shelter. People dashed into tents wherever there was room. “Hey, can we crash here. Brother?” I think I heard that a dozen times that night. Our tent had a small creek running through it due to the runoff. A man who was soon to join our band and add his amazing fiddle, mandolin, and guitar, along with his ever so unique personality, Brad Koberman, somehow slept outside in the torrent using a plastic coke bottle for a pillow. Everyone and everything was soaked, and cold on top of it. We thought at the time that the whole place looked like a Union Army campsite. Everyone seemed to be in blue (denim) which was the unofficial hippie uniform color, small little campfires throwing little flame and a lot of smoke into the sky.
When dawn finally came it was still drizzling but starting to warm. It was spring time and the days drew warm, it being the month of May as I recall.
I heard, forever etched into my memory, someone holler from across the hillside, “Where’s my mountain boot? Who stole my mountain boot? I want my mountain boot!”
It just seemed so hilarious at the time. The fellow was still a tad fuzzy from the night’s effort at staying buzzed through the storm. I don’t think he ever found his mountain boot because I saw him sitting, watching the show later and he still was barefoot on one foot.
The Road Apples were due to perform around 11:00 AM but with so many performances postponed from the night before and the earlier morning we were skeptical if we’d go on, at least on schedule. Nonetheless, we got our act together back stage and readied ourselves to perform. The producers of the festival had cleared sections of the surrounding hillsides and built a grand log and plank stage from the trees they cut. A little creek ambled beneath the stage and down behind, off on its way to some join a river somewhere. We huddled there on the back of the stage waiting to see if we would go on. Meanwhile, some 25,000 devotees, party hardies, and festive-ites had assembled in the valley to hear some music. They were growing impatient, but were behaving themselves. Everyone had been through Hell and High Water for the past 12 hours. They needed some relief, some music.
Then, as if a giant veil had been lifted, in the blink of an eye, the sun came out and beamed light and warmth into that valley. It happened in an instant.
“Get out there boys!” came the command from the stage manager. “Give ‘em all you got!”
We shot on stage and immediately launched into our first number, a rockin’ newgrass tune we learned from Sam Bush and the New Grass Revival called “Pennies in my Pocket”. The crowd literally erupted into cheers and war whoops and all manner of appreciative calls. We were overwhelmed with adrenaline and played as fast and as hard as we ever did. Somehow, instead of having stage fright from being in front of so many people we all were super-inspired. For what we were capable of performing back in those days we were on fire, giving the crowd our best performance we had ever given to that point. We urged the crowd on and played one fast tune after another. No one wanted subtlety at that point. Fast and highly spirited, played precisely, playing to the crowd, we were rock stars for that one hour we were on stage. Other groups waiting backstage, The Earl Scruggs Review, for example, gave us high compliments. I think they were sincere, too. I remember seeing Lester Flatt’s band back stage with young Marty Stuart on mandolin at that time.
He gave me a high five and said, “Right on Dude...Good show.”
To this day that Road Apple show at the Eureka Springs Folk Festival lingers with me as a personal high-water mark in my life. That morning the sun broke through and shined on all of us, Ed Cabanas on bass, Jon Tickner on banjo, Bob Breidenbach on dobro, me on guitar, and Danny Thompson, our manager and brother at the time who cheered us on from back stage and who somehow booked us into this crazy event. We share that moment together forever as brothers caught up in something unique and wonderful, and we all will until there’s none of us left to recall the day, the time, and the place. Play on, brothers!
Whoo, Pig!...
Another wondrous feature of northwestern Arkansas is a snaky, mountainous drive through the Ozark and Boston Mountains called the “Pig Trail”, so named after the state’s sports moniker, the Razorback. Having heard of this wild and scenic drive from my brother, Joe, who took it on his motorcycle, we decided to see if Nell, our motor home was up to it. What a killer ride this Pig Trail is! There are certainly longer climbs up mountains in Colorado and out west, but for sheer steep climbs, albeit short by comparison, the Pig Trail is amazing. Nell was challenged but she took it in and won the day. Such natural beauty as can be discovered in northwestern Arkansas is rare, even by America’s geographical standards. Full-blown Autumn here is unmatched in the mid-south. Much of the drive features views unchanged for the past many, many decades. I couldn’t help but wonder what lay just beyond our views. How wild and natural is the land just down that dirt road a few miles out of earshot from this little two-lane road? A couple of hours later through our dream ride we landed at the entrance ramp to I-40 and civilization once again...Billboards and exit ramps, crowding trucks and busy SUVs hurtling down the highway in some kind of hurry.
From this point we had decided to drive as far as we could, wanting to make Mustang Island in Corpus Christi in two days. We had plans to meet Suni’s family there for a few days of beaching it and gloriously catching up with each other after so long an absence. We drove east to Little Rock and then made a right turn south toward Texarkana. Along that route there are several impoundments that feature campgrounds where we could spend the night, or maybe two. DeGray Lake lies just south of the turn-off to Hot Springs, AR and that is a nice spot to spend some time. We laid up there in 2018 when we first lit out on our Vision Quest. Last year this time we stayed for a few days at Bob Sandlin Lake State Park, perhaps 100 miles south and east of Texarkana and we loved that little emerald on the plains. (You see, we’ve been this way before.) Diane pointed out a state park just outside of Texarkana called, Wright Patman Lake State Park. From her pilot’s chair next to me she dialed up Allstays, our trusted campground reference app, (if you are going to go exploring across country and plan on staying at campgrounds this app is a must-have, hard stop) Sure enough, good campsites were available so we decided to hide there for a bit. Two days ought to do it. No sense in killing ourselves getting to Mustang Island. Let’s take in the north Texas atmosphere for a bit.
The Northern Plains of Texas...
Well sir, ladies and gents, as it turns out Wright Patman State Park is a nice place to visit. If you like to fish, and actually catch fish, this might be a place for you to set up stakes for a bit. Wright Patman is a smallish state park, but it is a restfully arranged park with lots of shade for camping. I imagine in the hot summer months it might get a little crowded on weekends with boaters and swimmers due to its proximity to Texarkana. While we were here the park was not busy and only a few boats and folks fishing were on the lake. Actually, a stiff northern wind had stirred up and it was chilly being outside. That stopped us from wetting a line, even though fishing in Texas state parks is license-free. The week prior had featured weather ideal for catfish hunting, warm Fall days and nights. The big boys, flatheads and blue cats, down deep in the nether-reaches of the lake, would be stocking up on food, fattening up for the winter ahead.
There was a weekend once in October, too many moons ago to count, when Bob Breidenbach, Jimmy Tillay, and I went down to Bob’s cabin on the Quivre River to go catfish hunting. That snaky-ass little river can produce more and larger catfish than nearly any river I know of, save the Missouri and the Mississippi. (for the sake of propriety I cannot divulge its actual location) Bob’s family cabin lies in one of the more forgotten stretches of that river and wildlife along with fish are abundant. Jimmy had a broken leg but that didn’t stop him. We three seined bait out of the river and up on Turkey Creek during the daylight and laid out on the river bank upstream from the cabin with pole aplenty at twilight and into the night. The river was rising which means that fish will be biting. I don’t recall a time during that evening when someone didn’t have a good catfish on their pole. Our trotlines were alive with catfish as well. The fishing was so outrageously good that while we were canoeing down river to go back to the cabin a channel cat actually jumped into the boat with us. I kid you not. No bib. No lie. We had accidentally cornered the fish between the rocky bank and our canoe and in trying to escape he leaped right into the boat. Ask Jimmy or Bob when you see them next. They’ll tell you straight away.
Back to Texas...
Turning from possibly fishing Wright-Patman Lake, I grabbed Mr Worthington, my guitar, and found a sunny spot shaded from the wind next to the motor home. It was inspiring to have my guitar out as I faced the white caps rising on the lake before me. Some time after I had starting playing (I lose track of time playing music. That’s the point I think) a friendly camp neighbor approached and started talking to me. She introduced herself to me as Carol from Carrolton, TX. She told me she enjoyed my playing while she was busy with her camp chores, It turns out that Carol is pretty knowledgeable about music and the various genres. We talked about ragtime and jazz, country and folk. After a time Carol invited me and Diane to a dinner she was fixin’ to host at her campsite next door that evening. Would I like to come by and play some music for her guests and join them for potluck dinner?
“ We’re gonna fry up some catfish and hush puppies.” she proudly announced. “Do y’all like catfish” she asked.
“ Does the Pope where a funny hat? “Heck fire, yes...we’ll be there!” I shot back.
Sure enough, just about sundown, a crowd of local Texas campers drifted in to Carol’s spot. Festive lights were hung up and a good ol’ roaring campfire was laid. Ladies brought in dish after dish of home-cooked goodness. Sweet potato fries, pasta dishes, salads of every known variety in Texas, dishes of pecans, steaming green beans nestled into crisp bacon, jalapeño hush puppies such as anyone living outside of Texas has never known, biscuits with butter and home made jam, and the absolute king of all country fried dishes, catfish. Flatheads, to be exact, caught the day before right here in yonder lake, filleted to perfection and fried just so. Golden brown, hot and flaky...have mercy they were good!
Well, I played my heart out in gratitude to these fine folks and we had just a fine time with that group of Texas campers. The dinner laid down nice in everyone’s belly. The fire took the edge off that Fall night chill. The conversation was as warm as that campfire and everyone had a genuinely wonderful time of it, finished off with cake and ice cream, as much as you could eat.
“Here honey, why don’t you just have a little more. You eat like a bird.” Our host said to me. That’s Texas hospitality at its finest.
You know, politics never, not once, came up in conversations that night. There were no red or blue people, just folks sharing dinner and music and interesting talk about the countryside. We were all just folks, doing what folks have done forever here in Texas...and all across America. We were all just sharing our joy at being alive and together in a nice setting on an Autumn night in northern Texas. Sharing what we could all bring to the table that night. Everyone brought their best.
As we continued driving south the next day we decided we would try to get all the way from Wright Patman Lake to the coast, Mustang Island near Corpus Christi. We took blue highways the entire trip as opposed to driving the interstates. It was actually a slightly faster route than the interstates as well, plus it was definitely more scenic. Town after small town we drove through passing from north Texas prairie through eastern Texas Piney Woods. We skirted Houston to the west and popped out eventually by late afternoon at western Corpus Christi. We made Mustang Island before dark, which to us is Rule #1. Never, ever, under any circumstances, try to find a campsite after dark. There was nothing along our route to Mustang Island that really appealed to us as a place to hang out and camp. There may have been some scenic spots, but we didn’t see any real possibilities on the map or on our trusted camping app, AllStays. So, for us, the straight shot was the way to go.
Sun, Sand, Ocean, and Cats?…
Mustang Island is much like a northern extension of the great barrier island, Padre Island. There is a wonderful state park there located right on the beach. The formal camping area there with electric and water is small, perhaps 30 sites or so, but camping on the beach is totally allowed. The formal campsites are nice and level and we could almost get away without leveling our motor home with the jacks.
The beach is but 100 yards east of the campground as the crow flies and it runs for something like 8 or 9 miles south. Civilization per se is only 5 miles away so that if there is something you need you can easily go fetch it quickly. Yet, on the beach, civilization fades away over the gentle, (sometimes not so gentle) sound of waves curling and crashing onto the sand. Believe it or not, driving your vehicle on the beach is allowed. While we were there there were not many vehicles out on the beach. We had large stretches of the beach to ourselves throughout our week’s stay on the island.
As each day unfolded and the sun rose to its apex, low his time of year, the wind would pick up. Wind boarders can be seen here often due to the regularity of good winds near the beach. Early in the morning, especially at dawn, the beach was quiet and calm and almost reverent, as if it were offering homage to the rising sun for returning once again. I loved walking the beach here at dawn. An optimistic charge would surge through and over me as the sun crawled over the horizon. The weather was ideal for Fall. Highs would stretch into the low 80’s or high 70’s held in check somewhat by the breezes.
The beach here is very clean, too. Several years ago Diane and I visited north Padre Island, just 10 miles down the beach. We traveled up and down that particular beach for 23 miles and saw so much trash on the beach that it was alarming as well as disheartening. Having been soon after a hurricane had hit this coast, and it being right after Spring Break, we figured that those were the principal reasons for the messes. We also found out that there is a major current that empties right there on Padre and it brings the ocean’s trash, along with some of its treasures, to shore. Our curiosity got the better of us this visit and so we drove down to Padre Island National Seashore to check out the trash situation. Would it be improved over several ears ago? I can say that it is improved, but I posit perhaps only 25% better. It’s still largely a mess down there, so much so that you need to be careful where you walk so as not to step on something you wish you hadn’t.
Suni, Dane, Ella and Jack met us the day following our arrival at Mustang Island. They brought Ivan, their beautiful, massive, long, and lanky Rhodesian Ridgeback along. Ivan is more horse than dog in some respects. He weighs in well over 100 pounds and his weight is all bone and muscle. At a little over 1 year old, Ivan hasn’t figured out how big he really is yet and of course, he’s still a puppy. Ivan can be compared at this age to a 5 year old boy in a 25 year old’s body. He’s so affable and happy...and big. Suni and family camped in a tent out on the beach. Such a lovely and exhilarating thing to do. There were not many people at all camping out there at the time so the solitude had to be soul-stirring. Just you and your family, the wind and the waves and the stars with Mr Moonlight holding night court over all. Well, so everyone thought.
While Diane and I and our little doggies tucked in for the night in our motor home, windows open, Suni and family bedded down in their tent. Ella said she saw the shadow of a big kitty cat with a long fluffy tail against the tent’s wall and everyone sort of dismissed it. Perhaps it was a feral cat out on the prowl in the dunes looking for a mouse or rat. Soon after, Ivan was alerted to an animal in the area of the tent and took on his ferocious defensive protection countenance. His specific job in life, passed down for hundreds of generations, is to both protect the pack so to speak, and secondly, to hunt lions. That’s what they do. Ivan’s protection growl is something to be feared. I’ve experienced it. Look out!
Suni had hold of Ivan at the time but he put his full 100 + pounds of bone and muscle into overdrive and bolted from her grasp. Suni thought that the animal that caused Ivan to get so animated was a deer. She had actually seen it dimly at some distance running away as Ivan pursued closely at full speed. She wasn’t certain that’s what it was but that was her logical guess. She was very worried that Ivan would get out on the dunes and get lost. He is still a puppy after all. She ran off into the night after Ivan screaming for him to come back. Of course, this caused Dane to become scared for Suni’s safety. It was quite the chain reaction of emotions. Within minutes Ivan came running back to Suni. She said Ivan appeared scared and shook up. Suni discounted it to Ivan being alone, out in the dark away from the family for the first time in a strange place. Well, soon enough everyone calmed down and finally fell asleep to the wind and the waves’ hypnotic song, Suni, Dane, and the kids in their tent on the beach and Diane and I in our motor home.
Daybreak brought breakfast over at the motor home and a full day of fun in the sand and sun. We ran into the ocean up to our waists and fought the waves. The kids built a sand castle and fought the encroaching high tide. The tide eventually won out. It always does. The dogs frolicked in the freedom of the beach. I tried some surf fishing but the tide was bringing in a lot of seaweed and my lines were constantly choked with the stuff. Tough fishing to say the least. No catch that day to report. As night drew nigh, with dinner resting peacefully in our stomachs, we settled down to a camp fire. Campfires are legal on Mustang Island. It is Texas after all.
There was a good deal of wind that night and the camp fire, along with the roasted marshmallows, took the edge off the evening chill. A good hour into the campfire Suni shot up out of her seat. She had been facing away from the ocean towards the dunes that lay behind me. I, with my back to the dunes, was the closest to them.
“Cougar” she exclaimed loudly. The word didn’t register at first.
“What? Cougar? What?” I remember saying.
Diane headed to the Jeep. She grabbed our binoculars and Suni her I-Phone/camera. We all turned towards the dunes quickly. Yes, there it was, a full grown cougar not 30 feet from us padding down from the scrubby dunes into the open seemingly unafraid and not the least bit curious about us. I was totally non-plussed at this development. What the heck is a cougar doing on the beach? It was difficult to process. Somehow we all remained calm as the cougar moved away from us and down the beach and back along the scrub at the edge of the dunes, all the while plainly visible. Suni snapped off some pictures with her I-Phone. Then, unbelievably, a second cougar joined in the walk down the beach. To see 2 cougars together in in the wild is remarkably rare. They don’t travel together unless the second is a cub. The thing is, the second cougar was full grown, not a cub. They soon disappeared into the heavy scrub of the dunes quietly stalking away from us.
Suni recalled the night before and told us the story of the Kitty cat’s reflection on the wall of the tent and how Ivan chased the “deer” down the beach and out into the dunes. Was the deer and the Kitty cat one and the same as the cougar? Holy Catfish! Of course, we told the rangers the next day about the cougars and I told anyone who would listen back at the RV campground about the cougars.
“Watch out for your dogs when you’re walking them at night.” I implored.
I’m not sure anyone believed us and it’s hard for me to get my mind around it as well. A cougar on the beach? Does that really happen? Hell yes, I can tell you that on Mustang Island it does.
That night I gave my trusty bear spray to Dane to use just in case Mr Cougar came sniffing around the tent again. But, no further sightings to report. Everyone had a restful sleep out on the ocean. I won’t soon forget that experience. That is only the second time I’ve seen a cougar in the wild and the first time that close. Dane, on one of his first real camping trips, got to see cougars live and in person doing their natural thing.
I told him, “Most folks go through their camping life never seeing anything close to this...you hit the camper’s lottery!”
Suni and Dane left the next day. They were off to a ranch house they had rented in the Hill Country for a few days to kick back and recharge their batteries. Diane and I gratefully took the grandkids in tow those days. We stayed at the beach a couple of more days and had just the grandest time splashing around and building sand castles and such. (all with a wary eye towards the dunes) Dash and Heidi, our furry family, had just as grand a time chasing sea birds and jumping around in the shallow surf.
Back to the Hill Country...
The time came for leaving and we headed up towards Austin, a 4 hour drive, to Cedar Breaks Campground on Georgetown Lake in Georgetown, TX. We camped here last year while rolling through here and really liked it. It’s a Corps of Engineers campground and is in wonderful shape, situated on the southern bank of the lake. Ashe-Juniper forests surrounds the camp and the lake and it makes for a very unique enclosure. Locals call the trees “cedar” and they do resemble cedars to a degree.
There is a 28 mile trail that circumnavigates the lake and it is a very interesting and satisfying hike, though we’ve never come close to hiking it in its entirety. I tell the grandkids that the trees make up a ghost forest here. There is a definite tunnel effect that you get hiking here as the low canopy, 20-30’ high at most, arches skeleton-like overhead. The stalks and branches of the thin trees feature dried bark peeling off in every which way and leaves are absent until you get to the canopy. There is little undergrowth because the canopy blocks out so much light from the forest floor. An occasional Live Oak spreads out amidst the cedars and lends an even more southern-gothic flavor to the forest. Limestone is the principal bedrock here and its porous, sponge-like rocks and outcroppings are everywhere, completing the other-worldly experience of hiking the Hill Country. Now and then you literally pop out into the open, sometimes on a bluff overlooking the lake. That relief in your field of vision from the ghost forest makes the hike that much more pleasurable.
With the grandkids in tow, we usually hike about 4 miles or so at a time. That’s plenty for them at 8 and 5 years old. Ella, the 8 year old, asked me how long the total trail was when we were about 2 miles into it one day.
“28 miles, Ella.” I replied.
“Oh, great! Let’s do the whole thing today.” she happily suggested.
“Hmmm, let’s work up to that, Ella. I don’t think I brought enough snacks to last that long” I begged off.
“ Oh, right, Grandpa, we might get really hungry.”
I do believe she will one day soon hike that 28 miles. She loves hiking and nature so. Jack, the 5 year old, took on the hike wonderfully. Where last year Jack would complain about any kind of walk over 100 yards long, this year he seems to be totally into it, so long as we stop now and then to climb a tree. I hope that in Jack’s life he stops to climb the trees often.