What are Friends For?
My good friend, Dave Cochran, whom we also call Lamont, as we all in that particular group of friends use alter-names, texted me late one afternoon to ask it I would like to go see Rodney Crowell live at the Off Broadway Saloon in the old Soulard neighborhood of South St Louis city. Off Broadway is a cool place to see acts perform as you can get up close to the stage and the sound system is generally very good. Dave had tickets as he was offering me the opportunity to go with him. Hell yes!
I picked up Dave later that evening and we drove downtown to catch Rodney. Now, I really, really like Rodney. He’s a world-class songwriter and performer and everyone and her brother has recorded his songs. I have seen Rodney several times in the past and he has never disappointed. He can be moody at times, even on stage, but he comes around usually. Each and every time I’ve caught his act live he has performed with different accompanists or bands. That makes each performance unique, though he may do some of the same songs in each concert. He understands how to craft a sound around himself and due to his stature as a songwriter and musician he can command nearly any backup musicians he pleases. That, in itself, says a lot these days. Tonight he was playing solo. This...would be unique and oh, so interesting. His story-telling songs would be showcased unadorned save his strong guitar playing and stylings.
Once, back in 2015, Diane and I along with her sister, Suzy, and husband, Tom French, went to Nashville to see the 50 year reunion of the Nitty Gritty Dirt Band live on the Ryman Auditorium stage. Along with the Dirt Band, Vince Gill was joining in with a slew and a host of other luminaries. Rodney was there. Sam Bush was there. Jerry Jeff Walker joined in to perform Mr Bojangles. Emmy Lou Harris sang as the supple songbird that she is. It was a star-studded night. The next morning I had been invited to join Vince for breakfast at his favorite diner in Nashville along with our troupe.
At breakfast we got to talking about Rodney and I remarked that I loved his Gibson acoustic guitar that he plays at nearly every concert. It is clear and loud, woody, yet not overly shrill or overly bassie...simply gorgeous in its tone, yet again, loud. It is a dry, well-aged guitar, very rare. It suits Rodney’s style to a Texas Tee as he plays hard, yet at times with very intricately laced finger stylings. Rodney is an East Texas, flat-land hillbilly contradiction. Urbane yet not urban. Equal parts Hank Williams and Tennessee Williams. John Steinbeck meets Johnny Cash. Two cups sugar and two cups salt. I could go on with the deucedly polar extreme combinations of his style indefinitely. So, after I went on for a while with my effusive praise of that particular guitar of his, Vince, who later that morning showed me his vast and unbelievable collection of rare guitars, mandolins, and such at his home, said matter of factly,
“It’s a great guitar. He liked it so much I gave it to him.”
My jaw about hit the floor. That guitar is easily (even before Rodney put his stamp on it) worth upwards of a fifty thousand dollars! Yet, Vince and Rodney go way back. Early in their careers they were in Emmy Lou Harris’ band, The Hot Band, and later Rodney had Vince in his own band called The Notorious Cherry Bombs. Perhaps this was Vince’s way of saying thanks for the help along the way earlier in his career. More likely, I think, Vince just wanted Rodney to have what he needed, the perfect guitar for his sound. To say those two are musical brothers and awesome friends would be the understatement of the day.
So, back at the concert now as I jump through the years with that story, this concert by Rodney was unique, even by his own standards. Rodney was promoting, as it were, a new book that he authored. This book is similar in concept to the book Paul McCartney put out last year wherein he published nearly all the original scraps of paper and manuscripts of his song lyrics along with anecdotes and memories of the thought processes he was going through as he wrote the songs. In Rodney’s case, though, he takes it a step further and includes many, many autobiographical stories. In this very intimate concert Rodney became the book. It was as if the stories were presented as a musical play. All the songs he played were related as part and parcel to Rodney’s life, both as a musician as well as a pin-ball version of a man, bouncing towards the jackpot of success complete with all the failures and fall-downs, the serendipitous evenings among songwriting amigos, and the lonely lamp lit rooms down the hall where song-writing magic was struck as a match in the dark, and a man becomes one of the truly great singer-songwriters of our times.
Through all the stories he remains, Rodney Crowell, the man who can masterfully create a vision of life on the edges, in the ditches, and down the alleys... replete with a cast of characters truly and only American in their cultural makeup. Indeed, his opening song really surprised and delighted me. Highway 17 is a spoken word song about a small time thief who buried his loot in the woods before he was prison-bound, only to find upon his release that a 6 lane Interstate highway had been lain over the loot site. Grub stake and future...gone. Who in the world begins their show, when everyone in attendance is expecting and looking for a rousing rocker to set the tone for the evening, with a spoken word song? Few, if any, performers can hold your attention as he does. It was the perfect opening song for this deep dive into the book writ large that is Rodney Crowell.
As Rodney performed each song he would preface them with stories about how and why he wrote them and where the seeds for the stories came from. At certain intervals he would put his guitar down and sit in an overstuffed easy chair beneath a solitary lamp while the stage was darkened, and read verbatim from his book. In this way he took his audience on an unfiltered trip through his life, all the while holding them in the palm of his hand. The concert was a masterful page-turner so to speak and one of the finest musical evenings I’ve experienced, thanks indeed to Lamont, my friend who brought me to it. As Rodney might say,
“What are friends for?”
Southbound
It’s a now familiar refrain we sing as the crisp and colorful warm Autumn days begin to feature nights dipping to near freezing temperatures...Time to head south. That’s what we do. Warmer climes in the winter, cooler climes in the summer. Autumn and Spring are our favorite seasons so we continually chase them across the nation. Texas, where Suni, our daughter, and her family reside in Pflugerville, is our destination once again. And, why not? It’s warmer there and we have family.
This winter we have changed our temporary residence in Texas from the past two years, however. Where we have camp hosted at Pedernales Falls State Park during the past two winters, this year we will camp host at Cedar Breaks Campground, a Corps of Engineers park, in Georgetown. Pedernales is and hour and 20 minutes from Suni’s house. Cedar Breaks is a scant 30 minutes away. Though Cedar Breaks is set in a more exurban landscape by a lake it is still a very nice place to hang out. There is obviously fishing to be had but there are also very good hiking trails there as well. In fact, we have stayed as guests in the park several times in the past for two weeks at a shot. We like the place. Our commitment is a long one at 6 months, but that’s ok. We figure that with all the money we spent this past summer exploring the Maritime Provinces of Canada and New England that 6 months of saving some dough would be the thing to do anyway. We should be able to live at Cedar Breaks inexpensively and as Jack Nicholson used to famously say with that famously mischievious smile
“...And, that ain’t bad.”
We set out early in the morning from St Charles bound down Interstate 44, headed for somewhere near Springfield, MO for our night’s destination. Nothing reserved, we’ll just find a place along the way. Typically when we head to Texas from Missouri we have taken I-55 or US 67 highway dead south through Arkansas and into Texas. For something different, for difference sake, and because Apple Maps says it is a shorter route, we will take I-44 to Oklahoma and turn left for Texas, picking up I-35 for the final leg of our route into Austin. I’ve always liked I-44. It crosses some of my favorite rivers in Missouri. The Gasconade, The Big and Little Pineys, the Meramec, the Niangua, and the Roubidoux are all among our favorite rivers to float.
As we crossed the rivers in our little caravan of motor home and Jeep in tow, flying over them on ribboned ferries of concrete , I thought back to past adventures and excursions on those rivers. How exquisite and sublime our times have been drifting downstream and around the tight bends in canoes and kayaks. Setting up camps on sand bars for the evenings, nighttime has its own spells that the rivers lay upon you out there. Katydids set the tempo with their rhythmic leg rubbing. Coyote’s howls and Bard Owl’s mournful wails punctuate the evening song. Now and then you hear a wild-ass sound that you can’t for the life of you figure out who or what screamed it. A rustle in the woods behind you might bring a side long glance away from the campfire. Bear? Bobcat? Skunk? Raccoon? The gentle rippling of the riffles up or downstream lull you back to bliss. It’s no wonder that the ancient Osage tribe defended and ruled and defended this area for so long until the west-bound French fur trappers and the American settlers who followed eventually pushed them out. These river valleys have always and still remain to this day rich in wildlife and fertile valley soil nourished by frequent flooding.
The mighty Smallmouth Bass rules the rocky river bottoms here, searching out the abundant crawdads in the crevices of the limestone rocks so clearly visible as you float along. There is no better game fish in freshwater rivers than the Smallmouth. You just need to be able to think as they do to catch ‘em. You don’t eat them. No, that would be a sin akin to killing a white buffalo in Sioux territory. A mighty warrior such as the Smallmouth must be gently put back into its kingdom to fight yet another day. Save the savory evening eating for the plentiful Bluegills and the Sunfish, the Goggle-eye and the Catfish. On second thought, maybe you should put back the Goggle-Eye, too. They’re getting a little more rare these days, though they taste delicious. Put ‘em back just the same.
There was the time, once upon a time, when a group of us were floating the Gasconade River way upstream where no canoe liveries will deliver or rent canoes. We always sought out those lonely stretches of rivers whenever we went on float trips. Few, if any, other canoeists meant more fish to catch and more importantly, a more solitary and peaceful adventure. The wildlife increases and the spirits of the river are left to their own devices, free to enchant, or if they were in a particularly foul mood, threaten.
Soon after we put in and had drifted around a few of the frequent twists and bends in the river we came to a long straight stretch where the river widened and the current slacked to a lazy crawl. Sycamore trees lined each bank, their broad leafy canopies reaching to touch each other from opposite sides of the river creating a summer tunnel. Tumbled mixes of boulders framed the scene and a gurgling, delicate spring fell gently into the river from the eastern bank. These Missouri streams are all spring bred and born. Limestone permeates the land and its holes and fissures channel subterranean water into vastly numerous caves and springs.
It was early morning and the Sun had not yet breached the trees. The night shift of critters had given up the chase and the day shift had clocked in. A Pileated Woodpecker let out its raucous call to its mate hidden somewheres deep in the forest greenery. I love the call of the Pileated. It’s a signal that is ancient and is a call to the soul and our deepest DNA strands from epochs long forgotten from conscious memory. Just then I focused downstream, a good 4 or 5 hundred yards. I caught them. Two bald eagles, fully mature, were flying side by side straight up the river right towards us in our canoes. I could barely make them out at first but I knew what they were. This section of the Gasconade has a few permanent resident eagles who winter over. I’d seen a massive nest on another trip here once, built right over the river high on a stout limb of a Sycamore tree over the water. I’d even seen two chicks in there craning their necks over the side to check me out. That...was a bonanza of a sight. Yet here today came two in tandem formation right towards us, magnificently overlording all they surveyed. Such a sight! We all fairly held our breaths in admiration. We understood instinctively how blessed we were to be here at this moment. As they flew directly over us I recall Diane calling out,
“Thank you!”
The balance of us were mute, stunned and amazed. Well, after that serendipitous encounter, broad smiles were carried for many miles.
We spent the night on that river on a sandbar beneath a tall bluff of limestone. I filleted some larger Bluegill and a few Goggle-eye and cooked everyone fish for supper on an open fire. I dare say I am a really good fish cooker, just ask Diane and Bob Breidenbach who’ve frequently shared my fare on sand and gravel bars along any number of rivers.
The next day, long about mid morning, we were coming around a tight bend. I was steering the canoe and Diane was casting her crank bait, a crawdad, into an eddie as we were flying by in the fast current. Smallmouth are known to hang out in those eddies right outside the current, resting between nailing their daily meals as they scoot by in the current. Boom, a massive strike on her lure! I, at first thought she had snagged a rock or a log underneath the water as her line seemed stuck where she cast it. No! This was no snag. This was the Big One, the king of this section of the river. Big Daddy Smallmouth was on her line.
I steered the canoe out of the river’s current and into the eddie so as not to drag the fish over the rocks and lose it, or worse, break the line. Diane skillfully worked that big boy right up to the side of the canoe. Now, we typically don’t use nets on our float trips. We say if we can’t land them without a net then they deserve to win the battle. Right or wrong, foolish or wise, that’s our style. Bob and Laura Breidenbach in their canoe and John and Anne Geers in theirs pulled up along side to get a good look at the battle royale. I held the canoe steady in the eddie while Diane expertly worked the behemoth to where I could grasp it and bring it in. She had both hands on her rod and reel. Such was the weight and pull of this Rhino Smallmouth. Up it came. It lay on its side in what seemed to be its attempt to eyeball us and see just who or what was battling him. Who dare such an attempt at dethroning the King?
Just then, as he lay on his side and looked right at Diane with those red eyes we could see his size and girth. He was a monster of a fish. He was dark green as I recall, the color of which only occurs on this species when they get really, really big and cantankerous. Bob called out that he looked like a serving plate of Melmec dinnerware, the kind of which you serve Thanksgiving turkey upon. The brand they always used to give away to the runners-up on the 1960’s game shows on television. We understood the comparison of that turkey platter to the fish instinctively. The daily drama of the Price is Right and the Melmec dinnerware consolation prize flashed across my mind...
“That’s right Mrs Butterbean, for competing so well today on the Price is Right we can’t send you home empty-handed. You...will take home...this beautiful set of Melmec dinnerware.” (Applause and wonderment, envy in living rooms across the nation, and a sudden need in thousands upon thousands of homes for said Melmec dinnerware.) Anyway, we all knew exactly what Bob was referencing.
Then, right when we all knew the size and scope of what Diane had hooked and so brilliantly brought right up to the boat in a very challenging situation, poof...her line went limp. That fish, that King of the River Smallmouth, simply took one look at us and said to himself…
“Nope, I ain’t goin’ today. No way you’re taking me. I’ve got one more trick you all ain’t seen before.”
He simply rolled over a few times and with the added pressure of that move on the fishing line he popped that lure right out of his mouth, a little worse for wear on his lower lip. By making this maneuver he negated the effect of the drag setting on the reel that disallowed him to make a direct pull and tear the hook from his mouth. That move is not instinctive. It is learned. And this King knew every trick in the book. That is exactly how he lived to be so huge and so old in his eat or get eaten world.
Silence returned to the river valley. Even the critters in the woods quit talking to each other. All creatures large and small in the valley knew the battle was over, the King was still on his throne, battled, but not defeated. It was one of the biggest Smallmouths any of us had ever seen and Diane had almost, but not quite, brought it all the way in.
“You would have let it go, anyway, Diane.” “You had him!” “What a great catch.” We all tried to soothe the injured ego. But, Diane’s ego was not at all bruised. Her confidence in her fishing skills only grew.
So, as we drove southwest through Missouri and crossed all those bridges over those treasured streams and rivers, memories such as these flooded our memories. We left them behind for now with more memories to make...on down the road, as the party never ends.
Our trip through Missouri and on into Oklahoma was uneventful save for a few knuckleheads who caused minor stirs by cutting me off as I drove. Nothing unusual, just a good drive, safety first and foremost. I will say that the road I chose to turn left off I-44 near Tulsa and head towards Dallas was just shy of miserable. The state highway, 75, if I remember right, courses through innumerable small towns, each of which has a dozen stop signs and traffic lights. The road bed itself is pot-holed and worn out, a bumpy, grumpy, two lane aggravator of a way to get to Dallas from Tulsa. The towns are worn out and tired. Rural poverty pervades and rules the day. It’s depressing just to drive through. The countryside seems mostly flat and without highlights. Tornadoes love it here. Next time I turn south from I-44 near Tulsa I’m taking I-35. Even though the distance is a few more miles I’m certain it’s faster and at least without all the stop signs and lousy roadbed.
Along the way we chose to stay over night at the ubiquitous Wal Mart and Cracker Barrel parking lots. We wanted to make time and not dawdle on this trip south. One nice surprise during the trip was the lowering of gas prices we experienced. Whereas in Canada we had been paying the equivalent of $6.80 give or take a gallon for gas, down here the prices had fallen recently to $3.19 and thereabouts. This is the welcome relief our wallets needed. I recall seeing just recently that fully electric tractor trailers rigs are being tested by Tesla corporation. I’m pretty sure we won’t be able to afford a brand new electric motor home when they arrive on the scene, and I would never buy one from the maniac, Elon Musk and Tesla, but we’re oh, so glad to see them possibly on the horizon. Lord, the world so needs to get off this gasoline addiction.
We arrived at our new home, Cedar Breaks Campground, on Georgetown Lake days early. I had told our new supervisor, Josh, that we’d arrive by the 8th of November but we decided to go ahead and check in on the November 3rd. Happily, we were accommodated and could move right in to our spot for the winter. This term of service is 6 months which is long for camp hosting. Typically they last anywhere from one to three months. We don’t mind the length right now. We need to recoup some of the savings we spent over the past many months during our trip to Canada and the east coast of the US. Additionally, we’ll be close to our daughter’s family and that will be a beautiful thing in itself.
Cedar Breaks Campground is only 30 minutes from Suni’s house in Pflugerville. During the past two winters when we camp hosted at Pedernales Falls State Park out near Johnson City, Texas we were a good hour and a half from Suni’s house. That’s why we decided to stay at Cedar Breaks. Plus, it’s a very nice campground and it’s conveniently located near any kind of store you might need. Actually, we’ve camped at Cedar Breaks three times during the past two years so we already know we like it there.
Hallowe'en and Dia de los Muertos
Arriving in the area early gave us the opportunity to celebrate Hallowe’en with our grandkids, Ella and Jack. What a hoot! Ella dressed as a zombie and boy, did she know how to act the part. Jack was dressed perfectly as Darth Vader, complete with light sword. The neighborhood was out in fine fashion. It seemed everyone had decorated their houses, some very elaborately, and everyone was on the streets. We loved it. Suni lives in a very diverse cultural neighborhood. If this neighborhood is a precursor for neighborhoods to come in this great country then better times lay ahead for us all.
The next day we all took a day trip over to Round Rock, Texas. It was a short drive away. In the town square, and most towns in Texas Hill Country have very quaint town squares, a festival had been set up for Dia de los Muertos, the Day of the Dead. A large percentage of the population here is of Mexican descent and thus this day after Hallowe’en, Dia de los Muertos, is celebrated nearly as universally among the locals as All Hollows Eve is.
There were large sections of the square set up with booths just as you might see at a Craft Fair. However, most of these booths were themed differently, offering Day of the Dead articles such as masks and face painting and special clothing items that you don’t see every day. Texican and Mexican food was offered everywhere and the bountiful aromas mixed in the slight breezes. It was impossible trying to avoid eating something. The day was bright and cheerful and everyone was happy. Tejano music filled the air. Someone off in another section of the square played the filigreed notes of a popular Tejano song on the accordion. It made us want to dance. It was that kind of rare day in Texas when all the aspects of 21st century Texas came together in harmony.
Off to the eastern side of the Square a stage had been set up for live music but as we arrived on the scene a group was preparing to dance to traditional folk music of Mexico. The dancers wore authentic cultural clothing for the dance. The ladies all wore bright red, bountifully flowing skirts that fanned out as they twirled in their dance routines. The dresses were highly embroidered in gold and blue trim. Their blouses were white with even more flowery embroidery about the bodice and shoulders. Their universally long flowing hair was tied into ponytail-like knots with brilliant scarves of blues and yellows giving ever more life to their dance steps. They held their billowing skirts high up to their knees as they circled and high-stepped to the lively melodies chosen just for the occasion.
The men all wore black slacks and white shirts topped off by flat, wide-brimmed straw hats. They wore their trousers tight yet their shirts were loose and ample. Red and Blue embroidery embellished the hems of the shirts as well as the yokes across their shirt backs. Tassels dangled off the back of their straw hats. Boots of polished black leather with high wooden heels that clattered and resounded loudly when stomped completed the men’s wardrobe. It was clear that these dancers were going to give us a great show. They were dressed and ready to go. They were proud and confident as they readied.
Soon, nearly everyone at the festival made their way over near the dancing area and the crowd was excitedly anticipating this rare treat. Right on cue they began their first routine with a number that lifted everyone's already happy spirits even higher. Being a great fan of Celtic dance the first thing I noted among this group’s dance steps was the intricate footwork that went into their dancing. At times the men were literally hopping with both feet crashing down on their wooden heels in sync with each other and the music. At other moments they seemed to emulate Celtic dance moves and footwork exactly. How difficult it must be to learn and then execute these moves. As the men danced they fairly circled the ladies, who were doing their own circular dance moves, skirts flowing ever outwards as they twirled away. The entire scene looked as if it were its own solar system of rotating planets in fast motion. The crowd of holiday enthusiasts cheered and hollered encouragement time and again. High pitched yelps from some of the men in the audience permeated the atmosphere.
“Ay, Ay, Ayee!” came the cries of approval.
It was joyous! In my experience, the group presented one of the very best choreographed dances I’ve yet seen.
Off in yet another section of the square Dia de los Muertos dedication altars took over the grounds. Each and every one had been built to commemorate an individual now passed on across the divide. Personal items of great meaning and relevance were placed around a central altar, typically anchored with a picture of the family member prominently displayed. Here was a high school jacket. Sometimes a favorite book was placed nearby. The mundane as well as special stuff of their day to day life was memorialized along with the person. Great profusions of flowers garnered the memorials. Extravagant plates and bowls of fresh food, usually vegetables and fruits, were laid about for the deceased. Fresh drinks were included...a glass of milk, a chalice of wine, a bottle of cerveza.
It all came together in these magnificent yet personal dedications to the memories of loved ones who’ve left. The idea is that they yet return to their families on this very day to enjoy the bounty that this dimension offers once again. To us it seemed the belief is very strong among these people, a more serious, yet ultimately happy and festive flip side of the coin to Hallowe’en and all Saints Day in the English and American fashion.
The Lake
We began to set up our camp here at Lake Georgetown. We’ll be here for 6 months so we can definitely create a personalized space for ourselves here amongst the Juniper and Live Oaks. Our spot is a good one backing up against the woods with good space all around. We even have the camp host laundry right next door. In this park there are ample camp hosts. There is no shortage of help to get things done and the work load required is not very heavy at all. We are all camped together on a little stretch of the campground, as if we are a little community unto ourselves. We like our compadres here. They are an easy-going lot. A few of the couples camped here actually work for the Corps of Engineers in the office or as maintenance workers. We feel we are going to love working here, though we also enjoyed working at Pedernales Falls State Park the past two winters. We most probably would have returned there this year except this campground is so much closer to Suni and her family and all the convenience that brings.
Far from being a semi-wilderness location, Georgetown Lake is very close to exurbania. Georgetown itself is a booming little city quickly out-pacing its infrastructure. This entire area that one could call Greater Austin is exploding with growth. Due to that growth, and particularly growth in the Technology sector, immigrants from far and wide are settling here. The locals crab about the Californians moving here but it is way beyond just Californians. To give you one example…
One weekend here our grandkids came out to stay with us and we took them for a hike along the most popular trail. Along the trail, and it was the weekend when the park is busiest, we encountered perhaps 75 or 100 other hikers at various points. Out of all those folks we crossed paths with I’d estimate something like 25 of them were old time locals, judging by their accents as we passed each other and said, “Howdy” back and forth. Just a guess, mind you, that they were locals. The balance of the other hikers were seemingly not originally Texicans. There were those who only spoke Spanish, but there were languages and skin tones from what seemed like all over the planet. German, French, Indian or Pakistani, African American...it felt as if the United Nations was having a meeting of its Assembly. To us, it was gratifying to see so much diversity. However, perhaps not all of “born and bred” Texans are happy about this rapid influx of diverse peoples.
One of the looming issues with so much building and expansion that I can easily visualize is water. People need water. People are not careful with water. They need lots of it. I ask myself, where will all the water for all these folks come from? Most of the streams around here are already producing much less running water than they did in years past. Of course, there is a prevailing drought going on, but even if that ended today we’re talking about small streams here, not the gushing rivers of the Midwest. Georgetown Lake is at 60% capacity and dropping. It’s not a very large lake to begin with. The two fishing docks in the park are setting on dry land, tilted over on the steep banks, held in check from tipping over only by the steel cables that are fastened to their sides and to the shore above.
In order to provide enough water for the local population they are pumping water from Stinton Lake, at least 30 miles north of here, all the way down here into Lake Georgetown. And yet, fevered construction goes on unchecked. Now, I’m not a gloom and doom kind of guy. I’m really not. But…
Where is the water going to come from? You can’t just invent more fresh water, can you? We never complain about rain any longer. It seems like it would be a sin to do so.
We were sad to hear that this past summer three people lost their lives on the Lake. One guy fell out of his boat, apparently pretty sauced, and didn’t come up. No life jacket was worn, which, if you are going to be out on the lake when it’s super busy on a hot summer day with a ton of other speedboats and their bumpy wakes, is mandatory. Another person suffered a similar fate. It was suggested there was too much alcohol involved in the incident. Even more tragic, a teenager perished when he jumped from one of the bluffs overlooking the Lake. The spot looks to be 80 to 100 feet above the water. They say he landed in a belly flop and crushed his internal organs in the fall. According to reports I heard he came up and tried to climb out of the water but slipped back beneath the surface and never came up. It was a half an hour before anyone noticed him missing. Search and rescue teams found him later on.
It being November and early December and this point, and a chilly one at that, the lake is fairly devoid of boaters, crazy or sane. We’re experiencing the Lake at an opportune time. Only the weekends if the weather is nice is the Park busy. During the weekdays it is fairly peaceful and calm...a calm amidst the storm of new construction going on all around the region. Indeed, it feels these days in Georgetown Lake, Texas, that the world is changing its tilt on its very axis. Here, we are camped on an island it seems, as the ocean churns unsettled all around us.