Dashing thorough the South

Dashing through the South

We had arrived in Fl in mid-February, driving off in our mobile home the next day.  Two weeks in the State of Florida we covered 2000 miles. Our next destination was Francis' oldest friend, Miller, in Pomerene, AZ near the Mexican border. Francis had said we would arrive on March 10th  at 2pm. Departing Duke's on the third of March we had seven days to traverse seven states. It would be a run through the South. We hypothetically said we would try to get to Texas, in one day. We didn't. Driving along the coast, the roads were bad and there were head winds pushing us back. Francis rarely drove over 60 in spite of posted speeds of 70 or higher.

The Southern coast is swamp land. The highways are  elevated, with warning signs about water on the roads and flooding. It is a somber landscape of drowned forests and dank weeds. We got as far as Louisiana, on day one and picked a RV park in New Orleans. It promised a river front setting. Technically, yes, we were in the middle of the industrial docks. The park was new; post-hurricane redevelopment funds, would be my guess. It featured a on-site cafe / Bar B Que restaurant with live entertainment. That night was open mike. The music ranged from R & B covers to Country with a few appropriate touches of zydeco. 

The Bar B Que was good, the waiter was cheerful. He had driven down from New Jersey a few months before looking for work. He had come South with his Spouse, two kids, a baby and a couple of  dogs in a sedan. He was probably happy to have escaped that car, landing a job was icing on the cake. We asked if we could get a glass of wine, without inquiring too deeply what we would receive. We were served prepackaged plastic "copa de vino" with replaceable vinyl snap-top lids. A great concept but a vile product, tasted like vinyl too. Our waiter offered to take them off our tab but we were so simultaneously appalled and amused, we wanted to keep the little containers as a memento.

The next day we drove through New Orleans. It was interesting to see the vernacular architecture, the suburban combinations of Spanish and French and Levitown influences. Reaching the highway, we resumed bumping along the causeway and sped as quickly as possible under the circumstances through the remainder of  LA. 

We were very excited to see the big signs, flags and stars signalling our entry into Texas. The huge visitor information center offered us maps, cups of coffee, coupons and big smiles. In Texas they had to do a better job maintaining their roads - - Yup, they do. Although the xx section of Texas is geographically identical to their neighbor to the East, the roads were smooth and the posted speeds kept climbing, 70, 75, 80. The refrain of a Lyle Lovett song rang in our ears, "we know you're not from Texas, but Texas wants you anyway"

It is 834 miles from Orange, Texas, the Easternmost point, to El Paso, the Westernmost point. That is about three trips from Walker Lake to Annapolis, a drive which usually took us about five hours. Yup, it's a big state.

My impressions of Texas came mostly from old movies. The coastal swamps were a surprise. Once we got away from the Gulf, the terrain was more like the big screen. Not the plains with herds of cattles but the marginal forest and scrub, full of mesquite and cottonwood. John Wayne could have ridden out from behind any Cottonwood tree. We passed many a well fenced ranch and wondered what was being kept out or in. Most of the ranches had massive entries with iron gates, just like the movies! Some of the arches featured iron silhouettes. Horses were a common theme, but also water pump windmills, oil rigs and other animals. There were deer, stags and does as well as big horn sheep. The ranches with the highest iron fences were hunting preserves  stocked with both deer and more exotic ungulates.

Driving through the rugged hillsides covered in scrub vegetation, was tiring. The roads were in good condition but the constant changes in elevation combined with strong winds made for high concentration driving. We decided to take a break  in a little town called Fort Stockton. It had retained many frontier era buildings and sections of the original Buffalo Soldiers fort. I had always wondered from where had that moniker had come. It was the designation the Indian tribes used for the Black cavalry troops in recognition of their curly dark hair, strength and teamwork  like the herds of Buffalo.  As the primary function of the Buffalo Soldiers was to hunt down renegade Apaches, if the title  had originated with the Apache,  I'm not sure it was intended to be wholly flattering.  There was also a local history museum housed in an old hotel. It was interesting reading about and seeing the detritus of lawmen and outlaws, who were oddly enough often one and the same. That facet was enlightening. A local miscreant would run for sheriff, be elected and use his office to promote his criminal enterprises. In Fort Stockton, the unsolved murder of  one such Sheriff was local lore.

Therese and Carlos at the cafe

We stayed over in Fort Stockton in part because the campground staff  were so pleasant. The little cafe at the campground served a simple menu of  Bar B Que, chicken fried steak and catfish. We tried it all and it  was  wonderful. The chef had been born in Cuba, had a MBA with many careers all over the world and had lived in New Orleans before going back on the road. His combination of the Carib and Cajun accents was delightful on the ear.  Therese, the waitress, was staying in the RV park and started waiting tables to keep buzy. She and her Husband, Nine-Fingered-Jack, travelled the Renaissance Fair circuit. She plied us with local wine, which Francis liked as much as his Cocha y Toro. He bought several bottles. They made our stay in Fort Stockton a truly delightful.

The next RV park was much less appealing. It was the zombie park. Tiring from a long driving day,  I called ahead to the only RV park I saw listed. It seemed alright it was affiliated with a motel. The woman who answered the phone assured me there would be space for us but did not require a deposit.  About an hour later we found our way to the Econolodge . It was next door to a closed truck stop and a burned down motel.  In the fading afternoon light, surrounded by the high desert, without vegetation or signs of life, just the scream of trucks down the next highway, it was eerie a great set for a “Walking Dead” episode.  All the lights were off outside the motel and in the motel  lobby.  Behind the counter the office machines blinked at me and a cat stared me down but no one was there.  Back outside I tried calling the listed phone numbers as a red sports car drove up. The driver began to wander aimlessly, as I.  He wanted a single room although a woman was clearly sitting in his car waiting. Down the hill we could see the RV park, just a few big rigs on the big lot. Finally I began calling the phone numbers again. This time the same voice as I had spoken with previously picked up, telling me she was waiting in  the lobby.  I looked around; she was now behind the counter sitting in the dark. How did she get there without my seeing her?  Pale, thin with a drawn face and a bluish bouffant, she informed me with officious tone that she was much too busy, she just managed the RV park,  the motel was their “bread and butter”. Down the hill we connected to the electric and water supplies and locked our door tight. All through the night I kept checking out the windows for Zombies to come down from the barren hills.  

After Zombie motel, we were ready to depart Texas. The Welcome to New Mexico signs were very welcome. As we crossed the state line we saw a rainbow on the horizon! The Puebla style buildings made us think of the adobe house Miller was building. We still had a several days before the deadline Francis had set for himself and we were only one day out.  

There were more choices for RV parks and  we drove into one  near the highway. It was beautifully landscaped with a building full of amenities for RVers, a lounge, laundry and bathhouse with private dressing rooms. When we walked into the colorful and brightly lit lobby, the cheerful girls behind the counter offered us cookies and coffee. The asking price for a night was the same as at the Econolodge park.  ‘Definitely glad to be in New Mexico. We decided to stay a few nights there in Las Cruces.   

Rainbow welcoming us to enchanted New Mexico

All along the highway we had seen signs warning about dust storms and low visibility. Just after we pulled into the park, a storm kicked up. Looking out our trailer windows all we could see was white. There was zero visibility, nothing at all. We thanked our lucky stars that we had gotten off the road just in time. The next day the skies were clear and there was a Craft and Farmer’s Market in Downtown Las Cruces. Vendors lined the main street, selling locally grown vegetables, Tupelo honey, baked goods and a variety of  artisan crafts. On each block a different band or duo was playing to passersby. On one corner a older man with long grey hair, few teeth and a battered guitar was harmonizing, if you could call it that with a similar remnant of the psychedelic era woman, on a Bob Dylan song. Down the next block a blue grass band of  tattooed but relatively clean-cut college agers was performing renditions of Dawg music. They were spirited and really good. Francis sat on a bench and listened while I wandered lusting after Silver and Turquoise jewelry. We also wandered to the historic town of Mesilla, which had retained it's original adobe buildings.

From Las Cruces, we were only a few hours from Miller’s in Pomerene, AZ. We had been to Miller’s rancho notorious once before. He had hosted a Django-fest and had convinced several  Gypsy Jazz musicians to perform as a fundraiser for the local Senior Center. Pomerene tends to be a dust bowl. In addition the breeze often blows across the nearby cattle farm bringing with it the piquant odor of manure. The plan had been for Miller to take Francis sailing on the Sea of Cortez in Mexico. Unfortunately both Miller and Debs, his wife, came down with the flu and the plan was curtailed. We visited for a awhile enjoying their company, until afraid we would also catch the virus headed back to New Mexico. We may not have stayed long but we arrive on March 10th at 2pm just as Francis had said! 

 an impromptu mandolin concert from Mills