...Or Are You Just Happy to See Me?

Is that a Northern Bobwhite Quail in your jacket, or are you just happy to see me?

On my first full day with my daughter, Kelly, we decided to go to breakfast/lunch in Birmingham, then on to Oak Mountain State Park. As we rolled down the country roads from her house at a spirited pace, a female Northern Bobwhite Quail darted across the road. Kelly steered wide of it and was about to congratulate herself when a male darted out behind the female. The Subaru went right over him.

Kelly is pretty soft-hearted about animals. Part of our plan for the morning was to visit a bird rehab facility at Oak Mountain, and she wanted to turn around and take the quail with us. I was pretty sure that the quail was very dead, and disagreed with her at first. I gave in and we turned around and headed back to the scene of the accident. Traffic was light and no one else had passed our way in the minute or so before we got back.

The quail was exactly where we had run it over, motionless. I got out of the car, walked over to the middle of the road and... it looked intact. I approached from behind, picked it up by the sides, and it stirred a little. I got back in the car and it stirred some more. To keep it from getting spooked, I tucked its head inside my unzipped rain jacket, and we headed off toward Oak Mountain.

Well, the quail stirred again. Actually, it tried to take flight inside my jacket and ended up somewhere near my armpit. I had heard bird hunters describe bobwhites as "explosive" when they flush and that was the impression I had, too. I told Kelly to forget about the bird rehab hospital; this guy was well enough to release. We turned around again and drove back to the scene of the crime.

I thought it would be cool to get a picture of me holding a live, wild quail. I handed Kelly my cell phone and tried to extract the quail. It exploded again and flew to the floorboards on the driver's side, discovering a nook that we never knew existed, up around the roots of the gas pedal and brake pedal.

Kelly opened her door, and I opened mine. We stayed motionless. So did the quail. After a lengthy wait, I got out and began to walk over to Kelly's side to crouch down and try to extract the quail. After I had taken a couple of steps, Kelly told me that quail had bailed out. We watched as it meandered off into the tall grass and shrubs.

In other words, no picture. But a happy ending. And, up close, that quail was beautiful.

We had lunch at Big Bad Breakfast. I had a "cathead,' which is a big, homemade buttermilk biscuit with a slice of cheese and, in my case andouille sausage. Real yummy.

Off we went to Oak Mountain. In several cities that I know, there are large parks that are icons: Central Park in New York, Golden Gate Park in San Francisco, Griffith Park in L.A. Birmingham has Oak Mountain, and they should treasure it. Several miles long, with vast woodlands, lakes, and ranges of hills, it's a great retreat from the somewhat ordinary metropolis of Birmingham. On the way to the rehab we stopped near some rental cabins and out flew a Pileated Woodpecker. I had glimpses of this bird, a lifer for me, a few days ago, but this one offered great looks. The bird rehab facility was large and interesting. I began ID'ing new species almost from the moment I got out of the car. As we approached the entrance a staff member stepped out wearing a heavy raptor glove, on which perched a small raptor. It was a Mississippi Kite, the first I had seen in person. We talked for a while as a Gray Catbird (lifer for me) appeared in the shrub behind us. We went into the center and watched the feeders as a wave of Rose-breasted Grosbeaks mingled with Tufted Titmouse (lifer for me,) American Goldfinch, Blue Jay (a lifer for me last week,) Hairy Woodpecker, Downy Woodpecker, and other species. We stood in a darkened corridor in the treatment rooms and got dim looks at dozens of birds, orphaned or injured, in incubators and small cushioned laundry tubs. Later we checked out the large, separate raptor rehab outside. Then we went down the road to the Treetops Trail, where large cages held raptors that could never be released due to the extent of their injuries.

Nearby was "The Beach." All the soil in the area is red clay, which makes the typical lake shore unappealing. At The Beach, the state had dumped hundreds of tons of sand to make a realistic beach for swimming.

On this day, where occasional light rain showers pocked the water, the Beach was deserted. But the hot days of summer will be here soon enough and the place will be packed.

On the lawns here, we saw a few Brown Thrashers, a bird that the guidebooks claim is uncommon. We've been seeing a ton of them.

After Oak Mountain we made our way to Saw's Juke Joint to meet Kelly's mom, my ex, for dinner. Good food.

All this was yesterday. Today I was up early doing stuff for work and everyone else slept in. When we were all up and about, Kelly and I took a couple of kayaks down to the water's edge. She lives on the shore of a slough off the Coosa River. Here are some shots from sunrise.

We set off across the slough, idly targeting a Canada Goose escorting six goslings. They took to the brush-covered opposite shore to avoid us.









Kelly showed me a fascinating little bayou. The narrow inlet led to a quiet, shallow pond a couple of acres in size, completely hidden from the slough. Much of the pond was filled with plants rooted in the shallows.

We flushed a female Wood Duck with a brood of ducklings, and off they scattered into the floating weeds, which were just tall enough to hide them. We flushed a large fish, too, seeing just its back as it thrust itself out of the very shallow water into the deeper channel.

Once we were out of the little bayou we headed farther up the slough. Wild irises bloomed at a few spots along the shore.

 A turtle slid off a stump that barely broke the surface of the water. Red-winged Blackbirds flew in and out of reeds. An Eastern Kingbird (lifer for me) hunted from a twig among the floating weeds.

And, as I maneuvered next to the weed beds in about a foot of water. I spotted a strange fish, motionless among the weeds. It was long and slender. I couldn't see either end of the fish but the middle of its body was patterned in darker and lighter reddish tones. I called to Kelly to come see it, and for nearly a minute it stayed motionless, within arm's reach. As Kelly approached it wiggled and slid off through the weeds.

I was really puzzled about what fish could be that color, and this evening I asked some passing fishermen about it. They had a theory that I had not considered. I checked it and found this very close match for what I had seen:

It was a water moccasin. Live and learn.Those things can remain submerged for a long time.

As we made our way back home, we passed some of the less extravagant dwellings along the slough.

I had a great time blissing out in a kayak with my lovely and talented daughter. Then the parents took the daughter to lunch in Columbiana. There's only one decent place to eat in that tiny old town, but one is enough.

After lunch, a tentative trip to a nearby state park was dismissed in favor of hanging on the deck and watching birds. \There are a lot of birds here at my ex's house. I'm just going to throw some images up here now. It was fun figuring them out. Most are not lifers for me, but they are sure uncommon for me.

I've seen Spotted Sandpiper (above) many times in the winter, but never in the breeding season when they actually live up to their name. And I've seen Western Bluebirds many times, but this Eastern Bluebird male and female (lifer) were exceptionally photogenic.

And... Red-headed Woodpecker.

These photos were taken with a Nikon Coolpix P600. I like it. It is the replacement for my late, lamented, Canon SX50-HS, which was run over by a car in Texas.

Also on the reptile front, we had this visitor on the porch at the house.

It was a Green Anole (although, as you can see, they can also phase to a brown color, thus their popular name, chameleon.) It was my favorite pet as a kid.

Now I've just finished a nice home-cooked dinner. Soon I'll hit the sack and prepare for tomorrow's run to Georgia to have a motorcycle mechanic acquaintance check out the Brave Little Ninja before I make the big turn for home.

Past and Present

This morning's status:

I have a status meeting at work in an hour. I'll be packed up by then and ready to roll right after the phone call.

Yesterday at lunchtime I braved the brutal streets of Jackson and rode downtown, past the governor's mansion, the Capitol, and to the Supreme Court building. I parked across the street and went lunch at Two Sisters' Kitchen. It's a buffet setup in an old house. Nice surroundings and great food. Collard greens! I love those and they're hard to find in L.A. - at least, the part of L.A. that I live in.

Rain is forecast for today. It's been very light rain so far. I'm going to extend my distance a little in order to go to Selma. No, I haven't seen the movie. But I am going to go stand at that bridge and do some thinking.

After that, I'm headed to Montevallo, where my daughter attends the university. I just want to see the place. She'll be there, but she'll be in finals, so I'll ride on ahead to Wilsonville, where she lives with her mom.

And that will be the target destination. Everything after that, further explorations or the return to L.A., is open at this point. Stay tuned.

This evening's status:

I dragged myself across Mississippi on U.S. 80; bad pavement, bad drivers, and not much pretty countryside until I got far east of Jackson. I don't often photograph road signs, but this one west of Meridian got my attention.

East of Meridian I crossed the Alabama state line and suddenly the road was wonderful. Smooth pavement, higher speed limits, better scenery. Got to the Edmund Pettus Bridge in Selma and spent some time there just as the rain, which had been threatening all day, began to fall gently.

I rode north to Montevallo. Once out of town, it was a rainy but lovely ride through low wooded hills. The university was small but nicely laid out. My daughter took her car as I followed and we traveled northeast to her mom's house on a lake, a dammed portion of the Coosa River. Very nice setup.

My mileage is 29,316. I traveled 3,449 miles from L.A. to this house. I kept my vow of no freeways, but now I'm free to do as I please.

I now have a replacement camera for my smashed Canon and more photos should be forthcoming. Tomorrow? Looks like rain in the morning, so maybe an indoor activity. Like a brewery. :)

Jackson

I'm in a decent hotel room in Jackson, cranking away at work. It is centrally located near I-20, Walmart, Wendy's and Dollar Tree. No obvious flaws except for the desk chair. I already disabled one trying to adjust the height. The replacement chair sways and wobbles and projects a threatening, distrustful air. I straddle it as one would straddle a bad-tempered horse.

I patronized that Walmart in search of a better rain jacket. (The compromises that I have made on this trip out of concern for getting soaked through are kind of ridiculous.) I bought the finest rain jacket that Walmart offers, a $30 Frogg Toggs jacket that resembles an enormous gray Tyvek envelope (you know, those tear-proof envelopes that Fedex uses.) It's so big that I can just get it on over my bulky, Pillsbury Doughboy armor. The combination makes my shoulders look a hell of a lot more buff than they actually are.

Jackson has the sorriest streets I've encountered on this whole trip – certainly the sorriest streets of any state capital I've ever seen. I was already reluctant to ride after dark because of deer; here in Jackson you would be asking to get thrown from the bike just riding straight down the street at night. Even in the daytime it takes vigilance to avoid the epic potholes, one every 30 feet or so, for miles.

One odd feature of the South is that beer is significantly cheaper . Six pints of name-brand for $4.50? It's almost twice as much in California. Methinks the beer distributors in California have some kind of less-than-free market going on. And, of course, living in the South would save money on the water bill. Rain is predicted for today and intense lightning storms for tonight.

If I can get free at lunchtime, I'm gonna strap on that brand-new rain jacket and try out some supposedly very genuine Southern food, several miles away in downtown.

Dreamtime

Today was a short-mileage day. There are two different parties east of here who I would like to meet up with, and I was within striking distance today, but neither is ready for me yet. I'm sitting in a hotel room in Jackson, Mississippi, booked for two nights, and I'm going to work a full day tomorrow. Tuesday I'll continue my travels.

As promised yesterday, I went back to downtown Natchez, extremely quiet on a Sunday morning, and took some photos. I started with the symbolic one, the little Ninja on the east side of the mighty Missippi. Vidalia, Louisiana in the background.

That shot was taken "Under the Hill," at the foot of the Natchez bluffs. Looking the other way on the road that steeply descended the bluffs, you can see the majesty of the Mississippi as it disappears into the misty upstream distance.

A lot of the downtown buildings are serving mundane purposes these days, but the architecture still catches the eye.

The very oldest building in the town is still serving its original purpose: King's Tavern.

The distance from Natchez to Jackson is only about 100 miles; maybe 120 with the extra turns I took today. But almost all the distance was covered on the Natchez Trace.

I don't know who came up with idea of constructing a 440-mile parkway along the ancient Native American trade route from Natchez to Nashville, but it was a hell of a good idea. This is a dream of a road. Although civilization is all around you, you would never know it. The National Park Service acquired a ribbon of land along the whole route, left the mature forest intact, and built a road down the middle. There are no intersections. Every road that crosses, from dirt road to interstate, is separated from the parkway by bridges. You would never have to hit the brakes if you didn't want to – but you will want to. There are numerous historical and natural exhibits along the trail. The speed limit is 50 and the parkway curves constantly as it rises and falls, with no sharp curves and no steep hills. It's almost hypnotizing in its beauty and smoothness. It's a wonderful road that gets you to thinking about the bison, the Native Americans, the Kaintucks that made this trip. If you find yourself within a day's ride of the Natchez Trace, make it a point to get there.

Sunday nights in the South, restaurants are often closed. I am going to chase down a non-chain one that is open somewhere, have a good dinner, retire early, and rise to pound out some technical publications.

A Day of Rivers

After the storm this morning, I got underway just before noon. It turned into a lovely day. Traffic was light as I made my way out of Houston. However, my clever plan of using Liberty Road along the train tracks was not so clever. Numerous freight trains, many of them completely stopped, blocked crossings on the road. After about 8 miles of searching for a way around, I was finally on the Beaumont Highway.

The highway was rather dreary and commercial for a while, but past the town of Barrett it got pretty, A combination of pasture and mixed woodlands, with the occasional bayou, made for a nice view. Cental Texas was all about oaks. East Texas mixed in generous helpings of pines. It was a long ride to Beaumont.

Many rivers run through Texas down to the Gulf.: San Jacinto, Neches, Sabine. Often the only convenient crossing is a freeway bridge. If one is on a quest to avoid freeways, one must often take long detours.

At Beaumont I headed toward the Gulf, then turned northeast on Hwy 87 to get across the Neches River. Here at its mouth is is a mighty channel. I could see the towering bridge for miles as I approached; it was a little vertigo-inducing. But I must say, the view while crossing was great. It was my one and only view of the Gulf of Mexico on this trip.

The next river obstacle was the Sabine, which forms the border between Texas and Louisiana. I couldn't use the I-10 bridge, so I detoured far north to Hwy 12. Its crossing of the Sabine was pretty, but not dramatic. 12 ran straight east across Louisiana; not much civilzation and a whole lot of woods. Often they were bottomland forests with a foot or so of water covering the roots of the trees. At other times the woods were commercial tree plantations, mainly scraggly pines for paper mills. Towns were far apart and rather ordinary.

At one of the ordinary towns, Kinder, I had to make a decision. Hwy 190 ran straight east to Baton Rouge, or I could drop south to Lafayette. Highway 165 ran north to Alexandria on the Red River, and a road ran east from there to Natchez, Mississippi.

Even though it meant dissing Louisiana because I wouldn't even spend one night in the state, I was kind of set on Natchez. It meant a long day and it activated one of my fears: a wayward deer crossing the road in the dark. Off I went, through more woods, pastures, and farms. The sun was getting low.

In Alexandria it was the same old problem: the most convenient bridge over the Red River was a freeway bridge. But a little smartphone checking revealed a way that led through a nice, traditional downtown as the churches tolled 6:00 pm. The Red River was big and beefy.

The road east from Alexandria ran through tunnels of trees, and the sun behind me cast long shadows in front of me. Natchez was 50 miles away. At Jonesville a bridge rose up off the flatlands to carry me across the Atchafalaya, a serious river that used to carry more water than the Mississippi.

In Ferriday the highway to Natchez was blocked. Detours sent me south through beautiful farmlands, then north again along the massive levee on the west bank of the Mississippi. The land felt different, as if I were in the lap of something old and profound. Finally I got onto the Highway 84 bridge that crossed from Lousiana into Mississippi.

Wow, what a river! So wide it looked like the bay of an ocean, and muscular, with eddies boiling on the surface as all that mass rolled downstream. On the far bank the road climbed the bluffs of Natchez, which stood out in contrast to the flat land all around.

I chose a budget motel on the far side of town and headed through the old downtown. Wow, again! Natchez has an abundance of beautiful old buildings. I'm going to have to go back tomorrow morning to have a better look. The historic district looked great in the dusk. Here's a link to some pictures (I didn't take any on the bike.)
http://www.terragalleria.com/america/mississippi/natchez/

400 miles. No deer strikes today.Tomorrow: the Natchez Trace.

The Waiting is Not the Hardest Part

It's 8:00 a.m. on my departure day from Houston. I will be sorry to leave the large, comfortable, business-expense room here at the Hyatt House and return to the level of motels that my own budget enforces.

Last night I pored over maps and made guesses about how many miles I would put in today. I planned to get an early start, since in Texas the thunderstorms tend to take the morning off and get stronger in the afternoon. I could probably get all the way to Mississippi today.

Well, some strong thunderclaps at about 7:00 a.m. preceded a cloudburst - the kind that would have me soaked in three minutes even with my so-called rain gear. Not the typical weather pattern today - a storm system is moving through, eastward, as I am. I want to be behind it, not in it, so I will take advantage of the noon checkout time here at the Hyatt. Won't make as many miles but, hey, at least I'll be mostly dry. Meanwhile, I just finished a light breakfast. I'll watch HBO, get online a little bit... no, the waiting is not the hardest part.

Heh... so I wasn't crazy...

Thursday night, as I waited for the hotel shuttle to pick me up from the Richmond Arms pub, I watched as an SUV in a neighboring parking lot attempted to pull out onto busy Richmond Avenue. Eventually they did, but they caused a city bus to brake abruptly and flash high beams at them in protest. I said to myself, OK, now I have to blog about it. This incident reinforced my impression of Texans and Driveways. Until the city bus driver validated my own observations, I though maybe I was just overly sensitive.

I should say, before I go any farther, that every region of the country has its own failings when it comes to motorists. In Southern Callifornia? I'm not sure – I'm probably too close to the situation to have an objective view. Maybe, excessive cell phone use? A hostile unwillingness to let people into the lane which you currently occupy? A tendency to move into a jammed intersection when you know there isn't enough room to clear it before the light changes?

But in Texas, the regional failing is pulling out of driveways.

I've never been inside the head of these Texans, but let me just put this scenario out there as my impression of what's going on.

ME: [tooling down the street, having the right of way]: rrrrrmmmmm

    THEM: [waiting to pull out into said street] "Hmm, there's traffic. Is it safe to pull out?"

ME: [getting closer to the driveway]:  rrrrrrmmmmmm

    THEM:: "I dunno. Maybe I shouldn't? Lemme think about it some more."

ME:: [gertting very close now] rrrrrrrmmmmmm

    THEM:: "I guess it's OK." [Pulls out]

ME:: [emergency braking] WTF??!!!

They don't seem to realize, or care, that if safety was in question at first, waiting a little longer makes the situation worse, not better.

Random Birds

Since my good camera was run over and destroyed a week ago, I've had to rely on just the so-so wide-angle camera on my Galaxy Avant cell phone. And wide-angle lenses are not recommended for birding photos. Still, some of you might be able to pick out the bird that I passed on my walk from the office to the hotel on Thursday. Seldom seen in California, that's for sure.

Camaraderie

This full week of work has come to a close. Telecommuting has its advantages, and I think the company ultimately gets more work hours out of me that way, but there are some important benefits that can only be gained through face-to-face interactions. It was a good week. I'll be back in Houston more often in the future.

The Next Big Jump

After five days of being parked, the Ninja was deployed today as I took it to the office so that I could run an errand. I began this trip with three pairs of reading glasses and I was down to one today, so I bought three more at Costco.

It was hard to start the little Ninja this morning! I'm accustomed to it being balky after being parked for a few weeks, but not for just five days. It ran fine the rest of the day, though. Guess I better run it every day.

Tomorrow morning I jump again, following a complicated route out of Houston to avoid getting on a freeway. I'd like to stay close to the Gulf Coast as I go east, but the weather forecast for that area looks stormy. I may go mostly north at first. I'll make the final call in the morning. My destination is Alabama, and possibly an acquaintance in Georgia if time permits.

Zoning Out

Los Angeles is not a model of smart, careful urban planning. It grew through sprawl. Over the decades the energy and focus of the city moved outward from the conventional downtown into numerous, often low-rise, neighborhoods. There were a few specifically designed neighborhoods like Lakewood, the post-WW2 suburb targeted to aerospace workers, and Century City, the high-rise district far west of downtown, adjacent to Beverly Hills. But most of the growth was accidental. Zoning has kept light and heavy industry in their own pockets, and high-rises are clumped along particular stretches of a street or in individual pockets. Only in the last 30 years or so has the original downtown been resurrected and become increasingly important.

Houston has some parallels. Los Angeles sprawls, but it is constrained by an ocean on one side and a long mountain range on the other; Houston has even more room for sprawl. In both cases the automobile is dominant and many people live far away from their job. But one thing about Houston that seems quite different from Los Angeles is zoning, or lack thereof. Houston does not have formal zoning regulations, and voters have rejected the notion of separate commercial and residential districts three times over the years.

From the 10th-floor office where I'm working, several miles west of downtown, the effect of this is apparent. Across the street is the Williams Tower, at 64 stories the tallest building in the U.S. that is not located in a traditional downtown. Much of the urban landscape looks like an oak forest with the occasional house or apartment peeking out. But high-rises stick up all over the place in no discernible pattern, often as individual towers in low-rise neighborhoods. A gas station or dry cleaner is plopped down in the middle of a residential block. My hotel is four stories tall. Condos across the street are (guessing) 35 stories tall. All around us are one or two-story residences. Residential, commercial, and industrial properties are intermingled in a pattern that seems totally random.

Houston does have a large, impressive downtown. But the power of the economy is scattered in numerous islands throughout this sprawling, random region. It makes for a pretty jumbled metropolis, but it keeps housing costs relatively low. Houston weathered the 2008 real estate bubble better than any other large metropolitan area.

Wave, Dammit

Motorcyclists have a tradition of waving when they encounter one another. Whether that's just because they're in a good mood because they're riding, or because only another motorcyclist can relate to the hazards and indignities that you suffer in a world full of cars and trucks, I'm not sure. Furthermore, the wave has a specific format: a V peace sign with the left hand, arm extended and held below the level of the handlebar. Other waves are acceptable but they aren't, you know, the wave.

I wave, most of the time, but I find it tiresome sometimes. When I pass a group of 20 or so motorcyclists out on a communal jaunt, do I just keep my hand out there until they all pass? If I pull my hand in after the fifth bike or so, are the others going to think I insulted them? I dunno; it's too complicated. My preference would be to nod at my fellow bikers, and that's sometimes what I do. Or sometimes I just give them the cliche raised left hand above the handlebars. Good enough.

Because motorcyclists are humans, and humans are just monkeys with technology, they have manged to screw up this waving thing just like they do everything else. Your real or simulated outlaw biker on his badass Harley is not going to break character and wave to some guy on a sport bike. He might wave to another outlaw, but I'm guessing he would find some other way of acknowledging their shared outlawness. Your typical sport biker is not going to wave to someone on a scooter because that's not a real motorcycle. Your BMW touring motorcyclist will probably wave to almost everyone, because they feel it's their obligation. I think they are all Canadians.

(Heh, simulated outlaw. There's a specific word in the motorcycling world for that: poser. I guess it's not limited to motorcycling, though.)

Anyway, what these various tribes don't seem to understand is that to the world at large, they are all one big homogenous group: bikers. The tribes can only see the subtle differences in their equipment and lifestyles, and magnify those differences. Human nature, I guess. We are all tribal.

Maybe some of the lifestyle differences aren't that subtle. You find more Harleys parked in front of bars, by a huge margin, than you do sport bikes.

All this leads me to recommend a link about motorcyclists and waving. The more you know about motorcyclists, the funnier this will be. But it's kind of funny even if you don't know anything about motorcyclists. (For those who don't know anything, "Gold Wing" is Honda's largest and heaviest motorcycle by far, meant for effortlessly rolling up the miles on long trips. It has every accessory known to man. It's like the RV of motorcycles. It's so heavy, it has a reverse gear, because there's no way you're going to push it backwards with your feet.)

Motorcyclists, waving, and stereotypes

Hemingway

There's a popular quote: "Write drunk; edit sober." It's often attributed to Ernest Hemingway, but there's no direct evidence he ever said it. In fact, it wasn't his style. He was serious about his writing and worked on it every morning. Here's a quote that has been linked to him: “I have spent all my life drinking, but since writing is my true love I never get the two things mixed up.”

I'm kind of that way about riding. I love beer, and I love motorcycles, but I also don't mix them up.

That "Write drunk; edit sober" quote, though – it's very popular. I guess people like the idea of having a muse sweep them away, even a chemical one, if necessary. And, since it's likely that their readers will be sober, a rewrite by a sober author is probably well-advised.

For the record, I've had two drinks tonight.

The Waterwall

I'm still in Houston, still enjoying the proximity of my coworkers and being productive. My leg, sore from that crash last Friday, is well enough now to walk the mile back from the office to the hotel. Tonight, as I left the building, I walked across Post Oak Boulevard to a small park across the street.
Gerald D. Hines Waterwall Park

At one end of the park is the Williams Tower, one of the tallest and most distinctive skyscrapers in Houston. At the other end is the Waterwall.

(Photo from Wikimedia Commons)

The wall is semicircular and 64 feet tall. When you stand inside that court and the water rushes down from every visible direction, it quietly blows your mind.

Let's Go Shopping

In the next block over from the Waterwall – well, starting in the next block, and then spreading out for many blocks – is the Houston Galleria, "the largest shopping destination in Texas." And that's saying a lot.The Galleria skews toward the upper crust, with a Tesla showroom, every high-end designer and jewelry store you can name, tax-free shopping enclaves, and a currency exchange.

I went there today for lunch with a couple of coworkers. The food court is at the bottom level of the multi-level indoor mall, but even that level has its perks. There's an ice-skating rink adjacent to the restaurants and we sat and watched the skaters, some ordinary, some talented figure skaters. A pleasant way to pass lunch.

New, But Old, Transit

Houston, like Los Angeles, is heavily committed to the automobile. When I approached the city from the direction of College Station on Sunday afternoon, I took the frontage road alongside the sparkling new 249 freeway. Farther in, an even newer freeway, under construction and not yet open, crossed the 249. Elsewhere there were other roads being expanded or constructed. All for cars. Houston has some light rail, but it's even more pitiful than the network in Los Angeles. It doesn't go anywhere that people want to go. And I guess people aren't willing to pay for any more. More roads, more cars; it's a dead end, but no one sees that yet.

In Texas, the epicenter of the petroleum industry, big ol' pickup trucks are the default vehicle. They look big, until you see them hooked up as the tow vehicles behind RVs the size of Greyhound buses. It would be fun to show folks the alternative – motorcycles slipping between lanes of nearly-stopped cars – but that's illegal in Texas. Further proof of California's natural superiority.

OK, three drinks now. Signing off.

Odds and ends

First day of full-time at Houston. It went well; I got a lot done. Oddly enough, last night, in the nicest room of the trip so far, I got the poorest sleep, waking at 4:30 and never really getting back to sleep. So I'm slightly tuckered at this point; no ambitious plans for tonight.

I thought that today's blog might be a good opportunity to talk about some of the small things I've noticed on this trip.

Roadkill

There's a lot of roadkill in Texas. As an amateur natural historian I am curious each time I pass a blob of organic matter on the highway. Once in a while it's clear what the animal originally was, but usually not. Traffic moves pretty fast down those highways. Mammals, birds, reptiles, and amphibians are all well represented. There are a lot of Turkey Vultures in Texas, too, and they have learned to check out the roads. This leads to an odd puzzle. From time to time a Turkey Vulture is a little too slow taking off, and becomes roadkill itself. In that case, what eats it?

What Kind of a Motel is This?

I knew that I would be gone a long time, and I would rack up many nights in motels. So in the interest of my budget I stuck to the lower end of the lodging spectrum. I encountered some really lame rooms, but occasionally I was surprised by a perfectly good room at a good price. And sometimes there's a good reason to take a lame room. In Terlingua, for example, I paid $80 for a room that would have made a garden shed look good. But the plumbing worked, wifi was acceptable, and I was in Terlingua, home of the amazing night skies. No bedbugs in any of these places - yay! I think that the dividing line, for me, is the lobby that has a full bulletproof glass window, with a little slot for passing documents back and forth. You know, like a bank in a bad neighborhood. I walked out of one of those in Seguin. It takes a lot to give me a bad feeling, but that one did.

Frontage Roads

One of the challenges of this trip has been the strict rule to stay off freeways. Sometimes only a freeway goes where you want to go. That's one of the reasons why I'm here in Houston, 1500 freeway miles away from L.A., with almost 3000 miles on the bike since I started.

In Texas, it's surprising how often a frontage road parallels a freeway for a good long time. I've stayed on them for 10 or 15 miles at a time. Inevitably they peter out at a river crossing or something, but they can get you a long way toward where you need to go.

Tomorrow

Tomorrow is another workday, but I'll cover some more oddball Texas topics tomorrow night.

Back to the Rat Race

After last night's violent winds, lightning, and rain, I was worried that today would be problematic. It dawned gray but the rain held off. Today I had plenty of time to get to my destination, the Hyatt House in Houston. I set off first to the Texas A&M campus to fulfill one small obligation.

Take that, Matt Woodruff!

I battled fairly heavy traffic eastward to Highway 30, which turned southeast toward Houston. Every mile I got a little farther from the potential nasty weather up north, and sun began to appear intermittently between the clouds. The wet weather of the last few days had left the creeks and rivers high and in places pastures were covered in shallow ponds with large oak trees rising from them.

I took highways 30, 244, 1774, and 249. As it turns out, this route was very popular with motorcyclists, except that all of them were going the opposite direction that I was. So I did a lot of waving. Not may sportbikes; mostly "baggers" (heavily bedecked cruisers with fairings, cases, and such) and some outlaw cruisers ridden by guys who were too badass to wave back, at least in their own minds. I think that there were more motorcycles than all other vehicles put together along that route.

I was lollygagging. If I got to Houston  too soon I wouldn't be able to check in to the hotel yet. So I poked along mostly well under the speed limit. There were two-lane roads with lots of no-passing zones and lots of oncoming traffic. As a courtesy, now and then I would pull to the shoulder to let some speedier driver go by and do you know what? I never once got a wave. In California I give, and get, waves to acknowledge the courtesy involved. So do most Californians. I guess it's a different deal in Texas.

Well, it was just beautiful all the way from College Station to about Magnolia. I took this phone photo (my better camera was destroyed two days ago, remember) just outside Anderson.

And later on I got an inkling of why this species of bird (the little white dots, there) is called Cattle Egret.

This was the view in the other direction from the Cattle Egret spot.

After Magnolia, road construction and occasional urban ugliness pockmarked the beauty. The land had transitioned from a forest of almost all oaks to one of mixed oak and pine.

Before leaving I had carefully made notes of the convoluted route necessary to avoid the use of freeways. I mostly got it right, but there were a couple of wrong turns, one closure of a three-mile stretch of 249, and some pretty awful sewer construction delays when I got within a few miles of the hotel.

I checked in, unpacked a little, put on my bathing suit and went to the deserted swimming pool. The water was colder than I expected (although not as cold as that damned ride from El Paso to Carlsbad.) Then I went shopping at a nearby store for some new clothes in which I could look presentable at the office. I'm not sure what I'm going to do with them at the end of the week; I don't have room to pack them all on the motorcycle. Mail them back to myself, maybe. I'm here through Thursday night at least, working full-time, and I might add Friday if I don't get enough done.

I picked up some soda and beer for the refrigerator in the fully furnished kitchen that comes with the hotel room. I ate dinner at Chipotle, came back to the room (it's a very nice room) and threw all of my clothes in a bag and started a load in the laundromat downstairs. I did some bookkeeping for work. Soon the dryer will be finished and I'll be all set for the coming week. Meanwhile, dramatic skies appear out the window and a thunderstorm lashes the building. A little more work and it'll be time for a good night's sleep before making my debut at the office.

To Better Days

Well. Yesterday was not a good day. I was wet through and cold, and then had a crash that made me forget all about that discomfort, which I had though was so important moments before.

But the bike, although a little uglier now, was still running well. My body, except for the strained muscle in my calf, was fine. The day dawned gray, but not foggy or rainy. I got my act together and got on the road a little after ten. The dry pavement was like a blessing and the good visibility perked me up. I went to Woods Cycle Center, to the dealer who had provided moral and practical support the previous evening. I needed to get my chain lubed and adjusted, and in the process they discovered that I needed new rear brake pads, so I got that done as well.

The previous night my girlfriend had asked me to visit Bremond, a tiny town north of College Station where her father had grown up. Since I didn't have a strong target for today's destination and since I love my girlfriend, I left the dealership about 1:00 and headed for Bremond, crossing my fingers that the good weather would hold.

After some downright urban traffic around New Braunfels, things got much lighter and more interesting as I turned onto Old Bastrop Highway, which was signposted as the original El Camino Real. Huh? I knew that there was an El Camino Real in California that connected all the Spanish missions, but I didn't know that Texas had one. Live and learn. That road meandered through some nice countryside, crossing the pretty little San Marcos River, which on this Saturday afternoon was littered practically bank to bank with young people in float tubes, sipping various beverages.

Eventually I hit highway 21 and followed that northeast for quite a long time. It's surpirsing to me, the speed limits that are set in Texas. This was frequently a two-lane, heavily traveled highway with limited passing opportunities, with intersections and driveways and the occasional pedestrian. Yet the speed limits were 70 or 75 MPH. Most drivers I know would have to rely more on luck than skill to handle those speeds in such an environment. I fell in with a group of about eight vehicles all doing the limit. A car came up behind me, apparently unhappy with the pace, and tailgated me. I'm thinking, OK, there's a car right in front of me, buddy. What the #%&@ do you want me to do - tailgate THEM? I've seen a fair amount of that in Texas. At one point I turned around for a long few seconds and stared at them. That got them to drop back, for maybe five minutes.

But other than little problems like that, it was a great ride. The beautiful countryside swept by; the weather was still gray but clear. I only had to stop once to check the map. Things got increasingly prettier as I passed through Bastrop (nice old downtown) and Rockdale and Hearne (well, OK, maybe not so much Hearne.) The ride from Hearne to Bremond passed through country that looked like one big manicured park. The bike handled great and I felt privileged to experience this country this way.

Bremond is a Polish town. Other towns in Texas are German or Czech; Bremond is Polish. It's a small town that has contracted from its glory days as a railroad hub. I stood in the middle of Main Street to take a picture, confident that I was not in danger from traffic.

That brick-red building down there on the left is the Dry Bean Saloon. It was the only place that looked to have anyone in it, so to fulfill my duties I ventured in and ordered a beer, a rare exception to my ethanol-free riding protocol.

There are thousands of names written on the walls of this saloon and now my name, and Deni's name, are written there.

I chatted with the bartender and, later, the owner, and learned that besides the original Polish emigrants who were recruited in their homeland to come here, part of the population arose from the "orphan trains" of the late 19th and early 20th centuries. That's a fascinating story in itself. Orphan trains came to Bremond and children were adopted there.

After fulfilling my responsibility in Bremond, I headed back south toward College Station, a town with a lot of motels. Sitting in a McDonald's in adjacent Bryan, I tried place after place, only to be told that they were full or their remaining rooms were $150 or so. I had stumbled into Parents' Weekend at Texas A&M, so finding a room was a bit of a struggle.

But I finally found one, virtually next door to Soladak's Beefmasters restauarnt. With a name like that I had to try it.

(To aid your sense of scale, those are pretty big biscuits.)

It was a large and delicious sirloin, but I especially liked being able to order turnip greens and black-eyed peas. Those side dishes are not routine in L.A. Along with a salad and a beer, the bill before tip came to $19.40. Ah, Texas.


Now I'm staying up way too late in my room. A severe thunderstorm passed through about half an hour ago. I thought the bike was going to blow over and, frankly, I'm not looking forward to picking it up again. But all is well. Today was a better day.

Tomorrow: Houston.

Oops

The day dawned foggy today. Not me (well, maybe a little) but the weather out there.

My favorite sunglasses, the Columbia swept-back polarized ones, have some kind of weird smudge or scrape on one lens. Last night at Walmart I bought some safety sunglasses - the polycarbonate lenses won't scratch easily. Also bought a bandana, some socks with all-synthetic fibers for drying quickly, and a golf shirt that doesn't have stains, unlike the one I brought with me. I threw away a shirt and a pair of socks to make room for the new stuff.

I had two nights' stay left before I need to be in Houston. There weren't any outstanding destinations along the way – San Antonio did not excite – but based on a conversation I had last night with a local at the bar, I thought Seguin, and its sister city New Braunfels, might be interesting. I set out east along U.S. 90, which goes directly through San Antonio. To preserve my no-freeway rule and not go nuts plodding through the center of the city, I decided to leave 90 at Hondo and go north through the hill country, then pick up Texas 46 to Sequin, bypassing San Antonio.

Well, the weather kind of sucked. The foggy morning morphed into constant drizzle as I left Del Rio, Visibility was about a quarter-mile, so the long views of the West were history. Uvalde was an attractive town with a beautiful town square. What ever happened to town squares? A mall just isn't the same.

At Hondo I turned north on 173 and was soon cruising through the hill country, Visibility was still poor, and the rain continued, but the closer views were gorgeous. More than once I caught myself thinking, "This looks like a golf course." But no, it was just a grassy pasture studded with oaks. Even with the restricted views, this was a very pretty part of the state.

I reached Banderas and my turn onto Texas 46. The rain increased, and lightning began to flash. I swept past yuppie ranch estates and feed stores and hill country churches. Sometimes the traffic was intense, especially a stretch of highway construction next to a mall. As the pace picked up again, I followed a pickup truck who was going approximately the speed I was comfortable with. When there were passing lanes he moved over but so did I; in the pounding rain, I wasn't interested in being the leader.

Which makes what happens next harder for me to rationalize. The pickup truck crested a hill and, I presume, saw the crash scene on the other side, with emergency vehicles blocking the entire road. A bunch of vehicles had braked to an abrupt stop and so did my predecessor, but my view of the scene was blocked by the truck and I was late to sense the problem. When I did, I got on the brakes, increasingly hard, until I asked the front tire for more traction than the tire could give, and the tire said, screw it, I'm done. At which point the tire slid out and the bike "lowsided" – fell onto its left side.

I was able to deduce this as I was traveling rapidly southbound in a prone position with great views of the pavement, of the bike coming to rest behind me, of the surrounding landscape. I was rather impressed with how far I slid. I guess it's because the pavement was waterlogged. When I finally stopped, I got up expeditiously and hoofed it back toward the bike. Some of the luggage had remained where it was fastened, but the tank bag had come completely unzipped from the stress of the crash, and it's contents were all over the place. As I gathered its contents, cars passed by in the same direction. And I discovered that the camera bag had been run over.

It turns out that the Canon SX-50HS was the major casualty. Also, the left front turn signal on the bike was pretty much pulverized. And the previously pristine plastic bodywork now had a black skidmark on one corner.

OK, so the bike was on its side on the shoulder of the road. It needed to be upright, but I have enough trouble lifting an unladen bike, much less one that still had so much luggage attached to it. The power of necessity caused me to fail twice, but then lift the bike on the third try. I hit the starter a few times, but the prolonged sideways posture of the carburetors made starting it problematic. Eventually, however, it caught and ran.

I reattached some of the luggage attachment points that had separated. As I tried to mount the bike I had a searing pain in my left calf. It had been fine until now – where did that come from? The crash itself, or the lift? After I eventually awkwardly mounted I noticed that the handlebars were no longer square – they were five or ten degrees to the left.

An EMS tech from the crash scene down the hill was plodding toward me. He arrived and inquired about my condition. I told him that things were fine except for a very sore left calf. He asked me to be safe and plodded off again. I set off at a notably more conservative pace, the tweaked handlebars causing constant mental alarms.

I rode into New Braunfels, which in other circumstance would have been a nice town to sightsee. But all I could think about was getting a room, not necessarily the one I had targeted, still 16 miles away. While I was in the lobby of one motel, I checked out nearby motorcycle shops and discovered Woods Cycle Country, 2 miles away. They said they would check the damages, so off I went. After a few false turns, I found my way. The service managers were as nice as they could be, offering me tools to work on the tweaked handlebars. Charlie Henderson, the jefe of service, came out and showed me the crude but effective untweak: Get the front tire of the bike close to an obstacle (a concrete column is good), sit on the bike, and quickly lash the handlebars so that the front tire strikes the obstacle sideways.

It worked. I actually overcompensated on the first lash, so had to aim the bike the other way and give the handlebars a softer whack. Now I was back in business.

I headed back to an entry-level motel in Seguin and settled in for the night. Tomorrow I'll go look at the interesting historic and cultural features of downtown Seguin, but tonight I'm just taking anti-inflammatories and cocooning. More news tomorrow!

Looking back at the crash, I can only blame myself. I was riding in a way that would be safe in dry weather, but it was raining hard, and I did not compensate enough by lengthening my following distance. Also, as I saw myself approaching that stopped line of traffic, I thought the best answer was to increase braking, but intense braking on wet pavement has an inevitable outcome. I will certainly take these lessons to heart in the future, but it's a little humiliating to have to learn those lessons in this manner.

The End of the West

I woke up this morning in Terlingua ready for a relatively long day, 270 miles to Del Rio. After a lot of meetings and emails for work, I packed up to meet the 11:00 checkout time, then rode 50 yards over to the adjacent bar and grill's parking lot to handle the 11:00 call for tech writers.  During the call, I was reminded (for, like, the fourth time) how little experience Houston-based folks have with West Texas and the Big Bend area in particular. I guess it would be like asking Southern Californians about eastern Oregon.

As I took that last call, a Cactus Wren invaded the patio tables next to the restaurant, searching for any human-related goodies. The Chisos Mountains glowed in the morning light. After the call I mounted up and headed for Marathon, a hundred miles away. That's how it is in this part of Texas; towns are 30, 50, 100 miles apart, with nothing in between, and that's normal.

The road to Marathon went up into the Big Bend National Park, skirting the north side of the Chisos Mountains. Those are just... awesome. Then it turned north and descended forever into Marathon, passing vast basins and four separate mountain ranges on the way.

So many wildflowers! Such long views! And what's with Texas bluebonnets, anyway? Even in the deserts they grow strongly and happily by the road's edge, but nowhere else. The highway is the best thing that ever happened to them.I don't know what others think is the best time to visit Texas, but April's got my vote.

Marathon is a pretty little town (450 souls) and I stopped for a slow lunch. I watched trains roll by across the street. I gassed up at a station that let you pump first and then pay! And instead of an LCD display, little wheels slowly rotated to show gallons pumped and cost incurred. Haven't seen one of those pumps in a long time. Then I launched myself eastward on US90 toward Del Rio.

54 miles from Marathon is Sanderson, and there is no significant civilization in between. Several times I rode for 10 minutes without seeing another vehicle. Wildflowers were everywhere. The terrain transitioned from wide plains to shallow, wide canyons between hills that revealed their layered rock strata. 23 miles out from Marathon I saw a strange bird and turned around to confirm my suspicion. It flushed before I could take a photo but I'm certain it was a Scissor-tailed Flycatcher (I saw the pink belly), which is a spectacular bird, and a life bird for me. (Photo from Wikimedia Commons.)

Kingbirds, hawks, and vultures were the other predominant birds on the trip.

Sanderson was the site of a devastating flood many years ago, and I can understand why. For perhaps 20 miles before town the road followed the shallow canyons that all merged together and drained into Sanderson Canyon. If this region ever gets heavy rain, that immense drainage would become a beast.

Sanderson itself was a sad thing, with almost every business closed temporarily or shuttered permanently. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sanderson,_Texas A lot of West Texas is like that. I would say that if you pass a restaurant in West Texas, odds are better than 50% that it is permanently closed. Same for motels and RV parks.

The tablelands continued after Sanderson – wide plains and mesas cut by shallow canyons. Eventually the highway climbed out of the canyons and ran along the plains. By now I was once again in awe. How can there be this much empty land in the U.S.? It goes on forever!

So it went, seemingly endlessly, until a highway construction project caused a stop just short of the hamlet of Langtry. I was first in line at the stop and I chatted with the flagman. He told me that Judge Roy Bean (famously known as "The law west of the Pecos") was infatuated with the famous 19th century singer, Lillie Langtry, and named his town after her. I don't think she was influenced much by the gesture.

After the stop at Langtry I, and the other 20 or so vehicles that had to wait, took off at a furious pace. To keep up in this devils' parade I was flogging the Ninja at full throttle, doing 82 or 83 on the speedometer, probably 75 in real life, into a headwind and over hill and dale, literally. (This led to the worst mileage I've ever gotten on this bike, about 38 MPG, when I finally filled up near Del Rio).

The mountains were gone now. I think Sanderson could realistically be called the end of the West (or the first town in the West, if you are coming from the east.) My feelings changed somehow with the change in terrain. The land got flatter and flatter, and wider and wider. At each highway "cut" you could see that the topsoil here was only a couple of inches deep, and below that was layer after layer of sedimentary rock. The illusion of endless rolling fertile plains was shown as a lie by those relentless rock layers. In the very deepest canyons the off-white rock color gave way to dark gray, basaltic rock in the lowest places. After a very long time, we crossed a bridge over the Pecos River, which carried the most water that I have seen on this trip. It flowed slowly between high, sheer black walls. Turkey Vultures soared over the gorge, just below eye level as I crossed on the bridge.(Photo from Wikimedia Commons.)

On and one we went, across the endless plains and tablelands, twisting the throttles like demons. I had to stop about 10 miles short of Del Rio to gas up. When I finally reached the town, I blinked at the sight before me: a traffic light. I think it had been at least 700 miles since I had seen one. In fact, the town had the entire panoply of national chains. It was strange after the isolation and tiny towns that I had experienced for the last several days.

I had also just reached 2000 miles of riding on this trip.

I got to the Whispering Palms motel, where I had made a reservation. I was delighted to see that this was a real, properly furnished, well-run motel at a bargain price. In the past several days in the Big Bend country I had paid significantly more for motel rooms that were a joke by comparison.

My armored jacket and my helmet, together, deflect almost all the stuff that flies into me. But if something has the perfect trajectory, especially if I have my head turned while gaping at some scenery, I get whacked on my neck, which stings a lot. At one point I felt the usual whack and then felt some kind of secondary sting. Now there's a big red welt on my neck. I am going to buy a bandana.

Now it's getting late. I had a big dinner at the steakhouse next door and my eyelids are starting to close. I, a child of the West, am not in the West anymore. I need a new approach. I have to figure out what I'm going to do between now and Sunday night, when I need to be in Houston. I have a few ideas already. Stay tuned.

Border Highway

As I mentioned in my first post, there really isn't any such thing as a border highway. Roads that parallel the border for a while inevitably get blocked by natural features or military bases, and you must detour far inland before getting back to the border again.

But in the Big Bend region of Texas, there's one road that follows the border very closely: Farm Road 170, which leads from Presidio to Lajitas, Terlingua, and Big Bend National Park. It follows the Rio Grande for about 40 miles through some of the most beautiful landscapes on the entire river.

After the usual morning meetings and emails, I packed up and headed out of Marfa toward Presidio. The first thing that I discovered was that my pronghorn buck was not the only pronghorn lingering on the edge of town.

The ride to Presidio took an hour through interesting terrain and changing habitats. Thorn trees and yuccas gave way to creosote and ocotillo. Presidio itself was a fairly ugly little town. FM 170 took off east and at first there were quite a few houses and farms, but gradually those thinned out. I could see the beginnings of the hills and cliffs that made this route so popular.

The road was frustrating, because it was a great technical road that invited spirited riding, but the scenery was so grand that it invited you to slow down and look. I chose the latter.

This was as close to Mexico as my little Ninja is ever likely to get.

And the flowers... might as well just insert some flower pictures here and get it over with.

The landscape got more intense. At one point, the road descended a hill with a 15% grade for half a mile. The canyon walls closed in. Strange rock formations appeared.

At Lajitas, 170 swung inland from the Rio Grande toward Terlingua. I stopped there for a late lunch in a bar and grill connected to a hotel. Although I had only covered about 125 miles, slowly, I was considering staying here.. I struck a deal with the hotel manager, dumped my stuff in the room, and took off for nearby Big Bend National Park.

By the time I returned I had covered 100 miles, down to the river at Santa Elena Canyon and back, through a small thunderstorm. That's a wonderful ride. So many great views and varied terrain.

At the midpoint of my ride I got severe indigestion, probably from the "Terlingua Competition Chili" that I chose for lunch. It moderated to just plain discomfort by the time I finally got to the hotel, and after resting I went back for dinner, choosing a simple cheese and steak quesadilla this time.

I left the restaurant and stepped out into the parking lot, shocked by the vivid sky. Stars blazed in the clear blackness. On the northern horizon a distant storm flashed soundless lightning bolts five, ten times a minute.across 40 miles of sky. The Milky Way shone clearly Even nearby porch lights couldn't kill the buzz. As I looked south at the constellations, diffuse flashes from the north weirdly backlighted the display.