Combing the Caverns

The Big Cave in Carlsbad is the size of 5 or 6 football fields.

As a foreign-born person, I never really “got” the Alamo story. I might not even have heard the Alamo story. But it is an emotional and memorable place and we both enjoyed our visit there.
Since most Americans probably know the story, you can skip ahead. This is mostly for our readers in Japan, Namibia, Scotland, Canada, England, Vietnam, and Cambodia.

Originally named Misión San Antonio de Valero, the Alamo served as home to missionaries and their Indian converts for nearly 70 years. Construction began in 1724. In 1793, Spanish officials secularized San Antonio's five missions and distributed their lands to the remaining Indian residents. These men and women continued to farm the fields, once the mission's but now their own, and participated in the growing community of San Antonio.
In the early 1800s, the Spanish military stationed a cavalry unit at the former mission. The soldiers referred to the old mission as the Alamo (the Spanish word for "cottonwood"). The Alamo was home to both Revolutionaries and Royalists during Mexico's 10-year struggle for independence. The military — Spanish, Rebel, and then Mexican — continued to occupy the Alamo until the Texas Revolution.
San Antonio and the Alamo played a critical role in the Texas Revolution. In December 1835, Ben Milam led Texian and Tejano volunteers against Mexican troops quartered in the city. After five days of house-to-house fighting, they forced General Martín Perfecto de Cós and his soldiers to surrender.
On February 23, 1836, the arrival of General Antonio López de Santa Anna's army outside San Antonio nearly caught the Americans by surprise. Undaunted, the Texians and Tejanos prepared to defend the Alamo together. The defenders held out for 13 days against Santa Anna's army. William B. Travis, the commander of the Alamo sent forth couriers carrying pleas for help to communities in Texas. On the eighth day of the siege, a band of 32 volunteers from Gonzales arrived, bringing the number of defenders to nearly two hundred. Legend holds that with the possibility of additional help fading, Colonel Travis drew a line on the ground and asked any man willing to stay and fight to step over — all except one did. As the defenders saw it, the Alamo was the key to the defense of Texas, and they were ready to give their lives rather than surrender their position to General Santa Anna. Among the Alamo's garrison were Jim Bowie, renowned knife fighter, and David Crockett, famed frontiersman and former congressman from Tennessee.
The final assault came before daybreak on the morning of March 6, 1836, as columns of Mexican soldiers emerged from the predawn darkness and headed for the Alamo's walls. Cannon and small arms fire from inside the Alamo beat back several attacks. Regrouping, the Mexicans scaled the walls and rushed into the compound. Once inside, they turned a captured cannon on the Long Barrack and church, blasting open the barricaded doors. The desperate struggle continued until the defenders were overwhelmed. By sunrise, the battle had ended and Santa Anna entered the Alamo compound to survey the scene of his victory. All the male defenders were killed. The women and children, hiding inside the mission were kept alive and used by Santa Anna to send a warning to the other Americans.
Santa Anna called the massacre “a small thing.” But it was that watershed moment that drew the Americans together as they answered the cry, “Remember the Alamo.” It took only a few weeks for Santa Anna's army to be beaten and for Texas to achieve independence from Mexico.
When we arrived at the Alamo, it was cool and early in the day. Cactus were flowering under the trees. We entered the sanctuary and were regaled by a fine story teller who spoke about the story of drawing the line in the sand.
We then wandered down to Riverwalk, an urban work of art. Back in the 12920s, San Antonio saw the possibilities of creating cool walking areas along the river in the heart of their city. It is just a wonderful place to wander and sample the Mexican food, along with the arts and crafts of the area. We sat and had lunch under a bridge after taking a cruise along the river. Brilliant urban design.

Monday, April 26, 2010
We rolled west and came to Junction, another crossroads in the Texas hill country. Keeping the “Look- for-the-historical-marker” rule in the forefront of our mind, we paused when we found this:

“The Killing of SAM SPEER. On Dec. 24, 1976, a band of Indians killed Sam Speer, only 17 years of age, who was driving in horses near here. A 50-caliber gun his brother was using failed to fire. This was the last Indian murder in Kimble County. Speer is buried in the North Llano Cemetery.”

We drove on and pulled into a city park that we'd learned offered free overnight parking. And so we took up residence on the banks of the South Llano River, just below the dam. We parked under the cottonwood trees and listened to chirp, chirp, chirp of the grackles and the non-stop rush of water as it flowed over the dam. We walked over in the evening to visit with a fellow camper. He and his wife spoke only German, however, so we had a hard time communicating.

On now to Fort Stockton, Texas. This town is the beneficiary of the work of a New Mexico artist who has created an outstanding piece of art. He fashioned a Cavalry patrol on the outskirts of the town, carved out of sheets of steel. When we rode over in the late afternoon, the 10-foot-high silhouettes stood on the desert and seemed life sized because of the distance. I even got up the next morning, hoping to capture them in the rising sun – but no luck. The sun rose above the mesas (flat-topped mountains) about 35 degrees away from where the patrol stood in the early morning light.
We drove north on the Pecos Trail, a lonely two-lane road that headed us toward New Mexico. Lots of oil wells. In the town of Pecos, we passed where Judge Roy Bean practiced his unorthodox version of law west of the Pecos back in the 1880s. We crossed the state line and our times changed to Mountain Daylight Savings time. Now the cat will give us an even harder time since she refuses to acknowledge the existence of time zones. She still believes it is Eastern time. As a result, she thinks it is entirely reasonable to rise at 5 a.m. in our new time zone.
We parked in Carlsbad, in 90 degree, low humidity weather. We drove to the National Park and entered the caverns. You take an elevator down 800 feet which allows you to enter the Big Cavern. This was discovered by a cowboy back in 1913. He built a wire ladder and slowly (with the help of a single lamp) explored this massive complex. When he told folks in Carlsbad about the wondrous sights, they refused to believe him. But he persevered and eventually managed to get a photographer down into the cavern. The lighting of the pictures might have been one of the great technical achievements because of the size of this place. None-the-less, when people saw the pictures, they were wowed... and the crowds started to want tours.
Now that it is a National Park, it is possible to go on self-guided hikes which we did. If you are up for crawling on your belly, or slithering down or up steep grades with the help of a knotted rope, you can accompany a ranger. We did the self-guided tour which lasted almost two hours. The caverns run for more than 113 miles and many are still unexplored.
In the evening, we drove to the Living Desert State Park where we listened to a concert (mediocre) before going on another hike in the gloaming of the setting sun to view native plants and even some of the local wild life. I was particularly on the search for the agave cactus since I now use agave to replace sugar since being diagnosed with diabetes in December. The Pueblo and Apache Indians in these parts cooked the mescal agave plant for their rituals – and still do. The highlight of the evening was to watch a full moon rise, blood red, over the sparkling lights of Carlsbad.
Mileage traveled from start: 1,815 miles.

Deep in the Heart of Texas

This is the story of Three-Legged Willie. He lived in Anahuac, TX.

Alabama released us after we drove west, discovered there was a problem with the new brakes. We pulled into a campground for the weekend and licked our wounds. Then it was back to the repair place when they opened at 6:30 a.m. on Monday. They determined one of the rotors was warped and tried to sell me a new one. I pushed for them to grind it. They didn't have the equipment to do that, but found a brake specialist who did the job in an hour.
We were released around 5 in the afternoon and were determined to head west to Mississippi. We made it over the state line and then got into a parking lot on Interstate 10 for more than an hour. We got off as soon as we could find an exit.
As we rolled west the next day (Tuesday). I thought about the four things we would remember about Mississippi. Jo thought and said, kindly, she would remember the poor people in the RV park who left for work at 5:30 in the morning. She thought the parking lot on the highway was something to forget. I'll always remember the guy who walked through our RV resort as dusk fell. He was shouting, “Come back here, you black nigga. Come here.” I popped my head up from the sofa and discovered he was not berating his girlfriend. He was shouting at his black dog that wouldn't respond to his command. And I'll remember that when I plugged in our electrical cord, the safety device I carry warned me there was an open ground at the power pole – just a little bit on the dangerous side. This is why we carry this expensive piece of equipment. This is the third time it has protected us.
We found the most amazing little city campground in the town of Lafayette, Louisiana, on the western side of the state for our next stop. We found it with our mapping software. The park, in the center of the city, had about 30 sites and provided electricity, water and a sewer dump. We parked in a leafy glade and relaxed to the happy singing of happy birds.
In the morning, we headed west, across the Texas border and came to the mouth of the Trinity River where we pulled in to a hardly-used campground in the old Mexican town of Anahuac. There used to be a fort here. Now it looks like so many hundreds (thousands) of one-horse towns which make you question their reason for existence.
We did find an historical marker which talked about a man named Three-Legged Willie. His real name was Robert McAlpin Williamson. He had a withered leg and strapped a wooden prosthetic device to it, hence the name. He became a judge in the town and when a ruffian was brought before him, the thug pulled a Bowie knife and told the judge, “This is the law.” But three-legged Willie pulled his revolver and told him, “This is the constitution which overrules the law.”
Houston is 45 miles wide and is the most labyrinthine city in terms of flyovers and over- and under-passes. It is a stressful ride to fly through the city on highways that can carry 10 lanes of traffic one way. But we squirted out the other side after an hour. We pulled off the highway (what have they done to the rest areas?) for lunch and then made our way to an auto parts store to replace the flasher on our turn signals. Then it was onward, down Interstate 10 to the west. Jo is beginning to panic for her bird books all end their coverage in the center of Texas. She has been having a great time discovering new species (to us) and I know there's a stop somewhere in San Antonio where we'll be buying a book about western birds.
The highways are coated in multi-colored spring wild flowers...just beautiful. These were encouraged by LBJ's wife, LadyBird. And they improve the long and winding road.
By the way, we are 1,200 miles into our journey thus far.

Languishing in Mobile

A barefoot print in the sand at Topsail Beach, Florida.

We arrived at the supreme RV resort we have found in our three years of traveling around the U.S. Topsail Beach Reserve State Park is a pristine campground. Not only does it have full hookups, including cable TV, we have a trolley that drives us out to a white sugar-sand beach on the Gulf of Mexico. The city of Destin lies on the horizon, with its high rise condominiums. But we are in a beautiful spot and we are grateful to have found this place – with the help of friends Chuck and Judy who stopped in last year on their way back from the west coast of the U.S.
There's evidence of native American life here, with a large mound opposite the park entrance. The natives used the area for fishing, hunting and camping. Then the white guys came and began to exploit the huge stands of long leaf pine trees by tapping them for their turpentine. The turpentine was used to maintain the wooden sailing ships used to transport goods and people. Chippers carved cat-face patterns on the trees and inserted a metal strip to allow the sap to flow into clay pots. The scars can still be seen in many living trees in the park.
Before we got here, we spent a night in a Flying J parking lot. Flying J is a chain of fuel stations, mostly used by truckers. Many RVers fill up with fuel and park for the night. I doubt we'll try it again. The trouble with truckers is they run their rigs while they sleep because they need to refrigerate their cargo. As a result, the chattering engines made life a little to loud for us. But it's all part of the ride. The price is right, since there's no charge.

On to our date with destiny in Mobile. We checked in with a trucking repair facility and were handled with sweet, gentle, southern charm. Marty, the lead man, brought his computer to our rig and after he punched in the year and type of chassis, the computer told us two ABS sensors on the left side – one front and one rear – were inoperative. He called the manufacturer who priced the two sensors and we told Marty to ship them in overnight via air from Chicago.
We pulled the rig over to a parking area of smashed and damaged trucks and, after the facility closed for the night, we moved over so we could plug into a wall socket to enjoy the comforts of electricity.
Being trapped in such a place provides the possibility of learning something about people we don't normally meet. I enjoyed a year-old Truckers News magazine which reported on jobs in the industry for couples in which you are paid $2,000 sign-on bonus, plus $1.45 per miles traveled, along with a guarantee of being able to drive 3,000 miles per week, plus full health-dental insurance paid by the company, plus 401K retirement package.
We spent a pleasant evening and fully expected to be on our way on Thursday because Marty said it would take two hours to do the installation.
Thursday at noon arrived and Marty knocked on our motor home door. He apologized profusely, saying the people in Chicago had shipped out the two sensors by truck, not air, and they would take five to seven days to get here. I expressed frustration and he asked if I wanted him to order them to be sent overnight by air one more time. I said to go for it that we were committed by this time. He went away, apologizing, and said it would be done.
Jo and I locked up the rig and drove the car south for 50 miles to Dauphin Island on the Gulf of Mexico. There was a sharp east wind blowing and we were amazed to see all the stilt homes on the island were most empty. The waves were crashing on the shore, however, and spraying the luxurious homes with salt water. All of the homes are at least 10 and often 15 feet above the ground. But the ground – or sand – is only four or five feet above sea level. It seems insane that people are permitted to build on such exposed land where destruction by hurricane can only be a matter of time.
We came back toward Mobile and stopped at a seafood restaurant that had been filled with patrons on our way down to the island. Now it was empty and we enjoyed one of the best fresh catfish and hush puppy meals I recall.
Marty pulled off the wheels in preparation to install the new ABS sensors and had the terrifying “oh-oh” when he saw behind the wheels. The ABS sensor had melted – actually melted – and that meant he had to find the cause. It was revealed in the calipers and brakes pads. One pad was actually loose and could have popped off the axle. Prudence suggested that he check each wheel now. And that resulted in discovering that three of the four brake calipers were damaged and all four sets of brake pads needed to be replaced because of uneven wear.
Now, I could hear the ca-ching of the money machine going into high gear. I asked him to price all of this, including new calipers on all wheels. Back he came in another hour to let us know the bad news and the information that he found everything except one caliper in Mobile. The final unit would have to be brought in from Pensacola, Florida. I offered to drive to Pensacola (it's only 40 miles away – to retrieve the missing part and he said he thought he could get it delivered by Greyhound bus by 7 o'clock the next morning. We said go for it... And then we set out to find a motel room for the night since it would not be possible to live inside the locked up bays. So now we're living in the lap of luxury at a nearby Days Inn – breakfast included.

The Green Flash

Powerboater brings his boat into the blazing sun at Dunedin.

There it was. The green flash. The blood-red sun, sinking fast into the Gulf of Mexico tinted the sky to peach and its edge, jelly-like, sank swiftly into the water. As the last limb of the sun slithered beneath the surface of the water, a rippling green flash emanated from the final rays. That's the first time we have seen the green flash since those idyllic days and nights in the Bahamas back in 2002.
Our neighbors on the beach along the causeway to Honeymoon Island outside Dunedin were oblivious to the phenomenon. A young girl squealed with delight as she caught a catfish and hauled it up on the shore. Her dad, speaking to her in Spanish, grabbed the line and put a pliers into the fish's mouth to retrieve the hook. He then tossed the fish back into the Gulf. Her mom chattered away on her cellphone but stopped long enough to grab a picture of the kid with her fish before continuing with her conversation.
Earlier in the day, Jo and I had strolled the sponge docks at Tarpon Springs. We were in a smorgasbord of Greek kitch, cruciform fish bones, Greek flags, baklava cheese cake, Greek urns made in China, but the saving grace was a harpist who sat in the shade of a tree along the docks. She played soothing music to the tourists who strolled in the bright spring sunshine.
The following night, we set out for the causeway to photograph the green flash. But it was not to be. We waited in similar conditions and the sun sank in the west. But no flash. So we have no picture of the event. But we did have a moment when a motorboat powered its way into the bloody sunset and it made a beautiful picture.
We headed out on a rainy morning, Friday, making our way north. Our anti-lock brake system warning light switched itself on our dashboard. We experienced this problem last year but it sorted itself out. This day it refused to get its act together so we called our emergency RV technician service and the sharp young woman said not to worry in the short term. She then asked where we would like to make an appointment to get it fixed and we told her Mobile, Alabama, since we plan to drive through there in the middle of next week. She called back in a few minutes and said she'd made an appointment for us with a technician. She provided the address and phone number.
We parked the night at a strange little campground: Neverdunn RV Resort in Lake City, Florida. It was a little out of the way and we regretted having to travel down a pock-marked gravel road. But the destination was worthwhile.
There were four peacocks and peahens on the property, along with goats and an enormous rooster who seemed to wear trousers because his feathers were designed to cover his legs. He strutted around as though he owned the place. The grounds were filled with azaleas in full bloom and there were huge, dripping bundles of wisteria at the entrance to the tiny swimming pool. Two clay alligators, one wearing a bra, the other in men's wear, welcomed you into the pool.
The lead peacock, named Samson, roosted in the large tree next to our rig for the evening. He flew up onto a van's roof, then flew the final 15 feet up into the tree. Initially, he spent an inordinate amount of time shouting at passing cars and I thought the unpleasantness might put a damper on our evening. But, as soon as night fell, Samson settled down and we didn't hear a peep out of him for the rest of the night. He had come down from his roost by the time we awoke on Saturday morning.

Cutting the Umbilical Cord

Bald eagles nest in Honeymoon Island State Park, Dunedin, Fl.

Our traditional way of leaving on a voyage – whether by boat or by land – is to unhook from our safe harbor, rolling up the umbilical cords that tie us to the land, and then we move away just a few miles. It has always been thus. When we left our RV resort in Palmetto, we did the same.
We crossed the Skyway Bridge, over Tampa Bay, on a glorious day and spent the afternoon and evening with old cruising friends in Seminole, Florida, just 20 miles away.
There is something relaxing about heading out without making a giant leap that first day. So we lingered with Tom and Tracy and spent the night parked in their driveway. Then we headed north another 20 miles to the town of Dunedin, Gaelic for “Edinburgh,” where we have taken up residence for a week.
This provides a comforting decompression period before we set off on the long haul to the west and north.
I have begun reading Hemingway once again...something I haven't done in 35 years. Oh, what a wordsmith. Spare language. No fancy, flowery phrases. I was so enthralled with one little piece that I offer it up to you. Here, he changes his staccato style as he describes a bullfight. See if you enjoy the flavor and the richness:

“The first matador got the horn through his sword hand and the crowd hooted him. The second matador slipped and the bull caught him through the belly and he hung onto the horn with one hand and held the other tight against the place, and the bull rammed him against the wall and the horn came out, and he lay in the sand, and when he got up like crazy drunk and tried to slug the men carrying him away and yelled for his sword but he fainted. The kid came out and had to kill five bulls because you can't have more than three matadors, and the last bull he was so tired he couldn't get the sword in. He couldn't hardly lift his arm. He tried five times and the crowd was quiet because it was a good bull and it looked like him or the bull and then he finally made it. He sat down in the sand and puked and they held a cape over him while the crowd hollered and threw things down into the bull ring.”

Anyway, Dunedin is a nice little town on the Gulf of Mexico, north of St. Petersburg. We're here because we received a certificate for a bargain rate for a week at the resort we are in. We met one of the neighbors this afternoon and they were bemoaning the fact the the rate this year is 25 percent higher than it was last year. When I told them we were staying the week for $99, they couldn't believe it. Their rate is $50 a night.
We will visit the Greeks in Tarpon Springs (8 miles north of here) and will drive out to Honeymoon Isle State Park, as well as enjoy the enormous swimming pool in our park. Jo also plans to sit in on a knitting group and I'll attend a wood carving club on Tuesday since I found this to be a wonderfully portable hobby. I bought some cypress knees (little knobs of wood) via the Internet and I've been carving them into strange little men.