Part 1
Once again I crossed the state line late in the day. Yet again the new state was initially made up of impenetrable swamps.
It was 20 miles to Popularville and the nearest legitimate campsite. At 16.00 with an hour and a half until sunset and 60 miles under my belt already, it looked unlikely I would get there.
I set off promising myself to nip into the woods ASAP.
However there was one small problem: no woods, or at least none on dry land. This was very residential part of the state, quite well to do, well fenced and patrolled by the obligatory barking guards, my canine nemeses.
"Keep the faith" I told myself. "somewhere always comes up in the end."
Sure enough at 17.30 I found some mixed pine and hardwood forest on solid ground. It was definitely private property though: in between two large houses and surely claimed one of them.
I was fairly confident it wasn't a good place to shoot things, so I started to pull my bike into the woods. It was more difficult than I expected to cross the little creek between the wood and the road. In the process I got stung by poison ivy on my bare legs.
Then the pesky security noticed me, once the yelping had started I knew it wouldn't stop.
I bailed out and carried on my search into the night. I had really blown it this time. It was properly dark and there was nowhere to go:, no ditches, no bushes, no pine woods, nothing but swamps and private homes.
Once again the dogs were everywhere, although better contained than in Louisiana, they seemed to notice me from half a mile away and not stop barking until I was a mile the other side.
Running on empty with cooling thighs and seizing calves, I didn't think I could keep going much longer. I began crossing a road bridge over a swamp when I remembered drinking beer under just such a bridge with Johnny and Sarah. Maybe I could camp underneath?
I tucked the bike out of view and went down to see. The ground was only flat right by the water's edge, and it was a pretty spooky place. There was thick misty swamp forest on either side of the river and the frogs were in full swing.
I felt unusually alone and vulnerable for some reason, I have developed a sense for these things, an instinct I know not to ignore. I wondered if there were alligators in the river, I had seen some in some pools in Louisiana.
I decided I would be safer 5 feet off the ground and 20 metres away from the river. There were some ideal trees up a rocky slope, on the edge of the forest. I could be seen from the road but would not be eaten by a prehistoric reptile!
Having I strung up the hammock, I cooked dinner under the bridge and I wrote some of my journal . I felt I could justify my camp if discovered but still turned off my head torch when cars drove by. I suppose I thought it easier not to bother anyone.
Suddenly I heard voices in the woods, they were quite close by but on the other side of the river.
It took me by surprise. “They must be hunting in the dark.” I thought.
I quickly turned off my computer and put myself to bed. It was best not to move around or make noises like a deer in the dark. I did not want to get shot by mistake.
Strange noises came from the forest: possums hissing, deer roaring and raccoons wailing, frogs making all manner of racket. It was exactly like the jungle, only colder.
Cars were driving around on the far side of the river. They drove backwards and forwards over the bridge and up and down the dirt tracks on the far side. Something was going on. This time I was certain of it.
They would see my hammock. It wasn't really hidden at all, just tied in the trees fifteen feet from the road.
“Here we go.” I thought. “They must have seen or heard me from the woods. They are going to think I'm on the run or up to no good. They'll probably confront me nervously at gun point. It will all be fine in the end, but before that it's going to be really stressful." What a pain!
However there is an expression 'The best place to hide (something) is in plain view'. I stayed deathly quiet and completely still. I was cold and uncomfortable, I wanted a pillow, but I didn't move a muscle.
After ¾ of an hour so the to-ing and fro-ing of vehicles and lights died down. I heard confused voices with a tones of resignation, cars leaving but not driving far to get back home. I continued to lay low long after they were gone.
***************************
Part 2
There is something about the state of Mississippi, a timeless mood of mystery and magic.
Maybe it 's in the water? There's a lot of it about, standing in the swamps and pools; rising into the morning air- so thick it could be smoke; condensing on the leaves, on the fences and on a passing stranger waking wet and cold, hanging in his bed.
As I rode off without breakfast, I passed fine, large houses with steaming ponds and mirror lakes. Horses grazed in the lush green fields behind well kept wooden fences. The sun shone through the mist and I knew I would warm up soon enough.
I rode down long straight roads passing tidy mobile homes and neat panel board houses. Everything was well presented. Folks took pride in whatever they had, be it humble or grand.
The locals were starting their days as I arrived in the sleepy town of Popularville and I got my first impressions of the people of Mississippi.
A skinny white farmer with a pointed nose and piercing eyes, wearing baseball cap and dungarees, drove past in an old, white pick up.
An elegant elderly black man, wearing a perfect suit from another time, climbed out of a car as antiquated as his style.
An overweight woman served up high fat fast-food with a Dolly Parton accent and a smile.
Two convicts from the 'county farm' swept the steps of the town hall: big, muscular men wearing green and white striped uniforms.
In the same grounds a memorial paid tribute to the Confederate soldiers who fought on to the bitter end during the American civil war.
It was quite a place, quite different from where I'd been before. There was a strong sense of the lazy rhythm of time, an undertone of continuity from Mississippi's past to its present.
Louisiana had given the impression of a would be phoenix, rising anew after the collapse of an old order. Southern Mississippi said - 'things are what they are here and they don't change anymore than necessary. '
It certainly was an interesting place to be.
Southern Mississippi is very hilly, though there are no hills as such. One can never point to a rounded dome and say “I'm going to climb to the top of that hill.” Yet wherever you travel go you are always going up or down.
That morning I climbed up and rolled down again and again, happy in the sunny evergreen woods. The sweet smell of pine filled my nostrils while crickets and songbirds sang out from hidden perches.
The state's native hardwood and long-leaved pine forests were thoroughly harvested by the end of the second world war . Nowadays the rolling slopes are covered with commercial fast growing pines, they still provide a home for a range of wild birds and animals.
In true American style, vast areas of the land here are given over to this lumber production.
The woods went on for ever as the hours and miles rolled by.
********************
Part 3
At lunchtime I briefly found myself on a busy dual carriageway, pedaling away in the shoulder as heavy traffic raced by. The shoulder disappeared all of a sudden just as a big pick up came flying past. I was forced off the tarmac and sent hurtling onto the bumpy verge.
Bitterly cursing the passing drivers, I awaited my chance to rejoin the flow. Back on the road it was hard to make progress: something on the bike was rubbing. After a few hundred yards I got off to inspect.
Two more spokes had snapped in the rear wheel making a total of four missing now, and all from the same side of the hub.
The wheel was so heavily buckled that the tyre was catching on the frame leaving behind a thicker layer of rubber with each rotation. In places a solitary spoke now took the strain on that side for an entire quarter wheel. I was worried these could blow at anytime with disatrous consequences.
The situation did not look good. I was still 130 miles from the nearest bike shop (in Alabama), it seemed a long way to try and ride in this condition.
I wondered if I could hitch a ride but judging by the demeanour of those passing by it would not be easy. The traffic was mostly SUVs and people carriers taking commuters and families to their homes. Their suspicious glances did not fill me with the confidence that outside help could be relied on.
Getting off the main highway and onto a back road, I took a moment to consider my options.
In the spirit of self reliance I fiddled with the tension of my remaining spokes with my large pair of pliers. To a limited extent it worked, I had managed to stop the tyre rubbing at least, however the problem of the vulnerable spokes remained.
I kept going, thinking I should try and get out of the residential area and into a wooded area where I could stop without infringing on anybody's patch.
The bike was riding like an absolute joke, a caricature of a worn out bike. With the back wheel visibly wobbling from side to side, it all felt pretty unstable. How on earth could I ride 130 miles like this? It would be heavy going that much was certain sure.
After a few miles I came up with an idea: I could take some spokes from the front wheel and use them to back up the survivors in the rear. However I would need a large adjustable spanner to do this and I didn't have one.
As luck would have it within minutes I came across an auto workshop. It was oddly situated on a semi-rural back road a few miles from the nearest small town.
With 2 hours to go before sunset I had no time to waste. I explained my situation to the man working there and asked if I could borrow a “wrench” and take my bike to pieces in the car park.
A little taken aback, he naturally agreed and I got straight to work - taking off the wheels and letting down the tyres, the removing the rear cassette and the broken spokes.
Initially the garage guy stood there taking photos of the spectacle with his phone. I shouldn't imagine it's everyday that an Englishman stops off to rapidly demolish his bike on the forecourt.
Soon he was joined by an other older man and it wasn't long before they wanted to get involved. In my experience the mechanically minded man cannot help but come to the aid of an incompetent fool who is trying to muddle his way through. This is one area in which I have extensive experience, being just such a fool, in fact it is largely thanks to this phenomenon that my bike, my van and my canoe are in full working order.
The spokes had broken off at the hub and the garage guys came up with a plan to bend hooks in broken ends and then to reinstall them. I concurred and by the time I had removed one spoke from the front wheel, all four broken spokes returned with newly hooked ends.
It soon became apparent that they could now longer reach their original attachment points on the wheel rim. However they would go directly out foregoing the usual criss-cross pattern one finds in spoked wheels.
With nothing to lose 3 of the improvised spokes were put in place, leaving the fourth with an impossibly large distance to span.Instead it was retired to the spares kit.
I tensioned the reclaimed spokes as best I could, but without a spoke key fine adjustment impossible. With daylight fading and 10 miles to go to a US forestry service campground, I quickly rebuilt my bike, thanked my hosts and set off on the double.
The wheel was still buckled but at least there were a few more spokes in place. The chances of the wheel surviving were surely increased. I planned try to adjust the tensions further in the morning when I had more time.
5 miles down the road I got a puncture in the back tyre. It was obviously just not my day. My fight or flight response kicked in as I changed the tyre in record time. Nonetheless it was dark by the time I got back on the road.
It was the last day of the hunting season and being a Friday night the national forest in which I planned to camp would probably be teeming with hunters. The mechanics had told me how, in recent years, 2 girls riding horses on a public trail were accidentally shot dead at the very same camp I planned to use.
As a cyclist moving quietly through the woods I risked the same fate. As it is very unusual for people to be traveling any distance without a motor vehicle, any quiet movement could be taken for a deer.
Turning onto the mile long dirt track that led down to the old POW camp, I sang out into the cold, starry night hoping to alert any lurking gunmen to my humanity.
“ Oh give me a home where the Buffalo Roam
“ and the deer and the Antelope play,
“Where seldom is heard a discouraging word
“and the skies are not cloudy or grey,
“ Home ,home on the range
sometime I would sing out
“Oh Please do not shoot me.
"I'm a person you know,
"and you do not want to go to jail.” And so on to the same tune.
I was relived to get to the campsite unscathed and upon discovering the sign 'Alligator in Lake', I opted for another night in the trees away from the water's edge. Besides the 'gators, the hammock is always a good choice in areas with wild pigs anyway.
Tonight at least I could wear enough clothes to keep warm and use a pillow for my weary head. I was mentally and emotionally exhausted, there hadn't been a dull moment since I crossed the state line the day before.
With another big rainstorm due to arrive tomorrow, I would need a good night's sleep to tackle the challenges I would face extracting myself from the heart of the Mississippi woods in the morning.
Sunday, January 31, 2010
High speed vocal locals, St Helena Parish, Louisiana. 24/1/2010
It would appear that somewhere along the way I have entered the realms of a new demographic. This first came to my attention at the oddly named Hyde Park campground whilst I waited for the Tornado to come or not as the case may be.
A group of young men were gathered under cover by the bathrooms. I got talking to them and discovered an altogether different style of speech from the other southerners I have met up to this point
They talked quickly, really quickly. Fast and high pitched. Maybe twice the speed of the sweet soft accents of the 'southern belles' I had met in Feliciana, or the super deep tones of the big black men I'd met that day.
These guys were really going for it and with strong southern accents. Their voices were lilted and melodic, somehow they still managed to stretch out and emphasise certain vowel sounds even as they raced their way enthusiastically through complicated sentences.
They were very hard to understand and they certainly struggled to understand me. I wondered what kind of people spoke like this. It reminded me of Brad Pit's parody of Irish Gypsies in the movie scratch.
Then it hit me, these guys were the American version of Liverpool's Scousers. Strong accents, high pitched voices, big personalities, sharp active minds and impossible to understand.
They were my first encounter with the infamous 'Rednecks' of the Deep South, a diverse group of poorly educated white folks who call the south their home.
Some may think the term Rednecks has a derogatory overtone, maybe it does. It wasn't their behavior that induced me to label them so, drinking beer, eating chicken and smoking cigarettes is pretty standard out here.
Nor was it the prison tattoo's and the conversations about when their friends and family would make parole. Nor the battered old caravans they were staying in, which looked like they had seen one hurricane too many. Nor their angry mongrel dogs on string.
For me the clincher was the fact they proudly described themselves as such when they offered me some chicken " Y'all want some Redneck Bar-B-Que chicken?".
I shared some chicken and a chat but didn't stick around too long. They were freindly and welcoming enough. However I got the impression that as the evening wore on, and the beers went down, all that energy was going to get a bit out of control. Somewhere along the line it was all going it end in tears and I did not want to be there when it happened.
Today has been full of interactions with the people of the very same ilk, fast talking high energy, could get aggro'hey calm down!' types.
American Scousers- who'd have thought it, they are everywhere in this little pocket of South Western Louisiana and they brightened up my day today.
A group of young men were gathered under cover by the bathrooms. I got talking to them and discovered an altogether different style of speech from the other southerners I have met up to this point
They talked quickly, really quickly. Fast and high pitched. Maybe twice the speed of the sweet soft accents of the 'southern belles' I had met in Feliciana, or the super deep tones of the big black men I'd met that day.
These guys were really going for it and with strong southern accents. Their voices were lilted and melodic, somehow they still managed to stretch out and emphasise certain vowel sounds even as they raced their way enthusiastically through complicated sentences.
They were very hard to understand and they certainly struggled to understand me. I wondered what kind of people spoke like this. It reminded me of Brad Pit's parody of Irish Gypsies in the movie scratch.
Then it hit me, these guys were the American version of Liverpool's Scousers. Strong accents, high pitched voices, big personalities, sharp active minds and impossible to understand.
They were my first encounter with the infamous 'Rednecks' of the Deep South, a diverse group of poorly educated white folks who call the south their home.
Some may think the term Rednecks has a derogatory overtone, maybe it does. It wasn't their behavior that induced me to label them so, drinking beer, eating chicken and smoking cigarettes is pretty standard out here.
Nor was it the prison tattoo's and the conversations about when their friends and family would make parole. Nor the battered old caravans they were staying in, which looked like they had seen one hurricane too many. Nor their angry mongrel dogs on string.
For me the clincher was the fact they proudly described themselves as such when they offered me some chicken " Y'all want some Redneck Bar-B-Que chicken?".
I shared some chicken and a chat but didn't stick around too long. They were freindly and welcoming enough. However I got the impression that as the evening wore on, and the beers went down, all that energy was going to get a bit out of control. Somewhere along the line it was all going it end in tears and I did not want to be there when it happened.
Today has been full of interactions with the people of the very same ilk, fast talking high energy, could get aggro'hey calm down!' types.
American Scousers- who'd have thought it, they are everywhere in this little pocket of South Western Louisiana and they brightened up my day today.
Missing post,
this one will follow in due course. Suffice it to say, I didn't stop riding nor did I get the bike fixed. It was a gamble but I wanted to see what the road had on offer next.
Sunday, January 24, 2010
The french connection, pt 2
In Cajun country the state roads are in terrible condition, worse than some dirt tracks I've ridden on. Rough surfaces create rolling resistance slowing a bike down in the same way a head wind or a flat tyre does. Meanwhile the fissures and pot holes jar the joints and rattle the bones.
With worn out shocks and half a continent behind me, my hands tingled and my wrists ached as I sought to keep the bike on the thin strips worn smoother by the wheels of passing cars.
Ironically towards the end of my time in Texas I had longed for the flat roads and tropical weather of Lousiana, only to find heavy rain and terrible riding conditions. It did detract from the pleasure of riding somewhat.
The Cajun farmers and hunters all have a certain look about them: short hair, broad shoulders, stocky builds and often with neat goatee beards. Cowboy hats are out and baseball hats are in.
I saw French names on roadsigns and I realised that these men actually did look a bit Gallic. A little fatter and less stylish than a true Frenchman perhaps, they had a certain 'je ne sais quoi' all the same.
I stopped in the historic town of Washington, Lousiana to treat myself to a quality meal. I spent 2 days food budget on one lunch in a famous Cajun restaurant- it was the best food I have eaten in the USA by far.
Families of locals were eating together with 3 or 4 generations together around the table, including young children. They were casually but stylishly dressed, freindly but relaxed and somehow rather cooler than the average country restaurant crowd. Take away the jazzy brass band music,the English language and the spicy food and one could very well have been in France.
It was becoming clear to me that it was impossible to camp out. The farms, swamps and large numbers of hunters left no safe space for a visiting vagabond. I would have to ride to Sportsville, a town 80 miles from Mamou.
Night arrived with 20 miles still to go. I was exhausted and annoyed: at the expense of hotels, the discomfort of the distance, the cold, but most of all the bloody dogs.
The perception of homeowners that they are liable to be attacked some unseen enemy , has prompted most to fill their gardens with dogs, angry barking dogs. Many dogs are not tied up, nor are they fenced in, either they learn to get out of the way of the vehicles or they die. I have seen many by the roadside who have met this fate.
The dogs came rushing out of the night at me, baying and growling, encircling my bike and giving me the fright of my life. All sorts of dogs came charging towards me: dobermans, pit bulls, lurchers, kelpies and jack russels. Often their owners were out hunting so there was no one there to call them back.
Some I out ran, others I screamed at, others I simply ignored and hoped for the best. I took to carrying my emergency whistle in my mouth and blasting it at the last minute to surprise and confuse them, a tactic I read about in a fellow cyclist's book.
It amazed me that not once was I bitten. Having run the gauntlet of a least a hundred hounds I escaped with only a hole in my panniers.
I finally arrived at Sportsville to find an impoverised town mostly populated by African Americans. There was something of an air of desperation about the place that night. Drunk and lost idividuals seemed to be wandering the poorly lit streets, sometimes slurring incomprhensibly as I passed. I imagine most sensible people were tucked up in their houses.
I did not feel imediately in danger for it was not a malevolent place, more of a hopeless one perhaps. I certainly did not feel like I belonged being sober, with enough money to travel and white, I stucj out like a sore thumb. I got off the streets pronto.
In the morning sun the town was a different place. Young and old alike waved or called out greetings as I passed by on my bike. I felt as if I could sense their African heritage somehow, their open freindliness reminded me of similarly honest welcomes I have experienced there. Their smiling faces lifted my spirits after a tough couple of days.
I stopped on the edge of town for food and chatted to the store owners for a while. A big black man, in an expensive looking pick up, with a deep, deep voice came over to hear about my journey.
"Well,welcome to the Deep South!" he laughed as he readied himslef to leave.
Then out of the blue :"You know it aint like they say........ that's my sister!" he pointed to the white shopkeeper "We all brothers and sisters down here and we all get along. You be sure to tell them that back home."
Whether it was completely true or not didn't matter to me. I was delighted to come across this kind of thinking. The way you see the world shapes the way it becomes, a kind of self fulfilling prophecy. Attitudes like these are exactly what is needed to create a more harmonious future. I was so pleased to see that they existed.
Bouyed by this encounter I was keen to get going and see who I would meet next. I clipped my bag onto the back of my bike and set off. 5 minutes down the road I had to stop because my chain had fallen off.
I'd left a loose bungeee on the back of my bike. It had fallen into the wheel, dislodged the chain and broken 2 spokes in my oh so hard working back wheel.
I had to carry on so I did.
As I ploughed through another dull day of fields, levees and dogs. I didn't meet a soul.
With a broken bike and no bike shop for 300 miles, no spare spokes or spoke key, nowhere to camp and having run out of money the trip was in trouble.
It was possible to escape to New Orleans and from there to go home.
As I crossed the Mississippi River at sunset and pedalled into St. Francisville, I decided to have a rest day and choose what to do. I really hadn't enjoyed my time in Louisiana so far. Flat land, fields, rain, hotels bills, dogs attacks and mutual mistrust don't really float my boat.
However this morning I had had a glimpse of a more forward looking aspect of the Deep South.
After all I've been through I would prefer to finish it on a high if I can.
With worn out shocks and half a continent behind me, my hands tingled and my wrists ached as I sought to keep the bike on the thin strips worn smoother by the wheels of passing cars.
Ironically towards the end of my time in Texas I had longed for the flat roads and tropical weather of Lousiana, only to find heavy rain and terrible riding conditions. It did detract from the pleasure of riding somewhat.
The Cajun farmers and hunters all have a certain look about them: short hair, broad shoulders, stocky builds and often with neat goatee beards. Cowboy hats are out and baseball hats are in.
I saw French names on roadsigns and I realised that these men actually did look a bit Gallic. A little fatter and less stylish than a true Frenchman perhaps, they had a certain 'je ne sais quoi' all the same.
I stopped in the historic town of Washington, Lousiana to treat myself to a quality meal. I spent 2 days food budget on one lunch in a famous Cajun restaurant- it was the best food I have eaten in the USA by far.
Families of locals were eating together with 3 or 4 generations together around the table, including young children. They were casually but stylishly dressed, freindly but relaxed and somehow rather cooler than the average country restaurant crowd. Take away the jazzy brass band music,the English language and the spicy food and one could very well have been in France.
It was becoming clear to me that it was impossible to camp out. The farms, swamps and large numbers of hunters left no safe space for a visiting vagabond. I would have to ride to Sportsville, a town 80 miles from Mamou.
Night arrived with 20 miles still to go. I was exhausted and annoyed: at the expense of hotels, the discomfort of the distance, the cold, but most of all the bloody dogs.
The perception of homeowners that they are liable to be attacked some unseen enemy , has prompted most to fill their gardens with dogs, angry barking dogs. Many dogs are not tied up, nor are they fenced in, either they learn to get out of the way of the vehicles or they die. I have seen many by the roadside who have met this fate.
The dogs came rushing out of the night at me, baying and growling, encircling my bike and giving me the fright of my life. All sorts of dogs came charging towards me: dobermans, pit bulls, lurchers, kelpies and jack russels. Often their owners were out hunting so there was no one there to call them back.
Some I out ran, others I screamed at, others I simply ignored and hoped for the best. I took to carrying my emergency whistle in my mouth and blasting it at the last minute to surprise and confuse them, a tactic I read about in a fellow cyclist's book.
It amazed me that not once was I bitten. Having run the gauntlet of a least a hundred hounds I escaped with only a hole in my panniers.
I finally arrived at Sportsville to find an impoverised town mostly populated by African Americans. There was something of an air of desperation about the place that night. Drunk and lost idividuals seemed to be wandering the poorly lit streets, sometimes slurring incomprhensibly as I passed. I imagine most sensible people were tucked up in their houses.
I did not feel imediately in danger for it was not a malevolent place, more of a hopeless one perhaps. I certainly did not feel like I belonged being sober, with enough money to travel and white, I stucj out like a sore thumb. I got off the streets pronto.
In the morning sun the town was a different place. Young and old alike waved or called out greetings as I passed by on my bike. I felt as if I could sense their African heritage somehow, their open freindliness reminded me of similarly honest welcomes I have experienced there. Their smiling faces lifted my spirits after a tough couple of days.
I stopped on the edge of town for food and chatted to the store owners for a while. A big black man, in an expensive looking pick up, with a deep, deep voice came over to hear about my journey.
"Well,welcome to the Deep South!" he laughed as he readied himslef to leave.
Then out of the blue :"You know it aint like they say........ that's my sister!" he pointed to the white shopkeeper "We all brothers and sisters down here and we all get along. You be sure to tell them that back home."
Whether it was completely true or not didn't matter to me. I was delighted to come across this kind of thinking. The way you see the world shapes the way it becomes, a kind of self fulfilling prophecy. Attitudes like these are exactly what is needed to create a more harmonious future. I was so pleased to see that they existed.
Bouyed by this encounter I was keen to get going and see who I would meet next. I clipped my bag onto the back of my bike and set off. 5 minutes down the road I had to stop because my chain had fallen off.
I'd left a loose bungeee on the back of my bike. It had fallen into the wheel, dislodged the chain and broken 2 spokes in my oh so hard working back wheel.
I had to carry on so I did.
As I ploughed through another dull day of fields, levees and dogs. I didn't meet a soul.
With a broken bike and no bike shop for 300 miles, no spare spokes or spoke key, nowhere to camp and having run out of money the trip was in trouble.
It was possible to escape to New Orleans and from there to go home.
As I crossed the Mississippi River at sunset and pedalled into St. Francisville, I decided to have a rest day and choose what to do. I really hadn't enjoyed my time in Louisiana so far. Flat land, fields, rain, hotels bills, dogs attacks and mutual mistrust don't really float my boat.
However this morning I had had a glimpse of a more forward looking aspect of the Deep South.
After all I've been through I would prefer to finish it on a high if I can.
The french connection, pt 1
Heading west from Oberlin, I entered Evangeline Parish. In Louisianna the state is divided into Parishes instead of counties, they amount to the same thing.
Evangeline Parish is part of a region known as Accadiana. This area was originally settled by people of French origin known as Accadians or Cajuns. The Accadians first settlled in Newfoundland, Canada but were later ejected by the British who wanted to ensure control of the region by setttling it with only their own people.
This ejection began a journey of Odysseyan proportions for the Accadians, taking them to France, French Guiana, French Polynesia, even the Falkland Islands in a search of a place to call thier own. Ultimately they settled in the swamps of what is now Western Louisiana.
The Accadians have maitained many aspects of their old culture such as festivals, customs, music, dance and cuisine. However their version of the French language is finally dying out, being spoken only by the older generation.
In the three days I spent in Cajun country, I was dissapointed not to hear a single word of their French dialect. Being a keen French speaker I would have been interested to see if I could understand, or indeed be understood .
Accadiana is very flat indeed. In fact I think it is the flattest place I've ever been.
Most of the land lies on a flood plain, and is actually below the level of the major rivers that surround and divide it.
Over the years huge dykes have been built up on either side of the big rivers in an attempt to contain them. The Mississipi River is particularly prone to finding a new path to the Gulf of Mexico every few years.
This is a natural phenomenon which has no doubt gone on for centuires. However it does not suit the modern towns and cities which have grown up alongside it, for the river to choose to be somewhere else instead.
Hence an ongoing struggle between man and river has ensued for over 2 centuries. Levees have grown higher and higher only for the river to burst through or over them just the same. Now the grassy levees rise 30ft above the flood plains, completely obscuring the river from view as you ride along.
Some of the flat fields are wetter than others. I passed by rice, sugar, cotton, grazing and hay. In the rice fields little lobster pots are placed in rows to catch freshwater crustaceans.Field sized ponds break up the 'dry' land. These are used to grow catfish, another key ingredient of Cajun food.
Water birds are plentiful I've seen egrets, herons, ibis, ducks, plovers and pelicans, all a keen to plunder the wetland's riches.
No doubt these parishes were all a swampy jungle 300 years ago. Most of the land has now been cleared but small wooded areas have been kept across the region. They give cover to the birds and to deer, possums and raccons which skulk in the shadows hoping not to be noticed.
Louisiana dubs itself a 'Sportsman's Paradise', a picture of a pelican accompanying the slogan on the car number plates. Hunting is more popular in Accadiana than anywhere else I've been.
Nearly every little clump of woods has a pick up parked nearby it at dusk, its occupants off in the trees hoping for a kill. The sport seems to cross more social and economic boundaries here than it did in Texas. With few fences there is a lot of public access to the land, legally or otherwise.
Unfortunately this results in hunters of all sorts in all sorts of places, Elmer Fudd may well be lurking somewhere in the Louisiana woods. The chances of geting shot by accident in the woods seems to me to be a lot higher here in the Deep South.
Soaked to the skin and surrounded by rice fields I decided to spend the night in a hotel in the town of Mamou. With the campsite closed for the winter and the tiny woods awash with gunmen, I didn't really have any choice.
The next morning as I left town, I started to doubt the accuracy of Johnny's version of Louisiana. Mamou was definately populated by both blacks and whites and they seemed to be getting along just fine, sharing a joke and working together.
However it was a Sunday morning and I did notice that the congregations leaving the churches were either one colour or the other. As an outsider it struck me as a little odd for Christians not to be united before The Lord.
Still, I reckoned Johnny and Edward's ideas of life in their state may have been a localised impression based on their own area. Possibly they were also little out of date, having grown up in a very different times.
Sometimes the world around us changes faster than our state of mind, leaving us with the idea that things are still how they used to be.
As I rode on I occasionally met people and one thing certainly wasconfirmed – a mindset of mutual mistrust is alive and well in rural Western Louisiana. Well meaning strangers of all sorts would allude to the danger posed by other people within their community.
This was the first time in nearly 2 months of camping and cycling in the USA that I had come across such a level of fear one another, I wondered how it came to be so.
Was this the legacy of slavery and the legally sanctioned social divisions that continued until the civil rights reforms in the sixties? Or was it the result of mass poverty due to mother nature's frequent violent outbursts across the state? Would this attitude prevail throughout the Deep South?
Time would tell...
Evangeline Parish is part of a region known as Accadiana. This area was originally settled by people of French origin known as Accadians or Cajuns. The Accadians first settlled in Newfoundland, Canada but were later ejected by the British who wanted to ensure control of the region by setttling it with only their own people.
This ejection began a journey of Odysseyan proportions for the Accadians, taking them to France, French Guiana, French Polynesia, even the Falkland Islands in a search of a place to call thier own. Ultimately they settled in the swamps of what is now Western Louisiana.
The Accadians have maitained many aspects of their old culture such as festivals, customs, music, dance and cuisine. However their version of the French language is finally dying out, being spoken only by the older generation.
In the three days I spent in Cajun country, I was dissapointed not to hear a single word of their French dialect. Being a keen French speaker I would have been interested to see if I could understand, or indeed be understood .
Accadiana is very flat indeed. In fact I think it is the flattest place I've ever been.
Most of the land lies on a flood plain, and is actually below the level of the major rivers that surround and divide it.
Over the years huge dykes have been built up on either side of the big rivers in an attempt to contain them. The Mississipi River is particularly prone to finding a new path to the Gulf of Mexico every few years.
This is a natural phenomenon which has no doubt gone on for centuires. However it does not suit the modern towns and cities which have grown up alongside it, for the river to choose to be somewhere else instead.
Hence an ongoing struggle between man and river has ensued for over 2 centuries. Levees have grown higher and higher only for the river to burst through or over them just the same. Now the grassy levees rise 30ft above the flood plains, completely obscuring the river from view as you ride along.
Some of the flat fields are wetter than others. I passed by rice, sugar, cotton, grazing and hay. In the rice fields little lobster pots are placed in rows to catch freshwater crustaceans.Field sized ponds break up the 'dry' land. These are used to grow catfish, another key ingredient of Cajun food.
Water birds are plentiful I've seen egrets, herons, ibis, ducks, plovers and pelicans, all a keen to plunder the wetland's riches.
No doubt these parishes were all a swampy jungle 300 years ago. Most of the land has now been cleared but small wooded areas have been kept across the region. They give cover to the birds and to deer, possums and raccons which skulk in the shadows hoping not to be noticed.
Louisiana dubs itself a 'Sportsman's Paradise', a picture of a pelican accompanying the slogan on the car number plates. Hunting is more popular in Accadiana than anywhere else I've been.
Nearly every little clump of woods has a pick up parked nearby it at dusk, its occupants off in the trees hoping for a kill. The sport seems to cross more social and economic boundaries here than it did in Texas. With few fences there is a lot of public access to the land, legally or otherwise.
Unfortunately this results in hunters of all sorts in all sorts of places, Elmer Fudd may well be lurking somewhere in the Louisiana woods. The chances of geting shot by accident in the woods seems to me to be a lot higher here in the Deep South.
Soaked to the skin and surrounded by rice fields I decided to spend the night in a hotel in the town of Mamou. With the campsite closed for the winter and the tiny woods awash with gunmen, I didn't really have any choice.
The next morning as I left town, I started to doubt the accuracy of Johnny's version of Louisiana. Mamou was definately populated by both blacks and whites and they seemed to be getting along just fine, sharing a joke and working together.
However it was a Sunday morning and I did notice that the congregations leaving the churches were either one colour or the other. As an outsider it struck me as a little odd for Christians not to be united before The Lord.
Still, I reckoned Johnny and Edward's ideas of life in their state may have been a localised impression based on their own area. Possibly they were also little out of date, having grown up in a very different times.
Sometimes the world around us changes faster than our state of mind, leaving us with the idea that things are still how they used to be.
As I rode on I occasionally met people and one thing certainly wasconfirmed – a mindset of mutual mistrust is alive and well in rural Western Louisiana. Well meaning strangers of all sorts would allude to the danger posed by other people within their community.
This was the first time in nearly 2 months of camping and cycling in the USA that I had come across such a level of fear one another, I wondered how it came to be so.
Was this the legacy of slavery and the legally sanctioned social divisions that continued until the civil rights reforms in the sixties? Or was it the result of mass poverty due to mother nature's frequent violent outbursts across the state? Would this attitude prevail throughout the Deep South?
Time would tell...
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
Encounters with Louisianans,pt 2. Jonny.16/1/2010
I decided to get back on the bike, it was still too early to eat and the coffee was still coursing through my veins. According to the map there was another cafe 10 miles down the road. However when I got there, an hour later, it turned out to be a canoe rental business only open in the summer.
There was no end to the deluge in sight. Hungry and wet, I pedalled on to keep warm. The next possible refreshment/shelter stop was in the town of Oberlin 15 miles away, it would take at least an hour to get there.
Another pick up had pulled over ahead. I tried not to wonder if it's occupants were going to offer me a lift, twice in one day would be too much to hope for. It also crossed my mind they might be waiting there to rob me.
As I approached it became clear that they had a flat tyre. I stopped to see if they needed any help.
"Do unto others as you would be done" I thought.
The man under the battered old pick-up had it all in hand.
"Tell him we'll give him a ride once I've fixed this up", he hollered to the woman who was waiting, shivering in the rain.
"I thought I should stop and pick you up," he said as he climbed from underneath the vehicle, "but we already passed you so I didn't.
"Then this happens straight away. Must be God punishing me" he smiled.
He was short and slightly built white guy in his fifties. He had the tanned leathery skin of one who has spent his life outside; scruffy clothes; shoulder length hair and a foot-long pointy grey beard. He had a big open smile and gentle look in his eyes.
I liked him straight away.
He spoke with a strong southern accent but in an alert, animated manner which is unusual in this part of the world. Many everyday southerners speak slowly and sometimes with a slight slur to their words.
It gives the impression, rightly or wrongly, that things are taking a while to be processed. Some come across as being relaxed and easy going, others as not really all there maybe.
However appearances can be very deceptive and at this stage I believe this trait is as much a reflection of the pace of life as anything else.
I climbed into the pick up and we got on our way.
"Don't mind the guns, we ain't robbers." he explained " If we see a deer at the side of the road we'll shoot it and eat it."
Looking around I saw a rifle on the floor across the cab, now held in place by my calves, and unspent shotgun cartridges on the dashboard. I assured them I was getting used to weapons now after 6 weeks in the country.
Jonny and his wife Sarah lived just up the road. They were on their way into town to buy beer and cigarettes.
They offered me a cigarette and when I declined they asked me if they could smoke. It has been my experience so far that smokers in the US consider the feelings of non-smokers even when in their own domain. Maybe it's just the kind of people I am lucky enough to meet. Personally I don't mind if people smoke around me but many would appreciate this courtesy I'm sure.
Jonny told me he was a world traveller, who had put his roaming life on hold to take care of his elderly father. He had hitch-hiked from Louisiana to Alaska twice in his life, although he might not be let into Canada anymore thanks to a marijuana conviction.
He had also served in the military during the Vietnam war but had been stationed in Thailand. He had never been shot at nor had he shot anyone. However he did not escape South East Asia unscathed: like plenty of his peers he came back home a shadow of his former self.
Being young men looking to enjoy themselves in an exotic land they had started out on the weed, top quality Thai Stick at that. Soon enough they moved onto opium. After a while they pretty much gave up eating, living instead on the freely available Dexedrine energy pills.
Eventually the opium was replaced by heroin and before they knew what had happened a number of America's finest were addicted to the hardest of hard drugs.
Jonny said he was 160 lbs when he arrived in Thailand and left weighing less than 90. Luckily he came back to the rural Deep South where these substances just didn't exist, it probably saved his life.
Nowadays Jon gets work operating heavy machinery when he can, it has taken him all over the US. He has also developed a fascination with history, religion and amateur archeology- searching in the mud for artifacts of bygone times.
He was a complicated fellow who had already lived a crazy life, that much was clear to see.
We stopped outside town to pick up the case of beer. Then went to park under a nearby bridge, they wanted to have a drink and a chat. Open alcohol containers are banned within many city limits.
The muddy Calsecieu River meanders between curving sand banks as it winds it's way towards the Gulf of Mexico. Though unimpressive here, a few miles downstream it is wide enough to take ocean going craft.
When Jonny was a boy there were no sand banks on the river. Forty years later they are 20ft wide in places. Deforestation is to blame apparently, clearing the land upstream has led to soil erosion. Without the trees the sand and silt is washed away during floods and deposited in the river where the flow slows as the valley widens.
The forests in western Louisiana are diverse hardwood, wetland forests. Striking flowering trees like Southern Magnolia and Bay stand alongside Holly, Oak, Beech, Cypresses and too many others to list. It is home to hundreds of specialised birds and animals.
According to Jon, logging is still big business and more hardwood forest is being lost everyday. Some goes for quality hardwood products but most just goes as chippings to the state's paper mills.
It was exactly the same story as I'd seen, with my own eyes, in the unique temperate rain forests of Southern Tasmania. Surely we can make enough paper from recycling and renewable forests to avoid destroying these natural treasures.
How can we expect the struggling economies of the developing world to slow their harvesting of primary forest while the wealthiest nations continue the folly?
I ran through my planned route with my hosts. They wanted to warn me I would be passing through some black areas, I explained I very much welcome encounters with all the American people.
Jonny said I needed to understand that society is still very divided in Louisiana, he said black and white people may work together in the day but they live separately at night and won't be found mixing in the little country bars for example.
I told him what Edward had said about being scared to be in a white area after dark.
He said it wasn't necessary to be that worried anymore. Louisiana had certainly been a stronghold for 'The Clan' but now they operated only in great secrecy because the FBI was after them.
They threw their beer cans on the floor and told me to do the same. They come and collect the beer cans regularly to exchange for money. Although I was reluctant to do so, I did believe them, there weren't many old cans there at all. Plus I got the impression they didn't have 2 pennies to rub together.
Jon and Sarah left me at a fried chicken restaurant in Oberlin, Louisiana with a can of beer in my rucksack and plenty to mull over in my mind.
Logging, segregation, The Clan...it didn't sound like my kind of place at all and I still had 30 miles to ride on my first full day in the state.
There was no end to the deluge in sight. Hungry and wet, I pedalled on to keep warm. The next possible refreshment/shelter stop was in the town of Oberlin 15 miles away, it would take at least an hour to get there.
Another pick up had pulled over ahead. I tried not to wonder if it's occupants were going to offer me a lift, twice in one day would be too much to hope for. It also crossed my mind they might be waiting there to rob me.
As I approached it became clear that they had a flat tyre. I stopped to see if they needed any help.
"Do unto others as you would be done" I thought.
The man under the battered old pick-up had it all in hand.
"Tell him we'll give him a ride once I've fixed this up", he hollered to the woman who was waiting, shivering in the rain.
"I thought I should stop and pick you up," he said as he climbed from underneath the vehicle, "but we already passed you so I didn't.
"Then this happens straight away. Must be God punishing me" he smiled.
He was short and slightly built white guy in his fifties. He had the tanned leathery skin of one who has spent his life outside; scruffy clothes; shoulder length hair and a foot-long pointy grey beard. He had a big open smile and gentle look in his eyes.
I liked him straight away.
He spoke with a strong southern accent but in an alert, animated manner which is unusual in this part of the world. Many everyday southerners speak slowly and sometimes with a slight slur to their words.
It gives the impression, rightly or wrongly, that things are taking a while to be processed. Some come across as being relaxed and easy going, others as not really all there maybe.
However appearances can be very deceptive and at this stage I believe this trait is as much a reflection of the pace of life as anything else.
I climbed into the pick up and we got on our way.
"Don't mind the guns, we ain't robbers." he explained " If we see a deer at the side of the road we'll shoot it and eat it."
Looking around I saw a rifle on the floor across the cab, now held in place by my calves, and unspent shotgun cartridges on the dashboard. I assured them I was getting used to weapons now after 6 weeks in the country.
Jonny and his wife Sarah lived just up the road. They were on their way into town to buy beer and cigarettes.
They offered me a cigarette and when I declined they asked me if they could smoke. It has been my experience so far that smokers in the US consider the feelings of non-smokers even when in their own domain. Maybe it's just the kind of people I am lucky enough to meet. Personally I don't mind if people smoke around me but many would appreciate this courtesy I'm sure.
Jonny told me he was a world traveller, who had put his roaming life on hold to take care of his elderly father. He had hitch-hiked from Louisiana to Alaska twice in his life, although he might not be let into Canada anymore thanks to a marijuana conviction.
He had also served in the military during the Vietnam war but had been stationed in Thailand. He had never been shot at nor had he shot anyone. However he did not escape South East Asia unscathed: like plenty of his peers he came back home a shadow of his former self.
Being young men looking to enjoy themselves in an exotic land they had started out on the weed, top quality Thai Stick at that. Soon enough they moved onto opium. After a while they pretty much gave up eating, living instead on the freely available Dexedrine energy pills.
Eventually the opium was replaced by heroin and before they knew what had happened a number of America's finest were addicted to the hardest of hard drugs.
Jonny said he was 160 lbs when he arrived in Thailand and left weighing less than 90. Luckily he came back to the rural Deep South where these substances just didn't exist, it probably saved his life.
Nowadays Jon gets work operating heavy machinery when he can, it has taken him all over the US. He has also developed a fascination with history, religion and amateur archeology- searching in the mud for artifacts of bygone times.
He was a complicated fellow who had already lived a crazy life, that much was clear to see.
We stopped outside town to pick up the case of beer. Then went to park under a nearby bridge, they wanted to have a drink and a chat. Open alcohol containers are banned within many city limits.
The muddy Calsecieu River meanders between curving sand banks as it winds it's way towards the Gulf of Mexico. Though unimpressive here, a few miles downstream it is wide enough to take ocean going craft.
When Jonny was a boy there were no sand banks on the river. Forty years later they are 20ft wide in places. Deforestation is to blame apparently, clearing the land upstream has led to soil erosion. Without the trees the sand and silt is washed away during floods and deposited in the river where the flow slows as the valley widens.
The forests in western Louisiana are diverse hardwood, wetland forests. Striking flowering trees like Southern Magnolia and Bay stand alongside Holly, Oak, Beech, Cypresses and too many others to list. It is home to hundreds of specialised birds and animals.
According to Jon, logging is still big business and more hardwood forest is being lost everyday. Some goes for quality hardwood products but most just goes as chippings to the state's paper mills.
It was exactly the same story as I'd seen, with my own eyes, in the unique temperate rain forests of Southern Tasmania. Surely we can make enough paper from recycling and renewable forests to avoid destroying these natural treasures.
How can we expect the struggling economies of the developing world to slow their harvesting of primary forest while the wealthiest nations continue the folly?
I ran through my planned route with my hosts. They wanted to warn me I would be passing through some black areas, I explained I very much welcome encounters with all the American people.
Jonny said I needed to understand that society is still very divided in Louisiana, he said black and white people may work together in the day but they live separately at night and won't be found mixing in the little country bars for example.
I told him what Edward had said about being scared to be in a white area after dark.
He said it wasn't necessary to be that worried anymore. Louisiana had certainly been a stronghold for 'The Clan' but now they operated only in great secrecy because the FBI was after them.
They threw their beer cans on the floor and told me to do the same. They come and collect the beer cans regularly to exchange for money. Although I was reluctant to do so, I did believe them, there weren't many old cans there at all. Plus I got the impression they didn't have 2 pennies to rub together.
Jon and Sarah left me at a fried chicken restaurant in Oberlin, Louisiana with a can of beer in my rucksack and plenty to mull over in my mind.
Logging, segregation, The Clan...it didn't sound like my kind of place at all and I still had 30 miles to ride on my first full day in the state.
Monday, January 18, 2010
Encounters with Louisianans, pt 1. Edward. 16/1/2010
It rained all night and I slept well.
It was still raining when I woke up, I guess all the water in those swamps has to come from somewhere. I didn't want to get out of the bivvy bag to ride in the rain.
I couldn't stay in the woods all day, I didn't have much food or water plus I wouldn't find out anything new about Louisiana from my hammock. I forced myself to get up and get on with it.
An hour and a half later I was kind of getting into it. Even though I was soaked to the skin, I wasn't uncomfortable riding. There was no wind, I guessed it was about 15 degrees C and I was making good time.
I stopped in the town of Deridder to pick up a coffee and have a little break form the torrential onslaught. The Indian clerk said he was just visiting for 6 months. He told me he was enjoying living in the small town. He said it was populated with good, honest people and has the highest number of churches of any town in the USA.
Back on the road I was keen to get moving. I was trying to warm up having got a bit cold when I stopped. There was no shoulder in town and the traffic was fairly heavy. The rain was coming down really hard now, it was almost monsoon like in nature. The fun element of riding in the rain was wearing off fast.
Time for the 'carry on regardless' attitude without which there would be few British outdoor enthusiasts. I set myself a target destination, 20 miles down the road, to make by lunchtime.
However I hadn't even made it out of town before a man had pulled in to offer me a lift.
The old but well kept pick-up had the words, "God loves us all equally" written on the back windscreen in large stick-on letters . The driver said he would take me the 20 miles to my lunch stop, he had wanted an opportunity to help someone that day.
Edward was a quietly spoken, middle aged black man. He was simply but neatly dressed, with a deep voice and an old fashioned accent. His eyes were wide and kind and he had an open, dignified poise.
"I've learnt to always take care what I say to people." he explained, "You never know when you might be speaking to an angel."
He was obviously very inspired by his faith. He had been born again he told me, renounced his old ways and found a new purpose in life. He viewed giving me lift as a chance to help me on my way spiritually as well as physically.
Looking me deep in the eyes he spoke to me benevolently, as if he already knew who I was. Occasionally touching his bible, he calmly shared his perspective with me in a remarkably amenable way. This really was his calling, spreading The Good News, a true grass roots evangelist.
Much of what he said struck a chord with me. He talked about how mankind has lost it's way in the world, lost touch with the creative forces that gave us all life. How people need to take a look at what was happening around them and focus on what really matters.
He spoke about how powerful people around the world use all sorts of means to control mankind's direction to suit their own intentions. For a poor man living in a small rural town in the Deep South he was certainly very aware of what goes on elsewhere, more so than many.
Despite his charismatic persona and the appeal of his ideas, I just couldn't make the connection that what he was proposing as the solution to all these problems.
I do have a great respect for religious people though. In my travels around the world I have found those of faith to be good people. They are usually trustworthy and reliable, especially in places where many others may not be so. They live by a strong code of right and wrong, I try to do the same.
However either you have faith of you don't and whether I like it or not, I remain a man who does not.
As we raced along the wet country roads, I realised I was a bit scared we might skid and crash. It just like the last time I got a lift in the rain on the interstate, except this time the conditions really weren't that bad.
After nearly 2 months on a bike, perhaps I have become unaccustomed to motorised transport. To me it seems unnatural and a little unsettling to exceed 25 miles an hour now.
Aside from the plight of my soul, Edward also shared another telling tale. Once he gave man a lift to the very same spot only for the car to break down leaving him stranded. It is a white area, he said and as it was nearly sunset, he was scared to be there. He was all set to call a friend to rescue him but his vehicle came to life in the nick of time.
As we parted company I was left a little stunned, both the strength of his convictions and the implications of his story had had quite an effect on me.
I had found out a little more about the mentality of the Deep South but I really didn't know what to make of it.
It was still raining when I woke up, I guess all the water in those swamps has to come from somewhere. I didn't want to get out of the bivvy bag to ride in the rain.
I couldn't stay in the woods all day, I didn't have much food or water plus I wouldn't find out anything new about Louisiana from my hammock. I forced myself to get up and get on with it.
An hour and a half later I was kind of getting into it. Even though I was soaked to the skin, I wasn't uncomfortable riding. There was no wind, I guessed it was about 15 degrees C and I was making good time.
I stopped in the town of Deridder to pick up a coffee and have a little break form the torrential onslaught. The Indian clerk said he was just visiting for 6 months. He told me he was enjoying living in the small town. He said it was populated with good, honest people and has the highest number of churches of any town in the USA.
Back on the road I was keen to get moving. I was trying to warm up having got a bit cold when I stopped. There was no shoulder in town and the traffic was fairly heavy. The rain was coming down really hard now, it was almost monsoon like in nature. The fun element of riding in the rain was wearing off fast.
Time for the 'carry on regardless' attitude without which there would be few British outdoor enthusiasts. I set myself a target destination, 20 miles down the road, to make by lunchtime.
However I hadn't even made it out of town before a man had pulled in to offer me a lift.
The old but well kept pick-up had the words, "God loves us all equally" written on the back windscreen in large stick-on letters . The driver said he would take me the 20 miles to my lunch stop, he had wanted an opportunity to help someone that day.
Edward was a quietly spoken, middle aged black man. He was simply but neatly dressed, with a deep voice and an old fashioned accent. His eyes were wide and kind and he had an open, dignified poise.
"I've learnt to always take care what I say to people." he explained, "You never know when you might be speaking to an angel."
He was obviously very inspired by his faith. He had been born again he told me, renounced his old ways and found a new purpose in life. He viewed giving me lift as a chance to help me on my way spiritually as well as physically.
Looking me deep in the eyes he spoke to me benevolently, as if he already knew who I was. Occasionally touching his bible, he calmly shared his perspective with me in a remarkably amenable way. This really was his calling, spreading The Good News, a true grass roots evangelist.
Much of what he said struck a chord with me. He talked about how mankind has lost it's way in the world, lost touch with the creative forces that gave us all life. How people need to take a look at what was happening around them and focus on what really matters.
He spoke about how powerful people around the world use all sorts of means to control mankind's direction to suit their own intentions. For a poor man living in a small rural town in the Deep South he was certainly very aware of what goes on elsewhere, more so than many.
Despite his charismatic persona and the appeal of his ideas, I just couldn't make the connection that what he was proposing as the solution to all these problems.
I do have a great respect for religious people though. In my travels around the world I have found those of faith to be good people. They are usually trustworthy and reliable, especially in places where many others may not be so. They live by a strong code of right and wrong, I try to do the same.
However either you have faith of you don't and whether I like it or not, I remain a man who does not.
As we raced along the wet country roads, I realised I was a bit scared we might skid and crash. It just like the last time I got a lift in the rain on the interstate, except this time the conditions really weren't that bad.
After nearly 2 months on a bike, perhaps I have become unaccustomed to motorised transport. To me it seems unnatural and a little unsettling to exceed 25 miles an hour now.
Aside from the plight of my soul, Edward also shared another telling tale. Once he gave man a lift to the very same spot only for the car to break down leaving him stranded. It is a white area, he said and as it was nearly sunset, he was scared to be there. He was all set to call a friend to rescue him but his vehicle came to life in the nick of time.
As we parted company I was left a little stunned, both the strength of his convictions and the implications of his story had had quite an effect on me.
I had found out a little more about the mentality of the Deep South but I really didn't know what to make of it.
Arriving in Louisiana, 15/1/2010
It was a fitting end to my time in Texas: a long struggle to reach the state line. Under grey skies with the wind blowing into my face, I paid dear for every yard to finally leave the Lone Star State.
The evening was drawing in as I crossed the Sabine river and entered Louisiana.I was disappointed there was no sign to welcome new arrivals. However a fellow enthusiast had vandalized the 1 mile marker ' Welcome to Louisiana...Yay!'.
Swamps lined the roadside, home to hardwood trees of many kinds. Tall cypresses stood with their feet in the stagnant pools, muddy creeks wound between islands thick with trees and undergrowth. Put this sub-tropical hardwood forest in a more 'exotic' country and it would no doubt be called jungle.
I doubted it would be possible to walk into the swamps and string up a hammock without sinking into the soggy ground. There is also a dark and foreboding air to the waterlogged Louisiana woods. I was in two minds as to whether I wanted to spend the night there.
I thought perhaps a night in a campsite would give me an insight into the attitudes of this state, a good basis for deciding where to stay in the future. I pressed on to the town of Merryville, only to find the campsite was closed.
With 20 miles to the next town and the light fading I hurried out of Merryville to search for a place to crash. I turned down a side road signposted to an evangelical church with a very long name and wandered into the commercial pine forest that surrounds it.
These pine woods had a spooky atmosphere all of their own. Mists drifted between the trees as I cooked my dinner at dusk. With the humidity rising, darkness brought the call of hundreds unseen frogs ringing out into the night sky.
In bed by seven, I settled in and waited for the storm to break.
A surprising number of cars were turning down the dead end road. I had not expected an out of town Baptist Church to be so busy on a Friday night.
Paranoia started to play on my mind. Had someone spotted me sneaking into the woods? Were they congregating to decide what to do? Would a group of angry locals be heading in to find me with bloodhounds, shotguns and flashlights? Was I to be a the centre of an old fashioned lynching?
Of course not, I assured myself, imagination was getting carried away again. I was scared of the unknown I suppose, or of the picture painted of the Deep South the media.
Perhaps I'd spent too much time on my own. The mind can come up with all kinds of crazy rubbish when it has no first hand knowledge.
If 'ignorance is bliss', as they say, then 'prejudice is fear'.
What I needed was to meet some people here, to get a feel for the Deep South region.
It is reputably the most distinct and separate culture in the lower 48.
The evening was drawing in as I crossed the Sabine river and entered Louisiana.I was disappointed there was no sign to welcome new arrivals. However a fellow enthusiast had vandalized the 1 mile marker ' Welcome to Louisiana...Yay!'.
Swamps lined the roadside, home to hardwood trees of many kinds. Tall cypresses stood with their feet in the stagnant pools, muddy creeks wound between islands thick with trees and undergrowth. Put this sub-tropical hardwood forest in a more 'exotic' country and it would no doubt be called jungle.
I doubted it would be possible to walk into the swamps and string up a hammock without sinking into the soggy ground. There is also a dark and foreboding air to the waterlogged Louisiana woods. I was in two minds as to whether I wanted to spend the night there.
I thought perhaps a night in a campsite would give me an insight into the attitudes of this state, a good basis for deciding where to stay in the future. I pressed on to the town of Merryville, only to find the campsite was closed.
With 20 miles to the next town and the light fading I hurried out of Merryville to search for a place to crash. I turned down a side road signposted to an evangelical church with a very long name and wandered into the commercial pine forest that surrounds it.
These pine woods had a spooky atmosphere all of their own. Mists drifted between the trees as I cooked my dinner at dusk. With the humidity rising, darkness brought the call of hundreds unseen frogs ringing out into the night sky.
In bed by seven, I settled in and waited for the storm to break.
A surprising number of cars were turning down the dead end road. I had not expected an out of town Baptist Church to be so busy on a Friday night.
Paranoia started to play on my mind. Had someone spotted me sneaking into the woods? Were they congregating to decide what to do? Would a group of angry locals be heading in to find me with bloodhounds, shotguns and flashlights? Was I to be a the centre of an old fashioned lynching?
Of course not, I assured myself, imagination was getting carried away again. I was scared of the unknown I suppose, or of the picture painted of the Deep South the media.
Perhaps I'd spent too much time on my own. The mind can come up with all kinds of crazy rubbish when it has no first hand knowledge.
If 'ignorance is bliss', as they say, then 'prejudice is fear'.
What I needed was to meet some people here, to get a feel for the Deep South region.
It is reputably the most distinct and separate culture in the lower 48.
Thursday, January 14, 2010
Goodbye Texas
I have now ridden over 2,000 miles. 1,000 of those have been in the State of Texas. I have been in Texas for 26 days. Tomorrow I will leave for Louisiana and the deep south.
Texas is enormous, 20% larger than France or twice the size of Germany.
It could very much be its own country, indeed it was for a while in the 19th century after overthrowing the Mexicans.
They have oil, land, cattle, wood, water even coastline. The state lives off its assets and I do not get the impression that the recession has hit hard around here.
It is certainly not a homogeneous place. Almost every type of environment is well represented within it's borders. Along my route I have passed through high deserts, mountains, vast bushy plains, wooded hills, homely valleys, big cities, rich farmland, tall pine forests and dense thickets.
There are many different types of people living here from all walks of life with different attitudes, agendas and prejudices just like the rest of us. However the citizens of Texas retain a strong sense of identity and state pride. They are often territorial and independent, resisting all interference from the outside in their affairs.
Moreover they are courteous, thoughtful and hospitable people. Not all country Texans will gush forth pleasantries the second they meet you, they may take a while to size you up. However their quiet interest in your well being is most sincerely meant. I have found the many good people of Texas will do whatever thay can to help a stranger on their way.
I have been given advice, lifts, food, I've even been taken into people's homes on several occasions. I cannot count the number of times passing motorists have stopped to see if I needed help when I've stopped on quiet country roads.
My journey through the state has been a pleasure and chore, a journey of discovery and of many challenges. The weather has been extreme, the media are calling it the arctic blast. It has been the coldest winter here for 20 years.
I did not come here just to get away from the cold. I wanted to escape the boredom and frustration of the short days and long nights of the UK winter. I wanted something to do.
I saw an opportunity to explore somewhere I had never been and to go on an adventurous journey.
It certainly has been that. Texas has put me through my paces. I am glad I came here and pleased to have experienced this previously unknown land first hand. I will look back on my time in the Lone Star State with affection. There's a lot to love about the place.
Still, after nearly a month of camping in sub-zero temperatures, frozen feet, icy headwinds and gun toting locals: I am leaving for the tropics in the morning - at last.
Texas is enormous, 20% larger than France or twice the size of Germany.
It could very much be its own country, indeed it was for a while in the 19th century after overthrowing the Mexicans.
They have oil, land, cattle, wood, water even coastline. The state lives off its assets and I do not get the impression that the recession has hit hard around here.
It is certainly not a homogeneous place. Almost every type of environment is well represented within it's borders. Along my route I have passed through high deserts, mountains, vast bushy plains, wooded hills, homely valleys, big cities, rich farmland, tall pine forests and dense thickets.
There are many different types of people living here from all walks of life with different attitudes, agendas and prejudices just like the rest of us. However the citizens of Texas retain a strong sense of identity and state pride. They are often territorial and independent, resisting all interference from the outside in their affairs.
Moreover they are courteous, thoughtful and hospitable people. Not all country Texans will gush forth pleasantries the second they meet you, they may take a while to size you up. However their quiet interest in your well being is most sincerely meant. I have found the many good people of Texas will do whatever thay can to help a stranger on their way.
I have been given advice, lifts, food, I've even been taken into people's homes on several occasions. I cannot count the number of times passing motorists have stopped to see if I needed help when I've stopped on quiet country roads.
My journey through the state has been a pleasure and chore, a journey of discovery and of many challenges. The weather has been extreme, the media are calling it the arctic blast. It has been the coldest winter here for 20 years.
I did not come here just to get away from the cold. I wanted to escape the boredom and frustration of the short days and long nights of the UK winter. I wanted something to do.
I saw an opportunity to explore somewhere I had never been and to go on an adventurous journey.
It certainly has been that. Texas has put me through my paces. I am glad I came here and pleased to have experienced this previously unknown land first hand. I will look back on my time in the Lone Star State with affection. There's a lot to love about the place.
Still, after nearly a month of camping in sub-zero temperatures, frozen feet, icy headwinds and gun toting locals: I am leaving for the tropics in the morning - at last.
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
Note from the East Texas Pine Forests, 12/1/2010
I have entered a different world, perhaps a taste of things to come.
They have an expression here in Texas, a variation a theme heard all over the world:
"If you don't like the weather in Texas, wait a while and there'll be something different along."
In my limited experience there is some truth to it. However I have been to places with far more fickle weather, notably small temperate islands.
To me the weather in Texas seems relatively stable, a front comes in and everybody knows it's coming well in advance. It stays for a few days or maybe a week then something new but not drastically different comes by.
Perhaps a more relevant expression for me would be:
"If you don't like where you are in Texas, ride for a few days and you'll be somewhere remarkably different."
This new world I've entered is one of huge pine forest with dense understorey vegetation, often so thick it would be impenetrable pushing the bike. It's a world of tranquil lakes and muddy brown creeks, of dawn chorus and things that go bump in the night.
This is the world of the Sam Houston National Forest and surrounds, one of the places in Texas earmarked for outdoor recreation for the masses. All manner outdoor activities are taking place here hunting (both shooting and archery), biking, hiking, camping, horse riding, fishing, boating.
There is a hiking trail over 100 miles long, 'The Lone Star Trail' is the only one in Texas. There's even a small wilderness area where wild camping is actually permitted.
This National Forest is a wonderful place.
I spent the night in my hammock deep in the forest, beside a peaceful lake. A beaver swam by as I put up my bed, the first I'd ever seen.
Brilliant.
Although I left no trace of my stop over, others had not been so careful. The path on the way into the woods was littered with hundreds of coffee and soda cups along with other rubbish.
Leaving the park this moring I expected a return to tiresome grazing country but it was not forthcoming. There are houses amongst the trees, fields, sometimes even whole towns but overall there is a feeling of living inside the forest.
The humidity is on the increase giving the place a sub tropical feel. Although it is not hot, I can feel it in the middle of the day. I am peeling of the layers as I sweat my way up the little hills.
The demographic is different here too. The churches' names have taken on an Evangelical tone - like Missionary Baptist , New Hope or Gospel. This land was settled by the freed slaves long ago and their descendants are all around.
Until now I have only come across African Americans in the major cities. Here in far east Texas they are very much a part of country life and seem to make up the majority of the populations living in the small towns.
So far I like it around here. I am camping deep in the dark woods tonight, without trespassing on private land. It is much more pleasant than a roadside camp, even if the roads are incredibly quiet out west.
There is a wonderful feeling of being in amongst nature here. When I'm tucked up in my bed, the forest comes alive at night. I have no idea what is out there but I like the way it sounds.
I know bears, cougars and pigs live in far east Texas. The bears at least are very rare indeed.
I cook and eat in one place and tie my food up high, suspended between two trees. I sleep somewhere else, a good distance away. Hopefully this stops animals getting attracted to my location, which in turn stops the cougars from getting attracted to the other animals.
I think the hammock is a safer choice than the tent. I can tie it up high and sleep out of reach of the wild pigs that roam these woods. Tonight it was so high up I could only just get in!
I like the promise of warmer climes to come and different people to meet too. It is good to have something to look forward to. This donkey needs a carrot to chase.
Louisiana is now only a couple of days away now.
They have an expression here in Texas, a variation a theme heard all over the world:
"If you don't like the weather in Texas, wait a while and there'll be something different along."
In my limited experience there is some truth to it. However I have been to places with far more fickle weather, notably small temperate islands.
To me the weather in Texas seems relatively stable, a front comes in and everybody knows it's coming well in advance. It stays for a few days or maybe a week then something new but not drastically different comes by.
Perhaps a more relevant expression for me would be:
"If you don't like where you are in Texas, ride for a few days and you'll be somewhere remarkably different."
This new world I've entered is one of huge pine forest with dense understorey vegetation, often so thick it would be impenetrable pushing the bike. It's a world of tranquil lakes and muddy brown creeks, of dawn chorus and things that go bump in the night.
This is the world of the Sam Houston National Forest and surrounds, one of the places in Texas earmarked for outdoor recreation for the masses. All manner outdoor activities are taking place here hunting (both shooting and archery), biking, hiking, camping, horse riding, fishing, boating.
There is a hiking trail over 100 miles long, 'The Lone Star Trail' is the only one in Texas. There's even a small wilderness area where wild camping is actually permitted.
This National Forest is a wonderful place.
I spent the night in my hammock deep in the forest, beside a peaceful lake. A beaver swam by as I put up my bed, the first I'd ever seen.
Brilliant.
Although I left no trace of my stop over, others had not been so careful. The path on the way into the woods was littered with hundreds of coffee and soda cups along with other rubbish.
Leaving the park this moring I expected a return to tiresome grazing country but it was not forthcoming. There are houses amongst the trees, fields, sometimes even whole towns but overall there is a feeling of living inside the forest.
The humidity is on the increase giving the place a sub tropical feel. Although it is not hot, I can feel it in the middle of the day. I am peeling of the layers as I sweat my way up the little hills.
The demographic is different here too. The churches' names have taken on an Evangelical tone - like Missionary Baptist , New Hope or Gospel. This land was settled by the freed slaves long ago and their descendants are all around.
Until now I have only come across African Americans in the major cities. Here in far east Texas they are very much a part of country life and seem to make up the majority of the populations living in the small towns.
So far I like it around here. I am camping deep in the dark woods tonight, without trespassing on private land. It is much more pleasant than a roadside camp, even if the roads are incredibly quiet out west.
There is a wonderful feeling of being in amongst nature here. When I'm tucked up in my bed, the forest comes alive at night. I have no idea what is out there but I like the way it sounds.
I know bears, cougars and pigs live in far east Texas. The bears at least are very rare indeed.
I cook and eat in one place and tie my food up high, suspended between two trees. I sleep somewhere else, a good distance away. Hopefully this stops animals getting attracted to my location, which in turn stops the cougars from getting attracted to the other animals.
I think the hammock is a safer choice than the tent. I can tie it up high and sleep out of reach of the wild pigs that roam these woods. Tonight it was so high up I could only just get in!
I like the promise of warmer climes to come and different people to meet too. It is good to have something to look forward to. This donkey needs a carrot to chase.
Louisiana is now only a couple of days away now.
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Bitten in the bible belt. 10/1/2010
After 2 days and 3 nights in a hostel in Austin hiding out from the cold, I took to the road again.
The forecast was for nights in the region of -6 C, rather than -12 as it had been, and I felt I had the gear to cope.
East of Austin the landscape does a pretty fair impression of farmland anywhere in Northern Europe. The grassy fields are hemmed by deciduous trees and shrubs. Little groups of horses graze or small herds of Cattle, mostly Charolais or Aberdeen Angus. Ponds and little lakes provide drinking water to the animals whilst standard Oaks give shade in the summer.
Fingers of mixed woodland periodically separate the pastures. From time to time a field or two is given over to hay production. It is quite the rural idyll.
To the eyes of a northern European however, it is also rather boring. After all that I have seen and done on this trip, pretty rolling English-style country side (yet neither so lush nor so quaint,) leaves me somewhat cold.
3 days of cycling though such scenes is quite enough, combined with sub zero nights and headwinds in the daytime it left me praying for an end this long crossing of Texas.
After trials by rain, snow, steep hills and freezing headwinds, East Texas was now subjecting me to a trial by boredom.
This area is at the heart of the Texas Bible Belt. There are some small, insular, deeply religious communities here. Many of these populations are descended from German origins and attend churches with names like Lutherin or Freinden. Surnames such as Klaus and Bauer can be seen on the mail boxes . True to the stereotype the white picket fences and panel board Victorian houses are immaculately kept.
I visited the store in just such a community, the town of Winchester, Texas. I entered to find a group of wrinkled old men watching TV in a darkened room. There was a bar but no merchandise.
The men turned to face me, they looked surprised not to know me. I greeted them, however they did not smile nor did they not acknowledge me in any other way. After a few long seconds they looked away.
My told me instincts told me to turn around and leave but a woman in the corner asked what I was looking for. I told her I understood 'store' to mean shop and she showed me a shelf of canned goods in the corner.
In true Texan style she wanted to help me by furnishing me with useful information on what to expect down the road. She asked one of the men for advice but he replied that he didn't know much about the next town, it was 15 miles away.
I left quickly. It was time to find a camp and this little insight made me inclined to try and get out of the area before sunset. Life had other plans, 2 miles out of town I came across and unfenced piece of woodland, a rarity in this manicured environment and too good to pass up.
Despite my misgivings I waited for a gap in the traffic and hurried into the woods. I daren't go too far in, just far enough to be out of sight. I put up my tent quickly got in and hid inside until dusk.
My camp was opposite a private oil field with a nodding dog in full swing. It was just past a grand looking private shooting club on the road out of town. Between the sound passing cars, rifle shots rang out as they often do in Texas at this time of day. As the shooting calmed the quiet whir and click of the oil rig filled air.
I sat in my tent on the woods, exhausted but on edge. I was thankful that my tent is green, this was one night I really did not want to be discovered. After the atmosphere in the store, my usual confidence that who ever found me would be understanding of my situation was lacking.
Having cooked and eaten dinner,I made a quick excursion to peg out the guys in the half light before settling down for the night.
Lying in bed I noticed an irritation on the knuckle on my right hand. Instinctively I put it in my mouth to soothe it. There was something sticking out, a spine or a splinter. Without thinking I removed it with my teeth and spat it out.
The irritation continued, I got out my torch for a look. Twin puncture marks suggested a spider bite. In my attempts not be discovered I had neglected my normally vigilant attitude towards bugs by doing things in the dark.
Stupid mistake
I remembered putting my sleeping bag under my bed in the hostel to dry because they are not allowed on beds. On the floor and under things not often cleaned are favourite haunts of some nasty biting spider species. Were it not for the rule I would never normally put my bedding in such a place.
Stupid mistake number 2.
My tongue was swelling up a little now, probably reacting just like my skin was. I should not have put my wound in my mouth without investigating it. If my throat swelled too it could compromise my airway.
3 stupid mistakes all at once .
"This is how your number comes up," I thought, " 3 lemons on the fruit machine. What are the chances?"
I decided not to panic. Panicking seldom helps. I was probably nothing. I've been bitten by spiders in the tropics before and survived. Why should today be any different?
I took some anti-histamines from the med kit, the non-drowsy type. I decided to monitor myself and make a plan for evacuation in case things got worse.
I took my heart rate: 80 bpm. My normal rate is 55 bpm.
"It's up a bit, could be 'cause I'm worried. Not high really, just relax."
If you do ever get envenomated the most important thing is to stay calm. The more you panic the faster the venom is pumped round your body, the quicker and more strongly it has its effect.
I was becoming aware of my throat a little. If I was a young person in my care I would be getting help by now.
I wondered how I could get help. Could I call 911 and explain my location? I couldn't wait outside for them, it was well below zero now and getting colder.
How could they find the tent? I could leave the bike as a sign post and come back to the tent to stay warm.
I found the phone, I wrote down the explanation for where I was. Then I wrote down what had happened.
It was decision time, get help or not? I decided to reassess myself.
I thought my tongue was getting less swollen, I definitely wasn't aware of my throat anymore.
I started feeling very sleepy indeed.
I reasoned that a spider bite wouldn't have left a spine behind. It seemed more likely that I had been spiked from a poisonous plant in the undergrowth. American poisonous plants are something I know little about. My body was probably having a mild localised reaction to it. The reaction was passimg I assured myself.
My heart rate was 60.
I forced myself to stay awake until my tongue felt completely normal, then I declared myself OK and went to sleep.
It had been an intense little drama to end a dull day. It was a wake up call not to get complacent as camping out in America becomes less of a novelty. I may no longer be in the desert or the mountains but I am not out of the woods yet.
The forecast was for nights in the region of -6 C, rather than -12 as it had been, and I felt I had the gear to cope.
East of Austin the landscape does a pretty fair impression of farmland anywhere in Northern Europe. The grassy fields are hemmed by deciduous trees and shrubs. Little groups of horses graze or small herds of Cattle, mostly Charolais or Aberdeen Angus. Ponds and little lakes provide drinking water to the animals whilst standard Oaks give shade in the summer.
Fingers of mixed woodland periodically separate the pastures. From time to time a field or two is given over to hay production. It is quite the rural idyll.
To the eyes of a northern European however, it is also rather boring. After all that I have seen and done on this trip, pretty rolling English-style country side (yet neither so lush nor so quaint,) leaves me somewhat cold.
3 days of cycling though such scenes is quite enough, combined with sub zero nights and headwinds in the daytime it left me praying for an end this long crossing of Texas.
After trials by rain, snow, steep hills and freezing headwinds, East Texas was now subjecting me to a trial by boredom.
This area is at the heart of the Texas Bible Belt. There are some small, insular, deeply religious communities here. Many of these populations are descended from German origins and attend churches with names like Lutherin or Freinden. Surnames such as Klaus and Bauer can be seen on the mail boxes . True to the stereotype the white picket fences and panel board Victorian houses are immaculately kept.
I visited the store in just such a community, the town of Winchester, Texas. I entered to find a group of wrinkled old men watching TV in a darkened room. There was a bar but no merchandise.
The men turned to face me, they looked surprised not to know me. I greeted them, however they did not smile nor did they not acknowledge me in any other way. After a few long seconds they looked away.
My told me instincts told me to turn around and leave but a woman in the corner asked what I was looking for. I told her I understood 'store' to mean shop and she showed me a shelf of canned goods in the corner.
In true Texan style she wanted to help me by furnishing me with useful information on what to expect down the road. She asked one of the men for advice but he replied that he didn't know much about the next town, it was 15 miles away.
I left quickly. It was time to find a camp and this little insight made me inclined to try and get out of the area before sunset. Life had other plans, 2 miles out of town I came across and unfenced piece of woodland, a rarity in this manicured environment and too good to pass up.
Despite my misgivings I waited for a gap in the traffic and hurried into the woods. I daren't go too far in, just far enough to be out of sight. I put up my tent quickly got in and hid inside until dusk.
My camp was opposite a private oil field with a nodding dog in full swing. It was just past a grand looking private shooting club on the road out of town. Between the sound passing cars, rifle shots rang out as they often do in Texas at this time of day. As the shooting calmed the quiet whir and click of the oil rig filled air.
I sat in my tent on the woods, exhausted but on edge. I was thankful that my tent is green, this was one night I really did not want to be discovered. After the atmosphere in the store, my usual confidence that who ever found me would be understanding of my situation was lacking.
Having cooked and eaten dinner,I made a quick excursion to peg out the guys in the half light before settling down for the night.
Lying in bed I noticed an irritation on the knuckle on my right hand. Instinctively I put it in my mouth to soothe it. There was something sticking out, a spine or a splinter. Without thinking I removed it with my teeth and spat it out.
The irritation continued, I got out my torch for a look. Twin puncture marks suggested a spider bite. In my attempts not be discovered I had neglected my normally vigilant attitude towards bugs by doing things in the dark.
Stupid mistake
I remembered putting my sleeping bag under my bed in the hostel to dry because they are not allowed on beds. On the floor and under things not often cleaned are favourite haunts of some nasty biting spider species. Were it not for the rule I would never normally put my bedding in such a place.
Stupid mistake number 2.
My tongue was swelling up a little now, probably reacting just like my skin was. I should not have put my wound in my mouth without investigating it. If my throat swelled too it could compromise my airway.
3 stupid mistakes all at once .
"This is how your number comes up," I thought, " 3 lemons on the fruit machine. What are the chances?"
I decided not to panic. Panicking seldom helps. I was probably nothing. I've been bitten by spiders in the tropics before and survived. Why should today be any different?
I took some anti-histamines from the med kit, the non-drowsy type. I decided to monitor myself and make a plan for evacuation in case things got worse.
I took my heart rate: 80 bpm. My normal rate is 55 bpm.
"It's up a bit, could be 'cause I'm worried. Not high really, just relax."
If you do ever get envenomated the most important thing is to stay calm. The more you panic the faster the venom is pumped round your body, the quicker and more strongly it has its effect.
I was becoming aware of my throat a little. If I was a young person in my care I would be getting help by now.
I wondered how I could get help. Could I call 911 and explain my location? I couldn't wait outside for them, it was well below zero now and getting colder.
How could they find the tent? I could leave the bike as a sign post and come back to the tent to stay warm.
I found the phone, I wrote down the explanation for where I was. Then I wrote down what had happened.
It was decision time, get help or not? I decided to reassess myself.
I thought my tongue was getting less swollen, I definitely wasn't aware of my throat anymore.
I started feeling very sleepy indeed.
I reasoned that a spider bite wouldn't have left a spine behind. It seemed more likely that I had been spiked from a poisonous plant in the undergrowth. American poisonous plants are something I know little about. My body was probably having a mild localised reaction to it. The reaction was passimg I assured myself.
My heart rate was 60.
I forced myself to stay awake until my tongue felt completely normal, then I declared myself OK and went to sleep.
It had been an intense little drama to end a dull day. It was a wake up call not to get complacent as camping out in America becomes less of a novelty. I may no longer be in the desert or the mountains but I am not out of the woods yet.
Friday, January 8, 2010
Encounters with West Texans, part 3. Cowboys and Elks
On the eve of New Years Eve I made it to Del Rio, Texas. It had been hard work crossing the western plains and the rough and ready border town was a welcome sight.
1200 miles of riding across America culminating in the rough Texas roads had completely worn out the forks' suspension so I went to a bike shop to see if they could be fixed. They could not. However the bike continues to roll, it is just less comfortable.
Tim, the friendly and enthusiastic bike man, loved to see coast to coast cyclists coming through. He asked me if I was planning to stay 'with the Elks' saying bikers usually love to camp there.
I went to Elks Lodge #837 expecting a motel with a campsite only to be pleasantly surprised.
The Elks are members of a nationwide club, the lodge is their club house. They like to meet cross country cyclists and will let them camp on their grounds. With no campsite in Del Rio, this kind hospitality is a blessing for cycle campers passing through. After the long slog to reach civilisation, the chance to linger a while and take advantage of the town's services is much appreciated.
After putting up my tent I joined my hosts inside. The Lodge was somewhere between the 'Cheers' bar and a working men's club. A handful of middle-aged men sat at the bar enjoying a beer in the late afternoon whilst ladies chatted around a corner table.
Aside from enjoying a drink, the aim seemed to be to trump your friend by paying for the beers he had ordered before he could. Each man sat with a pile of dollar bills next to his glass so that he might be the first to get his to the bar tender.
It was a convivial atmosphere and, despite my dishevelled appearance after days on the road, I was welcomed like one of the guys. However being a visitor it was nearly impossible pay for anything myself. It seemed to be a point of honour for my hosts to cover whatever I needed.
Elks are quiet philanthropists. They get together and find excuses to give their money to good causes. They sell each other raffle tickets, have chilli cook offs and BBQs and put their change into collection boxes on the bar. They drink in the club, enjoy each others company and the profits from their socialising go to help American youth at risk.
It is in the same spirit that they advertised through the Adventure Cycling Association to offer camping to passing bikers. It is way of giving others a helping hand, optional donations from campers also go straight to the cause of the day.
For some reason from the outside I had not imagined groups with names like Buffaloes and Elks to be so noble. It was a pleasant surprise to discover their altruistic agenda.
* * * * * * * * * *
On New Year Eve I went into town to get supplies and wash my clothes.
The coin operated laundry is the domain of the poor and the drifter. For me it is a chance to encounter an oft ignored element of American society. People keep themselves to themselves but the introduction of a fumbling Englishman can often break the ice.
So it was when I met Jodie, a quiet and unassuming man in his forties.
Jodie and his father-in-law helped me operate the soap dispenser. We shared our stories whilst we waited for the driers.
Jodie was a rodeo man. He had ridden bulls for a living for nearly 20 years, but with his increasing age he had been forced to look for other options. He had taken up working on oil rigs for a while, this had taken him all over Texas.
You might not guess it to look at him but this guy was the archetypal Texas roughneck. Yet here I sat watching him neatly folding sheets and towels as he explained that he was going to be late for his wife.
They were newly wed and planning to settle down in Del Rio for a while. They met whilst she was serving an 8 year prison sentence, 4 years later she had just been released. The terms of her parole did not yet allow her to go to the launderette herself.
Since their meeting Jodie had followed his sweetheart around the country as she was transferred from one state penitentiary to another. He picked up work where he could.
In Washington DC he had broken horses for a living, keeping himself fit by running along behind the US troops as they exercised.
Now back in home in Texas this real life cowboy, a man of many talents, has joined the ranks of the unemployed hoping for a lucky break in troubled times.
1200 miles of riding across America culminating in the rough Texas roads had completely worn out the forks' suspension so I went to a bike shop to see if they could be fixed. They could not. However the bike continues to roll, it is just less comfortable.
Tim, the friendly and enthusiastic bike man, loved to see coast to coast cyclists coming through. He asked me if I was planning to stay 'with the Elks' saying bikers usually love to camp there.
I went to Elks Lodge #837 expecting a motel with a campsite only to be pleasantly surprised.
The Elks are members of a nationwide club, the lodge is their club house. They like to meet cross country cyclists and will let them camp on their grounds. With no campsite in Del Rio, this kind hospitality is a blessing for cycle campers passing through. After the long slog to reach civilisation, the chance to linger a while and take advantage of the town's services is much appreciated.
After putting up my tent I joined my hosts inside. The Lodge was somewhere between the 'Cheers' bar and a working men's club. A handful of middle-aged men sat at the bar enjoying a beer in the late afternoon whilst ladies chatted around a corner table.
Aside from enjoying a drink, the aim seemed to be to trump your friend by paying for the beers he had ordered before he could. Each man sat with a pile of dollar bills next to his glass so that he might be the first to get his to the bar tender.
It was a convivial atmosphere and, despite my dishevelled appearance after days on the road, I was welcomed like one of the guys. However being a visitor it was nearly impossible pay for anything myself. It seemed to be a point of honour for my hosts to cover whatever I needed.
Elks are quiet philanthropists. They get together and find excuses to give their money to good causes. They sell each other raffle tickets, have chilli cook offs and BBQs and put their change into collection boxes on the bar. They drink in the club, enjoy each others company and the profits from their socialising go to help American youth at risk.
It is in the same spirit that they advertised through the Adventure Cycling Association to offer camping to passing bikers. It is way of giving others a helping hand, optional donations from campers also go straight to the cause of the day.
For some reason from the outside I had not imagined groups with names like Buffaloes and Elks to be so noble. It was a pleasant surprise to discover their altruistic agenda.
* * * * * * * * * *
On New Year Eve I went into town to get supplies and wash my clothes.
The coin operated laundry is the domain of the poor and the drifter. For me it is a chance to encounter an oft ignored element of American society. People keep themselves to themselves but the introduction of a fumbling Englishman can often break the ice.
So it was when I met Jodie, a quiet and unassuming man in his forties.
Jodie and his father-in-law helped me operate the soap dispenser. We shared our stories whilst we waited for the driers.
Jodie was a rodeo man. He had ridden bulls for a living for nearly 20 years, but with his increasing age he had been forced to look for other options. He had taken up working on oil rigs for a while, this had taken him all over Texas.
You might not guess it to look at him but this guy was the archetypal Texas roughneck. Yet here I sat watching him neatly folding sheets and towels as he explained that he was going to be late for his wife.
They were newly wed and planning to settle down in Del Rio for a while. They met whilst she was serving an 8 year prison sentence, 4 years later she had just been released. The terms of her parole did not yet allow her to go to the launderette herself.
Since their meeting Jodie had followed his sweetheart around the country as she was transferred from one state penitentiary to another. He picked up work where he could.
In Washington DC he had broken horses for a living, keeping himself fit by running along behind the US troops as they exercised.
Now back in home in Texas this real life cowboy, a man of many talents, has joined the ranks of the unemployed hoping for a lucky break in troubled times.
Thursday, January 7, 2010
Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us.
I have now ridden over 700 miles across the state of Texas. I have been on the back roads in the remotest areas, via simple ranching country, through wealthy residential countryside and into the state capital.
I cannot fault the Texan people in the slightest. They have been polite, kind and considerate. They are also as wonderfully charismatic characters as you could hope to meet. Texans will do just about anything they can to help a visiting stranger on his way and I have been the lucky recipient of their fantastic hospitality.
So it is with some reluctance that I tackle the topic of this entry.
I was lying in my hammock last night after writing my journal when the seed of the thought began to grow. It is fun to roadside wild camp across the state, but it would be so much better to get away from the road a little as you can sometimes in Arizona.
Travelling through the hill country I have passed over 250 miles of wooded natural country, yet I am it always separated from it. I never really feel amongst it.
The fences are high and prominent, a constant feature of the rural landscape. Signs constantly warn the passer by not cross the line between the road and properties, backed up with threats of violence or prosecution. There is almost no public access to enormous areas of the wild and magnificent land.
A few days ago, I rode through the town of Hunt, Texas on the Guadalupe River. It has a beautiful, clean river lined with tall, straight cypress trees. All along the riverside there are picnic benches and jetties and grassy areas for people to enjoy.
I thought I might take 5 minutes and eat a sandwich here. However when I looked for a spot, each one was marked PRIVATE NO TRESPASSING. Nowhere in whole town could I find a place to sit by the river and take a break.
The focus here is very much on possession and individual ownership. Nearly all the best places are firmly marked private property. The owners and their guests can enjoy the countryside but others cannot. They are welcome in the shops, B+B's and on the roads but not to sit by the river for a while or to go for a walk in the woods.
Like New Zealand, the state of Texas owns and runs some parks for conservation and recreation purposes. However, unlike New Zealand they represent a very small proportion of the state and charge an entrance fee per person.
It is possible to eat your lunch by the river in Blanco, Texas but you will pay as much for the seat by the river as you did for your lunch.
Of course this is the ultimate capitalist country and like the UK nearly everything is privately owned. Ranchers use the land to make their living, running animals on the land and charging visitors to stay and hunt. The land is their lively hood and unsurprisingly they don't want to share it with outsiders.
The impression given is one of isolationism and perhaps this explains the reputation rural Texas has in the west coast cities.
We used to have a similar system in Britain. All the countryside was owned by the landed minority, much as it is today. It was farmed and managed for them, their friends and business associates to enjoy country sports in peace. Meanwhile the ordinary man was excluded unless doing the owner's bidding.
However all that was to change thanks to the direct action of a radical group called the Ramblers, many of them veterans from the Great War.
In the 1930s hundreds of Ramblers took to the Peak District hills one day. They were engaged in violent hand to hand combat by men in the employ of the land owner, the Duke of Devonshire.
Men were injured, some knocked unconscious and the ringleaders were imprisoned. The fall out from the incident brought the issue of land access for all to the attention of parliament and began a slow change for the common good.
Nowadays if you own more than a few fields nearly anywhere in the UK the chances are that a public footpath runs across your land. The network of paths and bridleways throughout our country allows ordinary people to travel on foot into all areas of the land no matter what they own or who they know.
Moreover in mountain, moorland, heath or down a Briton or any visitor may roam as he or she wishes, staying on the path if one exists. In the absence of such a path one may take a walk down to sit by the river or lake, or climb a ridge to take in the view.
Land owners have the right to a temporary closure of public access of up to 1 month per year for management reasons if needed.
Trespass on private land is not a criminal offence in the UK, rather it is a civil matter between individuals and you cannot be prosecuted as such, no matter what a sign may say.
A landowner has the right only to use 'reasonable force' to remove a trespasser. If you leave when asked no use of force is reasonable.
Before coming to the 'Land Of The Free' I did not fully appreciate just how lucky we are.
We owe a lot to those plucky northerners of 1930s, although none gave up their lives for the cause they risked their safety and their liberty so that we could be free in our own land.
I urge you to use that hard won freedom, not everyone is so lucky.
I cannot fault the Texan people in the slightest. They have been polite, kind and considerate. They are also as wonderfully charismatic characters as you could hope to meet. Texans will do just about anything they can to help a visiting stranger on his way and I have been the lucky recipient of their fantastic hospitality.
So it is with some reluctance that I tackle the topic of this entry.
I was lying in my hammock last night after writing my journal when the seed of the thought began to grow. It is fun to roadside wild camp across the state, but it would be so much better to get away from the road a little as you can sometimes in Arizona.
Travelling through the hill country I have passed over 250 miles of wooded natural country, yet I am it always separated from it. I never really feel amongst it.
The fences are high and prominent, a constant feature of the rural landscape. Signs constantly warn the passer by not cross the line between the road and properties, backed up with threats of violence or prosecution. There is almost no public access to enormous areas of the wild and magnificent land.
A few days ago, I rode through the town of Hunt, Texas on the Guadalupe River. It has a beautiful, clean river lined with tall, straight cypress trees. All along the riverside there are picnic benches and jetties and grassy areas for people to enjoy.
I thought I might take 5 minutes and eat a sandwich here. However when I looked for a spot, each one was marked PRIVATE NO TRESPASSING. Nowhere in whole town could I find a place to sit by the river and take a break.
The focus here is very much on possession and individual ownership. Nearly all the best places are firmly marked private property. The owners and their guests can enjoy the countryside but others cannot. They are welcome in the shops, B+B's and on the roads but not to sit by the river for a while or to go for a walk in the woods.
Like New Zealand, the state of Texas owns and runs some parks for conservation and recreation purposes. However, unlike New Zealand they represent a very small proportion of the state and charge an entrance fee per person.
It is possible to eat your lunch by the river in Blanco, Texas but you will pay as much for the seat by the river as you did for your lunch.
Of course this is the ultimate capitalist country and like the UK nearly everything is privately owned. Ranchers use the land to make their living, running animals on the land and charging visitors to stay and hunt. The land is their lively hood and unsurprisingly they don't want to share it with outsiders.
The impression given is one of isolationism and perhaps this explains the reputation rural Texas has in the west coast cities.
We used to have a similar system in Britain. All the countryside was owned by the landed minority, much as it is today. It was farmed and managed for them, their friends and business associates to enjoy country sports in peace. Meanwhile the ordinary man was excluded unless doing the owner's bidding.
However all that was to change thanks to the direct action of a radical group called the Ramblers, many of them veterans from the Great War.
In the 1930s hundreds of Ramblers took to the Peak District hills one day. They were engaged in violent hand to hand combat by men in the employ of the land owner, the Duke of Devonshire.
Men were injured, some knocked unconscious and the ringleaders were imprisoned. The fall out from the incident brought the issue of land access for all to the attention of parliament and began a slow change for the common good.
Nowadays if you own more than a few fields nearly anywhere in the UK the chances are that a public footpath runs across your land. The network of paths and bridleways throughout our country allows ordinary people to travel on foot into all areas of the land no matter what they own or who they know.
Moreover in mountain, moorland, heath or down a Briton or any visitor may roam as he or she wishes, staying on the path if one exists. In the absence of such a path one may take a walk down to sit by the river or lake, or climb a ridge to take in the view.
Land owners have the right to a temporary closure of public access of up to 1 month per year for management reasons if needed.
Trespass on private land is not a criminal offence in the UK, rather it is a civil matter between individuals and you cannot be prosecuted as such, no matter what a sign may say.
A landowner has the right only to use 'reasonable force' to remove a trespasser. If you leave when asked no use of force is reasonable.
Before coming to the 'Land Of The Free' I did not fully appreciate just how lucky we are.
We owe a lot to those plucky northerners of 1930s, although none gave up their lives for the cause they risked their safety and their liberty so that we could be free in our own land.
I urge you to use that hard won freedom, not everyone is so lucky.
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
Notes from the live oaks, 4/1/2010
The hammock is an absolute godsend. It opens up a world of camping possibilities that would otherwise not exist. Having suppressed my bitter resentment of it's 500 grams through California, Arizona and most of New Mexico it is now repaying its dues.
With a hammock you don't need flat ground to lie down. All you need is 2 trees between 8 and 12 feet apart. In Texas if the roadside verge is flat they remove all vegetation and with it any possibility of a subtle stop over . However every now and then the roadside ground is on a steep slope and if I'm very lucky they leave the trees on these slopes.
So it is today, my home for the night is little clump of live oaks trees on a 45 degree slope at the side of a very quiet back road. My bed swings above rocks and undergrowth in a place I simply could not sleep without it. I love my hammock.
I got up late today. Like the lazy bum that I am. It was such a warm night and in my tent I slept like a baby. I didn't want to get back on my bike and my knees were seizing up.
It was supposed to be rest day but I have broken my routine and ridden anyway, I didn't like it much where I was.
I have become a creature of habit. After a while you get used to life on the road.
I ride 50-60 miles a day. I ride for 3 days then rest for 1. On my rest day I shower, wash my clothes, charge up electrical things, catch up with the outside world if I can.
I eat the same food all the time because it is light, cheap, available everywhere and provides me with what I need: Calories!
Breakfast is porridge with a spoonful of peanut butter and one of jam.
I stop for coffee with 3 sugars.(I have given up making tea to because my type of gas cartridge is very hard to find.)
Lunch is 3 cinnamon and raisin bagels, with peanut butter and jam.
Snacks: cereal bars. (I am rationed to 2 per day but eat more then have to stock up with chocolate later.)
Dinner is pasta with fish.
I carry 2-3 days of this diet to I survive on when I'm camping, which is most of the time.
If I pass a small town around lunchtime I will break the monotony and have lunch at a cafe or a Mexican restaurant. Same with dinner but this rarely happens, I aim to be in the country for dinner and bed.
When I find fresh fruit I eat 2 oranges, 2 apples and 2 bananas immediately but I never carry fruit, it is too heavy.
If I find whole cooked chickens I eat one there and then with a loaf of french bread.
Americans make terrible bread, so do the English mind you. Something approaching OK bread can be found at a high price under the name of 'Artisan Bread'. Home baked 'Corn Bread' is also delicious if I am lucky enough to find it
I miss vegetables but my body really doesn't seem to mind.
I restocked this morning. Ate the dose of fruit, the bird and the loaf. I had the coffee and eventually forced myself to get on the road by midday. I knew it was too late make the next official campsite, but part of me loves the excitement of not knowing how I'm going to find a place to stay.
As the day winds down the pressure mounts. The places I saw in the mid afternoon would have been ideal but then I hadn't covered any distance. The later I leave it the more risky it gets.
Will I completely luck out and end up pitching the tent on the grass verge? This would a pain because it would no doubt lead to local interest and who knows where that would lead. Plus it might not be the safest place to be were someone to lose control of their car in the night.
At about 16.00 I start getting cold as the sun gets lower. My muscles start to tighten, I tell myself, "If I see a place now I will stop."
It's best to get everything done without using a head torch to avoid attracting attention. What I find in the next 2 hours determines how my whole evening and night play out.
Stealth camping across Texas!
It's a fun game I play each day, a harmless cloak and dagger mission.
Today worked out perfectly, as it so often does: I found the trees at 16.30 with about 50 miles under my belt; hauled the bike up the slope; set up the bed; changed into my cold weather clothes- thermals, woolly hat, wool socks, down jacket. I cooked and ate dinner and as I wiped the pan clean the sun went behind the hills. Perfect.
Now to while away the evening swinging from the trees, listening to hilarious local right-wing phone in shows on my wind up radio and watching the moon and the stars go by.
With a hammock you don't need flat ground to lie down. All you need is 2 trees between 8 and 12 feet apart. In Texas if the roadside verge is flat they remove all vegetation and with it any possibility of a subtle stop over . However every now and then the roadside ground is on a steep slope and if I'm very lucky they leave the trees on these slopes.
So it is today, my home for the night is little clump of live oaks trees on a 45 degree slope at the side of a very quiet back road. My bed swings above rocks and undergrowth in a place I simply could not sleep without it. I love my hammock.
I got up late today. Like the lazy bum that I am. It was such a warm night and in my tent I slept like a baby. I didn't want to get back on my bike and my knees were seizing up.
It was supposed to be rest day but I have broken my routine and ridden anyway, I didn't like it much where I was.
I have become a creature of habit. After a while you get used to life on the road.
I ride 50-60 miles a day. I ride for 3 days then rest for 1. On my rest day I shower, wash my clothes, charge up electrical things, catch up with the outside world if I can.
I eat the same food all the time because it is light, cheap, available everywhere and provides me with what I need: Calories!
Breakfast is porridge with a spoonful of peanut butter and one of jam.
I stop for coffee with 3 sugars.(I have given up making tea to because my type of gas cartridge is very hard to find.)
Lunch is 3 cinnamon and raisin bagels, with peanut butter and jam.
Snacks: cereal bars. (I am rationed to 2 per day but eat more then have to stock up with chocolate later.)
Dinner is pasta with fish.
I carry 2-3 days of this diet to I survive on when I'm camping, which is most of the time.
If I pass a small town around lunchtime I will break the monotony and have lunch at a cafe or a Mexican restaurant. Same with dinner but this rarely happens, I aim to be in the country for dinner and bed.
When I find fresh fruit I eat 2 oranges, 2 apples and 2 bananas immediately but I never carry fruit, it is too heavy.
If I find whole cooked chickens I eat one there and then with a loaf of french bread.
Americans make terrible bread, so do the English mind you. Something approaching OK bread can be found at a high price under the name of 'Artisan Bread'. Home baked 'Corn Bread' is also delicious if I am lucky enough to find it
I miss vegetables but my body really doesn't seem to mind.
I restocked this morning. Ate the dose of fruit, the bird and the loaf. I had the coffee and eventually forced myself to get on the road by midday. I knew it was too late make the next official campsite, but part of me loves the excitement of not knowing how I'm going to find a place to stay.
As the day winds down the pressure mounts. The places I saw in the mid afternoon would have been ideal but then I hadn't covered any distance. The later I leave it the more risky it gets.
Will I completely luck out and end up pitching the tent on the grass verge? This would a pain because it would no doubt lead to local interest and who knows where that would lead. Plus it might not be the safest place to be were someone to lose control of their car in the night.
At about 16.00 I start getting cold as the sun gets lower. My muscles start to tighten, I tell myself, "If I see a place now I will stop."
It's best to get everything done without using a head torch to avoid attracting attention. What I find in the next 2 hours determines how my whole evening and night play out.
Stealth camping across Texas!
It's a fun game I play each day, a harmless cloak and dagger mission.
Today worked out perfectly, as it so often does: I found the trees at 16.30 with about 50 miles under my belt; hauled the bike up the slope; set up the bed; changed into my cold weather clothes- thermals, woolly hat, wool socks, down jacket. I cooked and ate dinner and as I wiped the pan clean the sun went behind the hills. Perfect.
Now to while away the evening swinging from the trees, listening to hilarious local right-wing phone in shows on my wind up radio and watching the moon and the stars go by.
Encounters with West Texans, part 2
29/12/2009
After 3 days of riding across the West Texan plains into the winds, my resolve was starting to weaken. It was mid-morning on day 4 before the sun shone and the wind began to blow my way. I rode into the little town of Comstock planning to grab a coffee before the final push to Del Rio.
I caught the eye of a man named Chuck, a big, burly Texan in a cowboy hat and a foliage camouflage jacket. He wanted to know my story so I told him how I'd pedalled 1200 miles to be there.
Chuck was a man who smiled and laughed easily and he brought that out in me too. He was a motorcyclist himself and seemed impressed by my efforts. Saying it was hard enough work to motorcycle across the country let alone to bicycle, he took it upon himself to buy my coffee.
I sat in the little cafe/bar/restaurant (the only going concern in town), cradling my coffee as I watched the world go by.
Three middle-aged black men with deep southern accents were filling up on fried breakfasts. They come up to this area each year for their winter hunting holiday. The room filled with laughter as they vigorously discussed deer behavior after an unsuccessful morning out in the cold.
The deer are baited with corn I learned. The hunters spend time studying the deer's movements morning and evening. They find a place to lie in wait, before ultimately making their move. These same tactics were once used by the native Americans before them but the weapons and the clothing have changed.
I'm told hunting is not the preserve of the extremely wealthy and those who live on the land. It is popular pastime amongst the middle class nationwide. Hunting is their hobby and they are prepared to spend some money on it each year for the pleasure they get back.
Chuck made a move to leave telling me I had bacon and eggs coming. He had surreptitiously bought me breakfast. What a thoughtful guy.
Another group of hunters came in from the cold, white guys from the suburbs. They too were well known to the cafe owner, in fact everyone seemed like old friends.
This year a father had brought his two young sons, both looked under 10 years old. The boys' grandfather was along for the trip too.
Although the father had had no luck this year, each of his sons had shot their first buck. There was some rejoicing at their success, no doubt a rite of passage.
When asked by a local friend of the family if they were keen for more, one boy said yes enthusiastically, the other was happy to leave it at that for the season. Both answers seemed to go down equally well with the adults. I got the impression that the goal for man and boy alike, was to make one good kill, not to kill as much as possible.
Having finished my fry up, I bid them all farewell. Modern Country music was playing outside to let any passers by know the cafe was open. As with so many small town stores out west, it looked as though it might be closed.
The lyrics had an environmental message:
"Come on leave some blue for tomorrow,
"Leave some green on the ground,
"It was only ours for to borrow,
"Let's leave some for the next turn around."
Right on.
Riding off I was happy to have had this little insight into in the country community. It was great to see fathers spending time in the outdoors with their children and passing on what they know, just as they have always done.
What is more the remote West Texan hunting community did not seem closed minded or stuck in the past. Just like the rest of us they are trying find their way to a better future without losing touch with the traditions they hold dear.
After 3 days of riding across the West Texan plains into the winds, my resolve was starting to weaken. It was mid-morning on day 4 before the sun shone and the wind began to blow my way. I rode into the little town of Comstock planning to grab a coffee before the final push to Del Rio.
I caught the eye of a man named Chuck, a big, burly Texan in a cowboy hat and a foliage camouflage jacket. He wanted to know my story so I told him how I'd pedalled 1200 miles to be there.
Chuck was a man who smiled and laughed easily and he brought that out in me too. He was a motorcyclist himself and seemed impressed by my efforts. Saying it was hard enough work to motorcycle across the country let alone to bicycle, he took it upon himself to buy my coffee.
I sat in the little cafe/bar/restaurant (the only going concern in town), cradling my coffee as I watched the world go by.
Three middle-aged black men with deep southern accents were filling up on fried breakfasts. They come up to this area each year for their winter hunting holiday. The room filled with laughter as they vigorously discussed deer behavior after an unsuccessful morning out in the cold.
The deer are baited with corn I learned. The hunters spend time studying the deer's movements morning and evening. They find a place to lie in wait, before ultimately making their move. These same tactics were once used by the native Americans before them but the weapons and the clothing have changed.
I'm told hunting is not the preserve of the extremely wealthy and those who live on the land. It is popular pastime amongst the middle class nationwide. Hunting is their hobby and they are prepared to spend some money on it each year for the pleasure they get back.
Chuck made a move to leave telling me I had bacon and eggs coming. He had surreptitiously bought me breakfast. What a thoughtful guy.
Another group of hunters came in from the cold, white guys from the suburbs. They too were well known to the cafe owner, in fact everyone seemed like old friends.
This year a father had brought his two young sons, both looked under 10 years old. The boys' grandfather was along for the trip too.
Although the father had had no luck this year, each of his sons had shot their first buck. There was some rejoicing at their success, no doubt a rite of passage.
When asked by a local friend of the family if they were keen for more, one boy said yes enthusiastically, the other was happy to leave it at that for the season. Both answers seemed to go down equally well with the adults. I got the impression that the goal for man and boy alike, was to make one good kill, not to kill as much as possible.
Having finished my fry up, I bid them all farewell. Modern Country music was playing outside to let any passers by know the cafe was open. As with so many small town stores out west, it looked as though it might be closed.
The lyrics had an environmental message:
"Come on leave some blue for tomorrow,
"Leave some green on the ground,
"It was only ours for to borrow,
"Let's leave some for the next turn around."
Right on.
Riding off I was happy to have had this little insight into in the country community. It was great to see fathers spending time in the outdoors with their children and passing on what they know, just as they have always done.
What is more the remote West Texan hunting community did not seem closed minded or stuck in the past. Just like the rest of us they are trying find their way to a better future without losing touch with the traditions they hold dear.
Sunday, January 3, 2010
Notes from the Western Texas Hill Country, 3/1/2010
In common with the wild plains between Fort Davis and Del Rio, the Texas Hill country is based on a limestone geology. Here, however, the land wells up to form round topped hills and ridges.
The hills are not large, perhaps up to 1000ft above the valleys floors. Unusually for this part of America, the hills are closely packed together with steep sided V shaped valleys in between. There are no easy ways up and down some of the biggest hills, giving rise to some short but challenging climbs for the visiting cyclist.
I was given a harsh introduction to what was to come, climbing steeply up a winding road out of Camp Wood. Locals had warned me to be careful on the road: It has only 2 lanes, 1 in each direction; no shoulders; sharp bends; and steep hillside falling away on one side and a wall of solid rock on the other. This is indeed quite unusual in southern America. It was much like any normal a mountain road anywhere else in the world.
This is where the USA team trained for the Sydney Olympics, the steep hills are 7-9% apparently. That is just about as steep as I can ride in my lowest gear, laden down with all my worldly goods.
HG Wells said, "In Utopia cycle tracks will abound."
Leaving Utopia, Texas a sign said 'Utopia 100k Bike Route'. I'm not sure these narrow roads are what Wells had in mind.
Fortunately for me it has been the weekend whilst I have tackled the best of what the Hill Country has to offer. There has been barely a car, Utopia indeed.
The Hill Country is largely wooded. The high hillsides are cloaked in Juniper and Pine whilst the valleys are home to a great many varieties of deciduous trees. At times the tree cover is dense and impenetrable, at times open with grass beneath. Limestone boulders and crumbling buttresses can be seen between the trees whilst turquoise rivers run deep in the valleys.
As I climbed the steepest, western hills I mused that this was described to me as the most beautiful place in Texas. It certainly was nice. However, it reminded me of many other places I have been in the world. I found it ironic that 'the most beautiful place in all of Texas' should be so reminiscent of Europe and not distinctively North American.
This area is the home to the 'Lost Maples'. Don't worry they are not disorientated, rather left behind from a bygone age. During the Pleistocene era the Texas climate warmed and dried. The thirsty forests that covered the land were forced to retreat to the North. However hidden away in steep sided valleys an isolated population of 60ft tall Maples trees lived on in the Hill Country miles from where their cousins now reside.
I spent a night in my hammock halfway up a steep hill, unable to continue. No flat ground was to be found. With fences all around I was forced to set up my bed 10 feet from the roadside between to convenient trees.
I am using a new hiding strategy, I am calling it 'demi-chachée'. I hide when possible but in such a way that if you do notice me it is immediately obvious that I am a stranded cyclist and does not look at all as if I am trying to hide from view.
Last night it worked very well, a couple of locals spotted me and stopped. I thought they were going berate me or see if I was an undesirable type in their neighbourhood. However they merely checked that I was not in trouble stuck out in the cold.
It is still legal to camp out at the side of the road in the US countryside if circumstances force you to do so, as it was in England prior to the passing of the Criminal Justice Bill.
After some serious hill climbing the following day, I arrived on a sort of plateau. These are a common feature of limestone terrain, having once been the floor of an ancient sea bed.
The plateau was largely ranch land, lightly stocked with cattle,sheep and goats. The country has that same wild feel that I found on the open plains, as if there could be just about anything living in those woods. Human population numbers are low in the hills, though the crack of rifles is ever present at dusk and dawn.
Oak trees seem to dominate in this terrain. At 10 -20 ft tall, gnarled and leafless, they mingle with the juniper and pine. There are a lot of evergreen oaks too, with the familiar oak silouhette but covered in tiny leaves. They give a very fine feel to the wintry woodland, they are named 'live oaks'.
The higgledy piggldey clumps of trees with grassy spaces in between went on and on for miles, with barely house or a car in sight. The lightly rolling landscape gave me views to much,much more of the same in all directions.
It reminded me of home. Yet Britain has never been like this in my lifetime. If you took all the houses, roads, industry and crops away from the home counties and left it for 300 years this is what it would look like.
Much of the British countryside was managed in this way for thousands of years prior to the industrial revolution. Under a system known as wood pasture villagers would run their animals in the woodlands to feed. They would harvest the wood for fuel and building materials by cutting branches above head height, the regrowth would then be beyond the reach of browsing livestock. The woodland provided the perfect home for wild animals which could also be hunted.
With the advent of fossil fuels, the woods were no longer needed for fuel. Many were harvested wholesale for building, never to be replaced. In fact after thousands of years of living alongside the trees, it was between the industrial revolution and the second world war that we lost most of our remaining sustainably managed deciduous woodlands.
Descending a little I turned onto another road. Here the ranches had a more coiffured appearance. The overall impression was reminiscent a royal hunting park. Capability Brown would have been pleased with his efforts here.
On the rolling slopes with stands of oak and open spaces there would be plenty of room to ride a horse. The long dried brown grass would not offer the quarry much cover once it was flushed. I imagined Henry VIII having a wonderful time out hunting on these properties.
A few miles down the road and still caught up in the hunting park theme, I saw an eland. The eland is the largest antelope in the world, a native of Southern Africa and a traditional source of food for the San people of Botswana.
Smiling to myself about seeing the eland I rolled right past a small herd of addax. These desert antelope, are amongst the most endangered in the world. They have come very close to extinction in their native North Africa, yet are quite successful in captivity. These ones seemed almost tame, they approached my bike as I stood and watched them. It would not be much of an accolade to gun one down.
Within the next 2 miles I had spotted a roan antelope (southern Africa) and 3 emus (Australia) , whitelail deer,axis deer and a goat. To finish it all off as I arrived at the Guadeloupe river I came across a herd of Texas Longhorn Cattle, a rare breed. Longhorns were originally bred for the Texan ranches, they are no longer commercially reared but kept by enthusiasts who love the breed and the state.
The cycle safari continues.
Following the Guadeloupe river this evening it has become increasingly clear that I have left the wild west behind me now. The river hosts small but wealthy communities living in large and desirable riverside properties.
I have entered a region known as the Heart of Texas. The residential countryside. Some houses have their own stables, tennis or basketball courts. Placards encourage the residents to re-elect local conservative leaders. Signs in the grocery stores denounce gun control or derride Barak Obama.
After such wonderfully positive experiences with the country people of West Texas. Have I now reached the Texas the Californians warned me about?
The hills are not large, perhaps up to 1000ft above the valleys floors. Unusually for this part of America, the hills are closely packed together with steep sided V shaped valleys in between. There are no easy ways up and down some of the biggest hills, giving rise to some short but challenging climbs for the visiting cyclist.
I was given a harsh introduction to what was to come, climbing steeply up a winding road out of Camp Wood. Locals had warned me to be careful on the road: It has only 2 lanes, 1 in each direction; no shoulders; sharp bends; and steep hillside falling away on one side and a wall of solid rock on the other. This is indeed quite unusual in southern America. It was much like any normal a mountain road anywhere else in the world.
This is where the USA team trained for the Sydney Olympics, the steep hills are 7-9% apparently. That is just about as steep as I can ride in my lowest gear, laden down with all my worldly goods.
HG Wells said, "In Utopia cycle tracks will abound."
Leaving Utopia, Texas a sign said 'Utopia 100k Bike Route'. I'm not sure these narrow roads are what Wells had in mind.
Fortunately for me it has been the weekend whilst I have tackled the best of what the Hill Country has to offer. There has been barely a car, Utopia indeed.
The Hill Country is largely wooded. The high hillsides are cloaked in Juniper and Pine whilst the valleys are home to a great many varieties of deciduous trees. At times the tree cover is dense and impenetrable, at times open with grass beneath. Limestone boulders and crumbling buttresses can be seen between the trees whilst turquoise rivers run deep in the valleys.
As I climbed the steepest, western hills I mused that this was described to me as the most beautiful place in Texas. It certainly was nice. However, it reminded me of many other places I have been in the world. I found it ironic that 'the most beautiful place in all of Texas' should be so reminiscent of Europe and not distinctively North American.
This area is the home to the 'Lost Maples'. Don't worry they are not disorientated, rather left behind from a bygone age. During the Pleistocene era the Texas climate warmed and dried. The thirsty forests that covered the land were forced to retreat to the North. However hidden away in steep sided valleys an isolated population of 60ft tall Maples trees lived on in the Hill Country miles from where their cousins now reside.
I spent a night in my hammock halfway up a steep hill, unable to continue. No flat ground was to be found. With fences all around I was forced to set up my bed 10 feet from the roadside between to convenient trees.
I am using a new hiding strategy, I am calling it 'demi-chachée'. I hide when possible but in such a way that if you do notice me it is immediately obvious that I am a stranded cyclist and does not look at all as if I am trying to hide from view.
Last night it worked very well, a couple of locals spotted me and stopped. I thought they were going berate me or see if I was an undesirable type in their neighbourhood. However they merely checked that I was not in trouble stuck out in the cold.
It is still legal to camp out at the side of the road in the US countryside if circumstances force you to do so, as it was in England prior to the passing of the Criminal Justice Bill.
After some serious hill climbing the following day, I arrived on a sort of plateau. These are a common feature of limestone terrain, having once been the floor of an ancient sea bed.
The plateau was largely ranch land, lightly stocked with cattle,sheep and goats. The country has that same wild feel that I found on the open plains, as if there could be just about anything living in those woods. Human population numbers are low in the hills, though the crack of rifles is ever present at dusk and dawn.
Oak trees seem to dominate in this terrain. At 10 -20 ft tall, gnarled and leafless, they mingle with the juniper and pine. There are a lot of evergreen oaks too, with the familiar oak silouhette but covered in tiny leaves. They give a very fine feel to the wintry woodland, they are named 'live oaks'.
The higgledy piggldey clumps of trees with grassy spaces in between went on and on for miles, with barely house or a car in sight. The lightly rolling landscape gave me views to much,much more of the same in all directions.
It reminded me of home. Yet Britain has never been like this in my lifetime. If you took all the houses, roads, industry and crops away from the home counties and left it for 300 years this is what it would look like.
Much of the British countryside was managed in this way for thousands of years prior to the industrial revolution. Under a system known as wood pasture villagers would run their animals in the woodlands to feed. They would harvest the wood for fuel and building materials by cutting branches above head height, the regrowth would then be beyond the reach of browsing livestock. The woodland provided the perfect home for wild animals which could also be hunted.
With the advent of fossil fuels, the woods were no longer needed for fuel. Many were harvested wholesale for building, never to be replaced. In fact after thousands of years of living alongside the trees, it was between the industrial revolution and the second world war that we lost most of our remaining sustainably managed deciduous woodlands.
Descending a little I turned onto another road. Here the ranches had a more coiffured appearance. The overall impression was reminiscent a royal hunting park. Capability Brown would have been pleased with his efforts here.
On the rolling slopes with stands of oak and open spaces there would be plenty of room to ride a horse. The long dried brown grass would not offer the quarry much cover once it was flushed. I imagined Henry VIII having a wonderful time out hunting on these properties.
A few miles down the road and still caught up in the hunting park theme, I saw an eland. The eland is the largest antelope in the world, a native of Southern Africa and a traditional source of food for the San people of Botswana.
Smiling to myself about seeing the eland I rolled right past a small herd of addax. These desert antelope, are amongst the most endangered in the world. They have come very close to extinction in their native North Africa, yet are quite successful in captivity. These ones seemed almost tame, they approached my bike as I stood and watched them. It would not be much of an accolade to gun one down.
Within the next 2 miles I had spotted a roan antelope (southern Africa) and 3 emus (Australia) , whitelail deer,axis deer and a goat. To finish it all off as I arrived at the Guadeloupe river I came across a herd of Texas Longhorn Cattle, a rare breed. Longhorns were originally bred for the Texan ranches, they are no longer commercially reared but kept by enthusiasts who love the breed and the state.
The cycle safari continues.
Following the Guadeloupe river this evening it has become increasingly clear that I have left the wild west behind me now. The river hosts small but wealthy communities living in large and desirable riverside properties.
I have entered a region known as the Heart of Texas. The residential countryside. Some houses have their own stables, tennis or basketball courts. Placards encourage the residents to re-elect local conservative leaders. Signs in the grocery stores denounce gun control or derride Barak Obama.
After such wonderfully positive experiences with the country people of West Texas. Have I now reached the Texas the Californians warned me about?
Encounters with West Texans, part 1.
From the border town of El Paso to another at Del Rio I have ridden over 400 miles across West Texas. Although I am less than half way across the state I am beginning to get a feel for the people here. I can compare my impression to what others had told me before I arrived.
My overall impression has been great. It is certainly not true that if you are not from Texas you are not welcome, quite the opposite in fact.
To illustrate the point and to give an insight into what it is like here, I will recount some of the the encounters I have had along the way.
On boxing day I discovered I had worn out my rear tyre. With all the rubber gone in places it was close to failing. I couldn't ride another mile. I was 30 miles from the nearest cycle shop, on a Saturday in the town of Marathon with a population of 400, most of whom where not there for the holidays.
I called the bike shop in neighbouring Alpine on the off chance that they might be open. They weren't, but a guy called Jim happened to be there. I explained my predicament and he said to come on over and, even though he wasn't working, he'd get me back on the road.
I explained I'd have to hitch and didn't even know when I could get there. Unphased he gave me his cell number and said he would ride over to the shop if he wasn't there when I got in.
I stood at the side of the quiet road at midday, wheel in hand and thumb on display. Having missed the morning departures I wondered if anyone would take pity on me.
Holiday makers in big SUVs drove past without acknowledgement, each one guaranteed to pass my destination, the road doesn't go anywhere else. Within an hour a local in a pick up took me under his wing.
He turned out to be a motorcyclist and regaled me with tales of riding bikes, drinking beer and eating chillies with naked ladies.
The great thing about hitching is you are temporarily invited into other people's worlds. Often they are people you would not normally meet because their lifestyles can differ a great deal. As a traveller it is a unique opportunity to get a close up peek at the people whose country you are visiting.
Over the years I have been picked up by farmers, hunters, policemen, mothers, hippies, environmentalists, marijuana growers, surfers, heli-skiers, even politicians. The common thread amongst all lifts is they are kind and brave enough people to help a stranger in need.
We modern hitchers are a dying breed. The media driven culture of fear makes it harder and harder to get a ride. Sadly we all live in increased isolation and the barrier between those in vehicles and those outside it gets harder to break down.
Although I would not necessarily encourage my mother, sister or niece to do the same, I will never drive past a hitcher with an empty seat in my car. A hitch hiker is someone who needs help to get where they are going.
The biker was a true Texan: part Mexican, part German with a long and drawn out southern drawl. Most of his stories seemed to involve 'Having a ball' in one way or another. It was a pleasure to be in his world for a while.
Dropping me a the bike shop he assured that I would be fine because, "Out here folks help each other out ".
While Jim and I worked on the bike, Danny the manager of the campsite back in Marathon knocked on the door. He had noticed I got a lift into Alpine and, having come this way to do some shopping, he wanted to offer me one back.
It seemed the Motorcyclist was right. There might not be many people out here but the locals do whatever they can see everyone is taken care of.
Danny told me some of his story on the way home. He came out from Austin, Texas with his daughter to visit the frontier country one holiday weekend.He was captivated by the feeling of wilderness and space.
Texans use the term 'frontier' to describe the boundary between wild land and civilisation. The term has a great deal of romance associated with it, Danny's eyes lit up as a he talked. On his first visit, 8 years ago, he bought the little motel and RV park in Marathon, moved out and never went back to city life.
Austin is by all accounts an interesting place. Jim too originated from there. People tell you it is an island of tolerance and acceptance in a more conservative central Texas.
Danny took the time to make me a map of place to go and to stay when I'm there.
Later that evening a family came to watch the sunset by my tent, they too hailed from Austin it transpired. Discovering I was a lone traveller in their area, they gave me their numbers and told me to call if I needed help with anything at all.
Not only had the good people of Texas helped me out in the here and now, they were also making provisions to look after me further down the line.
Now that's good hospitality.
My overall impression has been great. It is certainly not true that if you are not from Texas you are not welcome, quite the opposite in fact.
To illustrate the point and to give an insight into what it is like here, I will recount some of the the encounters I have had along the way.
On boxing day I discovered I had worn out my rear tyre. With all the rubber gone in places it was close to failing. I couldn't ride another mile. I was 30 miles from the nearest cycle shop, on a Saturday in the town of Marathon with a population of 400, most of whom where not there for the holidays.
I called the bike shop in neighbouring Alpine on the off chance that they might be open. They weren't, but a guy called Jim happened to be there. I explained my predicament and he said to come on over and, even though he wasn't working, he'd get me back on the road.
I explained I'd have to hitch and didn't even know when I could get there. Unphased he gave me his cell number and said he would ride over to the shop if he wasn't there when I got in.
I stood at the side of the quiet road at midday, wheel in hand and thumb on display. Having missed the morning departures I wondered if anyone would take pity on me.
Holiday makers in big SUVs drove past without acknowledgement, each one guaranteed to pass my destination, the road doesn't go anywhere else. Within an hour a local in a pick up took me under his wing.
He turned out to be a motorcyclist and regaled me with tales of riding bikes, drinking beer and eating chillies with naked ladies.
The great thing about hitching is you are temporarily invited into other people's worlds. Often they are people you would not normally meet because their lifestyles can differ a great deal. As a traveller it is a unique opportunity to get a close up peek at the people whose country you are visiting.
Over the years I have been picked up by farmers, hunters, policemen, mothers, hippies, environmentalists, marijuana growers, surfers, heli-skiers, even politicians. The common thread amongst all lifts is they are kind and brave enough people to help a stranger in need.
We modern hitchers are a dying breed. The media driven culture of fear makes it harder and harder to get a ride. Sadly we all live in increased isolation and the barrier between those in vehicles and those outside it gets harder to break down.
Although I would not necessarily encourage my mother, sister or niece to do the same, I will never drive past a hitcher with an empty seat in my car. A hitch hiker is someone who needs help to get where they are going.
The biker was a true Texan: part Mexican, part German with a long and drawn out southern drawl. Most of his stories seemed to involve 'Having a ball' in one way or another. It was a pleasure to be in his world for a while.
Dropping me a the bike shop he assured that I would be fine because, "Out here folks help each other out ".
While Jim and I worked on the bike, Danny the manager of the campsite back in Marathon knocked on the door. He had noticed I got a lift into Alpine and, having come this way to do some shopping, he wanted to offer me one back.
It seemed the Motorcyclist was right. There might not be many people out here but the locals do whatever they can see everyone is taken care of.
Danny told me some of his story on the way home. He came out from Austin, Texas with his daughter to visit the frontier country one holiday weekend.He was captivated by the feeling of wilderness and space.
Texans use the term 'frontier' to describe the boundary between wild land and civilisation. The term has a great deal of romance associated with it, Danny's eyes lit up as a he talked. On his first visit, 8 years ago, he bought the little motel and RV park in Marathon, moved out and never went back to city life.
Austin is by all accounts an interesting place. Jim too originated from there. People tell you it is an island of tolerance and acceptance in a more conservative central Texas.
Danny took the time to make me a map of place to go and to stay when I'm there.
Later that evening a family came to watch the sunset by my tent, they too hailed from Austin it transpired. Discovering I was a lone traveller in their area, they gave me their numbers and told me to call if I needed help with anything at all.
Not only had the good people of Texas helped me out in the here and now, they were also making provisions to look after me further down the line.
Now that's good hospitality.
Saturday, January 2, 2010
Notes from the road to Rio Nueces, 1/1/10
I am back on the road again and back on track I hope. Mother nature and I seem to have worked through our differences for the time being. Today was sunny and still, I covered 60miles of enjoyable riding in 5 1/2 hours.
I have set off towards what is known as the Texas Hill Country. I will arrive there tomorrow morning. The hill country is supposedly the most beautiful part of Texas, giving me something to look forward to.
Today picked up where I previously left off : Texas ranching country. The thick bush has been getting taller and thicker all day long .More and more trees have joined the throng. From time to time woodland would have been a better term to describe my surroundings than the now familliar bush.
The hunting season is in full swing. Men wearing foliage patterened clothing are ever present. Their play time is dusk and dawn. I see them in between, killing time at the road side or in coffeshops. They are an affable lot on the whole, often ready with a witty remark as I pass by.
The fences east of Del Rio have taken on a fortress like quality. They are 8 to 10 foot tall in places, new and well maintained. Their role is to keep the valuable animals inside I'm sure.
Today I rode by a heard of Blackbuck, a diminutive and very beautiful Antelope species. Blackbuck are native to the Indian sub-continent, the males have distinctive long tightly coiled horns. Only the dominant male of a herd has the eponymous black back, though pretenders to his throne will darken with age and standing.
These creatures were endangered in their natural habitiat when I was growing up, (I was something of an antelope buff at the time. Wonderful creatures you know, like 'birds of the plains': flocking together, elegant and beautiful, so many varieties, easy to see,etc,etc).
I don't know the blackbuck's situation now. The ones I saw may possibly be part of a world wide conservation programme. However they are also available to trophy hunters to shoot, I saw a sign that said so. A trophy hunder needn't fly to Africa and India to shoot the game he wants these days. He can just nip down to Texas where they stock a wide variety. That's globalisation for you.
The German was right about one thing, it is not easy to wild camp in this part of Texas. The fences are high, the roadside verges are trimmed and the locals are all out shooting things with guns. They are very hospitable people indeed but it would rather ruin their day to spend a morning creeping up on me only to find that
a. I am not a deer and
b. I have frightened off all the deer.
Hence despite all that inviting looking woodland almost crying out for someone to string up a hammock and make a camp fire, I don't sneak onto the hunting ranches. I do not think the hunters would accidentally shoot me but I don't want to repay kind Texan hospitality by getting in their way of their favourite pastimes.
As luck would have it after 60 miles of nowhere at all to hide, a clump of bushes came into view just as I was about ready to collapse. Even on this very quiet highway, there's no chance of a getting away with a fire this evening. Still there's a space behind the bushes to cook, flattish ground to sleep on and enough cover to go unnoticed
Back at low altitude evenings above freezing point are returning, there will be no need for a tent.
I'll be happy here for tonight.
I have set off towards what is known as the Texas Hill Country. I will arrive there tomorrow morning. The hill country is supposedly the most beautiful part of Texas, giving me something to look forward to.
Today picked up where I previously left off : Texas ranching country. The thick bush has been getting taller and thicker all day long .More and more trees have joined the throng. From time to time woodland would have been a better term to describe my surroundings than the now familliar bush.
The hunting season is in full swing. Men wearing foliage patterened clothing are ever present. Their play time is dusk and dawn. I see them in between, killing time at the road side or in coffeshops. They are an affable lot on the whole, often ready with a witty remark as I pass by.
The fences east of Del Rio have taken on a fortress like quality. They are 8 to 10 foot tall in places, new and well maintained. Their role is to keep the valuable animals inside I'm sure.
Today I rode by a heard of Blackbuck, a diminutive and very beautiful Antelope species. Blackbuck are native to the Indian sub-continent, the males have distinctive long tightly coiled horns. Only the dominant male of a herd has the eponymous black back, though pretenders to his throne will darken with age and standing.
These creatures were endangered in their natural habitiat when I was growing up, (I was something of an antelope buff at the time. Wonderful creatures you know, like 'birds of the plains': flocking together, elegant and beautiful, so many varieties, easy to see,etc,etc).
I don't know the blackbuck's situation now. The ones I saw may possibly be part of a world wide conservation programme. However they are also available to trophy hunters to shoot, I saw a sign that said so. A trophy hunder needn't fly to Africa and India to shoot the game he wants these days. He can just nip down to Texas where they stock a wide variety. That's globalisation for you.
The German was right about one thing, it is not easy to wild camp in this part of Texas. The fences are high, the roadside verges are trimmed and the locals are all out shooting things with guns. They are very hospitable people indeed but it would rather ruin their day to spend a morning creeping up on me only to find that
a. I am not a deer and
b. I have frightened off all the deer.
Hence despite all that inviting looking woodland almost crying out for someone to string up a hammock and make a camp fire, I don't sneak onto the hunting ranches. I do not think the hunters would accidentally shoot me but I don't want to repay kind Texan hospitality by getting in their way of their favourite pastimes.
As luck would have it after 60 miles of nowhere at all to hide, a clump of bushes came into view just as I was about ready to collapse. Even on this very quiet highway, there's no chance of a getting away with a fire this evening. Still there's a space behind the bushes to cook, flattish ground to sleep on and enough cover to go unnoticed
Back at low altitude evenings above freezing point are returning, there will be no need for a tent.
I'll be happy here for tonight.
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