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.