Trapped Outside the Fence

There are seashells mixed into the concrete. Looks smooth from a distance, but rough and airy as we draw near, similar to the state itself. Held up by a brick pedestal, a beacon on the side of the highway. Smaller than anything else in the state, black letters cross it. Cross the welcoming sculpture shaped in its image, Texas. People must approach this in cars and receive a spasm of excitement by passing it. Excitement may convert to past exhilaration within minutes of passing it though. Arriving at this border sculpture, our emotions build and persist, for we've arrived at the largest state of our trip. It alone will require a couple weeks to cross. We're sitting on the invisible line right now. Not quite there, but about to bound, tire first, into the section of trip which has seemed most unknown to us. 

We eat tuna wraps, gulp down Gatorade and sit on the shaded side of the sign. Our sights trace each vehicle as they rush by, often rubber necking back at us. Trucks already seem bigger than anywhere else on the trip. Oklahoma's 60 mph speed limit raises to 75 immediately following a "Welcome to Texas" sign. We hope to take a big bite out of Texas over the next few weeks and I warm up on the sculpture. It gives me nothing but the horrible feeling of teeth on anything unyielding. 

Dirt 'Farm to Market' roads zig-zag across vast areas, absent of highways. Packed harder and smoother than concrete, we cruise along faster than we could on the chip sealed roads of hours before. Occasional rain brings soupy clay to the surface, hardened by baking sun in the days that follow. Pink shades of red, marbled inconsistently by mostly mundane varieties of tan. Each zig-zag places us either against the wind, or enjoying it as a traversing breeze. Against the wind, we pedal harder and build up heat, relieved by the cooling cross wind and easier pedaling as we make a turn. Expanses seem open and free in both directions. Farms and ranches, lacking any sort of fortifications or infiltration obstacles. Wes swoops an open, upward-facing palm, across a view to one side. "We can camp anywhere" he states with an unbelieving happiness. 

Stocking up in a town for the first time in a few days, I also try out a basket of jalitos. Sliced jalapeños, breaded, then fried. Dipping them in ranch, they're delicious, with a slight bite and crunchy texture. Right outside of town we find a hammock haven. Large pine tree farm, with each trunk spaced twenty feet from the next. There's a skip in our stride as we walk around a place like this. Hanging my hammock, I decide to move one end to another nearby tree, only to make the distance a mere foot shorter. I would normally never do such a thing, but all the options make it fun to do so. Hammockers can't always be choosers, but this evening we sure can. There's a rustling in the surrounding bushes, drawing closer, then retreating, then returning throughout the minutes. It's an inviting commotion, so I grab my bright light and knife to investigate. Brush is thick, the unknown trampling always near, but I can't sight anything. It reminds me of the scene in Jurassic Park where raptors are using the dense forest to slowly take out people from the tail of the line. It's moving slowly, yet in a trudging fashion. When it moves, it does so without fear, unlike me. Noting this, I retreat, having no idea what is within my fifteen foot bubble. 

Rain hits, it always does. It's never a short visit. It's trying to get more comfortable with us than we want it to. 

It's better to move, rather than hunker down for another night. At least that's how we always feel at the decision point. Within a few minutes, Wes, from beneath a dripping helmet, mentions how good we had it in our sheltered comfort. He's right. I usually push for the move. We find evening shelter on an oh-so-familiar molded plastic bench seat in a chilly McDonalds. Its staff stares at us as the hours go by. We overhear words of explanation to others. Bicycle. Wet. Country. Rain. Coupons. Asking the manager if she'll please plug in our battery packs behind the counter, she tells us to use the outlets in the playplace room, where the wall meets the ceiling. She doesn't like us. I stand on a chair and plug in our batteries, letting them hang from their cords. 

Rain isn't stopping. We need to find camp regardless. Pulling on our rainshells, we speed through the night streets of Paris, TX. People stare out their windows, wondering why anybody would ride their bike in this weather. We find a promising patch of trees behind an abandoned carpet and tile store. As I stand on the road, Wes rides through the adjacent field to check out our options. His bright red LED taillight blinks consistently as he tries to recon the spot with stealth speed. Driving past us a hundred feet, the police SUV whips around and pulls up to the shoulder at a 90 degree angle. Blue lights flashing and spotlight on Wes. I must either tell him we're looking for shelter from the rain or that my friend is relieving his bladder in the trees. I'm stalling, wondering if Wes' explanation will contradict mine. Luckily, Wes arrives right as the officer arrives at the hood of his vehicle. 

"Sorry officer, it looked like a dark and deserted place to take a leak."

"Didn't think to go there?" as he points at the gas station directly across the street. 

He's interested in our story and holds us in the rain a little longer for some questions. My drivers license isn't registering as valid in the system. I don't have the heart to tell him he called my number in, then said it was a Massachusetts license. He sees we're harmless and lets us go with wave. Pulls in a few blocks down the road to make sure we leave town. He could tell we were looking for camp. 

Nights of rain, boar jaw ornaments, dense tree farms, loose muddy roads, spooked horses and dewy walks. Six miles of muddy road leads us to the doorstep of Jay and Donna. We're arriving here in our worst condition. Most everything is completely soaked, eleven days of riding and camping leave us smelling unpleasant, all electronics and batteries are dead, chains grind with road grit, but above all, we're psychologically drained. Rain has soaked into our morale. Jay swings open the front door and tells us to take care of any cleaning before dinner. He's done this, the touring gig. He knows we're excited to fully meet, but realizes we're looking for a change in our cleanliness and appearance first. 

Jay is an active guy, going on runs every morning and even competing in marathons. Completed the Boston marathon two years ago. His active drive shows in his conversations and movements. He walks with a quick stride and talks in constant reference to a goal. He's a hero at the Plano fire station. I don't know any specific story, but consider he must be after decades in service to safety. I want to ask about specific stories, but never know how comfortable one can be with that. I'd never ask a veteran to tell me a war story. 

Always engaged in conversation, he wants to find the best answers to our questions. Taking time to think out a response, his sentences often start with "Well, you see, um, you know..." Hand gestures and body movements accompany most of his thoughts. Rotating flip of the hand and shoulder shrugging are fairly common ones. He moves as he talks. Rolling and tossing pizza dough while providing his history. Chopping peppers while asking about ours. Talking about his daughters while pouring us water. 

Donna shares stories about the creepy crawlers of Texas. Crushing piles of scorpions near the heat vents, with her feet. Jumping as she walks up to the sink and finds a massive spider staring up at her. Running in the house to grab the 38 special after seeing a snake crawling up a window, towards a bird nest. We witness only the spider, but it creates a good visual for the other encounters. College and life have moved both their daughters out of the house, leaving plenty of motherly attention for us. She bakes us cookies and makes a delicious stew. Brings us tea while we work on our bikes. Worries about our safety on the road and makes us feel a little closer to home.  

Sheared rack bolt in Wes' front fork. Broken handlebar bag in my cockpit. Too long of a bracket on Wes' front fork. Front brake piston on his bike has pushed out. We've been dealing with these issues for weeks, have the skills to fix them, but lack the tools to do so. In the morning, Jay opens up his metal-sided shop for us. One thing after the next is checked off the list. Waking up before us, he's attempted to remove the sheared bolt in Wes' fork. Drill bit dulled, threads eaten, tapping attempted, tap sheared in fork. He's trying to grind it out with a diamond bit, but it's showing little progress. It's been hardened to cut steel, not by it. Jay's not satisfied with the outcome, by we assure him it's alright. They're able to fashion a bolt limiting the racks angle, then zip tie the rack to his fork. It's a wonderfully screwy design, but it works. I believed my handlebar bag to be forever ruined. I present the problem to Jay and he responds with a lightbulb thought, paired with a index figuring pointing upwards. Reminds me of when Bill Nye would provide the answer to his puzzling question. He reaches to a tall shelf and pulls down some aluminum fence ties, has me cut off the curved ends, and inserts them into the bag as reinforcement. Brilliant idea. 

Jay and Donna live on an 83 acre plot of land. They've purchased a tractor and equipment, but have now allowed others to cut and collect the grass, free of charge. There's a small pond hole next to his yard, but it won't hold water. Holds for a few days following a big rain, then seeps into the Texas soil. There's a partially destroyed board, painted white, stood up near a tree, across the pond. I ask him what it's for. 

"Sometimes I like to get the pistol out."

Recently, they've had a storm shelter placed in the backyard. They don't fancy the location, centered in the backyard, but realize proximity takes priority over  aesthetics once a storm hits. I ask for a tour and he says there really isn't much to it. Simply a concrete block. Though it's a novelty to us, only familiar with them through environmental thrillers, like Twister. It's overcast while he shows it to us, enabling me to closer recreate its situational use in my head. 

"May take a while to gather up the goats and cats in here." says Wes. 

"They can fend for themselves." Jay states with a smirk. 

We stay a second night. Ice cream and movies, sitting on their big leather couch. It's funny how one experience can falsely confirm an assumption. It confirmed to me that all Texan homes have leather couches. Sat upon after dinner, while everybody digests and eats ice cream. We head out before noon the next day, hugging, waving and then smiling as we ride down their driveway. They've entered a second era of freedom in their life, now that both kids are out of the house. Utilizing their freedom, they're heading out to camp in Oklahoma for the weekend. We part ways, hoping to see them again, sooner rather than later. 

I've swapped out my hammock for another, more compact, one and therefore mail mine home from the Bonham post office. I'm able to pack everything in a flat rate box. 

"Saved yourself $14 by smashing it into that box." I'm told by the scruffy postman with long, blonde hair. 

"That means I paid for my lunch by packing it all in!" I respond. 

"Cappy's cafe is right around the corner, best homestyle meals in Texas." he says without any reserve. 

Sold. Expected a cafe with a menu, found a lunch buffet. This isn't Golden Corral though. Everything cooked from scratch, with skill, with love. Piles of Mac n cheese, seasoned cabbage, meatloaf, scalloped sweet potatoes, etc. Each of the waitresses ask about our trip and we enjoy telling it to each. They're a straightforward group and ask the uncomfortable questions. Not the typical when and where questions. They want the dirt. Waddling to the register, we hand our ticket to the hostess. She stabs it on the ticket holder. 

"Manager says it's on the house. All of us wish you both good luck on your trip."

So incredibly kind. Regardless of how many times this happens, it's equally as powerful. We don't tell our story in hopes of a handout, yet the response is often this caring and supportive. 

As we walk out the door, the manager approaches us. 

"Be safe out there on the road! You're on an exciting trip, but don't let safety be forgotten. You're welcome on the meal. I'm sure you both have mothers thinking about you somewhere." she says in between our thanks. 

We pedal down the street, past homes of older times. Riding slowly on the sidewalk with our food bellies, not able to keep up with traffic while focusing on digestion. We find a park in the sun, and relax. First hours of sun in over a week. Shoes flung off, glasses put on, we lay out on the edges of a dried pool, once fed by a monumental waterfall. 

Three things happen as we travel westward in Texas. It flattens out, becomes more barren and barb wire is more prevalent than trees. 

Terrain begins to flatten out more and more. Slowly, with each hour of each day, we're able to see more and more open expanse in front of us. We pass a field covered in stacks of oil pipes. Two feet across and roughly sixty feet long, they're stacked up in long rows. Six pipes high and hundreds of pipes long. Lumber yards always seem grand, but this is even more so, due to its inorganic state. Passing one collection of pipes, we find a pipeline being built in both directions of the highway. The Keystone Pipeline. Pumping crude oil, refined from tar sands in Canada, we ride pass one of the most controversial issues of the present time. It looks harmless, almost playful, like a water slide. It's like a children's toy, with a high disaster potential. 

Pine trees slowly give way to straggly, hardened trees. Resilient trees make way for plump bushes. Bushes become lower to the ground and seem a little more empty. Grasslands and cacti eventually take the place of everything else. the horizon line becomes the curvature of the Earth. Finding the most comfort through a night of sleep in our hammocks, each disappearing tree takes a little something out of us. We're crafty with our camp choices though and always end up in them for the night. 

Absence of trees and open grasslands have created the ideal circumstances for cattle ranching. Nearly all the land in Texas seems private and, in this area, utilized for grazing cattle. This is enable on a much larger scale with the implementation of barb wire, which is said to be the death of the cowboy. 

Every road or highway has roughly thirty feet of buffer between the road and barb wire. At times it stretches for a hundred miles without a single break in the face. One rancher connecting his fence to the next and so on and so on. Nearly every person we encounter informs us its purpose is to keep cattle in, rather than us out. They inform us that most ranchers wouldn't care at all if we jumped the fence to camp for the night. Although there's one flaw, gates, in this logic. Cattle guards hold cows in without any problem, gates are used to keep people out. There are no cattle guards in this part of the country. Every row of barb wire is paired with a solid steel gate, held in place with an equally large padlock. These people don't want us on their land and we're not going to test otherwise. 

I myself feel like a cow at times as we pass through these areas. Infinitely able to travel forward, the restrictions of metal and manpower keep us within a path only a hundred feet wide. Each evening, as night sets in and we don't have any prospects for camp, I envy the cattle and their ability to cuddle up under some trees. Wes and I begin communicating in moos and kick up some dirt if the other gets too close.

Up until this point, finding camp has been the easiest part of the day. We would simply put some miles behind us, then pull off on the side of the road, into some trees. The introduction of barb wire to our days has offered a new obstacle. We look ahead on the satellite and look for patches of trees. Eventually we look for any barren spot without a fence. They're few and far between, often leaving us searching for a couple hours at night. 

We begin using parks in small towns to hang our hammocks. We're an oddity in these towns and therefore aren't bothered due to the sheer unfamiliarity. Sometimes we pull into towns and the parks are actually suggested to us. High school kids in their big, loud trucks consistently drive by to see and continue show others what we're doing. Slowing down as they cruise by, their eyes slowly trace our camp, followed by the driver punch the gas and speeding up quickly. We love camping in a secluded area of trees, but these are some of the most enjoyable nights. Water, lights, toilets, playground toys and hungry kitties to share dinner with. One morning, we wake up in a park to find a soccer tournament being played right next to us. Silently, packs of kids sneak up on us, one carefully placed foot after the next. Arriving within twenty feet of us, whether we catch them or not, they make noises and run back to their parents in the bleachers. Depending on the parent, we receive smiles or shakes of disagreement. 

Looking at Texas from the view of a satellite, there's a definite line where trees end and barren openness begins. We've been staring at this line since we started planing the trip a year ago. Seymour is the town which cradles the line on our route. It holds even more meaning than this to both Wes and I though. Him and I met in Peru, yet it's less commonly know that there was a third member of our group. We moved as a trio during the last six weeks I was in Peru. Brian Comrie was the third piece. He breathed heavily up every set of steps, had a bigger heart than most, was very good at drinking rum and blessed us every night. Thousands of miles away and almost two years ago, he would sit in my room, telling me about his ranch in Seymour, Texas. It sounded like such a foreign place, which I would never see. Yet here we are, riding in to its limits with the sun upon our backs. We guess where he would get his hair cut and which gas station he would choose to stumble into. Riding through town, we mimic his mannerisms and laugh at how ridiculously wonderful he is. Seymour is exactly how he explained it. Small town, with overgrown sidewalks and few walking the streets. One grocery store with hefty prices. Side streets are lined with deserted homes and plants growing up through the cracks. 

Young man at the grocery store points us towards some rarely traveled trails down by the river. We cross the paths with our hammocks and hang among cacti for the first time on our trip. The river is nearly dry and allows a father and daughter to walk in its moist sand. We overhear them talking about a search for treasure. The cacti come with a bright pink sunset, which deserts often deliver. We drink chocolate milk and watch as the pink slowly gives way to darkness. There's a critter in the cactus next to me. Its teeth crunch on the cactus' fruit as it moves from one to the next. Flashing it with light, I hope for a glimpse of it. It never allows me more than a glimpse of retreating fruit. The moon is big and puts me to sleep quickly.