Oh, to be young and reckless again.
Late in the morning, the tropical storm subsided, and the clouds parted for the Sun. We came around a bend in the highway and passed over the Mississippi River, and I observed a moment of silence in honor of the East Coast behind me. Before I knew it, we were in the great state of Texas. God bless that state, for its lack of rain, balmy temperatures, and generous speed limits. My dad had carefully instructed me that in Texas, you only use the left lane on the interstate to pass another vehicle. It is actually criminal to be the slow driver in the left lane. What a beautiful thing.
The first stop was Houston. I was wow'ed by the efficient highways that delivered you, sans traffic, to every point of the city. I scoped out the house constructed entirely out of beer cans while munching on a superfoods salad and kale smoothie picked up at a restaurant downtown.
Now THIS is a city I can call home.
The rest of the afternoon, I drove through the Texas countryside, with eyes set on Austin. At the golden hour, I pulled off on a scenic loop to watch the sun set over the countryside.
I decided sunsets are prettier as you go further west.
I had looked up the live music schedule for Austin, and seen that Caribou was playing that night at the Mohawk. The show was sold out, and I debated whether purchasing a ticket on StubHub was worth it. Then, I saw that my favorite musician, Andrew McMahon, was playing the following night at the Mohawk, and a few tickets were still available.
Now, listening to this artist still gets me all googly-eyed and giggly, like the last 10 years of my life haven't turned me into an adult yet.
So, I polled my Facebook friends to decide if I should stick around Austin for at least a day. It's a cool city, I'd gone well out of my way to visit, and... why not? The only deadline I had to make was Thanksgiving dinner. Staying another night would mean a few revisions of the itinerary and some tough cuts of less-exciting diversions. In the end, my cousin and younger sister wooed me onward with promises of attending the show in Santa Ana that weekend.
If I had to be critical of Austin, I would say it was not exactly what I had envisioned. But it was still pretty damn cool. Granted, I didn't see everything. The barbecue at Stubb's was great, the local beers were decent, the performance by the Love Leighs at the White Horse was fantastic.
The White Horse came highly recommended, so I plugged it into the GPS and set off on foot. What I saw when I arrived looked like an old trailer-turned-stable. It was quaint and full of interesting people. I was politely invited to waltz with a number of cowboys, and chatted about beer, Austin, and my trip until the wee morning hours.
The next morning, Delilah and I were up and out before the Sun. We went on a jog around Lady Bird Lake, named after First Lady Johnson, then Delilah napped while I indulged in a TexMex breakfast at Juan in a Million and reviewed the day's activities. First, I scoped out the Baylor Street Wall Art at the top of a big hill overlooking the city.
Then, I headed west to Hamilton Pool, an open cavern and natural spring. It was off the interstate down a stretch of careening ranch roads. It would be my first of many encounters with Texas ranch roads. I drove for what felt like hours, but really only 20 minutes, and then turned into the State Park. A sign next to the entry gate clearly read, "No Pets Allowed. Even on leash or left in car" The grammar wasn't the best, but the message was clear. I was intent on seeing the pools just for a few minutes, so I rolled up to the ranger and explained my predicament. Delilah gave the ranger puppy eyes, and the lady was smitten. So, she waived our entrance fee and told me to go ahead and leave Dee in the car and run down to the pools "real quick". It wasn't anywhere near hot, but I parked in the shade, filled up Dee's water bowl, cracked the windows, and hightailed it down the short trail to the pool.
Totally worth the drive
The afternoon held more ranch road adventures in store for us. I bought bison jerky and talked to cotton farmers taking their machinery up north. We cruised by the the house (now a cafe) filmed in the 1974 "Texas Chainsaw Massacre". We followed the billboards to the Caverns of Sonora. As we drove, the landscape changed from rolling, tree-covered hills, to scrub, to flat prairie, to desert. We'd reached desert in southwest Texas when we got to Sonora. The caverns offered free kennels to dog owners, so Delilah got a chance to get some fresh air and stretch her legs while I did the same 150 feet below the surface.
The caverns were breathtaking.
Rooms, galleries, and passageways of crystal formations. Geodes, stalactites, stalagmites, and a bunch of geological terms I'd never heard and won't remember. The 90 minute tour was led by a sarcastic good ole' Texas boy, and I would've paid to go again just to listen to his comments. The cave easily tops any others I've visited.
Most of the day was burnt up when I finished the cave tour, so I ended up driving several hours after dark to Roswell, New Mexico. I lost cell signal, so I switched from Spotify to radio. But the radio "seek"ed endlessly for a station. The winds howled in the desert, and I spotted a tumbleweed (the first of many) skip across the interstate. Out here, the stars gave off more light than anything else. I could see the outlines of oil rigs tirelessly pumping. It was wild, and beautiful.
We finally reached Roswell, which was more of a city than I'd envisioned. It was the end of our third day on the road, nearly 2,000 miles behind us, and Delilah and I both felt a bit road weary. We quickly fell asleep, dreaming of little green men.
