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Through the window of my RV, which was parked about 10 miles south of Durango, Colo., I had a magnificent view of the Rocky Mountains' San Juan Range. -- Photo by Pat Bean

Be your name Buxbaum or Bixby or Bray or Mordecai Ali Van Allen O’Shea, you’re off to Great Places. Today is your day! Your mountain is waiting. So … get on your way.” — Dr. Seuss

 

Day 17

It was with eagerness that I finally said good-bye to the dreaded Interstate 40, which I would never have driven except for Mother Nature’s tantrums. Not knowing when I would have to stop because of her semi-toppling winds, I wisely, if sorrowfully, chose to avoid my usual backroad routes where RV parks were few and far between.

But today I left Albuquerque, New Mexico, and its gentle Sandia Mountains behind me as I traveled down Highway 550 toward Durango, Colorado — and the more rugged Rockies. These are the mountains that stir my soul to exhilaration.

 Highway 550 is a easy-going four-lane, lightly traveled road that passes through the Santa Ana, Jemez, Zia, Jicarilla Apache, and Southern Ute Indian reservations. It took me from Albuquerque’s 5,314 feet to above 7,300 feet, and across the Continental Divide a couple of times. Sagebrush, juniper and oil wells dotted the landscape. If not for the shape of the landscape, steep hills and high mesas, it would have echoed my drive through West Texas.

I stopped for the night about 10 miles south of Durango, and drooled for awhile out my RV window at my first impressive sight of the Rockies. Corny as it may sound, tears come to my eyes every time I meet them again after an absence.

On the Road: The past and the present side by side on Route 66's Enchanted Trails RV Park. -- Photo by Pat Bean

  “A person has to do what a person has to do.” — Pat Bean

Days 13-16

I was on the road for only about 20 minutes before yesterday’s wind resumed. It tricked me into thinking it was going to be a calm day. My RV and I wrestled with while headed west on Interstate 40 for 125 miles. In Tucumcari, New Mexico, I surrendered to a roadside KOA. The place quickly filled with other RV-ers who also hollered “Uncle!”

The next day again started calm, but once again the wind picked up before I had traveled far. This time I gave up after 85 miles, stopping at the Enchanted Trails RV Park on the west side of Albuquerque. A look at the upcoming weather forecast convinced me I needed to stay put for the next three days.

It was a good thing I did because my revered Mother Nature rained, snowed, hailed and blew over semis all around me for the next couple of days. Fortunately, my camp site only experienced an hour or so lightning show and 15 minutes of a light rain. The wind, however, rudely shook my RV around for the full three days.

Leftover Route 66 memories -- Photo by Pat Bean

Interstate 40, roughly follows the colorful and historic Route 66, where business such as reptile zoos, Indian trading posts and old-fashioned ice cream shoppes made traveling an adventure. Enchanted Trails is one of those businesses that survived by catering to present day travelers. The former trading post sits on the original 66 highway in view of today’s Interstate 40, where travelers have forgotten the journey in the rush to reach the destination.

 

Walks around the camp to take care of Maggie’s business — and fill my ears up with blowing sand — revealed bits of Route 66’s colorful past. I’m glad I got to travel the original route in its heyday. What you didn’t miss is the up side of aging. I’m also glad that I still understand the importance of the journey.

Life is good, even when one finally gives in and screams at the noisy wind rattling their tiny home to “Just stop it already!” Sometime you have to do what you have to do, even if your canine companion looks at you as if you’re crazy.

Copyrighted by Pat Bean

 

Y'all come for dinner, Big Tex says to visitors headed west on Interstate 40. He was the landmark just before my exit to the Amarillo Ranch RV Park

 “Botanists say that trees need the powerful March winds to flex their trunks and main branches, so the sap is drawn up to nourish the budding leaves. Perhaps we need the gales of life in the same way, though we dislike enduring them.” — Jane Truax

 Days 10-11

The first thing I saw on hitting Interstate 40 heading east into Amarillo was Big Tex, urging y’all to drop by the Big Texan Steak Ranch. It was one of the numerous billboards advertising this restaurant that I had seen as soon as I reached the Panhandle. The restaurant’s gimmick is a free 72-ounce steak if you can eat the whole thing in an hour. The odds, like in Vegas, are in the establishment’s favor. If you lose the cost of the steak is $72.

 I kept my money and fixed myself a bowl of my homemade crab and shrimp gumbo soon after I checked into the Amarillo Ranch RV Park – they throw the word ranch around a lot in this part of Texas. I planned to stay two nights so I could catch up on chores, but ended up staying three because of a wind storm.

 The next day, the only good one weatherwise,  I did  laundry, grocery shopping and got a haircut. I now had clothes that once again were lavender-smelling clean, a full  food cupboard, an overflowing tiny refrigerator – and bad hair.

“I want my bangs to touch my eyebrows and leave some fullness on the side,” I told the stylist.

 She was either deaf, unskilled or mad at the world and wanted to take it out on me. I left the beauty shop with too much forehead in front and too little hair above my ears. Thankfully my hair grows fast.

Cadillac Ranch, another I-40 landmark. This one a public art installation that says much about Texas. Photo by Richie Diesterheft, Wikipedia

 My plans to get back on the road the next morning were then thwarted by Texas-sized winds that kept my motor home rocking and rolling all day even though it stayed parked. They also took me down.

I was going out to walk Maggie when the wind grabbed control of the door, slamming it up against the side of my RV and tossing me 20 feet across the grass when I didn’t let go of the handle quick enough.  I landed, thankfully, on my padded bum but still with a  clumsy kid’s scratched knee.  Maggie nuzzled me, then gave me a look that said,  I thought we were going for a walk.

 Amarillo in my rear-view mirror the next morning wasn’t a bad sight.

Copyrighted by Pat Bean

A golden-fronted woodpecker visit to my Palo Duro Canyon camp site -- Photo by Pat Bean

“I don’t ask for the meaning of the song of a bird or the rising of the sun on a misty morning. There they are, and they are beautiful.” — Pete Hamill

 Day 10

 As I was getting my RV travel ready for my trip to Amarillo, I glanced out my window – and then did the thing I so often forget to do. I grabbed my camera. Luck was with me this day for I actually captured the image of the golden-fronted woodpecker visitor through a window from inside my tiny home.

 I once was in a canoe coming around a bend on the Green River when what sounded like a loud shotgun blast drew my attention shoreward. Before my very eyes a cliff-side avalanche was taking place. I watched in awe, totally forgetting the camera hanging around my neck.

Such has been my relationship with so many awesome events in my life. The truth is, I carry a tiny even-dummies-can-do-it digital camera with me almost everywhere I go. For those who need to know, it’s a Canon PowerShot SD850.

The canyon has her secrets -- Photo by Pat Bean

I purposely leave it in my pocket most of the time. When I do take it out, I quickly snap a picture and put it back. Having worked often with journalistic photographers, I know it’s not the way to capture award-winning shots. It is, however, my chosen way of seeing the world.

 Looking through a camera lens, at least for me, dims the world around me. Mostly, when I think of taking a photograph, I’ve missed the perfect action moment. This time I didn’t.

Copyrighted by Pat Bean

A Palo Duro Canyon view provided by Mother Nature ... Photo by Pat Bean

“There is something infinitely healing in the repeated refrains of nature – the assurance that dawn comes after night, and spring after the winter.” — Rachel Carson

Day Nine

 Today was the day I explored the park. I took pictures, hiked a few trails and let nature’s special medicine cleanse my brain of the world’s chaos. No chemicals could do as thorough a job.

The birds serenaded me. The spring budding of trees fed my soul, and the canyon’s rock cliffs, sluggish red creeks, and colorful wildflowers continually kept my eyes entertained. I looked for the coyotes that had howled during the night, but saw only deer, jackrabbit and of course birds, including a spotted towhee that was a new addition for my trip list.

Water carved the canyon, and continues to do so ... Photo by Pat Bean

 Palo Duro Canyon is a big Texas surprise. Hidden below a flat landscape of sagebrush and cactus, and blowing tumbleweeds when the wind howls, one has to be in it to see it.

 Have you ever felt that you were exactly in the place you were meant to be? This day felt like that.

Copyrighted by Pat Bean

The view from my camp site in Palo Duro Canyon ... Photo by Pat Bean

“Palo Duro … is a burning, seething cauldron, filled with dramatic light and color.” — Georgia O’Keeffe

Day Eight

Yesterday’s high winds continued today in the park so I stayed close to my No. 26 camp site in Palo Duro Canyon State Park’s Hackberry Campground. There was still plenty to see, however.

 As I often do when I’m in a campground, I throw out some birdseed to see what I can attract. When I did it this day, and while I was still spreading it around, several wild turkeys rushed out from nearby bushes and practically were eating out of my hand. They probably would have if I hadn’t been a bit concerned about their sharp bills.

 A little later, after I retired to my RV to watch the show out my window, a deer came up and joined the turkeys. What fun. Chipping sparrows and cardinals dropped by later to glean the leavings.

At 120 miles long and 800 feet deep, Palo Duro is Texas’ Grand Canyon. Spectacular, but in un-Texas-like fashion only a miniature when compared to Arizona’s big ditch. It pains a Texan to admit this but as one who has seen both, I must tell the truth.

Like Georgia O’Keeffe, however, I found Palo Duro’s intensity stirring my soul.

Visitors to my camp site ... Photo by Pat Bean

“I can’t change the direction of the wind, but I can adjust my sails to always reach my destination.” — Jimmy Dean

 
 

Looking down canyon from the Palo Duro Canyon State Park interpretive center ... Photo by Pat Bean

 Day Seven

I took one last early morning hike and then a final drive around Lake Colorado City State Park before getting back on the road. I was rewarded with bluebonnets and a roadrunner. The bluebonnets, as always, cheered the soul while the road runner brought a smile to my face.

 It’s a long-legged bird that prefers running to flying, hence its name. It has a bad-hair-day crest that bobbles with every step. I can never watch a roadrunner without thinking of the Coyote and Roadrunner cartoon, in which the bird always outsmarts the wily coyote.

 I was still smiling when I got back on the road for the 250 -mile trip this day to Palo Duro Canyon State Park.  The smile, however, had disappeared by the time I passed Snyder and was traveling down Highway 84. It was typical West Texas landscape but with an added touch. I occasionally had to dodge blowing tumbleweeds. While the storm of the night before had passed over, it left behind high gusting winds that tormented my RV and kept me clinching the steering wheel so I wouldn’t get blown off the road or into a passing vehicle.

It didn’t let up the entire journey; not only did it make driving tense, it also keep most of the birds I would see along

Osprey on a windy day ... Photo by Mike Baird, Wikipedia

 the roadside tucked away. The exception were the turkey vultures. Like the postman, the weather never keeps these birds from their daily routine.

Finally as I approaching Palo Duro, Texas’ minature Grand Canyon, I did see another bird circling above. An osprey? Surely my eyes were playing tricks on me. Osprey eat fish and I didn’t know of any nearby lake.

At the park check-in, as always, I asked for a bird list and information on any rare or unusual birds seen recently. “Just an osprey,” the park worker replied. “He was seen eating a big trout taken from one of our streams.”

“And he ate it all,” chimed in another staff member.

 Birds never cease to amaze me.

Photos and prose copyrighted by Pat Bean. Do not use without permission.

 “Birds sing after a storm; why shouldn’t people feel as free to delight in whatever remains to them – Rose Kennedy

Bluebonnets at Lake Colorado City State Park survive a stormy night to carpet a picnic site beside the lake. ... Photo by Pat Bean

Day Six

 

The bird seed I threw around my camp site at Lake Colorado City State Park attracted a dozen species of birds. My favorites were the curved-billed thrashers and the northern cardinals. Several pairs of these birds, most likely in a courting act, fed one another. In the case of the cardinal, because of the differences in feather color, I knew it was the male feeding the female. I couldn’t tell the sexes of the curved bill apart but I assumed it was also the male doing the feeding.

The exchange of seed between the birds reminded me of French kissing.

One bird that didn’t partake of the seeds, but came to check it out from a tree-top seat was a magnificent Bullock’s oriole. I was sorry I didn’t have any oranges to slice and hang from the tree. Such offerings are one of the oriole’s favorite treats. Finding nothing to its liking, and after singing me a song, this glowing orange, black and white bird moved on.

Bullock's oriole ... Photo courtesy of Wikipedia

When not watching the lake and the birds out my RV window, I took frequent short walks with Maggie, did some writing, and read Catherine Watson’s “Home on the Road,” all the while keeping a watch on a dark, angry sky. I expected it to lash loose its fury at any moment, but it waited until the middle of the night to unfetter its bonds.

While I love storms, and listening to rain pitter-patter on my motor home’s roof is usually a pleasant symphony, the intensity of this one had my RV dancing a wild polka. Instead of a joyful tune, it was a discordant composition in which clashing cymbals and strobe lighting took center state. . When a lightning bolt struck only 10 feet away – or so it sounded – Maggie, who normally ignores storms, abandoned my feet and curled up next to my fetal-position curled stomach. I was glad for the comforting feel of her soft fur next to body.

I hoped my birds had found safety, and assumed they had when they showed up beside standing puddles of water early the next morning to eat my seed offering. While they had merely picked at the seeds yesterday, today they were gobbling it up as fast as they could. I was glad I could help them recover energy from what had been a wild stormy night.

Lake Colorado City State Park birds: Brewer’s blackbird, red-winged blackbird, eastern bluebird, bobolink, northern cardinal, mourning dove, house finch, scissor-tailed flycatcher, common grackle, great-tailed grackle, Cooper’s hawk, red-tailed hawk, killdeer, northern mockingbird, Bullock’s oriole, eastern phoebe, roadrunner, northern shoveler, house sparrow, lark sparrow, rufuous-crowned sparrow, song sparrow, vesper sparrow, white-crowned sparrow, Eurasian starling, barn swallow, rough-winged swallow, tree swallow, curved-bill thrasher, sage thrasher, tufted titmouse, turkey vulture and Bewick’s wren

A perfect place to end the day: Lake Colorado City State Park ... Photo by Pat Bean

A perfect place to end the day: Lake Colorado City State Park ... Photo by Pat Bean

Stand still. The trees ahead and bush beside you are not lost.” — Albert Einstein.

Day Five

 I needed to stock up on supplies, including chemicals to keep my RV holding tank smelling like honeysuckle or the close approximation, so before leaving San Angelo I needed a Wal-Mart. I looked up the nearest one on my computer mapping program and wrote down the directions. Somewhere between the park and the store, however, my missing sense of direction had me zigging instead of zagging.

My planned 10-minute side trip into town ended up taking over an hour. The up side – I always try to find one when horse pucky happens — was that I now had a more personalized feel for San Angelo.

This Central Texas city of 100,000 is dissected by the Concho River, a fact that made itself known as I crossed it several times in my efforts to get unlost. The twisting river flows between O.C. Fisher Lake to the north of town and Lake Nasworthy to the south, where I had spent the night.

Depending on the section of town in which I was lost, I could describe San Angelo as a progressive town or a decaying one, a place of manicured lawns or junky shacks, and its residents as rich or poor. Actually most of it looked pretty middle class, which gave it a distinction of being just about like any other city of its size I’ve explored. ations. The flat see-for-miles landscape was dotted with sagebrush, cactus and clunky mesquite and cedar trees. Adding color to the otherwise dull landscape were the roadside wildflowers Texas is known for: purple verbena, bluebonnets, pink primroses, and yellow blossoms too numerous (and difficult) to identify. Oil rigs, cattle, spring-plowed fields and huge windmills completed the picture. The latter was a recent addition to a landscape that was etched on my Texas memory.

The oil rigs pumping on one side and windmills turning on the other spoke of this country’s over-weight dependency on energy. I was glad to see the cleaner fuel source addition, but wondered if it would be enough. I, however, couldn’t cast stones. My RV was my glass house. My holding tank deodorizer, however, was organic and non-toxic.

 
 

Red-winged blackbird

A red-winged blackbird with shoulder epaulettes as bright as a shiny fire engine brought my attention back to nature. It stayed there until I drove into Lake Colorado City State Park, where I would spend the next two nights in a campground full of mesquite trees just coming into bloom. Both the trees and the ground beneath them was atwitter with birds. Life is good.

Photos and prose copyrighted by Pat Bean. Do not use without permission.

Pipevine swallowtail butterfly ... Photo by Pat Bean

 “Happiness is a butterfly, which when pursued, is always just beyond your grasp, but which if you will sit down quietly,may alight upon you.” — Nathaniel Hawthorne

Day Four

Pipevine larvae

My camp site at Garner held one of nature’s surprises. Chomping down on tiny ground plants hidden among the short grass were a dozen or so pipevine swallowtail butterfly larvae. This morning as I took Maggie on her first walk of the day before getting back on the road, I saw the end result: an awesome pinevine swallowtail.

How do you become a butterfly? You have to give up being a caterpillar. It’s one of those lessons Mother Nature teaches us about ourselves. And with that thought on my mind, I left the Edward Plateau country behind and headed north on Highway 83.

Just as I exited the park, about a half dozen deer crossed the road ahead of me. The spots on their bodies, since they were adults and not fawns, identified them as axis deer, a species imported to Texas from India as game for hunters. While I’m not anti-hunting, and gladly eat the venison my youngest daughter shoots for her freezer every year, I could never put a bullet in one of these beauties – a contradiction many of us face in a country where food comes wrapped and sealed from a supermarket. I’m old enough, however, to still remember my grandmother wringing the neck of a chicken that would be our Sunday dinner.

I don’t long for those “good old days.” I’m quite happy living in a world that lets me, a lone female, travel cross-country in safety, with plenty of books to read and a microwave oven to cook my store-bought dinner. Maggie, I suspect, prefers these days, too. In my grandmother’s time, dogs were not allowed in the house.

My mind was all awash with such thoughts when I passed through Leaky, a town of about 400 residents and an antique store with a sign that read: “Sophisticated Junk for the Elite.” I laughed out loud, but didn’t stop to investigate. Sophisticated or not, there was no room in my RV for old, or even new, doodads.

South Illano River State Park headquarters, where purple verbena brightened the landscape and a vermillion flycatcher kept watch. ... Photo by Pat Bean

My sight-seeing stop for the day was at South Llano River State Park, where a vermillion flycatcher served as guard dog for the rustic headquarters. I was amazed to see this bird fly right up to the fence next to me. It was almost as if I was being scolded. When I mentioned this delightful, but unusual occurrence to the staff, they laughed and said he greeted all visitors that way.

Vermillion flycatcher ... Photo courtesy of Wikipedia

“He considers our office his personal territory, and wants everybody to know that,” a park worker said as she looked at my pass.

I spent a delightful hour birdwatching on the Illano River before saying good-bye to this small Texas park, giving myself a promise I would be back one day for a longer visit.

My traveling day ended at Spring Creek Marina and RV Park in San Angelo, a commercial park where I knew I could use my cell phone and get on the internet. My Verizon services hadn’t worked anywhere within a 50-mile radius of Garner State Park. That’s one of those traveling surprises that are not nearly as much fun as being able to photograph a pipevine swallowtail butterfly.

Sitting beside Lake Nasworthy, the park caters to fishermen. San Angelo is a convenient stopping place for me on my way between Texas (where family mostly lives) and Utah (where I worked for 25 years) so this was not my first visit to the marina. It’s a quiet quaint place, where a sign on the small combination office/grocery store tells everyone they can get snow cones and pickles, and where scissor-tailed flycatchers played this afternoon in the campground trees. 

After a walk around the lake with Maggie, I spent the rest of the evening catching up on three days of e-mail.  

Birds seen this day: red-winged blackbird, eastern bluebird, northern cardinal, American crow, Eurasian collared dove, mourning dove, white-winged dove, bald eagle, scissor-tailed flycatcher, vermillion flycatcher, blue-gray gnatcatcher, great-tailed grackle, ruby-throated hummingbird, kestrel, killdeer, northern kingbird, northern mockingbird, eastern phoebe, common raven, house sparrow, lark sparrow, vesper sparrow, white-crowned sparrow, European starling, bank swallow, barn swallow, cliff swallow, tree swallow, summer tanager, black vulture, turkey vulture, Bewick’s wren.

Photos and prose copyrighted by Pat Bean. Do not use without permission.