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Published: February 19th 2007
Motorhome News from North America 35 3rd February - 14th February 2007
Texas, ‘The Lone Star State’, to the Rio Grande and Mexico
Groundhog Day, Superbowl, Rockport, King Ranch, The Rio Grande, Laguna Atacosta Wildlife Refuge, Brownsville and Matamoros, Mexico.
Life takes on the rhythm of the tide, routine and habit, daily chores and hourly challenges, writing and reading, new distant places and smiling faces, as we circle around this huge continent like the hands of a clock along its highways and byways.
Is it not surprising then, that we might sometimes miss the obvious? Janice, ever observant, alertly tuned to the sights and sounds of people and places, suddenly realised that postmen are the exception here; they use right-hand drive vehicles to drop off and pick up mail direct from the post box outside each house. Later in the week, she discovered it’s possible to listen to the BBC eight o’clock news on the internet. Now, I’m really happy! (She also told me we could get Terry Wogan and Sarah Kennedy, but I threatened to leave home if she did.) We’re still learning.
Groundhog Day came and went with just sufficient sun between the clouds to cast
Spectacular whooping cranes
Aransas National Wildlife Refugea fleeting shadow. Folklore says the groundhog pokes his head above ground on 2nd February to check out the weather. If he sees his own shadow he retreats back down the hole for six more weeks of sleeping! If he casts no shadow at all, then spring is said to be just around the corner and he’s safe to emerge from hibernation. Groundhogs or not, the locals will tell you winter is not yet over here in southeast Texas. This has been their worst winter for many years. We have that effect on the places we visit - and get blamed for bringing it with us from England!
The USA stood still on the evening of the Sunday 4th February. It was Super Bowl, bigger and bolder than the English Cup Final, with half the country in front of the television with a bottle of Budweiser in one hand and a BBQ rib in the other. The Indianapolis Colts outran the Chicago Bears 29-17 in the few minutes of play shown on TV between the advertisements, thrashing and splashing their way through the field in Miami’s pouring rain. They were acclaimed, ‘World Champions’ at the end of the match,
though I can’t think of any other country where the game is played, can you? Few sportsmen in other countries would have the slightest idea of what goes on on the field - all those guys running around in every direction like headless ants at a tea party. They all seem to enjoy themselves though, and it sells a few tons of fancy dress outfits every year. ‘Not quite like rugby though, old chap, what? Can you imagine the uproar at Twickers if the All Blacks came out of the tunnel dressed like that?
Weather forecasts suggested higher temperatures further south, tempting us to leave Galveston in the hope of finding the sun two hundred miles down the Gulf coast. Our arrival on that sunny Sunday afternoon coincided with a boat trip from Rockport promising to hunt down the spectacular Whooping Cranes on the wild marshes of the Aransas National Wildlife Refuge. Wild Whooping Crane numbers are growing steadily, from critically low numbers in the 1980’s, to a total of around 250 today, all of them converging on these marshes in family groups for the winter. They will migrate from here in the spring, winging their way back north
to their breeding grounds in Wood Buffalo National Park in northern Alberta.
Shrimp boats lined the harbour in Rockport, running out to sea along the Intracoastal Waterway. At this time of the year, they turn their attention to oysters, dredging the banks to bring home their prized catch in burlap sacks. The Happy Hour treat at the local bar offered a dozen fresh oysters for $5!
We have talked about the Intracoastal Waterway before, but little did we realise its immense length and importance. It sweeps through the marshes here in a broad channel 12ft deep and runs from Brownsville on the Texas border with Mexico, around the Gulf to Florida and all the way up the east coast to New York and beyond! It was originally dredged during the 1940’s as a defence barrier against German U-Boat attack, but it is still performing a useful function bringing supplies to major cities along its route. Tankers and barges hundreds of yards long now churn their way through the brackish marshes and pristine sandbars, moving from port to port, from Gulf rigs to oil depots and refineries. We joined the crew and a few hardy wildlife watchers on the boat
A sad day for the deer
Feast time for the red-tailed hawk trip out to the marshes along the waterway. Beside the banks, a few scattered families of Whooping Cranes watched us from the marsh, a dozen people transfixed, aware of the immeasurable value of this rare sight, looking out from the upper deck with binoculars and scopes, heartened by the experience and warmed by the mild Gulf breeze on our backs. A watchful coyote harried a group of turkey vultures on the bank in a Mexican stand-off for the prize of a dead wild javolina, and we thrilled to nature’s puzzle, to the circle of life to life passing before us as our boat threaded the watery channels under the winter’s sun.
A break from the coastal marshes took us inland past vast fields, hedgeless, treeless, for mile upon mile, fading to a thin line of straggly trees on the horizon; bare fields, flat, as flat as your uncle Harry - and boy, that’s flat let me tell you. Grey fields, endless, characterless, tilled, harrowed and seeded awaiting much needed spring rains - an occasional nodding donkey and artesian well dotting the sparse landscape. Grey fields, fresh from the tractor, grey fields where soy bean, sorghum, water- melon, cotton, tobacco,
sunflower and corn will sit out the summer sun to feed and fuel this crop-rich country. Deer, javolina, skunk and dogs lay dead by the roadside, fallen to the thundering Texan truck, their fate awaiting the coming of the scavenging red-tailed hawks, the vultures and crested caracara.
Everything in Texas is big - we all know that. Just to make the point, the headline in a Toyota ad reads: ‘In Texas there are only two kinds of trucks - Big and Bigger!’ Trucks are great boys toys, as macho as a Texan cowboy in spurs and high-heeled boots. Every home must have one for the man of the house, and most homes do. They guzzle the gas unashamedly, but at just over 26p per litre this week, who can really blame those who drive them? A lady recently told us the USA has 6% of the world population - and uses 25% of the world’s oil resources. How long can that continue one wonders? It will not be long before China catches up, I'll bet.
Further to the south, distant towns appeared ahead on long straight roads breaking the monotony of the barren landscape. Great billboards reach for
The Aplomado Falcon
A rare glimpse of this outstanding bird! the sky where the motor dealerships congregate, fast-food outlets compete with fast-fattening meals and malls sprawl, an acre for the pharmacy, an acre for the animal hospital, an acre for the library, twenty acres for Wal-Mart and twenty for Lowes the builder’s merchants, ten for the supermarket, a scattering of homes for five thousand people, towns stretching relentlessly five, ten miles, or more. Then, onwards, out into the open spaces once again, empty horizons, straight roads, every half-mile another raptor on a post, litter-strewn verges, ramshackle buildings and prickly pear cactus, pointing the way to Mexico, tacos, chillis, baritos, fajitas, and a rising thermometer. Roadside signs extol the virtues of mighty Texas; ‘Keep Texas Beautiful’, they say. But there is little of real beauty here on the coastal plains, the billiard table of the world, without significant undulation, without buildings, homes or other features of architectural merit - other than probably the greatest assortment of birds and butterflies in the United States as migration nears.
The next few weeks should see the beginning of spring migration northwards and ‘twitchers’ from across the world will be arriving here to join us mere ‘birders’ - and the birds! We’ll try not
to bore you with our birding exploits, but feel free to join us if you will, just don the hiking boots and clean the lenses on your binoculars before we set out. Much of our lives will revolve around wildlife and birding over the next month, along the verdant palm-clothed valley of the Rio Grande, where America borders Mexico, graced with the coming of spring. The birds are already getting frisky in the treetops and there is a pale green sheen high up in the cottonwood trees, bowing on the gentle breeze along the river. It’s holiday time for us soon and we’ll be taking a short vacation in Costa Rica at the end of the month with a small group of birders from across the USA. I’ll give Janice a nudge to see if she will give our RSPB friends another ‘birding special’ blog when we get back.
We came to a town called Alice, a ramshackle collection of untidy houses not unlike the Australian town portrayed in the film - and quite unlike the ailment Christopher Robin went down with at Buckingham Palace. Our travel guide recommended a visit to the nearby King Ranch; 825,000 acres of
The Rio Grande Valley
Golden fronted woodpecker grassland, with thousands of cattle and ranching horses penned in by 2,000 miles of fencing. The ranch is a commercial family enterprise of grand proportions more befitting ‘Dallas’, but they portray an affair with nature, with organised short bus tours of the ranch, and guided nature and birding tours. The latter was off the menu until later in the week, but we found a few exciting new birds in the car park whilst waiting for the bus for the former: yet another woodpecker, the golden-fronted woodpecker, a small group of Pyrrhuloxia (a grey cardinal with a yellow beak) and the magnificent green jay!
It was 130 miles south to our next port of call, more than half of it die-straight over open grassland, bland, a sprinkling of cattle on sparse ranch-land, not a house, building or road-junction. Our destination was a small RV site near Rio Hondo called ‘Circle L RV Park’, run by Jim and Barb Yoder. It’s not any old RV site though, rather a small club for snowbirds from the north, Wisconsin, Minnesota, Iowa, BC, Ohio, Ontario, all sharing the new clubhouse for daily line dancing, nightly cards and dominoes, Swedish weaving, bingo on Fridays, and
weekly midday ‘Country’ jam sessions with Jim and a host of great volunteer players and singers! It would be difficult to think of a more friendly site in all our travels - we were welcomed warmly as family. Most of the men were there for the sport fishing, boats moored at the dock behind the house and just eight miles upriver to the fishing grounds of the Intracoastal Waterway. The ladies were there determined to enjoy each day, burning up the social activity, baking great cookies and generating between them a very special spirit of community.
We weren’t expected at Circle L. We rarely book anywhere unless it’s a special weekend or the schools are out. Jim and Barb came out to greet us when we arrived. Jim offered a hand. “I’m Jim,” he said. “What can we do for you?”
“We would like to stay a couple of nights to go out to the Laguna Atascosa Refuge,” Janice said. He looked me in the eye and put his hand to his chin. “We’ve got some new spaces with hook-ups for $50 a week.”
“How much for two nights?” I ventured. He looked at his feet. That
The Rio Grande Valley
Common Pauraque - can you spot him? was a new question he’d not encountered before, and there didn’t appear to be an easy answer.
“Now, there’s a bummer,” he retorted, scratching his head for a solution. We waited for the gears to fall into place.
“How do you feel about $10 a night?” I offered.
“That’ll do.”
We shook hands on it. “And I’ll include electricity,” he added. Jim knows he’s too cheap, but when you have a place called home like Jim and Barb, you’d expect people to stay for the whole winter, wouldn’t you? Sadly, we could only manage two days, but some folks had been wintering there at Circle L for seventeen years or more!
Distance has little meaning if you’re from Texas. It is 900 miles square, give or take an inch. Barb was telling us about some of the ‘exciting’ places to visit in the area.
“You should visit King Ranch while you’re here,” she suggested. I had to think hard. Were we not there yesterday?
“Yes, we’ve been there, Barb," I said. “We were there yesterday.”
It’s a 120mile drive each way - but I guess that’s pretty local if you’re a Texan.
‘Circle L’ was
The Rio Grande Valley
Great tailed grackles - Who dat up there? also about as close as we could get to Laguna Atascosa Wildlife Refuge: 88,000 spectacular acres of barrier-island, saltwater and freshwater marshes, savannah, coastal prairie and thorn brush. The air was ringing with birdsong from the moment we arrived, our tickers pounding with anticipation. Imagine our excitement at seeing five species for the first time, and all in one morning: the rare Aplomado Falcon, a Plain Chachalaca, a White eyed vireo, a pair of Groove-billed ani, and White-tipped doves galore! Never heard of them? Neither had we, a year ago, but perhaps a picture or two would help - let’s see if we can find you some from our selection.
We’re working hard at making our luck at the moment. I had my field glasses trained on a Long-billed thrasher singing its heart out in the treetops when Janice shrieked! She froze, her mouth wide open, eyebrows raised, her eyes bright with amazement. “A bobcat!” She pointed a shaking hand. “It walked right past me, just there!” Bobcats don’t bite humans - as far as we know, but they are impressive none-the-less, about four feet long with a ‘bobbed’ tail like a Manx cat. She’ll remember that one for
Metamoros, Mexico
The street market a long, long time, along with the scene: the knee high brown grass, the thorny scrub and the gravel track on the mesquite trail at Laguna Atascosa. We truly treasure such special moments.
It’s the Birding and Nature Festival this coming week in Brownsville, that almost Mexican little town of 130,000 stretching ten miles along the north side of the Rio Grande, a week when birders congregate to search out the early spring migrants at sunrise and talk birds until the candle burns out or the owls give up and go to bed. We decided to do all that in our own time, and instead, crossed the bridge on foot into Mexico for a brief change of culture.
A narrow bridge separates Brownsville, America, from Matamoros in Mexico. There is little difference between the two in the downtown areas. The Spanish language predominates in both, the shops wear that dusty exterior of a sad economy where cheap goods prevail and people young and old bustle on the pavements. There are no border controls for outgoing walkers or cars; the long queues reserved for those coming the other way, out of Mexico and into the USA. Customs officers check
Metamoros, Mexico
School 'tuck shop' passes, passports and baggage and police jeeps patrol the river banks looking for swimmers doing the Mexican crawl, illicitly crossing with their clothes in plastic bags, their tired eyes fixed on the far bank dreaming of work and a brighter future.
The Rio Grande left us a little disappointed. We had visions of something 'grand', but upriver dams have diminished the surging divide between these two strong-willed countries spasmodically locked in battle until a century ago, to a sluggish fifty-foot wide channel in recent years, leaving it as a creeping green snake, meandering through a shallow ‘valley’ unworthy of such a term of endearment. Mexicans know the river as the Rio Bravo. “It’s only those gringos in the north who call it the Rio Grande,” a Matamoros official told us.
Few people in town spoke English, but two smartly uniformed teenage students offered to direct us when we consulted our map, unable to communicate but eager to help, their school day finished at midday, and their desks vacated for the afternoon shift in a different uniform. We walked the dusty uncared-for streets and potholed pavements past dirty unloved cars, wire-caged market stalls which would be at home in Bangkok,
Metamoros, Mexico
Moustachioed Senors with Stetsons selling counterfeit tee-shirts and DVD’s, shops selling lurid blankets, leather belts and wallets, smart shoes, outrageously attractive cowboy boots and sombreros, to the accompaniment of lively music from loudspeakers on every street corner - bringing happy smiles to the faces of dark-eyed senoritas, swinging their tight-jeaned hips for the appreciative moustachioed Senors idling under the shade of their Stetson hats.
The local market lured us into the dens of the sharper traders, the wheelers and dealers in all things touristy and always a fun experience. “You wanna see my junk?” they cried at every turn, waving us inside like London policemen in the middle of Oxford Circus. We humoured them all and laughed our way through the stalls leaving a trail of smiling shopkeepers and silent tills. If we buy it, we have to carry it back to England! But two rather small sombreros did find their way into the rucksack - for El Toddo and Senorita Suzie as a Valentine’s treat.
Tonight we’re off to the camp ‘Valentine’s Dinner Dance’ in the recreation room with 100 other jolly campers. Did you remember to send that card this year - or are you in the doghouse once again?
Metamoros, Mexico
Shoeshine, Senor? Love and kisses, from,
David and Janice. The grey-haired-nomads
Strange as it might seem:
There was another motorhome in the parking lot behind the Brownsville Library as we arrived to check our email, a New Zealand flag draped across the Luton window - and it was one we recognised. We last talked to Clive and Margaret in another car park at Hoover Dam in Arizona at the end of January 2006! It was so good to meet them again. The real coincidence was our discussion over breakfast that morning when we considered our options for the coming four months. We could be looking to leave the USA at the end of March if we sell Winnie, (though it seems unlikely) and New Zealand was at the top of our list of desirable destinations!
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Grey haired nomads
David & Janice The grey-haired-nomads
No chance!
Thanks, Jo, and thanks for letting us enjoy your adventures. You have the true NZ spirit and guts. Lovely description of your balloon flight. We rose so serenely from the ground over the Nile back in May this year, I didn't know we were airborne! Loved your country when we were there in 2008, motorhoming for 11 weeks through North and South. (Motorhome News from New Zealand) Still seeking out new places, faces and adventures. David - the older of the two Grey haired nomads