Day 2: books, bugs, buzzards, Buteos and a BeMWu

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I could have said hawks and falcons, but then I would not have had all the B’s in the title.  Art is important after all, and Buteo is the genus for some of these rapacious birds.  It has been a long and hot day, and with 724 miles behind me now, I needed some creativity.   I am in Amarillo now, and in the comfort of what is essentially a log cabin tent with air conditioning, I am winding down.  My writing this evening has to take us back to yesterday after I was done journaling.

Notable from last night was this group of photographers from Wichita Falls, who were at Fort Griffin to see a cowboy poet that was performing there. We talked for a while, and they invited me to attend a cowboy church in Wichita Falls today.  Service would start at 10 in the morning, but they recommended that I would get there at nine to get a good seat.  More about this later.

We then went an listened to the poet for a while.  He performed in an open field, often taking sips of water with lemon juice, which he said should help him get over this bronchitis which has been plaguing him since February.  He read poems about horses, appaloosas to be precise, revealing in his discourse their uniquely tricky nature.  He read poems about getting sick as a kid, from eating green fruits.  It did bring some very precise memories, which I shall not detail here.  He praised bailing wire, and lamented its disappearance from the markets, and he talked about wonderful red birds, which turned out to be coke cans, once he put his reading glasses on.

There was also an astronomer there, who patiently showed people the M13 something or another, along with the Sagittarius constellation, shaped like a tea kettle, pouring over Scorpio.

It was finally time to call it the day, so I packed myself into the tent, and went to sleep, incredibly early for me, at 9:00 pm.  I woke up repeatedly, and transitioned between sleep and wakefulness.  In dreams I chased after little rascals, who were running around my tent, and then got awakened by howling coyotes in this cools mid-Texas night.

I finally got up at 7 in the morning.   I made myself a quick cup of espresso, with this amazing travel stove, and then packed it all up, and headed out.  I did have to make a quick stop at the gates of the camp.  Yesterday, as I rode in, I noticed several longhorns and horses, and this was too much to let it pass by. At this point it was already 8:30 in the morning though.

It was a beautiful morning to ride.  The night temperatures had fallen into the low 60s, so the air was cool and dry.  I rode on curvy roads, nice hills and prairies, and eventually Archer City came into view.  Following the advice from the photographers I met last night, I made a quick stop at the Dairy Queen.  Now, those who know me, have already raised their eye brows.  Me, at the Dairy Queen?  Well, in this case, I had to make an exception.  This particular DQ had been part of a movie based on one of Larry McMurtry’s books, Texasville.  Inside, tucked away in the corner were all sorts of plaques and news paper articles framed for all to discover, well hidden behind a DQ promotional poster.  The lack of excitement about what makes this fast food place unique, as I asked the lady behind the counter, and her seemingly pregnant young daughter if this was indeed the place, and only get an ‘I guess so’ in response.  Still, excited about this little pearl in the middle of nowhere, I purchased a bad cup of coffee, and a very freckled banana, and sat there, enjoying the glow of Larry McMurtry’s fame.

Further up the road I came to Archer City’s main square, and dismounted the BeMWu to talk a short self guided tour of this small town, so full of bookstores that there must be 100 books for every person in the town.  I sat for a while at the steps of the court house, and got a thumbs up from a couple driving a long RV with a couple of BMW motorcycles in tow.  My hair cut got a number of stairs, and a scream of ‘Cool Mohawk’ from a kid riding in the back of a large SUV. By now it was already 10:15 am, and Wichita Falls was at least 30 to 45 minutes up the road.  Looks like I will have to wait for another day to attend cowboy church.

It was time to get on moving again. Since the begining of the day, I saw quite a number of hawks and falcons, flying in the early morning breeze, or patiently perched on telephone posts. What a pleasure it is to watch these birds patiently  but instensively scrutinizing the ground for a fat rodent destined to become their next meal.  This is indeed one of the many experiences that cagers, aka car drivers, deny themselves, along with all that decide to travel on the flat, straight, multi-lane insterstate.  Missing from this collection of experiences are also the smells of the road. The aroma of rotting bodies that have sucumbed to fast moving vehicles, the smell of fried food as one approches towns, and the distinct signature of aromatic hydrocarbons delivered to the traveler courtesy of the petroleum processing centers are but a few of the experiences that car drivers and highway travelers deny themselves.  There are also the numerous insects that splash against the various parts of the motorcycle, finding themselves quickly broiled against the scalding fins of oil cooling grills and fins of the motorcycle’s jutting cylinder heads.  Broiled that is, when they do not happen to hit the windshield, or various parts of one’s body.

Notable amongst the sights today was a stretch of highway numbered 1919, where pools of water all over the place looked like they had sprung up from Adelina’s painting palette, colored by the deep red iron oxides from the soils in the area.  At some point I made it to an overlook, where I got my first blimpse of the flat mesas of the South West.  As it always happens, my heart was filled with calm and peace.  This is a sight that never fails to bring me to a place I feel that I belong.  I had been sitting there for a while, when I was joined  by a couple riding a red Goldwing.  We chatted for while, and shared stories of storms and rain on the road way.  Just before taking my leave, the guy riding the wing said: ‘Be careful riding up that canyon.  There are two mule deer with antlers this big.  You don’t want them landing across your lap’.  Good advice indeed.

I carefully rode up the canyon but the infamous mule deer never made a show.  Eventually I made it to Claude, a small town named after Sandra’s dad, I am sure.  From there it was a short ride to my campsite, where I finally settled down in a small log cabin. Here I am, writing the last words of the day, under the light of a flash light, since the power went out, and a room full of bugs.