This morning as I wandered the river here in the park, a couple of lines from yesterday’s Jesus Calling were still walking around in my head.   I was in no particular hurry because I didn’t want to try to make my way into Austin during the rush hour.

“Trust protects you from worrying and obsessing. Thankfulness keeps you from criticizing and complaining.” Seems like thoughts to hold on to.

Some might think, why would you leave a beautiful state park to go headlong into traffic and busyness and blah, blah, blah. I’ve changed my whole notion of cities since I moved into the city after a lifetime of living in the burbs. I love living in the city and relish seeing others. In the case of Austin, it has a reputation of being a bike friendly city with lots of places to ride. I love exploring on the bike and have been in places in both Minneapolis and St Paul where no one goes. At least not on the weekends. That isn’t to say they are dangerous places, it just means there’s not much reason to go there.

For those who have done it, finding your way into a city where you’ve never been requires good doses of instinct and luck. The internet helps but requires anticipation when you don’t have it whenever you want it. You choose a route that seems like it’s the simplest and most direct and hope your instincts take up the slack.

I chose State Hwy 1 approaching from the southwest thinking and hoping it would be one of those four lane secondary highways with a bunch of lights and lined with businesses. This was significant because I needed to find a place to get an oil change done while I waited. Hwy 1 was a freeway. A freeway with lane closures. As I sat frustrated in slow and go traffic the tall buildings of downtown seemed a long way off and I was thinking, ok, that didn’t turn out as you hoped, so now what?  Eventually I picked an exit that seemed fairly close to where I wanted to go and started my hunt. I drove for a ways without success, backtracked to a street I’d crossed, and turned onto it. This one was looking equally bleak but then as I climbed another hill and around a turn I came to light and there right to my right front was a Jiffy Lube. But this wasn’t just any Jiffy Lube. Carlos was the manager. Not in itself significant, but Carlos’ brother owned a food truck and it was parked off in the corner of their little parking lot. While I waited for my oil change I enjoyed a Southwest Scramble. A piece of Texas toast, (why did Texans think toast should be named after them?), with a layer of black beans, then a layer of scrambled eggs with peppers, a dollup (how do you spell that?) of guacamole, and a drizzle of creamy chipotle sauce. All I can say is that guy should be arrested for making something that good for only $5.50. And there’s more; a block away was a bike shop and do you suppose they could tell me exactly how to get to the trail I was looking for? Jesus, you’re messin’ with me.

Ok, I’ve gone on enough. How about some biking photos? The river that flows through Austin has a wide section below downtown called Lady Bird Lake. The trail runs on both sides with other trails branching off.

This was looking across a tributary at a section that I had ridden through earlier.

A memorial to an Austin favorite son, Stevie Ray Vaughn.

Not exactly the Stone Arch Bridge but a nice urban ride nonetheless.

The buildings on the left I believe are dorms for the Texas School for the Deaf.

In spite of how it looks, this trail as the crow flies is only a short distance from downtown.  I didn’t spend much time on this one ’cause I really didn’t have the tires for it.

I forgot to mention it was raining as I drove into Austin.  The day started off as if to hold no promise.  But it proved to be more than worth the trip.

Tomorrow, San Antonio.

Today I left the beach for the hill country of central Texas.  The most definitive part of the hill country is, well, the hills.  They seem to go on without end and provide some interesting vistas.  They are full of ranches, game farms, and private hunt ranches.  They’re dotted with names like, White Tail Ridge, Boar Canyon, and Dripping Springs Road.  There are numerous abandon homesteads, their stories gone silent long ago.

I landed in a place called Guadalupe River State Park.  I chose it because it’s situated north of San Antonio and southwest of Austin, two cities I’ve never been to and want to spend some time in.

Guadalupe is a gem.  There were lots of day visit people still here on Sunday when I arrived but then it went quiet.  There are only a handful of campers in each site loop.

Along the river has been one of my favorite morning spots of the trip.  I think you can see why.

……………., why don’t he write?”  A favorite line in Dances With Wolves when he’s talking to Two Socks after he’s been away at the Indian Camp.

Mustang Island. The name evokes images of wild horses running free over the dunes and beach. Nope.

To be fair, I didn’t expect to see wild Mustangs roaming the island, but when I got here yesterday I felt like I landed somewhere in the lunar module. Some would say this is what they really picture RV camping to be like. This campground is a parking lot with picnic tables and everyone is right next to each other. Last night I listened to the neighbor couple from Quebec argue in French. I heard every word, I just didn’t understand it.

This morning I’m really trying to embrace the beauty of it but I’m having a hard time. I feel a little trapped because there is no place to ride and the highway, which is less than a hundred yards from me, is heavily traveled with not much shoulder. Oh, and did I mention that everybody in Texas drives 70? Everywhere.

I was told once that the term links golf courses comes from the fact that the Scottish built golf courses on the land that links the sea with the farmland. They built them there because it wasn’t good for anything else. I guess they hadn’t heard of RV camping.

So anyway, back to trapped; I guess I’ll just have to spend my time walking the beach. 🙂

I took this picture of one of the manmade jetties because down in between those massive rocks is where the real interesting stuff is.  I tried some pictures but you really can’t see what I’m shooting.  You can see definite evidence of passed oil spills which is disheartening.

Almost all of my internet time is spent uploading pictures and the text of what I’ve started for posts, as well as editing and adding to the posts.  I wish I could take more time responding to some of the comments but wifi time is used to it’s fullest for keeping up with this and other things.  Thank you all so much for your interest and your expressions.  I’m really kinda overwhelmed by it all.

Peace to your days.

I thought this was interesting.  This is the first rest stop/welcome center that you come to in Texas on I-10.

This morning I woke up with my eyes cast west to Texas. I felt like I had three choices. One was to go back through the heart of New Orleans to Highway 23 that follows the Mississippi all the way down until you can’t drive anymore. It ends at a town called Venice. There is one town on the map farther down called Pilottown that I presume you can only get to by boat.   This choice would require a complete backtrack because all the roads into the bayou just end. On the map it appears there’s nothing down there but swamp and the river. The choice both intrigued and intimidated me, and I’m not intimidated by much of anything. Well, women maybe. 🙂

The second choice was to skirt New Orleans, drop down to highway 90 and make my way west through the Atchafalaya basin. This choice drew me because it is the setting for the stories of one of my favorite authors, James Lee Burke.

Or, I could do both and find a place to camp for one night somewhere in Louisiana. In the end I chose door number two with some regret. I spent the day being jostled by poor roads and streets probably still trying to recover from Katrina. I was hoping the route would bring the books a little more to life for me but I can’t say that really was the case. That’s not to say the area does not have any uniqueness. Burke’s novels arc their way through the old south of sugar cane plantations, nasty dives out on dirt roads, and the back streets of Lafayette and New Iberia. It is the Louisiana of old money, cajuns, crackers, gre gre and all that Creole lore.  It’s also the Louisiana of Evangeline, the epic poem that lifted Henry Longfellow to prominence in American poetry.  The story stretches from Nova Scotia to the Louisiana bayou.  From some English class way back when I can still remember those opening lines in the Prologue;

This is the forest primeval.  The murmuring pines and the hemlocks, bearded with moss, and with garments green, indistinct in the twilight, ….  

I spent some time in New Iberia. It is a town where you can see stately antebellum homes and barely more than a golf shot away are houses and shacks where the poor live, black and white alike. These houses have no foundations and most are not level. The corners are propped up with whatever is available. Pieces of railroad ties, concrete blocks, rock piles. It is a contrast that sticks in your head.

Earlier I wrote “with some regret” about my choice. I think having the opportunity to do and experience this trip precludes me from feeling such things, so I think I just won’t.  Never mind.

I am well and hope you all are too.

Week 4 contained an afternoon of dangerous weather that chased me off the highway and in to yet another motel. But it ended in grand fashion.

This morning I drove into New Orleans, a trip of about 45 miles, and spent most of the day on the bike in downtown and the French Quarter.

It’s hard to know what to shoot pictures of in New Orleans. So much of what you see many people have shot and therefore many people have seen. For me the day had three things I want to share.

The first was Café du Monde for beignets and café au lait. This iconic landmark is seemingly a part of every story about New Orleans that’s ever been written or movie that’s ever been made. It sits between the Quarter and the river, kiddy corner from Jackson Square and the people watching rivals any state fair, airport, or Vegas Strip.

Every afternoon they close off Royal Street and make it pedestrian. That brings out the street musicians. The “shows” are high energy and interactive and the musicianship overall is outstanding.

Lastly, every city has it’s own movie playing every day. You have to allow yourself to be in it. I was able to cover a lot of ground on my bike. From street musicians, to homeless camps, to riverboats, and pigeons, my day was like riding around in a movie with a thousand stages.

By the way, the Superdome makes the old Metrodome look like a doll house.

This has been my least favorite campground thus far. The sites are very close together, a lot of them don’t have fire pits, and it’s just not as well kept as my previous sites. And then there are the trains.

This is the view from my campsite, and lest it be deceivingly pastoral, there is a train track right over beyond those trees. A very active train track. An all night long train track.

The area however does fascinate me because I view everything through the lens of the one/two punch of Katrina and Rita from 10 years ago. Here’s two examples of how they do things now.

You can spot piles of construction debris and I saw a trailer home on it’s side and pushed into a trapezoid, all of which looks as though it has been that way since 2005. I don’t for minute mean that to sound critical, but only to underscore that the effects of those two storms on this area will remain for a long time. Being in areas that spent weeks, and in some cases months underwater, is hard for me to get my head around.

The people who remained or returned are truly a resilient bunch.

You can see her from a pretty long way off.  Traveling west you cross a long bridge that spans first a very large marshland and then the bay.  The end of the bridge literally disappears into downtown Mobile.  Looking to your left you think you’re looking out on the Gulf, but you are actually looking into Mobile Bay.

Off to your left front lies her ladyship, nestled at the edge of the bay next to a large park.  She’s now at rest and deservedly so.  In the park are old gun placements and even a sub in dry dock and a B52.  But they fail to steal the thunder from the star of this show.

I suppose by today’s standards she’s not very big, but she is still a menacing piece of business, a proud part of history, and the namesake of a proud state.  Roll Tide!

I feel a kinship.  She’s gray, been through the wars, patched and fixed a bunch along the way, and now at peace. 🙂

I can’t say enough about how enjoyable my stay with my friends Cherie and Gary has been.  And it was made all the more enjoyable by a visit on the weekend from Gary’s cousin Bob and his wife Wanda.  We had the best time visiting, eating, walking, having some margaritas and laughing a lot.  Here we are enjoying said margaritas on the Riverwalk along the marina in Destin.

Gary and I played some golf on a couple of days.  My golf can best be described as flashes of brilliance surrounded by mountains of mediocrity.  But it didn’t matter because we were on the golf course, in shorts and T shirts, the sun was shining, and oh, the government was giving us money.  I received my very first social security payment last week.  Hoo, hoo, hoo!  🙂