A Difficult Stretch

Regretting that I couldn’t stay even longer in Florida, I followed Interstate 10 across the tip of Alabama that intervenes between Florida and Louisiana. I was sorry not to have time to explore the Mobile Bay area and the coastal islands that separate the bay from the gulf. The area of islands and inlets were intriguing, as were the names of some attractions highlighted on my map. Fort Morgan and Fort Gaines Historical Sites as well as Bellingrath Gardens and House sounded like spots I would enjoy.

That day’s drive must have been unremarkable, as I did not write a word about it in my journal. I traveled about 200 miles and stopped at a Louisiana state park called Fontainebleau. It cost only $12 to camp there above New Orleans on Lake Pontchartrain. I have a few pictures of lovely swamp plants and of a boardwalk extending into a watery marsh grass area, but I have no memory of the campground, nor pictures of it. If anything there was interesting to me, the events of the next day must have knocked out any memories of it.

I was in awe of the city surrounding Lake Pontchartrain, and of the long bridges that spanned the lake and other waterways. Following Interstate 12 bypass to the north, I had skipped going through New Orleans proper. The easy interstate route suited me. I just wanted to get across the state that day and maybe camp in Texas that night. Back on Iinterstate 10 heading west, traffic was heavy, even outside the cities. Every five to ten miles there was another exit to another town.

I was right there near New Orleans and didn’t visit? What was I thinking? I opted to skip the city, as I was focused on parks, national and otherwise. Visiting a city by myself isn’t appealing, as I’ve mentioned before. As it turns out, that was my last chance to have seen the city before Katrina destroyed 80% of it in August of the next year. The controversy over the way the 2005 disaster was handled continues to be huge, as does the rebuilding project for the city. I won’t even try to summarize the losses in the area, as there are many and better sources of the sad story elsewhere.

I’ll just move on through Louisiana telling you my own small tale of woe.

I spent Saturday driving across Louisiana in my usual lackadaisical way. The Dude and I took a lot of stretch breaks. Late in the afternoon, I had just gone through a busy length of six-lane interstate near Lake Charles, when I heard a frighteningly loud thumping somewhere under the rear of the Escaper. I pulled into the right hand lane and then onto the shoulder wondering what the heck now. It was a miracle that there were no huge semis or other vehicles blocking my path to the side of the road. I got out to see what it was and found that a young man had stopped behind me to assist. Blessings upon him and all such good Samaritans. As thick traffic raced by us, I thanked my lucky stars that the trouble was on the shoulder side of the camper, not the highway side. I still didn’t know what had gone out this time. The young man told me he had seen one of my rear tires fly apart, so he stopped to see if he could help. He inspected the tire with me and opined that he couldn’t help change it, but thought there might be a tire place at the next exit after the one we were stopped near.

Thank goodness I had not decided to take the scenic route on 82 south along the gulf. I could just picture my anxiety to be broken down again in the middle of nowhere, alligator infested swamp surrounding us in the Louisiana bayou country. At least breaking down on a busy interstate made for a shorter wait for help.

Luckily, the Escaper has dual tires in the rear, so I was able to drive. This time the tire had not saved a flap of rubber to beat the underside of the wheel well. Apparently the only damage was to the tire. Not wanting to take any chances limping on the busy freeway to the next exit as my good samaritan had advised, I took the one near which I had conveniently stopped. It was almost five o’clock (and on a Saturday remember), so I assumed my chances were nil of finding an open shop to replace a tire. Mentally crossing my fingers, I pulled into the first gas station to ask if they could point me to a repair shop.

The station was attended by the usual non-mechanic young people that work at today’s self-serve stations, so my hopes for info were not high. They turned out to be a helpful young man and woman who thought the only place I might find help at that hour was a WalMart, not too far away. They gave me detailed and easy directions that led me right to it. I drove very slowly, so no other tires would explode.  I worried about finding the turn, as I inched along the busy streets of Sulphur, Louisiana.

As someone opposed to unfair labor practices, I never thought I would say this, but thank goodness for WalMart! They were not only open, but I was helped by the nicest most helpful guys I could have hoped for. They didn’t have the right size tire in stock for me, but I had a spare. They were willing to put the spare on for me, even though a sign said they didn’t work on RVs. (The Escaper is about the size of a large pickup truck and topper, so it’s kinda on the edge of too big.) Plus The Dude and I could both wait in the air-conditioned waiting area.

We went inside and joined a few other waiting folk, including two women with dogs who had also had tire trouble while traveling. Baby, the long-hair Chihuahua and his buddy, a Pekingese, were instant bonding mechanisms for our little group. I didn’t catch the Peke’s name. One of the ladies relieved the tedium of waiting by regaling us with stories of other dogs she had or once had. So many breeds and mixes were involved that I soon lost the thread, but the conversation kept my mind distracted from the problem of the day.

Luckily my spare was useable. Within an hour the guys had switched them out and put my rim and spare tire cover in the camper for me. Most amazing of all to me was that they only charged me $1.63! Did I expect this fine treatment from a company that I have learned to view with great distrust? Hardly. It’s the people, underpaid or overworked but kind, that make the world livable. Am I grateful? You betcha. (As a Minnesotan, I must uphold a tradition of using that last phrase at least once.)

I was also told that the particular tire I needed was an oddball, so it might be difficult to find one. Everyone in the garage agreed I would probably need to go to Houston to find a replacement. Seeing as how it was Saturday night, I needed to find a good place to set a spell until Monday rolled around. Looking at the map, I determined to head for a park marked just a half hour or so down the road. The combination of bad luck with tires and serendipity after a breakdown found me at the fabulous Niblett’s Bluff Park.

The friendly staff of the park (owned and operated by area residents) was exactly the shelter I needed after my quickly solved but worrisome tire trouble. The woman who checked me in seemed truly pleased to interrupt her card game to help this late evening arrival. She and her husband were one of two sets of caretakers that shared responsibility for the park. Across the road another household of caretakers traded time with them, so that each family could get away for the day or whatever. What a great surprise it was for me to find out it cost only $10 plus tax (thirty cents) to camp for the night including an electricity hookup.

Here’s what I wrote as I sat in my chair outside the Escaper that evening: “Whatever day it is, whatever town or state I’m in, I must be on another planet. I can hear a peacock or two wailing their peculiar calls. The sound takes me back to Como Park Zoo in St Paul where I hung out as a teenager. Como has acres of green lawns and small forests surrounded by a small zoo and carnival rides. The great thing about it to a kid was that it was free. For a handful of change, you could feed the seals and ride the tilt-a-whirl. Though the bigger animals were in the old draconian concrete cages, there was a beautiful garden and pond area where the peacocks hung out around rocky waterfalls with flamingos, ducks and the native songbirds occupying the treetops. My friends and I could ride our bicycles over, usually spending the afternoon exploring the woods.”

Niblett’s Bluff Park is not much like the huge city park I grew up with, but it does have a little zoo in the midst of the campground. Besides the peacocks, the large enclosure just a few hundred feet from my site held two wallabies, several kinds of deer, llamas, burros, goats, and some sheep. I particularly admired the four-horned goat, a very dramatic looking fellow. Black rabbits wandered in and out of the enclosures through small openings. One harassed bunny found that it’s safer inside where no small girls jump off their bicycles and chase you into the path of a big dog and his even bigger person. No harm came to anyone though, and the rabbit escaped into the enclosure. An odd turn from the usual – escaping INTO the enclosure. I did ask the little girl not to chase the bunnies. (Which made me feel incredibly old and fussy.)

The Dude and I took a walk around the park before dark, locating the bathhouse and inspecting a flood that had submerged a few campsites and wooden benches where the Sabine River had overflowed its banks. Across the river is the Sabine Wildlife Management Area, a green backdrop to the dark water.

Niblett’s Bluff park has everything either a local picnicker or a traveling camper could want: boating, fishing, and water skiing, plus campsites, mini cabins, a picnic shelter and a large pavilion building. An open area of lawn, picnic tables and campsites was dotted with long leaf pine, oaks, and bald cypress.

One of the park’s brochures spells out 62 rules that were probably hammered out over time by the board of directors. The rules cover everything from pets, bicycle safety, and fish cleaning to “NO DANCING, NO LIVE BANDS, OR DJ’S allowed in Pavilion.” Huh? Why rent a pavilion if you can’t dance? Religious reasons perhaps? Other than that the rules were all sensible and helpful. Another brochure tells about the history of the area, including the legend that pirate Jean Lafitte had grounded his schooner down river at Bottle Neck Bayou. Europeans have populated the area since the early 1800’s. First established as a farming community, it survived the Civil War, boomed during a rush to ship area logs down the river, and returned to its rural character when the trees were gone. The current residents have their act together if Niblett’s Bluff Park is any indication of their talents.

In looking for information about the park on the web recently, I found an article in a newsletter of the Sons of Confederate Veterans that reports on a Civil War museum planned for the park. The park is located near the site of Niblett’s Bluff Fort, built in 1863 by slave labor for the Confederate Army. In 2003 and 04, Civil War history enthusiasts reenacted a battle and had displays of historical crafts and lifestyle.

Sunday I took a day of rest and recuperation from the road and its ills. Never before had I had tires fly apart like that while I was driving. I figured I could have been dead if they had both flown apart at once. (And I had the tires checked before I left Two Harbors, putting a new one on the front!) I didn’t want to press my luck by traveling far without a spare. I figured I would need to wait until Monday to find a tire in the next city. Beaumont was next but folks at the park agreed with the WalMart mechanics that I would probably have to go to Houston before I would find the right tire. As it turned out, they were correct. A very helpful clerk at a Beaumont tire store called all over town looking for the correct tire. He finally found one not far up the road in Houston at a truck tire center. He got me excellent directions through the maze of Houston freeways and I was actually on the road with a new tire by early afternoon Monday.

Meanwhile on Sunday, The Dude and I enjoyed an easy day of hanging out at the park, chatting with various folks staying at or working at the park. We took a long walk to explore a pleasant cemetery, resting ground to folks born and died from the 1800’s on up. Too bad I am not a birder, as the park area is on a list of recommended stops for the Louisiana Great Gulf Coast Birding Trail. In between sessions of sitting for reading and writing, we would take a stroll somewhere on the grounds or wade in the flooded area to cool off. Temperatures in the 80’s and 90’s were the rule here, but I was getting used to it. I really liked the ease of wearing shorts, t-shirts, and sandals. There have been summers at home where I needed to turn on the heat in June, and I am pretty stingy when it comes to turning on the heat if I can put on a sweater. It is counter-intuitive for me to go anywhere without a sweater or a jacket in case it cools off. What a treat to enjoy the day without worrying about keeping warm! In childhood I had enjoyed summers without such cares in the Twin Cities of southern Minnesota, but in the “far north” of Minnesota, it is normally a colder story.

On Monday I rose early for me, by about 8am, and took off for Beaumont in search of the needed tire. Looking carefully around to make sure I didn’t leave anything behind, I left behind the metal spare tire cover that I had set behind the camper while parked. So much for my powers of observation. After getting set up with the new tire in Houston, I drove until about 8 pm, late for finding a campground, and stayed at an easy, anonymous Holiday Inn somewhere west of San Antonio. I even treated myself to room service while watching some old movie on TV, all for under $100 room and supper. Though I said I consider staying at hotels to be “cheating,” I am not particularly hard on myself when I slip up on such minor details. The next day I again managed to make good time, arriving in Fort Stockton, Texas around 7pm.

I have never had the guts to get up and sing karoke the few times I had been anywhere near a karoke machine. But that evening I sang my heart out to my Patsy Cline favorites, after the urging of George and Don, the fellows who own the Comanche Hostel, Motel and RV Camp. (Actual name of the hotel, but not the guys.)

As I pulled in to Fort Stockton, I saw a sign appealing to my inner cheapskate, “RV parking $9.” The establishment appeared to be an adobe style motel from the 1950s. The owners had painted the walls white and then painted decorative lines and patterns that colorfully suggested a southwest theme. A huge palm tree graced the courtyard. The office and Don, who checked me in, immediately brought to mind the words “old hippy.” As it sometimes takes one to know one, I was on home turf there. I don’t consider it an insult, though some people might mean it that way. Anyhow, Don told me that it was karaoke night (if I remember right though, he also said every night was karaoke night), so there would be brats and beer on the deck.

The RV spots were behind the motel. Fencing and bushes full of blooming pink and red flowers marked off large sites on the parking lot terrain. I picked one with flowers and did my evening set up and meal prep. I decided I needed water. There were no hookups for water, but I hoped they had a tap where I could fill some jugs. The Dude and I walked around to the front of the motel and found George and Don grilling brats on the small deck outside the office. The little crowd was so friendly that I decided to stay and have a beer and a brat with them. A few other guests were hanging around the picnic tables. Several of them were migrant workers. They were there for the brats, but didn’t want to do any singing. A woman staying in one of the motel rooms told me she was a roofing worker who had come to Fort Stockton for a job that seemed like it might not exist. Some contractor was giving her a song and dance about it. She didn’t feel like singing either.

The music accompanying the gathering was Hank Williams, Roger Miller and Kris Kristofferson. George and Don enthusiastically belted out lyrics. When I heard that they had lyrics for Patsy Cline songs, I had to give it a try. I had been practicing singing along with her as I drove across the hilly Texas landscape. After warming up with Walking after Midnight, I sang a few duets with George and then Don. We probably sang as a trio as well. “Why don’t ya love me like ya used to do?” “And I’m crazy for loving yoooooooou.” The guys kept trying to get everyone to take a turn, but only I would take them up on it. I had a great time. As darkness drew on, I bowed out and went to bed. Lots of dogs barking in the neighborhood kept me awake for a while but I didn’t mind. It had been worth it after an enjoyable evening at the Comanche Motel, Hostel and RV Camp.

Next morning as I was breaking camp, George tried to convince me to stay for another night of karaoke, but I had miles to go and a schedule to keep. I headed south of I10 on State 385, and within a couple of hours I was at Big Bend National Park.