Love Letter to Texas

February 2020

Dear Texas,

I’m not sure when I fell in love with you. But I did--unintentionally and head-over-heels.  Was it the first time I heard “Yes, ma’am” when I asked a question?   The answer came with an earnestness that made me feel like a visiting dignitary, and the young man replying to my request for directions straightened his posture and brought his feet together as if he were standing at attention.   

Or was it late on a sunny afternoon when we drove past a quartet of zebra grazing by a ranch fence stretched along a state highway?  Maybe it was my first glimpse of Galveston Bay, a waterway that’s home to a concrete shipwreck dating back to 1922.  Perhaps it’s the pride your citizens take in their state, shown by the state flags planted at the end of driveways, plastered on oilfield pick-up trucks, and staked in front of RVs at campgrounds.  That single white star on a field of blue gives you the nickname, the Lonestar state, and is also a reminder that before you joined the Union, you were once an independent nation.  Or maybe it’s the dizzying number of historical highway markers — more than 17,000 — that recount the founding events and legendary actions of your beloved inhabitants. 

I do know, dear Texas, you’re not what I remembered.  When we first met back in the 1970s, I was crowded into the back of our family’s Kingswood Chevrolet with my siblings on a spring break road trip.  In a time before seat belts and safety features, the six of us were vying for elbow room and breathing space on the two rear bench seats of our gold-colored station wagon.  As we traveled, my nose was buried in a book, so I didn’t drink in your wide-open spaces, but I remember the heat. 

We got reacquainted two years ago when I rode through your panhandle one evening at dusk with my husband.  On that trip, you, Sir Lonestar, were just an overnight stay on our way to the Grand Canyon.  Joe and I watched the sun-bleached blue horizon fade away, then turn inky black before the night came to life with mile after mile of synchronized red flashing lights.  The warning beacons on acres of windmills were mesmerizing and otherworldly, as if the mechanical giants were beaming a message into outer space.  

We stopped that night at an RV park near Amarillo.  The park’s bath house door was equipped with a sign reminding guests, “No Guns in Restrooms.”  I remember wondering two things: Why would you need a gun? and When can we leave? 

But we did return.  This time, we traveled 1300 miles from Port Arthur to El Paso, with stops in Galveston, Padre Island, Big Bend and the Davis Mountains.  On our trip we caught sight of fleets of pelicans fishing in the Gulf, a bowl of roseate spoonbills feeding in a wetland behind a wastewater treatment plant on Mustang Island, and a pack of wild horses running along a dry riverbed beneath I-10W.  We sipped tea with a German couple camping their way across the country, chatted with an amateur astronomer trying to photograph one of Saturn’s moons, and listened as a Galveston-based waitress recounted her post-hurricane animal rescue tales. Texas, you are so many different sights, sounds and experiences, and our journey was just a slice of what you have to offer. Within your boundaries I came to expect the unexpected.  

We left our last campsite in the Davis Mountains so early in the morning that the sky was still a star-studded array. As we traveled north on state highway 118, the darkness faded.  We lost the stars as the pale dawn light crept over the horizon and cast the mountains in relief.  First trees appeared, then rounded hills covered in yellow grasses before the soft morning light turned a rosy pink, signaling our last morning within your borders.  During that one-hour drive up to I-10, we were the only travelers on the road, as if you arranged a daybreak performance for us as a parting gift. 

Thanks so much for a memorable month,  

    Jenny 

Hunting Island State Park

On our way to Hunting Island, we stopped in historic downtown Beaufort for coffee.  Before arriving at the coffee shop, we wandered into the Rustic Pup to shop for dog treats.  The friendly owner offered Molly a biscuit and asked us, “Is this your first time in Beaufort?”

“Yes,” I answered before adding, “We’re on our way to Hunting Island to camp.”

“Oh,” she said with a visible slump to her shoulders. Adding a bit of cheer to her voice she continued with, “Well, you’ll love it! But for us it’s so sad — all the erosion after the hurricanes.” 

We did love it but also saw the aftermath of the recent hurricanes.  Bits of former bath houses are now rubble on the beach, strewn alongside water pipes and electrical lines.  Hundreds of palm trees have been ravaged or toppled by the storms, and what remains of the seaside road is now covered in sand.  The ocean has reclaimed several hundred feet of beachfront, including the protective dunes.

Still: 200 campsites remain, and on a cool Saturday night in January every single site was occupied.  A few brave young souls were swimming in the ocean.  We weren’t that adventurous, so we left our shoes on and walked the beach.   On Sunday we covered 11 miles on an out-and-back trek, running out of energy before we ran out of beach.   As we walked, we saw evidence of efforts to slow down the coastal erosion.  A series of seawalls perpendicular to the shoreline and extending out into the surf were being constructed. Hopefully, the seawalls will trap the sand that wave action tries to carry offshore, and the island will survive.  

Ochlockonee River State Park

The ranger who verified our reservation at the Ochlockonee River State Park entrance station warned us, “I wouldn’t let your dog swim in the rivers.  We have a little bit of everything here, snakes…gators…bears.”   A sign at the boat ramp went a step further and advised visitors, “Caution. For Your Safety. Alligators are dangerous.  Do not swim with alligators.  Do not approach, frighten or feed by state law.”   I wondered; How many Florida visitors tried to swim with gators before the sign was posted? 

The tag line for the Sunshine State’s state parks is “…the Real Florida.”  Based on the boat ramp’s sign, I guess visitors need to be reminded that they’ve left the theme park zone and gators are wild animals.  While standing at the edge of Ochlockonee River, I noticed the distance horizon lacked relief.   It was flat.  So flat, that if I’d grown up here, a round world would have been inconceivable.  We didn’t see any signs of gators, but I still voted to walk away from the water, on a path through the pine trees.  Our late afternoon hike was short; we followed the river trail loop through the pine flat woods until we found a trail back to the campground.    

We stayed just one night, but we noticed each campsite was equipped with a clothesline and most campers brought along kayaks.  This park was an ideal destination for river sports, but only if paddlers are comfortable sharing the waterways with reptiles.  We stuck to drylands and stretched our legs with a morning stroll through the woods, searching for birds.  I spotted a yellow-bellied sapsucker pecking a neat row of holes in a pine tree trunk as if it was writing out a message. Thankfully during our short visit, we didn’t encounter any snakes, gators or bears. 

Berry Manilow: A Chainsaw Creation by Jason Soderlund

Our van travels give us the chance to stumble on the unexpected.  On this fall afternoon we watched a wooden sculpture find its way out of a log. We met Jason Soderlund, a master of the wooden sculpture, as he was lining up four Stihl chainsaws on a green utility box behind a block of restaurants in Stillwater, Minnesota. Jason believes, “Chainsaws are like golf clubs, each has its own use.”  

 While Jason prepped his work area underneath a pop-up tent canopy I asked, “Are you going to start soon?” 

 Gesturing to his collection of gas-powered tools, he said, “Just as soon as I fill up my tanks.”  

 In under an hour, we watched Jason turn a bark-covered, four-foot tall, white pine log into a friendly bear.  Lift Bridge Brewing Company was hosting its second in a series of launch parties for their new beer, Berry Blonde. The berry flavored ale was available for tasting at Brian’s Bar & Grill on Main Street, but once Jason tugged on the chainsaw’s start cord he drew the crowd.  

 Customers dangling cigarettes between their fingers wandered in and out of the bar’s backdoor to watch the bear take shape. The hum of a chainsaw motor in Stillwater’s historic downtown was an unexpected sound.  Curiosity pulled waitstaff out of nearby eateries.  They came outside bearing bags of trash and bundles of recycling, but opted to linger, joining the ebb and flow of onlookers.  

 Jason’s carving station was behind a temporary portable fence that allowed viewers to see all the action without accidentally stepping inside the chainsaw zone.   As he maneuvered around the log, now and then Jason would pause, as if he was seeing each bit of the bear before his chainsaw took a bite out of the wood.  He kept peering at his model, a purple bear on a turquoise blue t-shirt.  Nodding at the tee, Jason said, “It’s a little different than how I usually do a bear.” 

 When he turned off a saw, an onlooker would ask a question.  Jason is an artist that expects interruptions and would slip one ear out of his yellow DeWalt hearing protectors, to respond to queries.  Mine were endless, but Jason was working, changing saws as needed and picking up the scrapes, tidying his temporary studio, as he carved out a piece here and a wedge there.  The tent air filled with wood particles, scenting the air with fresh pine and giving the impression that it was raining sawdust.  I tried to hold onto my questions, but they kept running out of my mouth. I asked, “How did you become a chainsaw carver?”

 “I attended an arts high school, then did a two-year apprenticeship.  I liked how fast a piece could take shape,” said Jason who’s been carving for 17 years.  He does about 500 pieces a year and prefers white pine because it has the best woodgrain and the sap sets over the winter making it a good wood for carving.  It was a cool fall evening.  Jason was wearing cargo shorts and a zip-up sweatshirt, but he wasn’t cold.  His art form is also part cardio workout. 

 While we watched, we chatted with Chris Tweit from the Lift Bridge Brewing Company’s marketing department.  He loved talking about beer and Stillwater.  He let us know that the bar owner was thinking of naming the sculpture “Berry Manilow.” 

 We wandered down the block to look at the riverboats on the St. Croix River, when we came back Jason welcomed us with, “Oh hey! I took a break. Now I’m going to put some texture in the fur.”  

 He used the 14-inch chainsaw to carve the impression of fur on the legs and torso, then pulled out the 8-inch blade to work on the bear’s snout, mouth and inner ears. Jason created the bear’s eyes with a wood burning tool, then used a rotating sander to clean up bits of wood fuzz clinging to the sculpture.  As a final touch Jason sawed a crevice down the bear’s back. He explained, “A lot of carvers don’t do that, but it keeps cracks from forming just like a concrete expansion joint. I’ll recommend linseed oil to slow down the drying.”  

 I noticed a natural knot near the bear’s right shoulder that could be mistaken for a tattoo, and one of its ears looked pierced.  Berry Manilow came out of the wood with distinct physical traits.   After giving his piece a final once over, Jason picked up the bear and lugged him into the bar.  More examples of his work can be found at Soderlundswoodmill.com

End of Trail

It is a strange place for a sign.