A Tale of Two Canyons
A month or so ago, Lloyd, Jim and I headed up to the Panhandle country
to visit Palo Duro Canyon and the Cap Rock State Park. We generally refer
to that trip as the “Three bikes, Nine hundred miles and Two curves” trip…
It was a great way for us to get away mid-week when the traffic wasn’t bad
and put a few miles under our (steel) belts. We had an interesting trip up
from Fort Worth on Tuesday, crossing through Cap Rock State Park by way of
mostly two-lane Farm-to-Market and Ranch Roads that Lloyd has traveled in
his 70-odd years. After a night in Amarillo, we hit the canyon early Wednesday
morning before a less than inspiring blast down 287 to get home.
Palo Duro Canyon is one of the lesser-known beauties of Texas but well
worth a trip to visit, kind of a scaled down version of the Grand Canyon.
Although it may be small by Grand Canyon standards, spending time riding
down into the floor of the canyon, gazing up at the rough hewn walls, imagining
the eons of rushing water, abrasive wind and weather that carved these chasms
into the earth’s mantle gives one a perspective of man’s fleeting time here
on earth. To comprehend the forces of nature that could so gouge such a channel
is to understand how puny are the works of man.
When we returned, and I showed my photos to my wife, Anna, she started planning
a trip of our own to the Panhandle. She wanted to see the country and watch
the play Texas at the open-air theatre on the canyon’s floor. She immediately
started checking her calendar for a suitable weekend with a light client
load on Saturday that she could shuffle. We settled on the 21st of June.
I checked ticket availability for the play on line and we were good to go!
Or so we thought.
I had a few tweaks to make on the bike, recovering the front seat portion,
getting an new exhaust canister and mounting the factory luggage rack. As
per usual, the upholsterer ran late, my exhaust builder got behind and I
managed to miss the cutout positioning on the tailpiece by about two millimeters,
so the rack gaskets don’t fit properly. Of course, that’s not the bad part…
I found out the week before we were to leave that there were NO ROOMS TO
BE HAD in Amarillo that weekend!
What to do? What to do? Simple, find another canyon. If heading north was
no good, let’s head south, down Mexico way. A quick perusal of the Guide
to Texas showed Del Rio to be within an easy day’s travel, with some nice
roads that skirted the Hill Country and Seminole Canyon State Park only a
short jaunt away on the other side of the Amistad Reservoir. A little over
365 miles down Hwy 377 would be a good test of our borrowed top case and
backrest to see if it improved Anna’s comfort and endurance. Hey, we’re nothing
if not adaptable.
Saturday morning saw us away before 0800, comfortable to cool in our perforated
leather jackets as we cut through the mid-to-upper 70-degree temperature.
It’s sometimes amazing to watch the topology of Texas unfold during an unhurried
trip. Even more amazing is how green everything still is this late into June.
A mild winter and lots of spring rain in these parts of Central Texas have
forestalled the usual shift to monochromatic sere brown landscape. Instead,
we were treated to a few remaining wildflowers dotting fields of green. Fence
lines still boasted flowering Yuccas, and Dutch-like gardens lit small-town
yards like summertime Christmas lights.
Down through Grandbury, Stephenville, Commanche and Brownwood, not a care
in the world, the BMW Mileage Disposal Unit doing it’s usual superlative
job, effortlessly. All was well until just north of Brady were we found TexDot’s
most recent spate of roadrepairus interruptis. Two stretches of a dozen or
so miles where the blacktop has been removed and we are left to remember
the simpler times when our parents drove all over the state on two-lane dirt
roads. By the time we got to Brady, my shiny new black power-coated wheels
had returned almost to their original silver color. Nothing a quick wash
won’t fix, fortunately!
Dropping further south on 377 we roll into Junction and find Isaacks Restaurant
still there after all these years. Although the jalapeno cheeseburger wasn’t
as big as I remember as a kid, it was as good. Of all the towns from my youth,
Junction has changed the least. Sure it’s larger. There’s a few more folks
there, but it doesn’t seem to move any faster now than it did when I spent
summers there visiting my god-father in the `50’s and early `60’s. A welcome
change from most disappointing trips down my potholed memory lane.
The afternoon warms as we play tag with the South Llano River, swooping and
diving over low-water crossings, startling more than a few tubers, fishermen
and rafters in the process. Winding our way through Rocksprings to Carta
Valley. As the temperature continued to climb, we opened all the vents on
our Arai helmets and I lowered the windshield to its most reclined position.
It was easily as warm as at home, but less than half as humid. Thank goodness
we didn’t make this trip in the real summer heat, we can deal with mid to
upper 90’s, particularly when the humidity is only in the mid 30% range.
Much more comfortable than our semi-sticky weather at home.
We hook up with US 277 for the final twenty-five-mile dash to Del Rio. Every
couple of miles, we note a car, pickup or SUV with Border Patrol markings
alongside the road. You’d think that by now, the illegal immigrants would
have quit trying to sneak into the country on the major highways…
For once, La Quinta doesn’t have a Denny’s next door! What is this world
coming to! Regradless, we’re glad to get to our ground-level exterior room
and crank up the AC. We’re even happier to sample the delights of the pool.
365 miles of amazingly changing topology, topography and vegetation. There’s
nothin’ like Texas!
Sunday morning, we get started at the crack of mid-morning as befits true
sybaritic vacationers. Back north on 277 to US 90 westbound. The once mighty
Amistad Reservoir is fast becoming a chain of lakes as drought continues
to plague these parts.