Martin Dies at Jasper

March 13-17, 2011. Having spent two weeks hugging the Texas-Mexico border from El Paso to Mission, and two months traveling along the entire Gulf coast, we are starting to head north, more or less still on the eastern side of Texas, into the lower reaches of the midwest green belt.

The Texas terrain to date has been endless flat and scrub (of either the desert or dunes variety, depending on the region) punctuated with lots of windswept live oak. Now it becomes hillier, greener, and with more variety in the trees. Weather remains chilly and damp since it's still mid March. We are far from any major cities.

There are many dam-made lakes in this area, with state parks to go with them. We settled on Martin Dies, Jr. in Jasper for a few days' stay. It proved to be a quiet and relaxing park, although Jasper is one of those dots on the map that offers little beyond boating and fishing for visitors. We toured a few other lake parks in the area (= long country drives); followed a solitary sign to explore a Corps of Engineers campground and ended up (after miles of successively deteriorating road surfaces) at a rural dead-end next to a potato farm and horse pasture; and drove through little ol' Jasper, where we finally came upon a Goodwill to offload a mess of things I've been hauling around since January.

Finally out of Texas desert and beach, and into Texas green!

The campground welcome sign at Martin Dies, Jr. State Park in Jasper, TX.

Our rigs were on two sides of a huge corner lot; this is from my front door with Ken's rig way out there. Oodles of space between all the sites made the noisy, happy family to my left almost unnoticeable. Patchouli loved the tree debris to poke around in, and he bravely growled away a raccoon family that visited one night.

My rig, as seen from a wee fishing pier across the way.

The lake from the fishing pier. That straight strip of land across the water is the main road along the lake. Very quiet from here.

Cedars grow near the shores and make the whole place look like a bayou in the narrower waterways. We tried to get Patchouli to join us on the pier, but the sound of water lapping at the rocks was a bit too much...as was a boy carrying a lively fishing pole that clearly was a cat-eating monster.

The park offers a few miles of easy trails that wind you through thin and scrubby trees and past swamps and ponds.

"Turtle pile!" (Yurtle's third from the right.)

So It's Not Campbell's Galveston

March 6-10. Our time in Galveston, TX, was mostly spent hanging around the beachfront RV park, wringing humidity out of our clothes, and touring the town by car and a little by foot. Oh, and did I mention wringing the humidity out of everything?

We arrived during the last days of Mardi Gras, which Galveston apparently celebrates with as much fervor as New Orleans. The road to (and through) town hugs the coastline, and on our first day here the tides were so high there was no beach along the miles-long seawall. Instead there were parked cars. Lots of them. And dogs. Lots of them. And people. Lots of them, too. Most folks were draped with scads of mardi gras necklaces--plastic beads in shiny metallic purple, blue, red, pink, gold, silver. A carnival had taken over the west side of the street and was alive with flashing lights and whirling, barf-0-matic rides. Children and hot dogs and cotton candy and coke cups everywhere. Half the population was negro, the other white or Asian. Traffic crawled along from light to light as drivers looked for parking on the ocean side of the road. The historic center of Galveston was closed off to cars for the party...and the city was charging $15 for parking plus a whopping $15 per person just to walk past the barriers into the heart of the street fair (which wasn't going all that strong mid-day on the last Sunday of the festival). Forget that, bub!

Our two rigs near the shore at Galveston Island State Park. Ken bought his Big White with no paint or vinyl artwork, and we immediately stripped off all the identifying logos and model info that Carriage slaps on by default. In a world where fifth wheels now sport full-body paint jobs and full-length swooshes like their motorhome cousins, this clean version is a head-turner. At least one person at every park stops by to ask, "What kind of rig you got there? Custom?"

You'd think there was a sign, "One Gull Per Post, Please."

Gulf of Mexico on a windy March morning. A mile of beach was less than a minute's walk from the rigs...and that's only because we had to go half the length of the park to get to an opening in the fence line in the photo above.

This same flock of pelicans repeatedly flew the beachline. Patchouli didn't much like the ocean roar and wave action, but he discovered the joys of soft dune sand for a litterbox. Imagine having to carry poop bags when walking a cat.

Like so many Gulf coast spots, Galveston is an oil rig town, so of course we toured the Ocean Star Offshore Drilling Rig Museum. It's a small rig by today's standards but, aside from the expected pro-oil PR that abounds throughout, is interesting to tour. Four floors, lots of fascinating rig models and drilling exhibits, and the chance to stand underneath the derrick and stare up into a narrowing channel of metal braces to the top of the drill post. Sort of like being beneath the Eiffel Tower on a tiny scale...only it reeks of diesel and oil. No photos from that day, but you can check it out at http://www.oceanstaroec.com.

I was most fascinated by the range of Galveston's homes. 99% of them were on stilts to survive hurricanes. This neighborhood is built to weave through a bunch of inlets, giving most residents waterfront access to canals that lead to bays all around the island.

Homes on canals have their own docks, usually covered. From back door to moored fishing boat in ten steps.

Another coastline neighborhood. It seems impossible to plop homes of this size onto stilts, but it works. Some homes are grand enough to rival those in La Jolla and Lake Washington. Sweeping exterior staircases, botanical-garden landscaping, stonework facing, full-surround windows, octagonal turrets...everything you'd expect in multi-million dollar homes, except with all the living space standing one story above the ground.

And then there was this abandoned gem along the main highway into town...

Perhaps the theory is that it would just bob away in a hurricane.

I loved the pastels and fresh whites that are so popular here. This is a new neighborhood, with Gulf views and a big lagoon in the center of the community...plus multi-storied homes to take it all in. Half the lots were still unsold and no one seemed to be home in the ones that were here, although many looked lived in. A few were probably model homes.

A typical older home right on the Gulf. Many had For Rent signs on their balconies. That's beach sand for the frontage road.

And this is their view of an abandoned house across from their front yard. This one showed some severe hurricane damage, probably from the devastating 2009 season that left most of Galveston under water.

OK, so beachfront property isn't all it's cracked up to be. This one's foundation is nearly gone.

Leaving Galveston Island from the north end means a free 20-minute ferry ride...but we ended up on separate boats! That's Ken's rig sailing away at the very tail end of the ferry, just to the left of that center post. (Foolishly, he waited for me at the other side. Now he's really and truly stuck with me and Patchouli.)

A Walk in the Park

RV Park, that is. In Aransas Pass, Texas, where we spent a month at Southern Oaks Resort, a newly constructed RV park where people can buy lots to build out (with cabanas, landscaping, patios, etc.) and live on with their RVs. We loved our rental spots...brand new at the end of the row, with no neighbors to the south to obstruct the view toward a lovely bit of woods that Patchouli took to like--well--like a cat to a tree. He was begging for daily walks in all that grass and sand, and he managed to explore every building and oak on the property by the time we left.

Our rigs at the end of a half-completed rental row (Ken's white truck, my red truck beyond). The owners know how to build for RVs--generously sized sites and double-wide roads for maneuverability, with plans for a pool, spa, etc. later. Our sites were so new that the electric meters still read zero. The price was exceptional--about $400/month, plus whatever electricity we used (at the not-so-cheap Texas rates).

Clubhouse construction was barely past the framing and siding stage, but they were still able to use it for weekly open houses (to sell RV lots), daily coffee klatches, and 24-hour laundry access. There's a big walled area beyond the building where a huge loop of RV lots are for sale. About 25% were already sold and built out with pads, landscaping, and outbuildings amid a very relaxing, park-like setting dotted with ponds and a creek-looking surface water control system.

Aransas Pass is 40 miles north of Corpus Christi (a typical major port city), and ten miles from the quaint and pastel-colored Gulf Coast towns of Rockport and Port Aransas. Port Aransas is at the north end of a 60-mile long string of barrier islands. Getting to it requires a ferry--a free, five-minute ride aboard one of four bitty boats that hold about 20 vehicles each. They continuously cross an intracoastal waterway that the big oil tankers use to get to Corpus Christi.

The waterway is much too narrow for a bridge, so the ferries do the job of moving residents and tourists all day long, pausing service long enough for ginormous barges and tankers to pass through. The channel is also subject to tides, which means that certain ferry runs can't take heavy vehicles like semis and RVs. The day we wanted to move to Aransas Pass was a low-tide day, and RVs were prohibited. It took us a 40-mile roundabout drive through Corpus Christi to get to a place 10 miles away by ferry.

While in the area, we toured the USS Lexington aircraft carrier in Corpus Christi, drove the posh shoreline neighborhoods in C.C. and Port Aransas, and poked around a couple of wildlife sanctuaries that proliferate here on the Gulf Coast. We also took a week-long Florida Interlude (photos in follow-up entry) during the month.

The whole region is Oil Rig Central. You can see platforms standing out in the ocean and watch the tankers coming and going with their loads. You can drive around and stumble onto an oil rig building facility and practically drive up to their front door to get a semi-close view of construction on the shore (these newer rigs are HUGE). You can also aimlessly come upon a graveyard of hulking rigs rusting on a beach across the street from a field of tanks holding fresh oil for processing at the neighboring plant.

Weather was humid so near the gulf, and extremely windy and somewhat cold on most days during our February stay. We were also caught by the south tail of those winter storms that crossed the US, waking up one morning to almost half an inch of ice coating the rigs, trucks, and ground. This little jaunt with Patchouli, below, was on one of the warmer, less windy days we had.

Patchouli's favorite woods, just beyond my rig.

Patchouli on his new retractable, lightweight, ribbon leash that we bought in Corpus Christi. It's much easier for him to drag around than his nylon lead.

Cat-scratch heaven.

OK, what to do next...

Oh, that's right.

Checking in with papa.

Viewing the Serengeti.

Ah, now the tricky bit...

Safe again.

Ground is good.

Climbing gear maintenance.

Blech. Sandy toe jam.

Let's see now...

...maybe another trip?

Nah, this'll do.

Sharing an apple with papa is the best part.