Dawdle Across Texas with Me… Episode 1

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Oh, I forgot to mention this until now.  Click on the pictures to see larger, more detailed versions. Two clicks gets the largest picture.  Enjoy!

It is springtime in Texas and life is good.  Redbud trees are in bloom. Wisteria vines  show signs of life and the beloved bluebonnet, Texas' state flower is growing wild in the countryside [top].

Yesterday, I had all the domestic tranquility I could stand. I needed air, and lots of it. Lucky for me, it was a sunny, mild day. Speaking of air, it was windy, too, but I will say more about that later. I fussed about, ate breakfast and lit the fuse on my trusty cycle. For those unfamiliar with motorcycles, mine is a Honda and boasts tongue-swallowing acceleration. It is just the thing for those moments when civilization encroaches on one’s sanity.

I shot south through Waxahachie and caromed into Milford, Texas on one breath. Milford is 25 miles south and 80 years behind my home base. I believe the town is slowly disappearing because Big “D” sucks the life out of it. I stopped in front of the Milford police station and drew my camera. The “downtown” of Milford is across the street from the cop house. It is in decay and something prompted me to snap a photo or two while it is still there.

After Milford, US highway 77 winds smoothly to Hillsboro. That is where I catch 22 westbound. I cannot recall ever having seen Texas greener. Emerald green grasses carpeted wide pastures along the way. Cattle and goats grazed here and there, oblivious to my passage. The air is sweet with every kind of plant fragrance and I greedily sucked it in. At times, I found myself gawking at the compelling beauty at the expense of watching where I was going. Luckily, my reverie ended before I actually plowed up the roadside wildflowers.

Highway 22 is well travelled. It will take you as far as Hamilton, Texas. It might go even farther. I do not know because there are so many smaller, twisty roads to explore before Hamilton. Farm Road 219 is one of them. Traffic along this narrow, winding road is local and sparse. The countryside is made of rolling hills and wide valleys. After the rains, which began last September, everything that can turn green has done so. This includes rocks, fence posts and pickup trucks. From the hilltops, a traveler can appreciate the immense size of the country. Green trees and grass mixed with bright wildflowers stretch to the horizon. I felt tiny staring out at creation, but happy too. I was relieved I did not bear responsibility for the immensity or beauty before me. All I had to do was to see and appreciate it. Sweet.

Eventually, I neared the town of Clifton (Pop. 3500-ish). I travelled this route before, on my way to lunch in Lometa. This time, I decided to explore another route and avoid the possibility of poisoning far from home. Farm Road 708 showed up just in time. Even narrower and less travelled than 219, it lead me around sweeping turns and between tall hills toward Valley Mills (Pop. 1100 +/-).

It was lunchtime when I arrived. I have not visited Valley Mills since my undergraduate days in Austin and I was pleased to find the little town in good condition and bustling with activity. Most of the activity seemed to be at the many barbeque and Mexican restaurants I passed on my way through town. The aroma of country cooking filled the air. After only a few blocks, I was slobbering like a hound dog, but I kept going. I had farther to go before I could rest.

I will tell you more about it next time.

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