Texas Mountain Biking
Okay, they are really just big hills, but an hour north of Dallas we found 21 miles of challenging bike paths.
Following the directions carefully, I turned right at the Dairy Queen and saw what I hoped I wouldn’t. Instead of challenging, mountainous bike paths, a stretch of flat, Texas farmland spread out around me, broken only by small hills in one direction and the curve of the earth in the other. Texas mountain biking seemed to be the oxymoron I had feared. u Undaunted, I pressed on and was rewarded with a sight few believe exists in this part of the country. Off to my left, the farmland suddenly cracked in two, falling steeply to the previously hidden valley floor. The contours of the area were traced with single-track trails, spreading out in all directions.
My bike and I had found some Texas mountains.
Bill Hutson, the owner of the Breaks at Bar H Mountain Bike Ranch, explained in a voice that exuded a warm, Texas twang, “You’re going along here and you see this flat, flat land, and all of a sudden she drops 150 feet. You see fields of hay and then all of a sudden, wham!”
I asked Bill what caused this strange rift in the Texas landscape and he offered a guess. “I imagine it was cut by the Red River as it’s changed over the course of the centuries. And it’s still a-changin’. This ranch was probably an old ocean bed at one time. The gravel we get here has seashells in it—big old seashells.”
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Bill is your typical rural Texas Renaissance man—he has found lots of ways to make his land work for him. The ranch has always produced cattle since his great-grandpa acquired it in 1873. But Bill has also pumped oil (a source of income that vanished with the oil bust), cut hay, and, for the last couple of years, rented it out to bikers looking for an exciting place in Texas to ride.
If this is your first time mountain biking, there are trails built especially for you. “The Holler” is perfect for beginners. It follows the contours of scenic Bircham Creek. But hard-core riders will not be disappointed. The most extreme trail, “Devil’s Backbone,” is a couple of miles long and has more than 1,000 feet of climbing. You have to be in pretty good shape to do it. Currently they’ve designed a total of 21 miles of trails that spread over the ranch’s best 1,100 acres.
The facilities here are rustic, but serviceable. After you pay $6 a day to use the trails, $5 will get you a place to set up a tent, and $12 will buy you a camper hookup for the night. Public hot showers and restrooms are presently available, and Bill, forever the entrepreneur, has plans to turn the old family home into a “bed and breakfast without the breakfast.”
But there are plenty of good places to get food nearby. Muenster is home to several excellent German restaurants, and Fischer’s Market is a great place to stock up on camping grub, with lots of smoked sausage and cheese available.
But that’s enough of the facts. I went to the Bar H to throw off thoughts of the real world and settle into how wonderfully quiet this place is. I strapped my helmet on securely, pointed my bike downhill, released the brakes, and took my next step toward learning to fly.—Will Woodard
Kayaking Hell
Before you head to the Big Thicket, learn from my mistake—make sure there’s water in the Neches River.
I love adventure of all kinds—hang gliding from mountaintops, tracking elusive silverback gorillas, and canoeing the piranha-infested Amazon are just a few trips I’ve survived. So it was with a nary-say-dare attitude that I carelessly decided at the last minute to dash down to the Big Thicket and kayak the Neches River. After all, the Big Thicket National Preserve has all the elements I adore—carnivorous plants, poisonous snakes, and alligators. u Unfortunately, in my rush to discover the 200 species of birds, 50 species of reptiles, and 25 species of mammals, I hastily arranged for what sounded like a Walden-esque hideaway in the woods. After only one call, I found a cabin with two bedrooms, full kitchen, living room, TV, and a wraparound porch located on a secluded, 15-acre, fenced track of land.
I should have been suspicious when the proprietor said in a back-woods slur, “Hey, ifin’ you’ve got some hounds, bring ’em on.”
Happily, I loaded up my two dogs (hardly hounds), a weekend’s supply of food and wine, binoculars, and hiking boots and headed south for what the aforementioned proprietor said would be an easy four-hour ride. Four hours later, my usually pliable partner Harold questioned my ability as a trip planner. When we pulled up to our alleged Walden seven hours after we’d started, he was downright crabby.
We both gasped as my headlights shined on a small shack with a corrugated tin roof. Nervously, I let the dogs out and, as they took off for the woods, we fought our way through the cobwebs searching for a light switch inside.
I wished we’d never found it.
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My heart sank as we surveyed the water-stained curtains and the once-white refrigerator now covered with a Jasper Johns-like pattern of spotted rust. None of the lamps had a shade. The beds were covered in lime green polyester spreads, and when Harold sat down to test the mattress, I didn’t have the heart to tell him about the cloud of dust swirling behind his body as he sank about a foot.
But my citified dogs loved it. They spent all night barking at the strange cries of the coyotes and the screech of the barn owls, while Harold and I spent most of the dark hours screeching at each other.
At daybreak, we decided to make the best of a bad situation and headed off to explore the Roy E. Larson Sandyland Sanctuary in the heart of the Big Thicket. With binoculars at the ready, we hit the trails lined with beech trees, southern magnolias, and loblolly pines. Occasionally a huge water oak arched over the trail and tangled with a towering sweetgum to create a closed canopy—a perfect resting spot to nap on pillows of soft pine needles.
On the way back, we spied a sign for the Pinewood Inn advertising king-sized beds and briefly considered upgrading, but mysteriously we’d grown fond of spider-watching on our porch.
The next morning, we headed off to kayak down the Neches. Eastex Canoes dropped us off nine miles up river. Harold, who has kayaked all over the globe, took one look at the river and shot me that look. Imperiously, he quipped, “Don’t these people know that it takes water to float a kayak?”
He did have a point—unfortunately, the river was at an all-time low. I’ll spare the gory details, but we did manage to get afloat and spend the afternoon lazily maneuvering around fallen trees and stumps while turkey vultures and kingfishers mocked us from above. Occasionally, as we meandered along the shoreline lined with cypress, pine, and tupelo trees, we stopped and rested on the pristine sandbars, sipped a bottle of wine, and took in the tranquility of the setting.
Of Spanish Skirts and Hiking Boots
In Palo Duro Canyon, things that don’t go together, do.
How ironic that the West Texas plains are so flat that you can actually see the roundness of the earth. The Panhandle is so featureless that when author Larry McMurtry’s Lonesome Dove hero, Gus McCrea, needed a place to hide from Blue Duck’s Indian mob, he stabbed his horse in the throat and took cover behind the animal as it lay dying u I had traveled quite a few miles of this sameness but was now standing an arm’s length from my cabin at the very rim of Palo Duro Canyon. The huge canyon holds many layers of contrast and paradox, mystery and history in its myriad depths. I should have realized the strangeness of Palo Duro when I made reservations: The park ranger told me they had only two cabins and I would be staying in Cabana Tres.
The tiny cabins made from indigenous stone were built by the Civilian Conservation Corp. in the 1930s, each on a ledge hewn out of rock, down from the level of the road, on the very precipice of the canyon. Cabana Tres blended perfectly into the landscape. Unfortunately, the conveniences inside were also nowhere to be found. There were two fireplaces, which were desperately needed for heat, but no firewood. Miles away from restaurants—other than the one in the canyon, which was closed when I visited—there wasn’t even a stove or refrigerator. There were four twin beds, but no sheets, blankets, or pillows. A small stream of hot water dribbled from the faucet. No towels. No soap. No television. No telephone.
I loved it.
After I backtracked 20 miles into Amarillo for supplies and a great dinner at Pepito’s in nearby Canyon, I was set: A fire raged in the fireplace, and I was tucked between my new sheets in a warm bed.
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The next morning was cold and bright. I layered up and headed down. From the trailhead, the round trip on the Lighthouse Trail is almost six miles, rated moderate for difficulty and rated hard for forgetability. The literature I had picked up at the very helpful Interpretive Center warned of heavy foot traffic during peak season, but I was alone in these days before the summer.
However, there was plenty of prickly pear cactus, yucca, gayfeather, fragrant sumac, big bluestem, and sideoats grama. As I approached and rounded Capitol Peak on the way to the Lighthouse, I had a revelation. In front of me was a rock formation, a rounded pyramid protruding from the canyon wall, with another to the left, and just beyond those was another. Spanish Skirts. The scene reminded me of a Georgia O’Keeffe landscape—massive, rippled, elephantine shapes that resembled the heavily carved foot of an ornate chair. O’Keeffe had taught at West Texas State in Canyon early in her career, and the very formations that then inspired her, now threw a shadow on me.
I had heard of the Spanish Skirts, but it wasn’t until that moment that I fully understood the phrase. I found myself surrounded by the bounteous, ruffled, swirling, and colorful la falda of flamenco dancers. From the bright blue sky of the waistline down, there were color bands of red, lavender, yellow, and gray mudstone, white gypsum, and finally red again, this time claystone.
I’d been warned about hiking up Spanish Skirts, but my thoughts had gone—mistakenly—to Mexican border ladies of the night. Now I understood the warning—climb with care because the fragile layers can pose a danger to both the climber and the ecology.
City Slickers
Even pampered dudettes feel right at home at the Running-R Ranch.
A wise woman once said—in this magazine, in fact—that her idea of roughing it was a La Quinta. But my assignment for this story was an adventure getaway, and while that may not have implied primitive camping, I was quite certain there was no Four Seasons in my immediate future.
I am not embarrassed to admit I am a city girl, but I also take my job seriously. If it’s an adventure they want, it’s an adventure they’ll get. So I went to Bandera, cowboy capital of Texas, to check out a bona fide dude ranch.
The drive was a little difficult, so I highly recommend driving in daylight. Once we turned on Ranch Road 1077 off the last major highway, I was sure that the bogeyman was going to jump out in front of my car—assuming, of course, I didn’t hit a deer first.
We chose the Running-R Ranch because it is smaller than most of the dude ranches in the area. I figured a cozy, family-like atmosphere would be more sympathetic to novices like us. As luck would have it, I was right. We got up the next morning for breakfast at 8:30 a.m., where a table loaded up with scrambled eggs, bacon, hash browns, pancakes, cold cereal, and toast was waiting for us in the main lodge. Lunch and dinner didn’t disappoint, either: We had French dips and French onion soup for lunch, with homemade French fries and onion rings; for dinner we enjoyed plump chicken breasts, fresh vegetables, mashed potatoes, and apple turnovers. Not a hot dog or pinto bean in sight.
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Our proprietors, a friendly German couple, dined with us at every meal, as did the other folks who worked the ranch. Secretly I was pleased to get the royal treatment—we were the only guests for the first day, and we got everyone’s undivided attention.
The main attraction at the Running-R is horseback riding, which is included in the price. For two hours, Mike, resident equestrian, takes you through the Hill Country State Natural Area, a beautiful stretch of rolling hills and rocky terrain adjacent to the ranch.
Now I haven’t been horseback riding since I went to camp at Sky Ranch in the 6th grade, so for all practical purposes, this was my first time. My friend Elizabeth was equally inexperienced. But that was no problem for Mike, who guided us expertly through the park and waited patiently while my horse, Luke—who I nicknamed “Snacker”—paused to nibble every 100 yards. “Show him who’s boss,” Mike yelled at me from the front of our entourage. But I was no match for Luke—he pegged me for a sucker from the get-go.
Post-ride we opted to stay indoors and catch up on our reading, but there’s plenty to do to keep busy. You can head out on foot to explore the grounds, or, if you ask nicely, Mike will let you help him feed, groom, or saddle the horses. For the kids, you can arrange a hayride into the park.
If you’re lucky, nightlife comes to you—the ranch often has cowboy singers and campfires on the premises for post-dinner excitement. Or you can head down Hwy. 16 to Bandera, where the bars and live music should keep you sufficiently entertained. Either way, you’ll return to the city a little more cowboy than when you left it.
—Jennifer Chininis
Racecar Man
Our resident thrill seeker escapes the rat race of the city by racing around the Texas Motor Speedway.
I’ve driven racecars at the Texas Motor Speedway in Fort Worth twice, both times with Mike Starr’s Team Texas driving school. Team Texas puts on 70 to 80 days of racing per year, plus other corporate and speedway-related events.
My first visit was a Christmas present from my father-in-law. He surprised me with a 10-lap package, then, overflowing with the spirit of giving, delivered a little 10-lapper to himself. We went together. The track is an hour northwest of Dallas on Highway 114. Halfway there, I asked him what is the fastest he’d ever driven.
“Oh, about 105,” he said.
“A hundred and five!” I shot back. “In what?” My father-in-law is a model of restraint. A banker and a deacon. It’s hard to imagine him doing 105 miles an hour in an airplane.
“A big Cadillac,” he said. “Or maybe it was a Lincoln. That thing would jump out from under you. We drove it from Tennessee. Before we moved here.”
“Where, exactly, was my mother-in-law?” I asked.
The deacon flashed the devil’s grin. “Passenger seat. Sleeping.”
Before Starr will let you drive one of his 450-horsepower NASCAR brutes on the mile-and-a-half track, you attend a classroom session in an infield garage. Billy Kann, who raced at TMS last June in the Craftsman Truck Series, led my latest briefing. Later I asked Kann about the race. First he mentioned his sponsors—the reflex of a professional—then said cryptically, “We got tangled up.”
After a few Chevrolet/Ford jokes, Kann got in gear. “An intelligent person goes brain dead as soon as we strap them in,” he said. “They forget everything we told ’em. Fortunately, there’ll be an instructor with you.” Kann grinned and pointed to a group of red-suited drivers. “We call them idiots,” he said. “After all, who’d get in a car with people who know absolutely nothing about racing?”
After an introduction to the track and the cars and the place to pass (the back straightaway), you walk to a van for a four-lap tutorial. The van slowly gets up to 85 miles an hour, all the while the driver explains banking and how to navigate the crooked front straight. “It’s an optical illusion,” he tells us. “This track’s an oval.”
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For me, the part about going brain dead commenced in the waiting area for my group’s turn in the cars. Starr sends out five to seven at a time. I overheard a 10-lap veteran say to his girlfriend as she loaded film, “I’m gonna pass me some people.” I glared at the back of his head and thought to myself, “I’ll punch a hole through the wall before you pass me.” Racing gets the juices flowing. He never passed me.
For the first couple of laps, you stay about a quarter mile apart. In fact, it’s difficult to bunch up even when getting in position to pass. “Tailgaters come here and won’t get close to the car ahead,” Kann told us. “We always have to say, ’Move up. Get up there.’”
I’ll tell you why. First, racecars have no brake lights, so you can’t tell if the car ahead of you is accelerating or braking. Second, the rates of closure are disorienting. On my first visit, the 77 car limped around the track at 80 miles an hour while the rest of us were doing 150. I passed it twice; both times afraid I was going to slam into the trunk. More than once my instructor came in handy.
I didn’t expect to feel safer at Team Texas at full throttle than on the drive home, but I did. The track is smooth and Starr’s cars handle perfectly. I also didn’t
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