Graffiti Fun at the Cadillac Ranch, Amarillo, Texas

Palo Duro Canyon State Park: Color & Silence

Spectacular color. I noticed this as I walked through the many scenic spots of the Palo Duro Canyon. Rock formations called Spanish skirts looked like bans of reds, oranges, and yellows on the flowing, twirling skirts of traditionally dressed senoritas. Red hues of endless rocks contrasted brightly against the blue Texas sky. Patches of green vegetation added a splash of brightness to the canyon walls. Pillars of rocks stood like tall monuments worn from water, wind, and rain showing off horizontal white stripes against red.

Silence. I heard no hum of traffic or loud, annoying conversations droning on cell phones. The only sounds came from the wind, the crunch of my footstep on a rocky trial, and the occasional startling gobble-gobble of a wild turkey. This was the sound of silence.

The best $5 I spent recently paid my admission to this colorful, quiet place - the Palo Duro Canyon State Park south of Amarillo, Texas. The Palo Duro Canyon stretches 120 miles long and 20 miles wide, reaching depths of 600 to 800 feet. Acclaimed as America’s second largest canyon, it hardly gets the attention garnered by the Grand Canyon (277 miles long, 18 miles wide, and 6,000 feet deep). Perhaps that’s a good thing. If news of the Palo Duro Canyon reached the masses, I suspect the cost would go up, driving access to the canyon would be limited, and the tranquility would diminish.

According to the Texas Parks & Wildlife brochure, Palo Duro Canyon formed less than 1-million years ago when the Prairie Dog Fork of the Red River carved through the Southern High Plains. As the water cut a path, it revealed colorful layers of rocks dating to be 250 million years old and panoramic views.

Visitors can explore the canyon by mountain biking, hiking, horseback riding, and driving. Travelers can plan an overnight stay in a rental cabin, pitch a tent, or navigate an RV down the canyon road. Had I researched this park in advance of our arrival in Amarillo, I would definitely have opted to bring our coach here. As it turned out, I arrived in the Toyota. And we had already paid for a week’s stay in town where the Internet signal showed four bars and my favorite store Chico’s offered sale prices.

The Palo Duro Canyon would have provided a relaxing contrast to the suburban setting of Amarillo. Camping here will have to wait for another time when passing through. The Canyon will wait for my return; after all, it waited 1-million years for my arrival.

April 16, 2009

Palo Duro Canyon State Park

11450 Park Road 5

Canyon, TX 79015

806-488-2227

Cadillac Ranch, Amarillo,Texas: A Surprising Message on the Hood of a Car

I hardly paid attention to the couple at the Cadillac Ranch as I examined the colorful painted messages on the ten cars all nose down in the dirt. The fellow was spray painting the entire hood of one of the Cadillacs black. He framed this black background with a white border like the route sign of historic Route 66. Distracted now, I watched the group of clowning Australians on college spring break write “Aussie” on a Cadillac then pose for photos. Wanting a photo myself, I offered to photograph a young man and his dog in exchange for him shooting a photo of me seated inside one of the cars. After checking out each car, I returned to read the message on the black background. The paint still dripped wet as I giggled with glee. It read: “Will you marry me?” The spray painting fellow proposed to his girlfriend right here, moments ago, at the Cadillac Ranch and I would never know her answer. She didn’t paint a reply and they were gone!

Several days later when I returned to the Cadillac Ranch, the proposal was gone too, painted over with new designs and messages.

April 14, 2009

Cadillac Ranch

Amarillo, Texas

I-40 between Exits 60 & 62

Admission is free.

The access road can accommodate

RV parking off the pavement for a

quick roadside stop off the Interstate.

Cadillac Ranch

Graffiti defaces buildings, bridges, railroad cars, boulders along coastal beaches, and even cemeteries. In my travels, graffiti shows up everywhere – from the Oregon’s rocky coast to the wall of a Gatwick church in England. Messages vary from persons’ names, public vows of teenage love, scrawled political phrases, to obscenities. Some graffiti looks like the work of a budding Picasso with colorful lines only as wide as the range of a spray can of paint. Other graffiti simply creates an eyesore needing removal.

I never felt inclined to grab a can of spray paint to express myself until I sat in the lounge area of a quick service garage in Amarillo, Texas. The young fellow who completed my Toyota’s overdue 2009 auto inspection offered advice on how to spend my time while in Amarillo.

“What I like to do,” he said with a Texas drawl, “is go to the Wal-Mart and buy some spray paint in all kinds of colors. Then, I go over to the Cadillac Ranch. I like to take girls there on our first date. They love painting those Cadillacs.”

I did not ask him to quantify how many first dates he’s had in his young life although I wanted to gauge this technique of impressing girls. What I asked aloud was this: “Is that legal?”

“Sure, in fact it’s encouraged,” he assured me. The local folks in the lounge waiting on their cars overheard our conversation and nodded in bobble head agreement.

One lady reminisced, “In 2005, the Cadillacs were painted pink in tribute to breast cancer victims. The pink didn’t last too long. Folks came around with more paint and covered up the pink with their own designs and colors.”

“Go ahead and get some paint,” coaxed a grandmotherly lady. “It’s fun! Why, I haven’t been there in years.”

“Maybe since her first date,” I wondered but respectfully kept this remark to myself.

I visited this quirky attraction – the Cadillac Ranch - a day later to confirm that I wasn’t being duped but the locals in some “let’s fool the out-of-towner prank.”

Yes, you can paint the Cadillacs without penalty. There’s even a commercial dumpster for the empty cans of spray paint. The endorsement of graffiti begins where you enter a field through an unlocked gate. Outside the gate the State of Texas posted a sign: “State of Texas Property GRAFFITI painting of anything on this side of the fence is ILLEGAL.”

The idea of adding my personal graffiti nagged me for several days. An opportunity to add to the layers of paint at the Cadillac Ranch was an experience I wanted to claim as part of my road trip adventures. My thoughts churned for several days until finally I knew what I wanted to paint on the cars.

I bought white, red and green spray paint – the cheapest Wal-Mart colors. Then, I made a cut out stencil so my lettering would be legible and clear. I wore old clothing because the gusting Texas wind and my painting acumen guaranteed I’d be wearing some of the paint.

At the Cadillac Ranch, I selected one of the ten cars buried nose down to bear my Hallmark message for some special occasions in May. “Happy Birthday Ed and Chris!” and “Congrats Suzie ’09!”

So for the occasions of Ed’s 61^st birthday, Chris’ 26^th Birthday, and Suzie’s graduation from William Woods University - Class of 2009, I became a graffiti artist. I captured my work for these special people in my life on digital photos as memorable one-of-a-kind keepsakes from the Cadillac Ranch.

April 17, 2009

At the Cadillac Ranch, ten Cadillacs are buried nose down, all at the same angle as the Cheops Pyramid in Egypt. Stanley Marsh, the helium millionaire who owns the wheat field where it stands, built the attraction in 1974. It is located on the south side of Interstate 40 between Arnot and Hope Roads (Exits 60 and 62), just west of the city limits of Amarillo, Texas. Visitors from all over the world come to see the art work and add their own personal touches.

Mexico vs. USA : A Contrast of Standards

The Los Ebanos Ferry to Mexico and the Ferry between Port Bolivar and Galveston, TX illustrate the remarkable different standards of ferry transportation in our world. The Los Ebanos Ferry is hand pulled by five muscular Mexican men across a narrow stretch of the Rio Grande River from 7 AM to 3PM when the river is not at flood level. This ferry’s capacity is limited to three vehicles and a dozen pedestrians. In Port Bolivar, the motorized ferry runs daily 24-hours with a capacity for cars, trucks, buses and RVs all waiting in multiple lanes to cross the Intracoastal Waterway through to Galveston Bay. Signs here warn motorists that jumping the line is a punishable infraction with monetary fine. There are signs at Los Ebanos too. One sign directs you to US Border Guards who check passports of those coming from the Mexican side of the river and refuse entry to anyone without proper proof of citizenship or visa. Another sign - "No alcohol beyond this point"- warns that alcohol is not permitted on the ferry. This must apply to those crossing the ferry not those hand pulling the ferry as we spied a 24-pack of Bud Light openly being enjoyed on the deck. What a startling contrast!

We'ver Run Out of Road: 30 Hours on Bolivar Peninsula

You won’t schedule a spa massage in Gilchrist, Texas on the Bolivar Peninsula along the Texas Gulf of Mexico. But, you will find Gulf waves to pound and splash stinging salt water in your eyes. You will find sandy beaches to naturally soften your calloused feet.

You won’t order dinner and a cocktail in a white-linen tablecloth restaurant. Ironically, the Fire House Restaurant is a ruined charred shell across the street from the Gilchrist Volunteer Fire Department. But, you can buy fresh shrimp any day except Monday at the market in Port Bolivar. And, you will find cold Budweiser in the beverage aisle of the Gulf Coast Market.

We didn’t plan to visit this seaside town. In fact, it’s not even a destination featured in the Texas State Travel Guide. Ed and I ended up here after a day of traveling in the Coach through Houston to the San Jacinto Monument. We wanted a quite place to boondock for the night away from the drone of Interstate 10 traffic. Texas Highway 124 seemed busy too, so Ed drove until he hit a “T”. To the left, a barrier warned that the roadway was closed. Straight ahead lay soft sand and the crashing surf of the Gulf of Mexico. Our only choice when we ran out of road – head south on route 124.

Ed swung the coach into a large shell and dirt parking lot. “I am done for the day,” he announced giving his jeans a tug as he moved out of the driver’s seat. The plywood sign leaning against the wooden utility pole warned: Church Property. No Parking.

“Honey, didn’t you see the sign?” I asked.

“Oh yeah.” He read the sign on the front of the flat roofed building that didn’t look like a church to me, “Are you saved? Is your eternity heaven or hell?”

“Not that sign,” I snapped, “…the one that says no parking.”

“I’ll take care of that,” he promised. Ed found two kids, one had more red-headed freckles than Ed, who coincidentally happened to be the nephews of the pastor. They woke her from a late Sunday nap to ask for permission for us to stay the night. We could park in the lot as long as we didn’t block cars coming to the youth meeting on Wednesday night. Amen!

I am crazy about waves and beaches so I couldn’t wait to cross to the dunes to the shore. Little by little, as we walked the beach, Ed ended up carrying my shoes then, gray hoodie and then my camera. I kept inching into the surf hiking my shorts more and more until a “Big One” crashed into me and soaked me to my waist. Wet now, I let my shorts hang and held my shirt to my midriff. Eventually, it became soaked too. Ed stayed on shore snapping pictures of a soggy, happy wife until sunset. I fell asleep that night content, listening to the rhythm of the surf.

I thought we be pulling away so when Ed suggested over our morning coffee that we stay a day, I quickly agreed.

We drove our Toyota to the end of the peninsula where a free ferry shuttles commuters to Galveston 24-hours a day. Once again, we’d run out of road.

In Port Bolivar, we noticed that most shrimpers had docked their boats. This day, Monday, they mended nets and welded repairs to the boats. There’d been a weekend catch of “Jumbo” size shrimp. We could see them but not buy them. “Whole-sellers only,” we were told in broken English. If you are a wholesale vendor, you can buy 100 pound mesh sacks of shrimp any day direct from the shrimp dock. It was tempting to buy 100 pounds and just eat until I burst, but reason over ruled.

We followed signs to Joe’s Crabs and knew for certain we’d arrived by the sign “You Are Here: Joe’s Crabs.” Joe told us that the cost of fuel is “putting a hurt on the shrimpers and his crab business.” Nevertheless, he had set some of his traps in the morning. He’d set more later that day. We interrupted from his preparation - cutting mullets, bait for his next set of crab traps.

“I can’t raise my prices because no one will buy the crabs. Some of the shrimpers are cutting back on how often they go out on the water to save fuel,” Joe explained. Fuel is just part of the formula challenging men making a living off the water. “I have to take care of my equipment too,” commented Joe. “Parts and labor to repair to my engines and boats can run up to a thousand dollars or more. These costs can drive you out of business.”

Joe wants to tough it out, stick to crabbing and selling bait to the diminishing number of weekend tourists coming from Houston or Dallas. It’s what he knows how to do. He’s lived here all his life. He met his wife here, raised a family and rooted himself in the home that once belonged to his wife’s grandmother. He’ll spend the rest of his life here.

Making our way back up the coastal road, we stopped a fishing pier. A man from Quebec told us RVers could boondock for free here. “Had he caught any fish?” “No.” It seemed that he was not alone. People didn’t care if they caught anything. They lounged in lawn chairs, sipped cold beers, and relaxed in the sun. Hanging from the electric line above the bridge and pier, many a miscast line and lure dangled in a fisherman’s work of art overhead. Only, the pelicans and a long-beaked sea bird made successful catches at this popular fishing haven.

“Enough, enough sightseeing and visiting with folks!” I complained to Ed. The sun had warmed the day. I wanted a swim. And, Ed did too!

How is possible that no one else wanted to jump in the waves, cool off in the water, feel pull of the current, or enjoy the spray of a wave crash against you? We had the beach in Gilchrist all to ourselves, a private beach, at least for the day in the place where we ran out of road.

Route #3: I-10 to Winnie, Texas; Rt. 124 South to the Gulf of Mexico

April 6 & 7, 2008