in Austin and headed East (actually south) on Texas Highway 71, toward the Gulf Coast. It is now Texas wildflower season, thank you Lady Bird Johnson, and the wide medians and shoulders bloomed with iconic bluebonnet, orange Indian paint brush,
pinks, yellows and whites. Trees are leafing out in a slow sequence of greens. I enjoyed passing through smaller towns and cities like Bastrop and LaGrange, the stoplights allowing a chance to admire the towns. As I do not travel more than 55 mph anyway, the non-Interstate roads don't particularly slow my pace. In fact, I much prefer to shunpike.
Once south of Columbus and I-10 the character of the landscape changed significantly. Out of the hill country now, flat, flat, flat, much poorer, starting to see homes built on stilts, one can easily imagine a hurricane slamming a large storm surge far inland. Closer to the Gulf, signs for hurricane evacuation routes. Starting to feel tropical, humid, vines taking over dead trees. First sighting of Spanish moss. First bridge sign calling the watercourse below a "bayou." According to Wikipedia, a bayou is ". . . an extremely slow-moving stream or river (often with a poorly defined shoreline), or . . . a marshy lake or wetland. The name "bayou" can also refer to a creek whose current reverses daily due to tides and which contains brackish water highly conducive to fish life and plankton. Bayous are commonly found in the Gulf Coast region of the southern United States, notably the Mississippi River region, with the state of Louisiana being famous for them."
Guess I'm not in the desert anymore, Toto.
At the coast, I drove through Freeport, ugly as only an industrial port city can be. Traversing the area just at shift change, I had plenty of time to observe the surroundings. It looked just like New Jersey, but heavier on the petrochemicals. Crossed a tall, steep bridge over the Intracostal Waterway, something else to look up on Wikipedia. Fascinating!
After a day's drive, I arrived at San Luis Pass County Park, right at the tip of a barrier island on the Gulf. The campground is a de facto fishing village. Every RV parked here has large coolers and fishing paraphernalia around its perimeter. Upon checking in, I was asked if I liked to fish. I had to confess to never having been fishing, although my rejoinder that I liked to *eat* fish seemed to satisfy the question.
Texas Longhorn orange is giving way to LSU purple. The lilt of the accent is subtly different. The camp host here was born on this island and returns here for three months every summer to volunteer at the campground.
Humans aren't the only ones fishing around here. The birds, lots and lots of birds, are also having a feast.
I must have seen ten, maybe fifteen species of birds so far, many of which I can't identify. I can understand why the Gulf Coast is a mecca for birders. Right now, the slough out my back window is being fished by a small white bird with a black head, probably a tern, who spots something in the water, tilts its head down to precisely locate its catch, hovers in position for a second or two, then dives straight down into the water. Its prey is too small for me to see, but sometimes it gives up right before the water surface, and gracefully does a lightening fast touch-and-go that an aircraft carrier pilot can only dream of emulating. They hunt way to fast for me to photograph.
Everywhere I've been in Texas, the spring birdsong has been a constant background accompaniment. I don't recognize most of the bird calls. Its hard to spot the specific bird, and even if I did, I don't usually know their species. Sometimes I try to mimic and answer a particular call. Its gratifying to hear my duet partner stop in confusion, perhaps wondering what's the matter with that other bird, then answer with, I swear, a question mark. Either that, or I'm really anthropomorphizing. Here at the coast it has gone from birdsong to birdracket. When they are quiet I can hear the roar of the open ocean surf in the distance.
Spotted a great blue heron against my horizon, see him by the picnic table
patiently stalking something with its long neck outstretched. Having my binoculars at the ready, I watched it for quite awhile. Answering some signal, it flapped off majestically, a few feet above the water, and I was able to watch its flight for maybe 90 degrees before it landed further away on the beach. Beautiful! I have newfound respect and appreciation for wildlife and bird photographers, and their equipment. I am not one of them.
If I knew how to make a soundtrack of this experience, I'd record the constantly racuous birds, sometimes quieter, and sometimes unanimously startled into a loud outcry. I'd record the roar of the surf.
However, when I put my binoculars down, I became instantly nauseous, motion-sick, from the blur. Rats! Hoping to mitigate my nausea I searched my pantry and devised a hot beverage based on these two items.
The larger container is a Chinese vegetable stock concentrate that I purchased on a whim at New Sang Chong market in Oakland, figuring that it would come in handy cooking in the RV. The smaller jar is grated ginger that I found at one of the grocery tents in Quartzsite, of all places. I've never seen it before. kTogether they made a nice salty broth laced with ginger that seemed to quell my stomach enough for me to go beachcombing in the afternoon.
I'll tell you about that tomorrow.
No comments:
Post a Comment