Before we went on our vacation to Kauai this September, my husband Andrew and I watched dozens of travel videos on YouTube. We rounded out our research with movies set on the garden isle. One of these, The Perfect Getaway starring Steve Zahn, Milla Jovovich, Timothy Oliphant, and Kiele Sanchez, was a murder mystery thriller where the main characters were hiking part of the Kalalau Trail. The movie was entertaining, although I kept getting distracted by the beautiful scenery. There was enough mayhem, however, to convince me to pass on attempting that trek. Anytime there is a steep cliff in a movie, or in real life, there is potentially someone waiting to toss you off of it.
Wailua Falls – Photo by the author
If you looked at the photo above and recited “The plane! The plane!” congratulations, you are old. Saturday nights in the 1970s found me stationed in front of the television, waiting for that opening shot of Fantasy Island. The waterfall is more impressive in person, even if we did have to stand in line at the overlook in order to snap a photo.
Curious goats – Photo by the author
Our first full day on the island we hiked parts of the Heritage Trail. Meandering along the coastline, we saw few people and almost the same amount of goats. Neither group looked like they might be planning someone’s murder.
I ventured into the ocean – Photo by Andrew
Andrew did complete the hike on the Kalalau trail all the way to Hanakapiai Falls. I passed on that exercise, but joined him on the Kuilau Ridge Trail on a later day.
Photo by the authorPhoto by the authorPhoto by the author
Kauai is steeped in history – many of the buildings in the towns were constructed during the sugar cane and pineapple plantation era in the 1800s. We spent our last two nights on Kauai at Waimea Plantation Cottages. Their cottages were built in the late 1880s to 1930s and moved to the resort site and lovingly restored.
Waimea Plantation Cottages – Photo by the authorSunset on the black sand beach at Waimea – photo by the author
I thought I would do some writing while on vacation, but that didn’t happen. My days were spent enjoying the setting and abandoning the plot.
This week I continue with my list of Texas independent bookstores and a story at the end.
Wild Detectives Bookstore in Oak Cliff, Texas
Last Friday my friend Cathy and I continued our tour of local bookstores. In Texas, “local” can mean anything within a three hour drive, but that day we only had to venture to Oak Cliff, about a thirty minute drive from home. This neighborhood, the Bishop Arts District, is filled with quirky boutiques, cozy restaurants, coffee shops, and of course – bookstores.
Poets Bookshop in the Bishop Arts District
Lucky for us the streets were mostly shaded, proving relief from the hot Texas sunshine. We trekked from Wild Detectives to Poets Bookshop and then on to Blush. This last store features romance titles and my companions wondered if I, a horror writer and reader, would find anything to tempt me. I did see some witchy stories, but they were all books I already owned.
Blush Bookstore, Bishop Arts District
After lunch we abandoned the sidewalks for Cathy’s Subaru, and drove to our last two destinations. We stopped first at Whose Books, where I made up for the lack of romance titles by discovering three new horror books.
Whose Books in Oak Cliff, Texas
Our last stop was at Lucky Dog Books, a used bookstore. We all left there with our arms filled with new to us titles.
Lucky Dog Books in Oak Cliff, Texas
There is no more perfect way to spend the day than in the fellowship of other book lovers.
Interior of Lucky Dog Books
This week I’m sharing a flash fiction piece I wrote for one of the NYC Midnight Contests. I think the genre might have been historical fiction and the object that had to be included was a rocking chair.
Love Makes Lighter Burdens
Mattie Ferguson would forever mourn the things she had left behind. No porcelain plates, no beads nor bells—she traded these for coffee and bacon, for shovel and scythe.
“Oregon! A new start, Mattie.” Her husband, Jonas, swept her up in sturdy arms and swung her round. Dizzy, her old life spun past.
Released, she sat in her beloved rocking chair and gripped the smooth oak. Built by her father, she imagined his worn hands as he sanded the wood, pictured her mother seated by a fire as the rocker soothed a fretful baby.
“We’ll find room,” Jonas promised.
They toted the rocker through flood-swollen rivers, and grave-marked desert. They trod beside their struggling oxen, past piles of treasures, discarded in hopes of a load lightened enough to last the journey.
In Idaho, they lost an ox. With meager possessions carved down to essentials, Jonas could not meet her gaze.
“No!” Mattie spread her fingers across her rounded belly. “I’ll carry it.”
Jonas smiled and lifted the chair. He’d bear it for her—a burden made light by love. The last mile slipped past. The trek became a story for their children and their children’s children.
A century later, a young couple pushed through a beaded curtain to wander a dusty shop. Janis Joplin wailed from the radio as smoky incense wafted through the air. The woman stopped beside an antique rocker.
“We need this,” she told her lover. “It’s boss.”
“It won’t fit in our car.”
She pouted.
“Okay, our pad’s close. I’ll carry it.” He lifted the chair, surprised at how light the load was.
Exploring the Old Zoo Nature Trail in Cisco, Texas
Entrance to the Trail – Photo by the author
There is something about deserted spaces that draws out the explorer in me. Horror fan that I am, I know these are the spots where the paranormal linger. I would trespass into every vacant house if it weren’t for the threat of arrest. Instead, I feed my curious spirit with estate sales, circling rooms recently emptied of their human inhabitants and filled instead with the bric-a-brac they have left behind. No ghosts linger there, the only thing wafting through these places is the scent of mothballs and menthol.
I’d love the chance to wander through an empty asylum, a shuttered convent, a derelict hospital building. Any place filled with spiders and memories. I first heard about the abandoned zoo in Cisco through a YouTube video. “We have to go there,” I told my husband.
Zoo Trail Marker – Photo by the author
We arrived in Cisco at noon, early enough for a picnic lunch, then headed outside town to the zoo. The zoo had operated in the 1920s and closed in the 1930s. In 2021, A nonprofit organization, SAFE (Students, Athletics, Families, and Education) stepped in to clear the trash and build hiking paths.
The Start of the Trail – Photo by the author
The trail wound through the crumbling remains of the concrete structures built to house the animals.
Photo by the author
We wandered past rusted metal bars, peered into cave-like structures.
Photo by the author
Had our path been lit in twilight instead of bright, mid-day sun, I might have imagined the sad calls of the creatures who had lived in these enclosures.
Photo by the author
I wondered what had happened to the zoo’s inhabitants once the place closed. Even though I listened closely, I heard no whisper of ghostly growls – just the occasional whistle of a song bird.
Photo by the author
We continued along the trail, past the animal pens.
Photo by the author
Despite the sign’s promise – I spotted neither spiders nor a spider-shaped rock. As we passed the remains of an old foot bridge, the high notes of childish laughter drifted to us. Other hikers, not the specters of visitors from a century past.
Photo by the author
We climbed to an overlook, to a spot marked “Cougar Rock.”
Photo by the author
We left before sundown, before the spirits of past inhabitants appeared. No ghouls, just a lovely place for a spring stroll through the reminders of a past reclaimed in Cisco, Texas.
The past has flavor. It tastes like cherry popsicles melting red down your arm on a hot summer day. It might taste like Saturday night at home, watching the movie of the week and eating pepperoni pizza. The kind from a box kit, with tiny circles of spicy pepperoni swirled into the sauce. Sometimes it tastes like love and joy, like Friday night dinner out with your family – tacos and enchiladas and queso and salsa and chips hot from the fryer.
Photo by the author
We drove up to Wichita Falls one Saturday, to explore the downtown and see if we could find something interesting in the antique shops. Along the way we stopped in Muenster at Fischer’s, a small grocery stocked with local products inspired by the town’s German heritage. I bought spaetzle and pickles and chow-chow relish. My mouth watered in anticipation of the tang of vinegar. Then, as we made our way to the cashiers at the front of the store, I spotted a box of Chef Boyardee pepperoni pizza mix. I hadn’t seen this product in the Dallas area in ages. I scooped up the last two boxes. This pizza had been a staple of my childhood and teenage years.
Photo by the author – Downtown Wichita Falls
In Wichita Falls, we trooped through dusty shops and searched for bargains, climbed creaking stairs in hopes of discovering treasure. We had left our drinks in the car, parked two blocks away. As the hot afternoon wore on, I dreamed of a cold glass of iced tea. After wandering through a maze of shelves stocked with foggy glassware, yellowed magazines, and toys with missing parts – Andrew and I decided it was time for an early dinner.
Photo by the author – Miss Kim judges your taste
Photo by the author – the seamstress
I had picked the restaurant based on the Yelp reviews. The place had been in business for decades and had racked up a reassuring 4.5 stars out of 5. Their specialty was something called a “red taco.” I couldn’t wait to try it.
“I don’t know,” Andrew said. “It might be too busy. If there’s a wait we can come back later.”
I agreed, but secretly vowed to suffer the wait. I’d dreamed of that taco the whole time we circled through stacks of broken typewriters and piles of musty books.
Photo by the author
When we arrived at the restaurant, I was thrilled when the smiling cashier told us to sit wherever we wanted. We squeezed into a narrow booth. A waitress popped by to take our order. Andrew decided on enchiladas and asked for queso in place of chili. I had a combination plate – a cheese enchilada and the long anticipated red taco. We added a bowl of queso to start.
When the waitress dropped off our chips and queso, I thought there had been some mistake and we’d been served biscuits instead. Each piece was at least a quarter inch thick and weighed enough to raise a decent welt if I chunked it at someone. The queso sported a suspicious pink tinge, as though the antacid were already blended into the sauce. A pudding-like consistency, it clung to the chips and quivered.
Andrew gave me a stricken look. “I added queso to my enchiladas.”
“Maybe they will mess up the order.”
However, our main meal arrived quickly and was just as we had requested. The famous taco was certainly red. A vivid, siren screaming red that could only come from a lifetime allotment of red dye number 40. The taco shell was thick like the chips, and possibly made from the same tortillas. Where had they come from? I’d never seen anything like that, unless you count the time I attempted to roll out my own corn tortillas at home. The refried beans were lumpy and unseasoned. My cheese enchilada was good, but there wasn’t nearly enough of it to justify the price on the menu.
I pulled up the Yelp app and read through the reviews. Had we stumbled into some alternate universe, one where everyone else thought this tasted fine? Like that Twilight Zone episode where everyone has a pig face except this one girl who believes she’s the ugliest person alive?
This time, I searched for the 1 star opinions. As I read through the ratings, one theme appeared throughout – puzzlement. Then I sorted the positive reviews. Most had one thing in common – memory.
“I’ve been going here since I was a child.”
“I always stop in Wichita Falls for a red taco.”
All around us there were smiling people dining on the chips, dipping into the queso. It must be tradition. So many restaurants closed during Covid. I can count on one hand the stores that are still open that also existed when I was young. How reassuring it must be to have one constant in your life, one place you can go and say you’ve been there for years? The food must taste better when flavored by memory.
I turned 60 this year, and for the first time in my life I’ve realized I have far fewer days ahead of me than behind. It’s a startling revelation, one that leads me to portion out my days like a miser hoarding gold. A very small stack of gold. One that I should have appreciated much sooner.
There is no good time to live through a pandemic. I wonder if I would have felt the theft of days as acutely if Covid had happened when I was 50, 40, 30. Be thankful, I tell myself, you don’t have small children at home. I’m fortunate that I have a job that can be done remotely. The only health damage my husband and I have sustained is the extra pounds that have crept up on us. I’m not replacing the batteries on our digital scale. When it dies we’ll stop monitoring our gains. That, at least, will have a finite ending.
We decided to forego any gathering of friends and family for Thanksgiving and instead reserved admission to Dinosaur Valley State Park in Glen Rose, Texas. It seemed safer to spend the time outdoors, passing strangers on trails.
Outside, with the clean scent of juniper and cedar surrounding us, it was simple to tie my shortness of breath to the steepness of our hike, and not to the irrational fear of illness. Worry dissolved with each step over tangled roots, each rustle of leaves blanketing the trails.
We stopped at an overlook to admire how high we’d climbed and I ate an orange, impossibly sweet, from my pack.
I snapped a picture at a spot I’d stopped at a few years back, intending to look up that photo and compare it to the present, but I decided I’d rather keep the current image in my mind without regret for the changes brought by time.
The trek downhill was harder, perhaps because it marked the winding down of the day. My knees complained and my ankles, not to be outdone, insisted on wobbling with each step. Someone had installed a small wooden step at a particularly steep portion of the trail. As I tested the sturdiness of the steps I clutched the trunk of a cedar tree leaning over the path. The usually shaggy bark was worn smooth, polished by the thousands of hands that had gone this way before me.
At the end of the trail, as at the beginning, we had to cross the slow-moving Paluxy River. Andrew hopped across the stones laid in rows in the shallow water while I, not trusting my balance, decided to take off my boots and go barefoot through the crossing.
I tested each step, carefully navigating over slick, moss-covered stones worn smooth. Cold water up to my knees, I felt both a child-like joy and the very adult fear of falling. If I made it back to dry land safely, I decided I would devote time each day to the yoga tree-pose.
I find gratitude in nature, for the ability to set out on larger journeys with small steps. I forgive myself for the ennui that has gripped me this past year and I realize that instead of wasting time I’ve been healing. So that when this pandemic is over I can go out and face the world like the bad-ass, mature woman that I am.
“There are always flowers for those who want to see them.” Henri Matisse
Whispering Pines Nature Trail at Tyler State Park – Photo by the author
I’ve been wondering, lately, what I’ll leave behind. What mark will I make on the world? Not that I’m planning to kick off anytime soon, but recent events have certainly brought that to mind. When you have to gear up for a Target run like you’re preparing for the apocalypse, it brings home the certainty of your own mortality.
Mushroom Along the Trail – Photo by Andrew Shaw
Andrew and I have determined the safest space for us is outdoors. We might encounter a snake, have to brush off a tick, or bring home a rash from poison ivy, but there’s little risk of inhaling a deadly virus, as long as we keep our distance from our fellow hikers. There’s plenty of room for all outside.
Loblolly Pines at Tyler State Park – Photo by the author
We traveled down Interstate 20, to Tyler State Park. As we grew closer to our destination, the earth beside the highway changed from the blackland prairie soil to the red clay dirt of East Texas.
Hiking Trail at Tyler State Park – Photo by the author
Like many of our beautiful national and state parks, Tyler State Park was constructed by the Civilian Conservation Corps (CCC) during the Great Depression. Andrew and I hiked along a trail and climbed steps laid into the ground over eighty years ago.
Steps and Waterfall Built by the Civilian Conservation Corps in 1938 – Photo by the author
Outdoor etiquette instructs us to be careful, to leave no trace when we hike. Our footprints on the trail, stamped into the dust, will be swept aside by the next traveler. We take nothing but peace from the space. As we trekked along, under a canopy of green, I thought what a wonderful trace the young men of the CCC had left behind.
Whispering Pines Nature Trail at Tyler State Park – Photo by the author
How fortunate our land had Franklin Delano Roosevelt as president during that trying time. When FDR established the Civilian Conservation Corps, he created hope and opportunity, not just for the men who would lend their labor to creating a legacy that would live on past their lifetimes, but for all who would visit the parks in decades to come. The challenge then, for each of us, will be to examine our steps and determine what trace our actions will leave for future generations.
Tyler State Park, Tyler, Texas – Photo by the author
My mother, grandmother, and aunt in Farmersville in the 1950s
The places we visit are never as perfect as they are in our memory. My grandmother’s house in Farmersville, Texas no longer exists. A remodeled version of the Dairy Queen I visited as a barefoot child sits beside the highway and still serves up chocolate dipped cones and cheeseburgers. You can see the Dairy Queen from the overpass where I used to stand with my cousin and spit on the cars passing below.
Dairy Queen – Photo by the author
My husband and I drove up to Farmersville on the weekend, a short day trip from our home. Over bridges spanning the lake, past trailer parks and fireworks stands to the little town that was once the Onion Capitol of North Texas.
The Onion Shed in Farmersville, Texas – Photo by the author
The Onion Shed sits near the town square. In the 1960s I helped my mother and grandmother fill burlap sacks with discarded onions, the rejects spilled and tossed onto the grass from the railway cars where the Collin County Sweets were loaded for shipment. No longer filled with the round yellow bulbs, you can find a flea market there on the first Saturday of each month.
The plaque at the Onion Shed
A portrait of Audie Murphy among the items for sale at the Clay Potter Auction House
We wandered through antique stores on the town square. I am always surprised to find the toys like those from my own childhood, stacked on dusty shelves and labeled “vintage.”
There were no toys in my grandmother Mattie’s wood frame house. A print of Jesus knocking at the door and a framed copy of the TV Guide with Johnny Carson on the cover decorated her living room wall. If I slipped from my mother’s view I would have just enough time to explore Mattie’s bedroom. I could hide under the fuzzy chenille bedspread and peak out through the fringe skirting the bottom where it brushed the floor. Visiting children were turned out into the yard, chased from the house by apron-wearing women too busy with cooking and serving to put up with our foolishness.
Window display – Photo by the author
Small towns often have treasures tucked away, to be uncovered by those with time and patience to wander. The post office sports a mural painted in 1941 as part of the Works Progress Administration (WPA).
WPA mural in the Farmersville Post Office – Photo by the author
A short walk to downtown from Mattie’s house, over the railroad tracks and to the pecan tree shaded park, and I could find the snow cone stand there in summer. Crushed ice in a paper cone that dissolved as the treat itself melted to slush in the heat. But I could drink the last of it, my hands, lips, clothes stained red, purple, blue, green.
Old Electricity Generator in the city park – Photo by the author
There were no snow cones for sale on the day we visited, but I bought a Dr. Pepper from one of the stores. Andrew and I sat and shared the drink on a bench near the old movie theater downtown.
The movie theater in downtown Farmersville, Texas – Photo by the author
Closed for years, posters from films starring the hometown hero, Audie Murphy, hang on the front. I imagine my mother there on a Saturday night, palms slick with butter from the popcorn.
We ended our visit with a stop at the Odd Fellows Cemetery. My grandparents, Grover Cleveland Cullum and Mattie Elizabeth Watson Cullum, are buried there, as are their parents. We searched for their graves but couldn’t locate them. I hadn’t been there in years and the day was too hot for much effort. The one place in town that hadn’t changed but I couldn’t rely on my memory to find the family plot.
We did see some interesting gravestones.
Farmersville 100F Cemetery/Odd Fellows Cemetary
“Some of these people were alive during the Civil War,” Andrew commented.
“Yes,” I said.
Tired and sweaty, we climbed into our air conditioned Honda and headed home. Past the shops downtown, the onion shed, the park, the railroad crossing, stopping at last near the overpass so I could hop out and snap a photo of the Dairy Queen. Then onto the highway and home, leaving behind the layers of memory. My mouth, dust dry as I lean over a metal guardrail, the low mournful train whistle in the dusk, the sharp scrape of sidewalk on bare feet, the candy syrup from a grape snow cone, icy cold contrast to a dog summer day. The scent of sweet onions, yellow and round as baseballs, hidden like Easter Eggs in the soft green grass.
Our rented Buick rocked as the tractor trailers and rock haulers zipped past on the highway. I gripped the door handle, certain a homicidal maniac steered each truck rushing by, intent on racking up another victim on their way to the West Texas oil fields.
We had selected the Buick from a fleet of options. We assumed the larger car would be safer and more comfortable than my ten-year-old Honda. The rental car’s bucket seats fit anorexic teenagers, not late middle-aged women, and my butt had grown numb over the miles since we left Dallas. If not for the thrill of certain death in a fiery car crash, the rest of me would have fallen asleep staring at the flat scenery on our way to Carlsbad, New Mexico to tour the caverns.
One arm draped over the console, my husband Andrew stared through the windshield, judging how much room he needed before he could squeeze the Buick in between the cement truck and the oil tanker in the next lane.
“Would you like to stop and see the Odessa Meteor Crater?” Andrew asked.
Everything I know about meteors I learned from movies, television, and comic books. They don’t have a good reputation. Anything tied to the phrase “extinction event” is something to avoid. Another semi rocketed past, blowing sand and gravel across us. As Andrew steered the car back into our lane, I answered “Sure.”
I’m a big fan of bizarre roadside exhibits. I imagined a meteor crater would be a giant hole in the earth, similar to the Grand Canyon, but smaller, less grand. Maybe they would have a viewing station and tiny plastic meteorites for souvenirs. I got out my camera and checked the battery, to be sure I was ready to take pictures of the stunning vista.
Andrew turned off the main highway and bumped along a rough road paved in potholed asphalt. We arrived at a gated entrance in front of a metal-roofed, tan brick building. A sign on the side proclaimed we had reached the Meteor Crater Museum. The place could have been any other standard government building- a place to renew your driver’s license or pay your water bill.
I pulled myself from the tight embrace of the bucket seat and climbed from the car, camera at the ready. Leaning against the Buick, I turned around and searched for a glimpse of the crater. I didn’t want to fall into some crevice and break a hip right at the start of our vacation. The landscape stretched out to the horizon, broken only by scraggly desert plants and medium-sized chunks of limestone. In the distance, oil field pump jacks bobbed up and down like dinosaurs.
“How much further is the crater?” I asked. When I shielded my eyes and squinted through the swirling dust in the parking lot, the most interesting thing I noticed was a concrete picnic table.
“It’s right there,” Andrew answered, pointing. “That dip in the ground.”
The sandy soil past the parking lot sloped down in a shallow bowl. If I held my head just right, I could make out a circular shape to the area. We strolled along the little path that wound through the crater and read the educational signs that told about the history of the site, until I grew tired of the heat. Andrew stopped to admire an anthill, and I walked on ahead to the museum, hoping for a water fountain and air conditioning.
The exhibit area was slightly larger than my living room, and staffed with three people, two men and one woman, sitting on rolling chairs behind a glass counter. They all turned to greet me as I strolled in. I picked up a brochure explaining the history of the crater. It must have been larger when they discovered it in 1892. The crater was formed 63,000 years ago, so I forgave it for being filled in with West Texas silt. I know how fast dust can accumulate if you aren’t diligent. If only we had visited sooner.
I looked over the small pieces of meteorites on display and glanced at the scientific charts and graphs. At last I stopped in front of a framed photo of a woman reclining on a hospital bed. This was Ann Hodges, a woman struck by a meteor in 1954 when it crashed through the roof of her house. I imagined her stretched out on her couch, relaxing with a book maybe, or watching television, her face illuminated with the blue glow from the screen. Maybe the accident happened after a commercial for Geritol or the new RCA Victor Portable Radio, her peaceful night shattered by a huge rock falling through her ceiling. Did she know what hit her? Or did she suppose Fidel Castro had targeted her, a housewife in rural Alabama, with a missile meant for Miami?
I turned from the display as Andrew walked over to stand by my side.
“I found the t-shirts!” he said.
He held up a gray shirt with “Odessa Texas Meteor Crater” printed on the front. A yellow and red meteor streaked down toward an innocent cartoon superhero, or a reclining woman.
All three staff members assisted me as I purchased the shirt. We left the cool air conditioning and stepped out into the bright sunlight of a West Texas summer. The blue sky overhead held no threat of hail, lightening, or flaming rocks. As we strolled across the parking lot toward the Buick, I decided the risk of venturing out on the highway was worth the reward of finding new places to explore. I was just as likely to be struck by a meteor at home while I lounged on my couch.
At the Odessa Meteor Crater
Terrye is a native Texan who enjoys writing stories set in her home state and other strange places. In her free time Terrye enjoys exploring antique, junk, and thrift stores for inspiration and bargains. She’s had stories published in small print and online journals, and writes short, humorous essays for her blog — https://terryeturpin.com/. Sign up below to follow her.
“We should visit Enchanted Rock,” Andrew suggested one evening, not long after we started dating.
I pictured a place shrouded in a sparkling mist and peopled with tiny fairies peeking from behind evergreens. I worried whether the rock, enchanted or not, would provide shade. I’m a great fan of shade, especially when the temperature gets above eighty degrees. When I hike in the summer, I stuff my hydration pack full of ice. I’d carry an electric fan if I could, and string out a bright orange extension cord behind me as I tramp along the trail. Our visit to the Enchanted Rock Natural Area in the Hill Country of Texas was to take place in the unseasonably warm month of May.
I had discovered that Andrew got along quite well outdoors. He always carried one of those multi-function pocketknives and a small, intense flashlight, in case he needed to defend himself against orcs or cut up an apple in the dark.
“What’s enchanted about the rock? Are there trees?” I asked.
“The rock makes noise at night, as the granite cools off, and there are a few trees,” Andrew assured me. “We can climb to the top!”
“Climb?”
I wondered about those rock noises. I pictured myself strapped into a leather harness and dangling from the side of a cliff. I was willing to explore exciting experiences with Andrew, but I didn’t think plunging to my death would make a good impression.
“Oh, it’s really more like hiking. It’s not that steep.”
I was not reassured. Andrew’s legs were shorter than mine, so his center of gravity was closer to the ground. His sturdy legs were built for inclines.
I searched the internet for a picture of the place and found an image on the state park website. It showed a dull pinkish grey, rounded hill of granite set against a backdrop of bright blue sky. Stunted mesquite trees in sparse blotches of green dotted the bottom of the hill. The sides and top of the rock, however, resembled the balding head of a middle-aged man who declined the comb over but wasn’t ready to give up all his hair. Another website suggested the area might once have been the location for human sacrifices. As I wondered aloud if we might still see bloodstains on the granite, Andrew made our camping reservations.
When arrived at the Enchanted Rock Natural Area, we stopped to check in at the ranger station and pick up a map of the area. The helpful ranger, a rosy complexioned, blond young man in a pressed tan uniform shirt and a hat like Smoky the Bear might wear, pointed out the camping spots on the map. Off we went to explore before hiking to our campground. Beyond the parking area the focus of the state park, the Enchanted Rock itself, rose into the sky. Clouds hovered some distance above the summit of the hill, and the pink granite sides shimmered in the afternoon sun. Boulders the size of small sheds clung to the surface. I didn’t see many trees on the slope, or places that looked to afford either shade or an easy stroll to the top.
“We could hike up the Little Hill this afternoon and save the larger one for tomorrow.”
Andrew pointed across from the Enchanted Rock. The Little Hill was shorter than the larger granite hill that gave the park its name. There were however, a few small trees clinging to the granite slopes. The guidebook, “On Your Way Up, a Guide to the Top of Enchanted Rock” cautioned “if you are unsteady on your feet or have trouble with your footing, please consider your physical condition before attempting the climb.” I have trouble keeping my footing when I step in and out of my bathtub, so I agreed with Andrew that we should postpone our adventure on the Enchanted Rock, and warm up with a climb up the Little Hill.
We walked past the brave hikers headed up the main path toward the Enchanted Rock. They were an interesting assortment of age and ability. Many of them had on sneakers instead of hiking boots. I noticed several people leading dogs. A tiny brown Chihuahua scrambled alongside an older woman with white hair held back in a visor. When I pointed out the little dog to Andrew, he reminded me he had once climbed to the summit while accompanied by a Chihuahua. The dog belonged to an old friend, a girl he knew before we met. I had seen a photo of Andrew posed on a barren, rocky, landscape, holding a tiny tan and white dog with a pink jeweled collar, but I hadn’t realized the picture captured the top of the granite mountain.
“Did the dog enjoy the climb?” I wanted to know.
“Yes, she did!” Andrew replied as we started up the side of the Little Hill.
As I shuffled over piles of loose pebbles and searched for the path with the least slope, I thought about that picture of Andrew and the little dog. He posted it on his online dating profile, where I saw it when we first chatted. The dog’s owner was absent from the picture, but in my imagination, she looked something like Scarlett Johansen, Andrew’s favorite movie star.
We had trudged about halfway up the incline when I realized the slope was getting steeper. The outcroppings where I might gain a handhold were getting further apart. I squinted into the sun and wiped the sweat from my face, trying to gauge how much farther along we had to go. I regretted leaving my ice filled water bottle behind in the car.
“Let’s stop here for a minute.” I panted and clung to a large rock the size of a Volkswagen, poised to slide down the side of the granite slope, with or without me still clinging to it.
“Are you tired?” Andrew asked as he stepped closer to the edge of an outcropping, where he would have a good view of my body as it tumbled unhindered down the hard, rocky ground.
I thought Andrew and I had reached the point in our relationship where I should disclose one of my shortcomings.
“No,” I replied. “I’m afraid of heights.”
“Oh! Are you okay? Should we go back down?”
Andrew walked toward me, sending a shower of loose rocks cascading past my feet and bouncing along to the concrete parking lot below. I risked a glance behind. The gentle incline we had traveled transformed into a forty-five-degree slant covered with sharp bits of gravel.
“No, let’s keep moving.” As I said this, a dark shadow floated across the rock. I glanced up to spot a turkey buzzard, circling in for a closer view.
“How about we aim for that rock up there?” Andrew gestured up the hill, toward a grouping of boulders the size of cattle cars. They did not appear to have anything holding them onto the side of the mountain.
“There are a lot of rocks up there, which one are you talking about?” I leaned out past the boulder to get a better glimpse up the hill.
“The penis shaped one,” Andrew answered.
“That doesn’t look like a penis.”
No matter how much I squinted the rock did not seem the least bit phallic shaped. Maybe he meant a different rock, and I had a moment of panic, picturing Andrew wandering up and out of view while I trekked from one tall pointy rock to another.
“You can do it! Let’s get a little closer.” Andrew marched up toward the summit, and out of view around yet another large boulder.
I realized the mysterious noises heard at night were most likely not ghosts, or some reasonably explained natural phenomenon. They must be instead the cries of abandoned hikers, afraid to venture away from the rocks they anchored behind.
We worked our way to the top, with Andrew stopping now and then to wait for me to scrabble along behind. We made our way from one vaguely penile column of granite to the next. I resisted the urge to crawl, afraid even that might prove too frightening, and I would be forced to push myself up the slope on my belly like a snake.
When we reached the top of the hill, I found a patch of green moss growing in a weathered depression in the rock. This was not the Enchanted Rock, but it looked as though we might find fairies. Birds chirped and flitted about a stunted oak tree as though they were down at ground level. I hurried over to the tree, eager to take hold in case it was a heat induced mirage. If I clung to the tree, I hoped I could convince myself I wasn’t on top of a hill I would have to climb back down. I should plant a flag, if only the surface beneath me weren’t solid granite.
I posed on the summit of the Little Hill and loosened my hold on the scrubby tree. To a casual observer, including the boyfriend I wanted to impress, I would appear to be leaning my hand against the bark, and not clinging for dear life to the nearest object that didn’t move when I touched it.
Andrew positioned himself at the edge of a drop-off and gazed off toward the Main Dome next to us while he snapped pictures with his camera. The pink granite of the Enchanted Rock glowed in the late afternoon sun. If I squinted a little, I might make out a small, determined form on the top of that neighboring rock. I closed my eyes and I could see her clearly, her little snout raised up to smell the fresh wind off the moss, and her four feet planted firmly in triumph on that solid ground.
Antiques Shop Window Display in Downtown Wichita Falls, Texas
Street Photography Challenge
My husband and I love to travel on the weekends to visit the small towns near our home. Each place has a unique character that reminds me of the diversity within our state. Downtown Wichita Falls, Texas is experiencing a revival of sorts with small shops, breweries, and theaters opening in what were empty buildings. Our overall economy is thriving, but there are reminders everywhere of past financial booms and busts.
Empty Space in Downtown Wichita Falls, Texas— Former Home of Tru-Value
Nearby Denton, Texas is one of our favorite destinations. I snapped the photo below near dusk as we walked from one of our favorite eateries in downtown Denton.
Fenced off Construction Area in Denton, Texas
Classic Car Museum in Nocona, Texas
Three Heads are Better Than One in Waxahachie, Texas
Let's Get Out of Here 