Hill Country, Nueces Canyon
March 30, 2013
The journey, ours & theirs . . .
No idea if Strunk & White would agree, but around here, the words “Hill Country” are capitalized. It is a region of significance: one presumes because it contains hills, a geologic factor sorely missing in some sections of the Lone Star state. Geologically, it is on the margins of the Edwards Plateau; specifically, we are bound for the Nueces Canyon region.
In our case, the Hill Country equates with a sense of going home, it being the birthplace, home and final resting place of many of our ancestors.
The company with which Chris is employed decreed the Easter weekend to be a four-day holiday. We could have remained in Mid-dreary-land for the duration, possibly finding a museum or park, or spent our time in the gritty toaster in which we reside, but hey, that would have been just plain odd, so we opted for the Hill Country. We had not been there for years after visiting every year for a spell and we have missed it; early Friday morning found us on the road again. One begins to wonder if we are gluttons for punishment with all this driving; however, remaining in Mid-boring-land when not necessary seems punishment enough.
Excited for a journey, we chose random back roads to achieve our goal, byways we had never traversed before. We often see the Rankin Highway where it cuts through Mid-busy-land, so we set off for the Rankin at the end of the road.
Rankin, Big Lake . . .
It turned out to be a burg of 778 residents, the Upton County seat, no doubt the distinction that allows it to survive, there being no other obvious economic support. The place sits at the edge of an escarpment allowing distant views below - very pretty, almost exhilarating after so long in Mid-tabletop-land.
I loved a sepia-toned mural and the old “Eat” place with a hefty Hereford standing stodigily atop the at-risk awning.
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| Someone forgot to turn the open sign around. |
We braked for roadside historical markers, per our habit, and discovered that Upton County was named for John C. and William F. Upton, both of whom fought in the Civil War at Manassas, not entirely sure why they received the distinction of having a county named for them. Perhaps the powers-that-be just ran out of locals to name counties for. After all, Texas has taken the concept of political divisions, a la counties, to an extreme degree, boasting fully 254 counties, thus boosting administration costs and taxes to a fare-thee-well.
We proceeded to Big Lake where surface water seems not to have been present for many a year: the reality is Big Lake Bed, but it’s probably too much trouble to reprint the town stationary and all.
Driving through drought-stricken climes causes greenery to be a point of notice. We encountered patches of such and stopped to see if they were grassy or otherwise lush. No idea why those particular places had greened up, but they were pretty nevertheless.
Texans to Arizona . . .
That desert area is home to numerous herds of sheep. What those grass eaters are surviving on is a question in my mind, but they were disinclined to illuminate me. Some herds had been sheared already, seemed pretty early for them to be shorn of their warm coats, but I am not knowing about these things.
It did remind me of Dad’s stories of his family’s move from the Hill Country of Texas to the Peeples Valley region of Arizona in 1930. Grandpa’s Angora goat ranch had fallen on hard, very hard, times. He had gone out to Arizona the previous winter to trap and check out the suitability of the area.
Evidently, he deemed the area good; however, they needed to pay their way to their new homeland. Dad said they couldn't even sell their livestock because no one had money to buy them; they just turned them loose.
Experienced shearers, they joined a traveling shearing crew that circuited a route to numerous sheep and goat outfits in Texas and New Mexico. Grandpa, Dad and Uncle Lewis worked with the shearers and Dad cooked for the crew - primarily mutton, pinto beans and biscuits. He never mentioned what Grandma’s part in this endeavor involved, that likely being of less importance in his mind than the gallons of cowboy coffee he “brewed”.
Cowboy coffee, Santa Rita . . .
Dad’s cowboy coffee was legendary: pour the coffee directly into the water, boil the heck out of it and then drop egg shells into it to settle the grounds (personally, I always thought the egg shell part of the equation was something a practical joker came up with). In his later years, he lost track of the correct proportions; if you were treated to a cup of Dad’s cowboy coffee then, you had to be a “man” to take it without a shudder. It was always necessary to remember to strain the grounds through your teeth.
Another roadside marker informed us that the Santa Rita #1 oil well was the first gusher in Texas - made me bust my buttons with pride. After all, I am quite the gusher, too, finding so much in life that elicits excitement.
Lodging . . .
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| Water level in the Nueces is perilously low due to the lengthy drought. |
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| I love the crystal clear turquoise waters of the Nueces. |
We skipped our traditional lodging place in Barksdale, believing that our old friend, Gerry, has retired from running the only motel in town, and opted for a cabin in Camp Wood, just across the Nueces River. It was built since last we were here last and is very nicely done. A big draw is Nueces River frontage and good birding area.
Bonus: the four baby Nubian goats residing in the pasture behind us. (Confession - I changed the previous sentence so I wouldn’t have to think about whether it should have been bonus “was” or “were” baby goats.) The rest of the herd is separated from them; they seem perfectly happy with their lot except at feeding time when they kick up quite a row, a trait universal with Nubians.
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| Rowdy makes himself at home. |
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| The military Camp Wood occupied the same site as this 1700s mission. |
Detours . . .
The best laid plans and all that - we began Saturday with my idea to explore the Kickapoo Cavern State Park and environs. After reading its website, I remained little informed, but willing nevertheless.
The hitch came when we decided we must go up Cedar Creek Canyon first, it containing the homesteads of two of my ancestral families. We have been there and done that; however, the siren song is strong and the canyon is one of the more beautiful places in Texas.
And on the way there, we detoured a bit toward my cousin Harley Wood’s ranch. He sold the place a few years ago after it had been in his family for 110 years. He was born and lived all his years there except for his military service. Sad for us, but we are grateful that we’ve been able to visit there several times and explore it with him. What great stories he has shared about the family!
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| The trip would not be complete without Texas longhorns. |
The Taylor cabin . . .
My great grandparents, George & Caroline Taylor, owned the the ranch adjoining Woods’, but we have never been allowed onto it despite decades of asking, pleading and cajoling by us and by locals on our behalf. At any rate, Harley has taken us to an area on his spread from which we could see the location of the old Taylor home even though the house was hidden in the trees. I have fantasies about what is going on there that makes the owners so secretive.
This time, we detoured toward the Wood Ranch only to photograph a primitive log cabin. It was built by our George Taylor and was their temporary home when they arrived in the Nueces Canyon, then was a schoolhouse until a more substantial one could be constructed further up Pulliam Creek.
Chris the pathfinder thinks he can find the track that will take us to our other ancestral homes on Cedar Creek. Rita the passenger/gawker-arounder/appreciator of all things historical & natural is sure she can’t. Since our last trip here nine years ago (where did that time go???), we see not a lot of change. There is still the tree tunnel over the road. The countryside is wild and brushy: thick with large oaks and vines and an understory of vegetation that renders it nearly impassable.
Hill Country hunting . . .
We saw a game fence that has been put up since last we traversed the canyon. Hereabouts, it is typical for ranchers to sell hunting leases for their land. Usually, the same group of hunters return each year. Hunting on these ranches is a very different proposition than what I am accustomed to in Arizona.
To say that deer are plentiful in the Hill Country is akin to saying there are many grains of sand on the beach. In two days time, we estimate we saw upwards of 250 of the critters. They are so numerous that nighttime driving is treacherous, to be avoided at all costs. Even more so during these droughty times, the animals tend to come out on the roadsides at night to graze on the lusher grass. Deer that have been hit by vehicles are seen all along the roads, easily spotted by the huge flocks of vultures that breakfast on them. It is no wonder that many locals have installed deer guards to protect their vehicles when - not if - they hit a deer.
The vultures are sometimes joined at table by the more exotic caracara. We snapped a quick pic of a juvenile. Wild turkeys, too, are everywhere you look; we probably saw more than 100 of them.
Hmmm. . . . I was writing about the hunting customs here, so back to that. The rancher sometimes provides bunkhouses and/or travel trailers for the hunters or they arrive in their own RVs. Because the deer are fed at certain places during the year, they return to those spots where the “hunters” are ensconced in a nearby blind and can blast away. Last I knew, the take was two bucks and one doe per person.
Even at that high limit, it is plain that not a dent is being made in the population. So . . . the fences. There is competition to attract hunters (ranching is not the most lucrative occupation), and the more exotic game that is provided, the more attractive the lease.
Obviously, one does not want one’s expensive exotic game to wander onto the neighbor’s acreage, so high sturdy fences must be erected to prevent escapes.
One picture we took of an animal that startled the heck out of us was clearly an escapee, not being confined within a game fence. He seemed quite at home with his more hum-drum fellows and various others that had dodged their confinement. There were numerous others of obvious foreign parentage, and then there are the Russian boars; we spotted five of them: small black porcine creatures that have also been imported. Another wild boar here grows to alarming gargantuan size and is often very aggressive.
At any rate, this method of hunting leaves plenty of time for partying around the bonfire.
Homesteads . . .
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| A Camp Wood abode where my grandparents, Zack & Pearl Kelley, lived. |
As we wound our way up the canyon, fording the Pulliam and Cedar Creek numerous times, we reminisced and relived previous trips with cousin Luther Winans and Dad. Our first visit here was to bring Dad - Ira Kelley - back for his first time since 1940. He stayed with cousins Jeff & Maurine McFatter, arrangements we made in advance, and we housed at the Nueces River Motel.
Lifetime canyon resident Arthur Beck held the grazing lease on the old Kelley and Winans ranches and took us along to see the homesteads. Admittedly, the trips have somewhat combined in my head, but at any rate, we have (twice?) visited the now-abandoned houses that were once home to Frank & Julia (Winans) Kelley and her parents Frank & Martha Ellen (Mattie) (Owen) Winans.
Frank & Julia’s is a sawn wood house of a livable size. Directly behind it was the tiny log cabin of Frank’s father, James McGinneasy Kelley. Dad remembered seeing his great granddad James standing in the doorway of his abode. It has a rare puncheon floor - logs flattened only on the top side - and contained a bed, small stove and table with little space otherwise.
Frank & Mattie’s home was a log cabin, exceedingly small considering they begat 11 children.
An interesting aside from that very first trip: We drove straight through from Chino Valley, 22 hours, and arrived before dawn. Most of us were asleep and of course everything in the very small town of Rock Springs was closed. We continued through town and found a wide spot to pull over to snooze, Eventually, the cold began to rouse us as dawn approached. The lightening sky revealed that we had unknowingly parked with a historical marker directly in front of our windshield and on the marker was my great great grandfather’s name - Francis Winans! It was the loveliest of welcomes for the genesis of our ancestral search in Texas.
Cedar poles, livestock . . .
It is interesting to note the difference in the traditional fencing here and the newer game fences. This region is known for its sheep, Angora goats, what Dad called Mexican goats but what I see as mixed breed meat goats, hunting of course, and cedar poles, which has been an industry of long standing. Actually they are junipers according to the fella next to me in the driver’s seat; they have always been cedars to me, evidently a genetic proclivity to go with the local vernacular.
Corrals are made from closely spaced upright cedar poles which have long been a valuable export, quick to replenish.
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| This goat is sporting his own Angora sweater. |
Canyon stories . . .
This was always a rough country and remains so to this day, with many a tragic story to illustrate that. One cabin we passed and photographed was the scene of an elopement and murder as told to us by Arthur Beck.
The family name has vacated my brain (I think it was Cromeans or Pope, but I am so enmeshed in things Canyon, I may be imagining). A young couple was running away to be married against the wishes of the girl’s father and he was after them. They made their way to this cabin where their kinswoman barred the way at the front door. She declared to the enraged father that he would have to kill her to get to the kids. He shot her through the heart, but her obstruction had given the young ones time to escape out the back and they fled.
An earlier family tragedy occurred at Arthur’s own house at Half Moon Prairie before his time. The cabin was built and occupied by the Coalson family. Indian depredations were still occurring in 1879. These places are still very secluded but much more so at that time. As Arthur told it, a Coalson son was killed by Indians while he was bringing in the milk cow. When his mother went to look for him, she was killed, as well as a daughter.
After that tragedy, the father took the remaining children and removed to more civilized environs. Descendants have since returned and placed a memorial plaque at Half Moon Prairie.
Dan & Julia (Pullen) Taylor, brother to my George Taylor, occupied the house afterwards with no misadventures that I’ve heard of.
Arthur and his sweet wife Bessie were then next to raise their family there; they have since passed on, so we no longer have access to that place. The cabin was a a comfortable little home with floorboards worn to smooth grooves by generations of feet.
Because I must see what is over the next rise, we traveled nearly to the top of the canyon before turning around to head for Kickapoo. Along the way, Chris found the road leading off to the Kelley and Winans ranches; unfortunately, like nearly everything in Texas, the gate was locked. We would have hiked in, but “No trespassing” signs deterred that plan of action. I would so love to go in there one last time to take more pictures.
Kickapoo . . .
Finally late in the day, we turned towards the planned loop drive to the Kickapoo area. Ranger station closed - informational kiosk no more illuminating than their website and no park maps to be seen, we set off through the area until the end of the road. Our day began in a rainy way but this site was at a lower elevation; after hiking in late-day heat, we were convinced it would be a likely place for short camping and hiking stays only in spring and autumn.
The major draw would seem to be the cave, but inexplicably, it is closed and we read that jaunts to watch the bats issue forth and return are by reservation only. A reservation to watch bats?! Sounds batty to me.
We kept a bird list for this weekend and find that it contains nearly nothing of the avian life we encounter in Mid-grackle-land. We identified phainopepla, turkey vulture, northern harrier, kestrel, wild turkey, black vulture, cardinal, vermilion flycatcher, double-crested cormorant, white-wing dove (of course), purple martin, lark sparrow, black-throated sparrow, blue-gray gnatcatcher, crested caracara and scissor-tailed flycatcher (my favorite!).
Kin & more . . .
Limited Hill Country time this trip: our only two visits were with cousin Harley and his wife, Maggie, and dear friend Helen Fred. We were off to Uvalde to see Harley at his home there. We had only ever visited him at the ranch outside Barksdale. He is absolutely the dearest man; I feel so privileged to have gotten to know him.
His memory is incredible and every time we see him, he adds to the family folklore for us. Living so near to our mutual great grandmother, Caroline Taylor, he remembers her well. She was widowed at an early age - we were told by cousin John Mitchell that George was shot in the leg during a confrontation with an outlaw on the ranch and died from subsequent blood poisoning.
Harley tells us that Caroline’s habit was to walk the two-plus miles up to his parents’ ranch every Sunday morning. Harley’s grandmother, Lebbie, was Caroline’s daughter and my grandmother Pearl’s sister.
After a sad leave-taking, we decided on a different route back to Camp Wood. Forty miles down the road at Leaky, I wanted to photograph a very cool mural. Horrors! That’s when I remembered that my camera was carefully tucked on a side table at Harley’s, so an extra 80-mile round trip was in the cards.
Before turning back the way we came, I wanted to eat the sandwiches we brought while sitting down by the river but Chris had a yen for a restaurant fix. I felt so guilty about the camera that I acquiesced and am I ever glad I did. Our Easter dinner was a barbecue brisket sandwich at The Hog Pen, an open-air place that caters to bikers; it was easily the best barbecue I have ever eaten, bar none.
On thise visit, we had promised Harley and Maggie we would be back, but they were somewhat startled that we returned quite that soon.
Craigs . . .
As seems fair, we were able to share a story with Harley. My sister-in-law was killed in a car accident at a very young age long ago, leaving my niece with little knowledge about her forebears on that side. Her interest spurred me into action; I enthusiastically began the research, first in southern Arizona whence her mother came.
One thing led to another, as things tend to do, until I had followed the line right back to Barksdale, Texas. I can’t imagine the odds against two teenagers in Phoenix having both their great grandparents be not only residents of the same minuscule burg in Texas, but that they knew each other and the two families were intermarried.
Harley was a bit startled, actually. Upon telling him that family name, he immediately began recounting all the Craigs he knew. I even discovered one of the Craigs who married one of the Woods at Harley’s ranch, albeit before his time.
Helen . . .
Seeing Helen again after so long was wonderful, too; we missed her 90th birthday bash in September. I feel blessed to have so many friends one step further along on the age scale who model so well how to do it.
Helen had a story to tell, as well. She and her husband had adopted two brothers. I don’t know the adoption circumstances, but I do know that she was an accomplished genealogist (she was the one who set up a first meet between us and our Whittle cousins in Rock Springs). Sadly, both of her boys have passed, but she had been on a many-decades long search for their birth family and was successful just nine months after the second son’s death.
While it seems unfortunate that neither boy could know the outcome, the six younger siblings she located are thrilled to have discovered what happened to the two older brothers they knew nothing about except that they existed. Now the siblings have “adopted” Helen and were able to see all her pictures of their brothers and feel completion for their family.
Barksdale resting places . . .
First order of business upon arrival was to attend to the family graves in Barksdale and this time, we included the Craigs. Years past have required extensive work with yard tools to get the areas cleared; the drought has precluded that need - all is sere. In our absence, we are grateful that cousin Art is attentive to the graves.
As is our custom, we put flowers on the ancestors’ graves. In Barksdale, this includes Frank & Mattie Winans, George & Caroline (Fergerson) Taylor, James & Eliza (Means) Kelley, Frank Kelley and Robert & Rebekah (Cornett) Craig.
James & Eliza are within one of the few iron fences in the cemetery; most of the others were removed with families’ permission to be used in the war effort during World War II. There were no Kelleys remaining in the Canyon, so it was left.
We also honored departed cousins and friends Luther & Francis Winans and Jeff & Maurine McFatter; Maurine is Harley’s sister.
So ends our weekend in the Nueces Canyon: busy and non-restful, but refreshing nevertheless. Back in Mid-flat-land, I will recall the still peace of a Hill Country sunset.
Other birds added to the trip list (note I am still calling it a trip, not a home): western kingbird (they raucously chatter all over the campground even after dark, being party birds evidently), ash-throated flycatcher, Bullock’s oriole, brown-headed cowbird and Eurasion collared dove. I had thought collared doves were everywhere but we only recently spotted one here. My guess is that it was a lone scout come to determine if the region could support any additional obnoxious species than grackles and white-winged doves.
Upon our return to Mid-campground-land, I was mystified by a mysterious white substance applied along the perimeter fences. When I was informed it is a rattlesnake repellent, I remembered the stories about the Rattlesnake Bomber Base near here and determined that I will no longer tramp through the thick grassy and brushy off-trail areas of the preserve, a resolve that I almost immediately reversed when there was something I just had to get a closer look at.
At least I did find out that many rattlesnake bites that are fatal are because of an allergic reaction that shuts down a person’s breathing apparatus. This means that quickly taking a large dose of antihistamine after a bite can help to alleviate that complication. Evidently, this is something known by every adult in the civilized world except me; now I have antihistamines stashed in my backpack.
Along with reptiles, flowers have sprung forth and are lush in places, a welcome addition to the usual brown now overlaid with green.
