West Texas - strikeout
June 26, 2013

From Mid-middling-land to where?  The decision to land feet-first in San Angelo was for two reasons: first, to find the burial site of my great, great grandfather, William S. Fergerson.  The second was because S.A. offered the nearest good-sounding RV park near his final resting spot.

The promise of the campground was more than realized.  Never having been here before, we were clueless about it; I doubt we could have found another location a short day’s drive from Mid-never-more-land that was more of a relief from that congestion.

The Spring Creek Marina & RV Park left the light on for us, in a figurative way.  The very last available waterfront hookup, and the very best, too, was our assignment.  In fact, the couple checking in just ahead of us requested site 44, but our reservation made it ours.

Lots of elbow room on all sides, no one at all on our lawn side to obscure our view of the the Concho River just outside, a portion of it that backed up as a finger of Lake Nasworthy.  There are three lakes here at the confluence of the North Concho and the South Concho, fed by various creeks.  Who knew there was this much water in west central Texas!

Now about the strikeout: after decades of searching for information about William Fergerson, he and his wife, Mary Helen (Polly) Gentry, remain elusive.  At last finding something about his burial, I was excited to visit there myself, but it was not to be.

We have a drawing of the small family cemetery, such as it is, and a description of its location.  It is surrounded by a low rock wall on private ranch land and contains three known graves, probably more, but is so overgrown that the folks who recorded it long ago could could see only three stones.  They named the ranch which was sold out of the Fergerson family and said the site was west of a particular road near a certain county line.

When ensconced in my home in Chino Valley, that sounded like plenty of information.  When idling down that dirt road through miles of mesquite/oak/prickly pear country with necks craned to glimpse it to the west of the road - not so much.

We verified with a friendly stranger by the name of Ferris that we were on the correct ranch on the correct road.  And we looked and looked and looked and looked.  Occasionally, we stopped so I could hike out various two-tracks in the insane hope that our search would be successful.  We inched along for miles peering, peering, peering at every thicket - and there are thousands - until we had kinks in our necks, then we turned around and went back the way we came, more to unkink our necks than thinking we would actually discover the burial site where we had already looked.

We came home and managed to reach the people who co-authored the book whence we had obtained the original information.  Turns out they had not actually been there, had used someone else’s information, but gave us the name of one of the ranch owners.  She no longer owned that section, but said a second cousin has it, and gave us that name and the ranch foreman’s name, neither of which we could reach.  Defeat is not an easy acceptance, so we will simply say we must defer this to another time - wah!

We know that William Fergerson was born in 1817 in Kentucky and served with the Texas Militia in the Lone Star Mounted Rifles, riding out of Fort McKavitt during the Civil War, sure wanted to find his burial.

Always something interesting . . .


There was nevertheless much of interest along the way, including a beautiful ruin of a two-story rock building.  I am presuming it might have been a stage stop or some such, seems more substantial than what would be expected for a residence for the time and place.

 

While I was off on one of my forays, Chris picked up an old fishhook that indicated there must have been some moby gigantus catfish in the nearby creek or at least that someone hoped so.










Impermanence . . .

Departing Mid-middling-land midmorning gave us time to be fairly leisurely about preparing and also to avoid the worst of morning traffic.  Six months of sitting in one place meant we had chores to get the Totee ready for his journey.  We had  packed, repacked, organized and reorganized to a fare-thee-well. but there were still last minute things like airing up the trailer tires and so on to get us on the road.  We missed a few of our regular checklist items that usually get done before we drive off and undone when we park, but nothing major.  We will quickly recover our on-the-road routine.

Texas reveres its history and regales travelers with snippets of it via highway markers.  We stop at every possible opportunity to read about what transpired near that place - what town sprang up, prospered and disappeared in a few short years, what pioneer accomplished what feats in that locale, what battles were fought and won or lost.  There were hundreds of settlements across this demanding land that were brief homes to people who were there for as many reasons as there were people, most nothing now more than a memory.

I am fascinated to realize how fleeting these villages that once supported businesses, churches, banks and all necessary for that particular time can disappear as a wisp as easily as they sprang up.  In many cases, there is only the written word to mark their passing, sometimes not even that.  In other cases, we can see the process as it happens. 


Examples abound.  One of the most recent that I’ve photographed is a town southwest of Midland: Barstow.  Not completely dead and probably reviving a bit with the Permian Basin boom, its streets lead off into nothingness with houses once vital, now collapsing for lack of humans to convey life.

On another jaunt, we ventured into what used to be the center of a town, now disappeared because the county seat relocated.  The once stately courthouse now stands alone on a barren plain.

San Angelo . . .

Although chosen for our first night out because of its proximity to the Fergerson graves (wherever they are), San Angelo was the perfect place for recuperation from Midland.

The only thing I knew about the town was that my grandpa Zack Kelley, a rancher in the Hill County of Texas, went there seasonally to pick cotton back in the 1920s and before.  As agricultural folk tend still to do, he pursued other avenues of income to facilitate his chosen way of life.

A more stark contrast to the area we just departed could hardly be imagined, especially so nearby.  The city is about the size of Midland before the recent population explosion - 100,000, but is economically thriving without the oil industry.  Pride of place shows throughout: numerous parks are manicured, streets are clean and neat; I even saw an employee at the grocery store sweeping along the front curb of the building.  For crying out Pete’s sake, the inside of the Midland stores don’t look that good!

 

Pretty nice for a bridge abutment. . .

There are wonderful murals, mosaics and public art throughout the city.  We hiked the river walk and a nature trail that traverses three different ecosystems.  We enjoyed the historic downtown and ate at Miss Hattie’s, a top quality restaurant in a former brothel. 

Every turn showed new places to hike, kayak, explore or enjoy wonderful gardens.

 

 

Custom painted sheep all over town herald S.A.'s previous claim to fame as the wool capital of the world.

Water lilies . . .

Canna lilies are a popular flower here; I had no idea there were so many varieties, but the real showpiece of San Angelo is the International Water Lilly Collection.  Set down in the midst of yet another park, the area is surrounded by well-tended terraced flower beds abundantly filled with many types of blooming plants.

A paved path leads down to the concrete ponds, home to a magnificent collection of water lilies literally gathered from around the world and carefully categorized and tended here, some even extinct now in their native lands.

The variety of exquisite colors, types and sizes was enough to leave me almost speechless, yet I could not cease exclaiming over each and every one.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Fort Concho . . .

San Angelo has grown up right around Fort Concho, reputed to be the best preserved frontier fort in the country.  Of course we toured every exhibit in every building and had a nice talk with the nice man dressed in a surely uncomfortable wool cavalry uniform.

I thought this was fascinating!

 

Concho pearls . . .

A trademark of the area is Concho pearls, so naturally we had to find out what we could about that; I had visions of them being a souvenirey type of thing that I could purchase.  Turns out I could purchase them alright, but not at souvenir prices.

 A very cordial and helpful lady in the jewelry store showed us many of the lustrous colorful items in stunning settings.  Concho pearls are from mussels in the local waterways, varying enormously in color and shape - lovely and unique gems.  She was amenable to visiting with us and answering all our questions about the locale - a pleasant chat.

Swims with swans and snakes . . .

After a hot busy day, a dip in the river seemed just the ticket.  Chris swam; I contented myself with drifting lazily on my floatie, enjoying the perfection of not a care in the world.  The beginning of our water play, however, was not without drama.  We were barely up to our necks when I spotted a snake swimming along the shoreline - not the most welcome sight, but Chris, ever the assurer, assured me it was the same type I had seen from dry ground the day before, a non-venomous variety.

I was unwilling to forego my watery relaxation, so accepted his declaration but maintained my distance anyway.  As we kept a wary eye on the slippery serpent, there suddenly ensued the most crazed carrying-on I’ve ever seen in snakedom!

Splashing and thrashing - snake bodies writhing and jumping all around as only a snake can - it went on for several minutes while we peered into the melee trying to determine what was going on.  When the ruckus finally settled down, we saw that there was not one, but two snakes present.

All was quiet except that one was casting back and forth a bit, so we continued to edge closer.  It looked as if one was dead or injured; at any rate, it was lying still on the water’s surface with its head leaning on a rock.  The other continued back and forth until we finally got near enough to frighten it into disappearing up into the rocks (the only thing worse than being in the water with a snake is not knowing where it is).  Being chicken myself, I urged Chris to touch it, a request he foolishly complied with.  It barely responded when he tugged at it, but showed a slight sign of life by slowly moving into the rocks.  What was it all about?  I have no idea, guess I never shall.


On a calmer note, we enjoyed seeing a pair of mute swans gliding peacefully along - they were new birds for this trip.

Traffic or the lack thereof, wildlife, moving on . . .

It’s amazing how strange it feels to drive around in normal traffic situations - no crazed jostling of big rigs and work trucks, no trying to stay out of the way of too many vehicles too rushed for safety, but thankful to be out of it.

Instead of 18-wheelers, we find ourselves surrounded by deer, deer and more deer.  I have been in places where the critters were plentiful, but I have never seen anything like this.  They are unafraid as they graze in the park, perhaps bolstered by the fact that they far outnumber us.  It is fun to watch them, especially the many babies.  Joining the deer and the ubiquitous grackles are lots of wild turkeys that seem to call the park home.

And speaking of babies, there is a mockingbird nest with hungry young just over ouw lawn and we spotted a trio just-fledged scissor-tailed flycatcher juveniles lined up wing to wing on a branch of the same tree, awaiting their busy mom’s return with delectables.  They were adorable!

We have added a few others to our bird list here besides the swans.  Inca dove, great egret, and juniper titmouse.  That last seemed out of place and out of range, but it was a good identification.  In fact, they nested here because we watched adults feeding babies.

Man oh man, it's even too hot for the buzzards!

Back to playing - hoorah . . .

It was fun watching a family sledding on the grass.