Fall Color-Vacation Day 3

For two days we had been looking forward to the fall color at the Lost Maples. We anticipated this being a restful day in which we could enjoy a refreshing ride through the natural beauty of the park. We would be completely immersed in the quiet sounds of nature. Our skillful snapping of pictures would ensure we had lasting souvenirs for our trip.

We arose at 5 am which is not a good time of day for me. I often rise early but Marty has learned the danger of attempting conversation with me in the early morning. After once or twice receiving a response worthy of a mother bear asked to part with one of her cubs, he learned to limit himself to a very short greeting first thing in the morning. He now knows a groggy stare and a limp wave is the best response he can expect.

So, even though I don’t enjoy rising at 5 am, I knew the park visit would be worth it. We showered and had our free breakfast at the hotel. Marty said that rain was predicted for the day. I was unconcerned. We once again headed down the straighter but longer highway 39 toward the park. It was dark when we left. As the sun slowly rose, we were able to see many deer in the fields next to the highway. We continued on with a few sprinkles on the windshield. We arrived at the park just minutes before the 8 am opening time.

We were very pleased to see that there were only 6 people in line. We quickly purchased our tickets and we hoped this was a good beginning to a good day. The park ranger in the office gave us a receipt to tape to the inside of the windshield. We got in the car. The previous day, we had to stop at the gate. Now we waved to the ranger at the gate and drove on through. We had been told there was a restroom just one mile into the park, so we headed there for our first stop.

After using the restroom we both wandered around the rest area taking pictures. It was a little difficult. The combination of the early morning light and the cloud cover meant that any pictures required a slow exposure on the camera. I have read of several techniques for holding your camera still without a tripod: brace the camera against your body or hold your breath. I was no good at either of these. I snapped a few pictures. They looked ok on my 1” x 1 ¼” camera monitor, so I decided not to worry. We returned to the car.

I noticed that the end of the parking lot did not appear to have an exit. I also saw people getting out of their cars and walking toward the trees. “Where do we drive the car?” I asked Marty. “I think we may have to walk,” he said. We consulted the map that we had received at the ranger station. “Maple Trail 0.8 miles, East Trail 4.6 miles, West Trail 4.9 miles,” I read. “What’s this area marked ‘steep’? I don’t think I’m up to walking very far with my bad back and I think it’s going to rain. We don’t want to get out too far.” Marty said. “Oh, come on!” I chided him. “Don’t wimp out on me. You can handle a short little walk in the woods.”

We decided to start out on the shorter Maple Trail. Marty’s camera does not have a lens cap, so because of the rain, he decided not to bring it. I thought about carrying his tripod for my camera, but it was really heavy, so I decided that I could do without it. As we started on the trail, it began to rain. We had left the umbrella in the car. Marty pulled his jean jacket over his head and I pulled my leather jacket over mine. We carefully walked on the large rocks that were slippery with wet, loose leaves.

The ranger told us that a few days ago; the leaves had reached their peak of color. Many of the leaves had fallen. They made a beautiful orange-red carpet on the ground. Occasionally there was a tree full of yellow leaves that made a nice contrast with the red maples. The maple trail climbed along the edge of a hill with stone steps leading up and over the hilly ground. The trail had been constructed with a wooden railing alongside the stone path. At intervals, there was a stone or wooden bench to rest on. Every direction we looked was like a perfect scene. As the rain slowly drizzled down, we were completely alone in the woods.

I snapped pictures all along the maple trail. The shutter speed was slow and I knew that the pictures might be blurry, but I would have beautiful blurs of color, if nothing else. We reached the end of the maple trail and it merged back into the east trail.

“Do you want to continue?” I asked Marty. “I’m not sure about that steep part of the trail. What do you think that means?” he said. “I’m sure it only lasts a short distance. We can handle 10 or 15 feet of difficult walking,” I replied. So, we continued on. Several people had joined our path from the east trail and we were no longer alone. The rain had stopped and Marty and I walked along together in the silence for about 20 minutes.

“How much further do we have to go?” I asked. Marty consulted the map. “I think we have a long way to go. We haven’t even reached the composting toilet yet.” We didn’t know what a composting toilet was, but it was one of the few landmarks on the map, so we were looking forward to reaching it. We continued walking. The path was mostly level, but it was rocky so we couldn’t walk very fast. Despite the fact that two younger couples passed us, I am sure it was the rocks that slowed us down. We were getting hungry, so we each ate the snack crackers we had put in our pockets earlier. Finally we reached the latrine, about ¼ of the way down the east trail. I decided to take advantage of the composting toilet, although after using it I still didn’t know what made it different from any other outhouse. We hurried on from there because we heard the voices of many school children behind us and they seemed to be getting closer.

After another 10 minutes walk, the path began a steady incline. A sign next to the path read Steep Trail next 1.5 miles. “Look,” said Marty, “here is where the steep part begins.” I said, “1.5 miles, it can’t be that far.” We started up the hill. The path was laid out like a stairway. Up ahead of me I saw about 25 steps. “I can do this I thought.” I didn’t want to embarrass Marty by speeding by him, so I let him get ahead. The steps turned out to be harder than I expected and halfway up, I was getting out of breath. It was then that I thought about the blood pressure medicine I had been taking for 3 years. The symptom that drove me to consult the doctor was getting breathless after one flight of stairs. Well at least I was almost to the top.

I was surprised when I reached the top. Instead of leveling out, the path turned and began an even steeper incline. The path was no longer laid out like stairs. It was more like those pictures of mountain goats in their natural habitat. Those pictures of steep mountainsides that always made me wonder, “How could any creature live there?”

Marty continued to stay ahead of me. It was not a matter of letting him be first, my breathing was so heavy I had to go slowly. How come this guy who has to walk carefully across the carpet lest he throw out his back, was leaving me in the dust on the rocky hillside? At least the sight of his back gave me a goal to shoot for. I kept thinking, “Just a little further. Just a little further.” Each time he turned a corner out of sight I would call out “Do you see the top?” “No, not yet,” was the continual reply. As I was huffing and puffing with every step, I heard a young couple coming up the path. They were laughing and talking and passed me quite easily. “Nice to be young,” I thought. Then an older Asian couple approached. I had to step aside as they rapidly ascended the hill.

“I see a bench,” Marty called from above. “See if you can make it.” I was breathing hard and my heart was pounding. I feared a stroke if I continued to push myself, but I did anyway. Finally I reached the bench. I sat down and took short, quick breaths. I rested there for about five minutes as two more couples passed us by. Then I saw a rotund young man coming up the hill. He looked a little out of breath. “Would you like to sit down?” Marty offered. The young man looked a little doubtful, then replied, “I guess I better.” We all sat there for a minute, then I said, “Let’s go.” I wanted to be faster than somebody.

We saw another young man coming down the hill. “How much further?” we said. “Not long” he said and he was right. We didn’t reach a summit where we could see below, but the terrain gradually flattened out. We walked on for a while and encountered several more people going in the opposite direction. As they passed us, it started to rain.

We pulled our jackets over our heads as it started to rain harder. We saw a large display with a map of the trail. “Looks like we are about halfway,” Marty said. “Halfway!” I moaned. I was wet and cold and my legs hurt. I had pulled a muscle in my right thigh on the trip up the mountain. Every time I took a step with my right leg, a pain shot through my hip. I had also twisted my left foot a little. When we stepped down to pause at a scenic overlook, I felt a pain in my left ankle. I took a picture of the view looking down the hill. The Guadalupe River was at the bottom and on the trail next to it, was another composting toilet.

We reached the descending part of the trail. Every step down caused a pain in my left ankle. It was not as steep as the trail up, but it was rockier. We had to concentrate on keeping our balance to prevent tumbling down the hill with the rocks. The descent down the hill was shorter and less dramatic. At least this time we had gravity on our side.

We got to the bottom of the hill and the other composting toilet. I didn’t need to go, but it was my landmark and I was glad I finally reached it. We paused to catch our breath and admire the view of the red leaved trees reflected in the river. After a few minutes I asked Marty, “Are you ready to go to the parking lot?” He started laughing. “What’s so funny,” I said. He showed me the map. We had another 1 ½ miles to walk.

We started back on the trail. The rain had stopped and there seemed to be people everywhere. Through my weary eyes, they all appeared to be more physically fit than me. We walked on until we came to the entrance of the west trail. I just looked at Marty and we kept walking.

We came to the parking lot, the overflow lot. It had about 20 cars in it. It was not the parking lot where our car was parked. We kept walking. We got to our parking lot. Our car was parked at the other end about ¼ mile away. We walked on. Finally we reached the car, opened the doors and collapsed inside.

This day had not been like we expected. The solitude of the park had turned out to be a crowded tourist attraction. The photo opportunity had turned out to be much less than perfect. The relaxing driving tour had turned out to be an exhausting climbing tour. Every time I stepped on either foot, I winced with pain. But, the maples were beautiful. The water in the river was crystal clear and there was no trash to be seen anywhere. Was all this rain and pain, frustration and exhaustion worth it? Absolutely.

Are We There Yet?-Vacation Day 2 (cont)

Beautiful fall color is what we were looking for. I had always dreamed of a vacation in New England in the fall. That trip was out of both our distance range and our price range. How exciting to discover that fall color was available here in Texas at the Lost Maples State Natural Area. The only question was whether Texas, known for its treeless flatlands and dusty landscapes, could live up to the hope of autumn beauty.

It was going to be a wonderful vacation. Our free hotel was only 35 miles from the Lost Maples. So even though the park campsites were full, we would be in a comfortable hotel just a half hour away. The isolation of the wilderness area would be a welcome change from our crowded city lives. My life had been so stressful lately that I was looking forward to a restful drive through the brilliant red maple trees. Marty and I both are avid, though inexperienced, photographers and this would be a perfect photo opportunity.

We arrived at our Kerrville hotel Sunday afternoon. We had just been refreshed with a delicious meal at Po Po Family Restaurant. (Marty, the picky eater, said it was the best turkey dinner he ever had.) We decided to take a preview drive to the Lost Maples park.

We headed south out of Kerrville on highway 16. Even though Kerrville was not a big town, there seemed to be a lot of smaller communities on the outskirts. It took 30 minutes to reach the next turnoff. Highway 337 was two lane and very slow going. It was mostly cut out of the side of a hill. It didn’t help our confidence that the road was liberally sprinkled with signs proclaiming “Falling Rock.” By the time we reached the park, an hour and a half had elapsed. Those 35 miles from hotel to park could only be as the crow, or perhaps the helicopter, flies.

We finally made it. Now all we had to do was decide if it was worth the $6 a piece admission fee to go in the park for just an hour of daylight. It would be helpful to drive around inside the park and scout out any good picture taking locations. We took the turnoff for the park and immediately encountered a problem.

The Ranger’s station was in the middle of a 1/10 mile drive that contained a loop around and a small parking lot. There were dozens of cars competing for about 10 parking spaces. Before we could park, we noticed a line of people extending 50 feet from the Ranger’s office. Many cars had parked along the roadway and we were able to get in one of the few available parking spaces near the office. We got out of the car and went to the end of the line. After standing in line for 10 minutes, we had only moved a few feet. We checked the sign for the park hours. It was getting near the 5 pm closing time. We decided to return the next morning when it opened at 8 am.

We decided to return to our hotel by another route. Highway 187 was a hilly, but straight road and we were able to travel at 60 mph. Then we turned on to highway 39 which wound along beside the Guadalupe River. There were many resorts dotted along the route. They were obviously built to take advantage of the beautiful views of the river and the trees. However, the crooked road and the one lane bridges slowed us down quite a bit. It was an hour and 10 minutes after we left the park before we returned to the hotel. The second route was faster than the first, barely.

After arriving at our hotel, we modestly dined on homemade turkey sandwiches, canned soda from the cooler and chips purchased from the local grocery store. We went to bed early and dreamed of a beautiful, relaxing day driving past groves of trees covered in red and yellow leaves, stopping occasionally to leave the car to take a breathtaking photograph.

What's for Lunch? - Vacation Day 2

Day 2 of vacation was Sunday. We visited a local church and then we hit the road. The vacation plan was to spend one night (Saturday) in San Antonio then spend the next two nights near the Lost Maples. The nearest hotel that we could find was Kerrville. So Sunday’s goal was to drive from San Antonio to Kerrville.

Our hotel in San Antonio was on the west side of town. It was a simple path, straight up Interstate 10 to our destination. We needed to get lunch on the way. There were plenty of eating establishments along I-10 on the way out of San Antonio. Finding a suitable restaurant would be simple, I hoped.

Maybe I had better explain about Marty and food. Before Marty will consider eating any food, it has to meet certain criteria. It has to be of the right age, ancestry, culture and species. Any food that is older than 24 hours is not fit for his consumption. Leftovers are definitely out. The proper ancestry means that if he ever had a bad meal somewhere, he can never trust them again. (There were a few times I feared that he would never eat my cooking again.) Culture means that any kind of Mexican food is acceptable. Species means that any type of seafood is not.

We started down I-10. We quickly passed by several choices of fast food. Hamburgers, chicken nuggets or sub sandwiches just didn’t sound good. Marty was craving his favorite meal of turkey and dressing. I like turkey fine, once or twice a year, but Marty loves it. I think if I cooked him a turkey with dressing every week he would be blissful, as long as I didn’t serve it again the next day. (Do you know where I can buy a two serving turkey?) However, if I cooked a turkey on Sunday, prepared turkey sandwiches on Monday, baked turkey pot pie on Tuesday and prepared turkey stew on Wednesday, he would be perfectly content. Does this make any sense to you?

I, however, am a little more adventuresome when it comes to food. I like to try something different now and then, especially on vacation. Why should I spend hours in the car, traveling hundreds of miles, to eat the same burrito that I could have eaten six blocks from my house? Vacations are meant for a change of pace. A vacation is a chance to try something you can’t get at home.

So, we are cruising down I-10 at 60 mph. I suggest that we eat barbecue. No. Marty is not in the mood for that. He doesn’t have to have turkey, but barbecue just doesn’t sound right. I spot a Chinese restaurant. No. His stomach can’t handle Chinese today. We continue along in silence. Twenty minutes pass and the restaurants are becoming sparse.

Marty sees a good prospect. “Cracker Barrel! They have turkey and dressing,” he sings gleefully. That sounds very conventional to me, but I am starting to get a low blood sugar headache. “OK, Honey. We can eat at Cracker Barrel. How are you going to get there?” He had noticed the restaurant after we passed the exit. “I’ll take the next exit and we’ll circle back.” We are now traveling away from Cracker Barrel at 60 mph.

We long ago passed the city limits. The exits are widely spaced now. We go a mile down the road. No exit. We continue for two miles, three miles. Finally after about four miles we spot an exit. He starts to take it. “No,” I say. “It’s too far. We shouldn’t go back. We need to keep going forward.” He keeps driving. He’s disappointed about missing his turkey lunch and I have a headache. We need to find something soon.

I notice a billboard. “Po Po Family Restaurant 20 miles. That sounds good.” “I don’t want to eat at a Poo Poo restaurant,” he replies. I am silent. Maybe something better will turn up. We keep driving. My headache is getting worse.

Twenty minutes later we have passed no restaurants. It’s about 50 miles to Kerrville and there are no prospects for lunch in between. I see another sign. “Po Po Family Restaurant next exit. Take it, Marty.” He groans. “Do you know what kind of sanitation they have in places like that? They are probably afraid for the health department to visit because they will be shut down.” “Take the exit,” the woman with a headache says in a menacing growl. He takes the exit.

The city limit sign reads Welfare, Texas. “Great,” he says. “We are in the poor part of town. This is going to be some cheap, sleazy restaurant.” He follows the signs down the road and we eventually pull up to a restaurant with dozens of cars crowded outside. I try to offer encouragement. “The place seems to be popular.” We get out of the car.

As we walk up we see EATS in neon over the door. “Classy,” he mutters. We step inside and see that the walls are covered with souvenir plates. Directly above the hostess stand we notice an interesting combination of plates: Elvis, Marilyn Monroe and Pope John Paul II. The hostess takes us to a table.
What will we eat? It is a difficult question since Marty and I always share a meal. How can we take care of my headache and please his picky stomach? The waitress makes a suggestion. “You might want to try our special of the day. It was made fresh this morning. Do you like turkey and dressing?”

I Can't Go - Vacation Day 1

I can’t take a vacation now. First of all, Marty and I don’t have the funds. We are on a tight budget this year. Secondly, I hate to burn up more vacation time. I’ve taken more vacation days this year than I did by this same time last year. Thirdly, I’ve been feeling very irritable lately. I hate to subject Marty to four days of being locked in a car with me.

So, why am I on vacation? We found a way to do it cheaply. Marty has lots of hotel points, so we get to stay for free. We are visiting the Lost Maples in Texas, so we aren’t spending much money on travel. We have set ourselves a food budget of $25 per day. The hotel provides free breakfast. We brought groceries for a picnic at one meal per day. That leaves $25 for the entrée that we share at lunch. That takes care of the first excuse.

I have used 10 vacation days this year. That may be more than last year, but I still have 18 days of vacation left. I could save it for later, but I have been under a lot of stress lately. I need to get away. Excuse #2 is gone. Marty says he wants to go on vacation with me. If he is willing to take his chances with a fussy wife, who am I to stop him? Marty overrules excuse #3.

So, on Saturday we drove from Arlington to San Antonio. Our first desire on our vacation was to enjoy some delicious kolaches in West, Texas. I consulted the GPS on my phone to see how far it was to West. The GPS could not understand my request. “Please fill in all required fields.” It seemed to be asking, “West what?” I decided to try entering the name of the restaurant. I knew phonetically the name was the Check Stop. How do you spell that? Is it C-h-Z-ech? C-z-H-ech? Neither of those seemed to work. The GPS is no good at guessing what I mean. Then I remembered I could use the web connection on my phone and do a Google search. I found it. The restaurant was the Czech Stop and it was 44 miles away. When we arrived, I chose a sausage and cheese kolache and a strawberry cream cheese kolache. Marty paid for it all out of his spending money.

The drive to San Antonio took about 5 ½ hours. Marty drove. He has a herniated disc in his back and it often causes a nerve in his knee to react. Several times while driving, he winced as it sent a shock through his leg. He also had pain in his shoulders from gripping the steering wheel. Once or twice I was startled by a loud noise. “What was that?” I asked Marty. “You were snoring,” he said.

Driving to our hotel in San Antonio I noticed the Magic Time Machine. It’s a restaurant where all of the wait staff dress up in costume and pretend to take on the character they are dressed as. I remember having a great meal there almost 30 years ago. I told Marty that I really wanted to go. We decided to check into our hotel and come back.

We returned to the Magic Time Machine about 3 pm. The restaurant was almost deserted. Pocahontas, in an outfit that was too short and too tight to be authentic, showed us to our table. There we were greeted by Robin Hood in a pair of green tights.

Marty shared the filet mignon that I begged for and even agreed to bread pudding for dessert. (He hates it.) He was very good natured as the waiter returned frequently and made bad jokes in an effort to flirt with me. (I’m sure that flirting with middle aged women is part of Robin Hood’s job description.) Marty only flinched a little when the bill was $15 over our entire daily food budget.

Taking a vacation was a good idea. Excuse #3 turned out not to be a problem and Marty gets an A+ in grouchy wife handling.

My Furry Family

Have I mentioned that I have four dogs? I had three. Then I acquired a step-dog through marriage. They range in age from seven to eleven years. Their temperaments vary from gullible to hyperactive. Their colors are black, white, gray and brown.

Rusty is the brown dog. He is the oldest and the biggest. He is the gullible one. My husband, Marty, says that Rusty has only two brain cells. This makes it difficult for Rusty to do two things at once, like figure out that he’s in the rain AND come in out of it. When I first got him, I bought him toys. He did not understand the concept. I could stand in the yard all day and throw a tennis ball and he would just sit there and look at me.

I think the chances of having a good nature are inversely proportional to intelligence. That makes Rusty with his two brain cells, one of the sweetest creatures on the planet. (Hmm I'm fairly intelligent. Does that make me a ... Never mind!) All Rusty wants to do is to be close to the people that he loves. That would be wonderful except for the way that he expresses his love: with a slobbery, wet tongue. Eeeeewwww! Few people can tolerate being licked by this dog. It’s like being slimed by and alien. You feel like your whole body is contaminated and you need to immediately take a shower.

Dashell is the gray dog. His ambition is to be the big dog. He knows that a softy like Rusty cannot last as king forever and he is always bucking for promotion. He’s like one of those nauseating yes-men that you see in the movies. He constantly hangs around me hyperactively flitting back and forth. “Are you going to the kitchen? I’ll come and protect you,” he seems to say. “Do you need a dog to pet? Here I am.” I can be in the office on the computer with Dashell sound asleep on the floor. If I turn in my chair to get up, he leaps to all fours, instantly awake. “Where are you going? Do you need a dog to go with you?”

Dashell’s most distinctive characteristic is that he is jealous. If I want Dashell to come quickly I can start talking to one of the other dogs. “Good boy, Rusty,” I say. Like a flash, Dashell is there, trying to wedge his very long Italian Greyhound nose between me and Rusty. If I am laying in bed and I reach out my hand to pet Rusty, I can be assured that the touch of Rusty’s head under my hand will quickly be followed by the feel of Dashell’s back on my arm as he pushes between me and Rusty.

Maxine is the white dog. She is part Husky. She has a very thick, soft fur coat. Maybe that’s why the boys love her. When they try to romance her, she is merely annoyed. She looks like Greta Garbo laying around in her fur saying, “I vant to be alone.”

If Rusty is the king, Maxine is his queen. She is the only toy that Rusty understands. He doesn’t know how to catch a ball, fetch a stick or even tug on a rope, but he loves to play with Maxine. They will side bump each other and start mock growling. Rusty will get down on his two front paws in the “Let’s play” position. They rush at each other and playfully chew on each other. When they are done they each have a wet, sticky head.


Pancho is the black dog. In this pack, he is the one who marches to a different drummer. Pancho came into the family with Marty. He has adjusted fairly well for someone who comes from a one dog family. (I’m talking about Pancho, not Marty.) All of the other dogs tend to do things alike. When I come home, they all go outside. Pancho stays on his blanket. When I roll over in the morning, they all wake up. Pancho stays under the covers.

Pancho takes after me. (I know he can’t really. He’s only my step-dog.) Life under the covers is snug and warm. Why would anybody want to leave? So, when it’s time to get up, I have to take drastic measures. I pull the covers off of Pancho. I nudge him with my foot. Once he gets out the bedroom door, he may veer off to the bathroom or Marty’s office. I get between him and his goal. When he sees that I have blocked his escape route, he scurries on his short, little, Chihuahua legs down the stairs and out the back door. He looks like an exposed rat running out of the pantry.

That’s our blended family. When people ask Marty what kind of dogs we have, he says, “one of each.”