Home on the Range

[TexasShadow]

I travel not to go anywhere, but to go. I travel for travel's sake. The great affair is to move. ~Robert Louis Stevenson

I packed nearly everything for the trip the night before. Only a few odds and ends remained (like grinding coffee) and loading the bike. I had hoped to be on the road as the sun kissed the eastern sky, but I hit the ‘sleep’ button on the alarm at 5 am. It was too cold to get out from under the warm covers of my bed.

Rubbing my eyes and grunting at the cold, the sun shining through the window chased me from my bed, I made a quarter-pot of coffee and ground some beans to put in a plastic sandwich bag. After throwing that in with the packed food in my sidebag liner, I pulled on long johns and velcroed the liner in my over-pants. Wearing a T-shirt, long-sleeved shirt covered by a Duo-fold thermal shirt, the red Shift windproof jacket topped it off. Feet snug in double layered wool socks were shoved into riding boots, balaclava covered head, chin and neck, and all the rest of the pieces came together. ‘I’m ready.’

Packing the bike was quick and easy: packed liners slid into the side bags, dry bag containing tent, sleeping bag, and other assorted camping gear positioned on the back of the seat and the slim bag with air mattress nestled behind it. Fed one half of the Rok straps through the latter bag’s webbing, snapped the buckles to the other half and pull snug. A test wiggle showed nothing was going anywhere. Turn the preload up a click, plug in the GPS and start the engine. We’re singing and ready to roll.

The first leg of the route was almost autopilot: FM 730 to Veal Station Rd, to Old Springtown Rd, to FM 199 and Jacksboro. That way I bypassed the CF of Azle and ½ of Springtown. Traffic fizzled out to almost nil until just before Jacksboro, then I was dwarfed by big dually trucks and 18-wheelers. Ranch and oil country, here I am.

I pulled into the gas station to fill up, down a coffee and get bottled water. I always get weird looks in rural places like this; I just smile or ignore the stares. This morning I was in ‘ignore’ mode; I had a mission. To get coffee and get outa here.

Continuing north on US 281 I enjoyed the changes from town to ranch land: mesquite trees like squatters on overgrazed prairie and pastures, green-carpeted hay fields, black Angus beauties grazing contentedly, horses swishing their tails, and small unassuming farm houses. Occasionally sentinels of tall gates guarded gravel or paved roads into ranches. I like to look at these; the variety –simplicity to elegance- throughout Texas is unparalleled to what I’ve seen elsewhere. Some are quite creative and boast admirable craftsmanship. I’ve often thought of photographing these and putting them together as a form of Western art. Practical art. But if I did that, I’d never get anywhere. I’d be forever on the road. Hmm….. not a bad idea.

I kept an eye on the printed Google map stuffed in the map envelope on my tank bag and on the GPS. Soon I found the FM road I was looking for and turned east. I was on a ghost hunt. A ghost town called Squaw Mountain.

After almost two miles a road sign on the right caused me to slow down: Lynn Creek Rd. I knew from reading that the old town was once on or near Lynn Creek. I thought, ‘Why not? Maybe it’s down here.’ So I turned on the gravel road and entered a thick forest of mesquite. It reminded me of entering a scary forest as a kid with looming creatures ready to jump on you any second. I giggled to myself; “Where the Wild Things Are.” Maurice Sendek would have loved places like this.

The Whee seemed comfortable enough on the gravel road in third gear. Any faster and I may have missed what I was searching for. I slowed at a fork, unsure to turn left or right, but the gate across the right hand road decided for me. I passed two old dilapidated houses. The presence of trucks betrayed inhabitants, but I passed without sight of any people. Hills covered with stubby Cross-timbers growth appeared on my left and mesquite on the right. After a few miles I began to wonder just where the heck am I and where is Squaw Mountain?

The road narrowed and the surface became more like packed caliche than gravel. Shortly after rounding yet another bend I saw a weathered sign for Lynn Cemetery pointing to the right. The road was nothing more than two-track packed caliche with grass in the middle. ‘Oh well; let’s go.’ I turned onto the right track and rolled along. Soon that dissolved into nothing more than a clearing of cut or grazed grass on the right with headstones and grave markers several yards beyond. Gearing down and feathering the brakes, I pulled under a tall gnarly oak and parked.

Pulling off helmet, gloves and jackets was a respite. The sun was getting high but the cool air resonated with crispness. Only an occasional bird broke the dead silence. On my left was a plain and small native stone chapel; on the right the cemetery fenced and well taken care of. After a swig of water and grabbing the camera, I let myself in through the gate. Unconsciously, almost as if someone was watching, I securely closed the gate behind me.

I saw a mix of modern and old grave markers and headed for groups of the latter. These are the silent history lessons. Pioneers of Squaw Mountain and nearby families through generations rested here. The babies and children, mothers and wives, all grouped around the father and husband. Dates betrayed lifespans with suggestions of infant mortality and death in childbirth, influenza, measles and pox epidemics. Husbands often married soon after a wife died, children lost with each in succession.

Families dominated sections with multiple headstones spanning generations. Others are shrouded in mystery, doomed to remain anonymous except for broken, faded or weathered stones. In this plot were a few marked only by hand-carved stones piled in rectangles like sarcophagi.

One marker in particular ‘touched’ me more than any I had seen yet, in a very long time. The stone and epitaph exuded heart-break. Something out of the past remained there, and it permeated through me as if it was I; somewhere, some place, long ago. Discomforted, I shook it off and moved away after taking a photograph. A remnant of that strong odd feeling hits me when I look at the photo.

Another long draw from the water bottle, gearing back up and I slowly rolled back out onto the two-track road. Something about this cemetery, as if I had felt their presence but never really knew them, and I whispered my goodbye.

 

[TexasShadow]

Ghosts

History with its flickering lamp stumbles along the trail of the past, trying to reconstruct its scenes, to revive its echoes, and kindle with pale gleams the passion of former days. ~Winston Churchill

Rather than back-track my way on the gravel road, I turned to continue westward. I was surprised to see the road empty onto US 281. I just completed a big circle. ‘Well, I’ll be…..’ And still didn’t find the historical marker for the long-gone town of Squaw Mountain. Not to be deterred, I turned again west onto FM 2190. This time I passed Lynn Creek Rd to see a small church off the road and shaded by a tree-covered hill. Bingo; the familiar Texas Historical Society marker alongside the road. Executing a perfect U-turn I pulled up to park on the grassy bank in front of the marker, dismounted and looked around.

According to all the resources I’ve read (and there aren’t many), a skirmish between a group of Texas Ranger and a band of Indians occurred here in 1875. A young Indian woman was killed on a mountain near Lynn Creek and the Rangers buried her there. The peak was named Squaw Mountain based on the legend, and the community that grew up along the creek and near the mountain also bore that name.

Settlers arrived in 1877 and Squaw Mountain grew. In 1892, along with a stage relay stop, a post office was named. Later followed cotton gins and a thresher, blacksmith shop, store, school and another church. Coal mines were discovered in 1917. But, as the familiar pattern with pioneer towns, the exodus followed the railroads. By 1997 only a church and a few ranches remained. The only business I’m aware of is a large big game ranch with a lodge, cabins, elk, deer, axis, oryx, hogs, Dall and Corsican sheep, turkey, and dove, 20 ponds and a lake. Even that was listed for sale in the mid-2000’s; only for $3 million.

Yet many of the original settlers, some of their descendents and families, still remain here at rest in a cemetery a few miles away down a lonely gravel and dirt road.

Other than a small modest building serving as a church for the neighboring farmers and ranchers, nothing else betrayed presence of a community that once stood here. Cows grazed in a pasture across the road, giving me an occasional glare.

After packing away the camera, I heard a familiar buzz of a small motorbike approaching. I looked up in time to see a dusty jacketed rider on a DRZ650 or 400, just as dusty as the rider. I smiled to myself; even out here, in the middle of nowhere, dual sports are a means of transportation and recreation.

Heading north again on US 281, something caught my attention in a mowed hay field. It was running, swift as a bird and….. ‘Wait, that’s no deer…..weird horns, stripes, um, that’s an antelope!’ I had never seen one this far south. It was a treat.

I forgot to keep an eye out for Loop Rd, or FM 187. It leads to Antelope (how coincidental) and a road east that I had planned on. Realizing I passed it, I kept riding north knowing I would eventually meet the north end of the loop. Not long after turning south on FM 187, I found FM 175. I pulled into the gravel parking area for the church that was on the corner and looked around. Further south a few old store fronts lined the road. I was tempted to turn around and explore the little town of Antelope. However, since I was already running late and I had spent more time at Squaw Mountain than I intended, I decided I would just have to return some time.

A few well-cared for farm houses lined FM 175 close to town, but these gave way to farmed land and cows. Then nothing but pastures dotted with nefarious mesquite. The road was quite enjoyable to ride with nice bends and swells. So enjoyable that as I approached my second target on the leg north, I slowed but didn’t stop. Another ghost town, Shannon, is situated on that road. It is more populated than the former one. But I didn’t want to stop; I was enjoying the ride for the sake of itself.

Soon the road intersected with Hwy 148, which was the old military road from Jacksboro to Fort Sill in Oklahoma. I thought it fitting that I ride on this road since I was heading to Fort Sill. A pleasant highway it was, barely any traffic and scenic ranches and farms on both sides. Soon I reached Henrietta, a quaint mid-sized town. I noted for the future that if I need to ride this way again, HWY 148 would offer a relaxing and scenic ride, preferable to US 281 and 287.

So, back into thick traffic as I headed into Wichita Falls on US 287. I had to find the Academy Sports store to buy a new can of fuel for the camp stove. I stopped at Love’s to use the rest room and swallow whole a cold Starbuck’s cappuccino, check the GPS and become frustrated trying to ‘How do I get there from here’. After twenty minutes of a hard exercise in patience, I finally figured out how to ‘Get There From Here’ on the GPS.

I hurried to get out of Wichita Falls; it’s not a favorite stop on my list. And by this time, I was itching to get across the border. Soon I was on Interstate 44 heading north, riding over the wide lazy Red River and into what was once Indian Territory. And much of it still is.

 

[TexasShadow]

The Range

Remembering the toll booth ahead on Hwy 44 I had shoved a dollar bill and several quarters into my left jacket pocket. Very easy to access and fish out change to pay the toll, even with gloved hand. I passed rolling farm land in crops, pasture and hay before getting close to Lawton. In the distance to the northwest I saw humps of mountains on the horizon. My destination. But before I could head that way, I was again to be frustrated by Google maps and GPS.

I kept an eye out for the exit onto Hwy 62. The map in front of me and on the GPS monitor showed I was approaching it. But no signs denoted Hwy 62. I exited on Gore Rd anyway and trusted my navigation to the GPS. Google maps showed I wanted Cache Rd. I ended up south of the ‘real’ Hwy 62 (as I later discovered) and not on Cache Road. After stop-and-go traffic in busy Lawton, turns here and turns there, I finally found Cache Road. I ignored the GPS. It showed I was in between two roads floating in open air. Gremlins?

Now heading west in the correct direction, I put more trust in the Google map, which meant I needed to look for Quanah Parker Trailway. Found. Heading out of town. Whew!! A sign informed me the town of Cache was about eight miles ahead and I relaxed. I knew where I was going now and I was out of tangled, crazy, stinking city traffic. Back on gray ribbon and heading west.

Soon the Cache exit appeared and a sign for the Wichita Wildlife Refuge. I leaned onto the ramp and then turned into a small gas station to pick up supplies. I came out with two bottles of water, a small bottle of milk, and…. “What are these?”
“Medallions. Beef jerky.”
“I’ll try a couple. Hey, they’re from Tillamook, Oregon! They have to be good!”
(and they were, but that’s for a later story)

I stuffed the items in my sidebags and thought about the clanking I had been feeling in the bike. Bike noises are usually distorted or even unnoticeable when wearing ear plugs. But I felt an increasingly frequent clanking underneath me, especially in low gears, low RPM and when shifting. I decided to ride to the Refuge without the earplugs to assess things.

What I heard scared the crap out of me: grinding, clanking, clunking, scratching…..Holy cow the bike is falling apart!. At first I thought it was coming from the rear end. When I pulled the clutch in and coasted at high speed, then down to medium speed, it was silent as a sleeping baby. When I shifted, the bike sounded like it was going to fall apart. This was not good.

I stopped at the Visitors Center a few miles from the entrance of the Refuge and asked the location of the campground and where to register. A wizened old man pointed a shaking finger at the spot on the Refuge map. I used the rest room (a convenience I was to take advantage of several times) and geared up again to go stake my claim. Again hearing the clanking noises emitting from my woefully clunking bike made my stomach roll. As soon as I got to high gear and up to speed, it was fine.

A mile or so further to the campground was a small shelter housing a staff person to collect fees and direct campers. As instructed I rode to the semi-primitive area, a turn off with a loop of sites nestled under scraggly oaks. I slowly rode along the loop searching for a spot to my liking. There were only two occupied sites, which left me with many choices. But before completing the loop, one had caught my attention along the outside of the loop and somewhat hidden in the Cross-timbers. I pulled up alongside the paved pull-in and saw that it was promising.

Since I still have problems backing the bike up with the recovering broken ankle and foot, I parked the bike sideways after riding over the grass and weeds onto the pavement. Yea for dual sports. Gear was peeled off while I walked to the picnic table. Where to set up the tent….. I noticed three candidate spots and chose one off to the side. Unfortunately, later during a walk behind the site I discovered a primo spot up the hill a bit. Oh well. I wasn’t about to uproot the tent and move it, although the increased privacy and isolation would have ensured less disturbed nights, as I found out later.

After removing all the gear off the rear and out of the sidebags, I rode up to the shelter, announced my chosen site and realized I didn’t have enough cash for two nights. I learned quickly that plastic doesn’t go as far here in this area as I take for granted at home. I promised I would get some cash and pay my next night’s fee the next day. “No problem”, I was told.

With that, I rode out of the campground and explored the Refuge to the west. The road quickly exited the lower Cross-timbers and led up into the higher prairie. Soon I was immersed in a rolling sea of tall waving grass, stretching from hill side to mountain side. It was if I was magically transported to the high plains of New Mexico or Colorado. To the right ahead of me was a small lake shining so blue that it looked like a blue liquid jewel dropped onto the prairie floor and spilling its contents. The gray narrow road was half hidden by the tall grass as it stretched out and meandered up and over the velvety hill, finally disappearing into the horizon of grass. It didn’t take long to realize I was home on the range.

 

[TexasShadow]

I got off the bike and sat on a boulder totally lost and immersed in my surroundings. It was beautiful and solitary. But I liked it that way, knowing that company was nearby in the form of bison, elk, deer and other creatures. This may have been like what it was like over a third or more of this continent only 200 or so years ago. This area was always held sacred by the Kiowa, Comanche and Wichita Indians. Now I knew why.

Shadows were getting long and the grass was painted eerie golden rust with a hint of pink as the sun began to set. Light twinkled on the slightly choppy water that was now turning a dark blue. It was time to return to camp and fix some dinner. I hadn’t had a meal all day except for nibbling on protein bars. I was hungry.

Returning to camp the area had almost filled with other campers. In fact, they began pouring in looking for sites. The area filled up completely by the time I had my dinner ready to eat. I was surprised; I expected less traffic. Later I learned that the Refuge was host to a large Boy Scout Jamboree for the weekend. This accounted for the large number of children and multiple occupants in the camp sites.

I hiked for a bit behind my tent site. Deep in the cross-timbers with the late sun blazing through openings in the canopy of trees and deep shadows contrasting everything, like the two faces of polar opposites. It was simultaneously eerie and peaceful.

Boiling water for a small cup of pressed coffee was like a soothing hot bath to a worn-out traveler. My dinner was simple and humble but pleasing. I read a book at the table with candle light and found myself nearly dozing off. The bag and tent were calling me.

It was a noisy night, but somehow I managed to dose off in my cozy new sleeping bag. The familiar yelps and yips of nearby coyotes woke me in the dead of the night. Except for that, silence reigned.

 

[TexasShadow]

The sun shining through the tent woke me up. The air was cold and I was reluctant to leave my warm bag. Noise from the other camps and the thought of hot coffee made me crawl out and pull on fleece pants, wool socks and three shirts.

Then I went off to hunt for the restrooms. I finally found them as simple and aptly vented shelters with two compost toilets. No doors, no water and sinks. The seats rose up on their own as if they were trained to. They were; they were on a hinge so that the seats stay down only when a butt is sitting on them. It was awkward and I would have preferred a tree and leaves in the open. But with the campground so full, I didn’t want any children running to their Mommies with exclamations and pointing fingers. Later that day and the next I planned potty stops at the luxurious restroom of the Visitors Center. At least the toilet seat didn’t rise up and smack your butt cheeks.

After a breakfast of oatmeal, beef jerky and coffee, I pondered what the weather would be like and what to wear for gear. As the sun burned the chill off the air, I decided to wear the long johns and remove the overpants liner. Layering the shirts was always a practical advantage. Peel off a layer and stash it away on the bike.

I tried to put the bike on the center stand, but found I still can’t do that yet. Lacking strength in the right leg and ankle with the chronic metatarsal inflammation means I won’t be able to use the center stand for awhile to come. I squatted down to the side of the bike and pulled it toward me, balancing it with the other hand and checked the oil. It’s fine; not even dark. I oiled the chain again and hoped that it might relieve some of the issues. I listened closely when shifting into first and pulling out. Not too bad, but still not good.

I decided the night before that with the bike’s issues, whatever it was, I should probably curtail my riding to a minimum; no riding into Lawton to visit the Fort Sill Museum. But I was going to Meer's for lunch. It wasn’t too far from the Refuge. Then I would spend the rest of my time here on the Refuge until the return home.

The day was early enough for a joy ride. On the way I spotted a lone buffalo grazing in a clump of oaks. Pulling off the side of the road, I killed the engine and sat on the bike watching. I couldn’t make myself pull out the camera and take a photo. I didn’t want to disturb it and I was content enough just watching the magnificent brown bovine munch his breakfast. Then on to the Visitors Center for a, well, visit.

 

[TexasShadow]

“Old Time passes through mountains and leaves a plain in its wake.” - Glen Evans

A low sprawling building the color of adobe beige squats in a depression on Hwy 115 in the Refuge. After parking the bike and removing riding gear, I approached the entry: a large double glass door beautifully etched with white prairie grass and topped with red frame. Inside the spacious center I wandered around exhibits: the formation of Wichita Mountain range, the geology and biology, history of the Refuge and the people that came and went.

Some places –like Big Bend, the canyons in Utah, the Rockies, Appalachians, and many more- leave an impression upon you that you can’t explain. They may evoke wonder, awe, peacefulness, perhaps even fear. Perhaps because subconsciously we know that the earth you are looking at and standing upon is older than we can ever conceive. That changes occurred here that surmount those that trivialize our own lives. Because what we see are the result of many times tremendous and powerful forces originating deep within the planet. It is beyond our ability to fathom, both in space and time. Yet, we can in a sense ‘feel’ it.

Glen Evans, geologist and Southwester archeologist, eloquently wrote;
“Earth features, like people, have character and individuality that distinguish them from all other of their kind. No two hills, no two valleys, are ever exactly alike, and when they appear so the resemblance is superficial. They, like ourselves, come into being and, after an appropriate time span, pass out of being. They too have a history; they are, in appearance and substance, the result of a succession of preceding events.”

At the Center I learned that the Wichita Mountain range is vaster than what appears above the surface of the ground and is only a small remnant of the grandeur it once was. Often described as the ‘oldest’ range on the North American continent, its history spans 550 million years ago, a victim of every type of land forming activity known.

The surface covering most of Oklahoma, Texas and into Louisiana was stretched in a rift as the continent tried to break apart. The land from northern Texas to north of the present Wichita Mountains sank, forming a basin which filled with sea water. Then, 300 million years ago the region experienced intense pressure during the continental collision which produced the Ouachita Mountains to the east. This resulted in faulting and folding; up to 20,000 feet of ground and foundation rock uplifted here. This uplift created the range of rugged mountains which have eroded over time to their present state.

Several mountains in the Refuge are notable. Mount Pinchott is 2,452 feet. Mount Scott is 12 feet shorter but the most commonly visited. A paved road to the top offers an enjoyable ride on a bike and magnificent views below. Other mountains contribute to the variety of rock and formations: black, red granite, quartzite, pink rhyolite, and some sandstone. The erosion and weathering from these mountains over millions of years settled to the floor and formed the soil upon which the prairies and cross-timbers grow.

The granite boulders remind me of Maine: old weathered, silent, stoic and stately, covered with lichen of many colors. What distinguishes this area from forests and meadows in both Maine and Oregon is the mono-growth of oak and prairie grass. Absent are the conifers and many deciduous species, thickets of shrubs and vines bearing fruit. The Refuge is like an old ghost town with a few abandoned structures compared to a city with a variety of buildings, growth, and creatures. It imparts a stoic but proud loneliness wearing its badge of being survivors.

The roundness of these mountains, the large rounded boulders like bald heads, and the sea of waving prairie grass captured me. It is not like the Eastern mountain ranges where I grew up. It had the look, feel and smell of the West. And I am a lost child of the West. You breathe it all in, absorb it, and it claims you.

 

[TexasShadow]

Oh, give me a home where the buffalo roam
Where the deer and the antelope play
Where seldom is heard a discouraging word
And the skies are not cloudy all day

How often at night where the heavens are bright
With the light of the glittering stars
Have I stood there amazed and asked as I gazed
If their glory exceeds that of ours

The Wichita Mountains –mountains and prairies- have been home for many native peoples on this continent. With springs, streams, grass and game, both nomadic and semi-agrarian tribes found the area rich in life. The Wichita Indians believed that they sprang forth from inside the peaks of those mountains. The name of their nation, Wichita, derived from two native words: ‘weets’, meaning ‘man’ and ‘ee-taw’, meaning ‘of the north’. French traders that traveled through their territory in the 1770’s and after the Spaniards, pinned the derivation –‘Wichita’- to that area, and the native people living there.

As the Plains tribes were driven south, the Comanche used the range as their resting and hiding place after marauding into New Mexico, Texas and Mexico. The commonality to all was that several mountains in the range were spiritual places. They struck a chord in early Americans as well. When Captain R. Marcy explored the Red River area, he was charmed with many places in the Range, naming Mount Scott and referencing a favorite spot for the future Fort Sill.

Outlaws, such as the Jesse brothers and the McBride-Henderson gang, used the Mountains as hide-outs. Legends of cached and buried treasure throughout the range still prevail. Famous and last Texas Comanche chief Quanah Parker, whose white mother was captured while young and raised as a Comanche, came to call the Wichitas his home. Teddy Roosevelt hunted the mountains and prairies, and Doris Campground (where I was camped) was at one time a large community and gathering place for early miners, ranchers and cattlemen.

So, why was I here? I occasionally get a need, or drive, or whatever it is, to spend some time with the buffalo. Maybe because they, like the American Indians, were forced to change or die. Most of the buffalo died. Maybe because they are such odd creatures: big, furry, four-legged beasts with misshapen bodies, massive heads and tiny beady eyes. Maybe because they were the first bovines on this continent. Maybe because they're just magnificent.

When I was a kid I spent a lot of time at the Museum of Natural Science (I was a nerdy kid). In the giant open foyer was a giant buffalo taxidermied to look like the grandest creature on four legs. I used to sit at the base of his throne and imagine what it must have been like when millions of them roamed the continent. To me they seemed regal, powerful, yet gentle, omnipotent and free.

It was decades before I saw the first live buffalo while traveling across the northern continent. I pulled off the side of the road, climbed up on top of the van and sat on the roof for hours watching them. This weekend I would be camping in their territory, their pasture. Sleeping in my own little 'teepee' (a spitfire tent, how unlike a teepee that is), my gasoline-powered mustang near-by and cooking meals over the fire. Where the Comanche hunted and the buffalo roamed.

The area of the Wichita Mountains Refuge was proclaimed a ‘Forest Reserve’ in 1901. With the near-extermination of the Bison, President Teddy Roosevelt created the first Game Sanctuary here in 1906 to save bison and other game animals. This was instrumental in establishing the national wildlife refuge system.

Hunted almost to extinction in the late 1880’s, only a small herd in Wyoming remained of the thousands of bison that roamed the country. Seven bison bulls and eight cows were freighted in from the New York Zoological Society to establish a Refuge herd. When the animals arrived, each in a cage and wagon pulled by oxen and mules, a huge crowd of people stood waiting and celebrated their return. The reservation Indians nearby attended dressed in their finest and literally cried at seeing them arrive. On October 30, 1909, the first Refuge bison calf was born. The Refuge herd numbers 600 today.

The Elk species native to the Wichitas and Oklahoma, Merriam’s Elk, had been hunted to extinction by 1875. They are forever gone. Seventeen Rocky Mountain Elk from Wyoming were brought in 1911-12 to re-establish a herd on the Refuge. White-tailed deer were always there; and they remain.

Once the main breed of cattle in the Southwest, Longhorns were facing extinction with the advent of breeding programs using improved breeds. Searching all of Texas and even Mexico for animals representative of the original Spanish Longhorns, individuals were bought and brought to the Refuge to establish a nucleus herd. Most came from the Rio Grande area and northern Mexico in 1927. The herd of 300 Longhorns shares the prairies with the elk, bison, and deer.

Turkeys native to the range were also exterminated from the area. An earlier Refuge Superintendent’s wife hand-raised the first flock, also brought up from Rio Grande in 1912. Along with the resident and ubiquitous coyote, owls, eagles, hawks, raccoons, and bobcat, they are all open range throughout the entire Refuge. They can even wander through the campground, but they are not tame.

The Refuge’s 60,000 acres, once the Comanche-Kiowa-Apache Reservation in Indian Territory, is divided into two major portions: the south quadrant that is public access, and the northern, which is wilderness and ‘special use’. I asked a Ranger about the northern restricted use area and learned what I had expected. It is used for the breeding grounds of the bison, elk and longhorns, as well as research. It is Wilderness area; off limits. And I’m glad it is. It is ‘their’ home. It may be the only way to preserve a relatively small area of this natural history for future generations.

It was time for some lunch.

Home, home on the range
Oh I would not exchange my old home on the range
Where the deer and the antelope play
Where seldom is heard a discouraging word
And the skies are not cloudy all day

 

[ed29]

Dang... Living this ride through your pictures and prose has me ready to gas up the KLR and light out.

 

[voyagerrider]

Elzi,
Great read as always and the pics just add that something extra to your reports. Can't wait to read the rest.
Marty

 

[TexasShadow]

Call of the West

"You've come a long way, I know,
you got a longer drive ahead
through the bones of the buffalo,
through the claims of the western dead
and just like the spokes of a wheel
you'll spin 'round with the rest,
you'll hear the drums and the brush of steel,
ayou'll hear the call of the west,
call of the West." – Call of the West, Wall of Voodoo

Back on the road again, I had to take care of some business before I could enjoy lunch. Riding south out of the refuge and into Cache, I found the only bank and an ATM to get some cash out of my account. Heading north again, I stopped at the gas station to fill up with gas. Parked at the edge of the lot near the road was a line of cruisers with riders wearing black leather vests or jackets. I recognized them from the parking lot of the Visitor’s Center. We would run into each other again later.

I headed back to the campground to pay my second night’s reservation, executed an interesting turnaround over speed bumps (these were big ones), and then back to the 115 again. This time I would pass the Visitor’s Center and head north towards Meer’s, my final destination for lunch.

The road gently wound out of the Refuge, climbing north with several fun bends. Around one bend a rider is suddenly confronted with a tangle of intersection, cars and motorcycles, and a line of buildings. Meer’s is remembered for many things, most of all its character. The façade of connecting buildings are reminiscent of old wooden frontier stores flanked on one end by a newer concrete addition. Signs and billboards almost make one dizzy and you wonder what its like inside.

I found a strategic place to park in between two Harleys at the south end of the line of bikes in front. Bikes of all sizes and makes: uncountable cruisers, two Ducatis, many cruisers, two matching Goldwings, three Burgmans and one lone limping V-strom.

No sooner than placing myself in the line waiting to enter when two more groups of bikes pulled in and filled every available whole in the line. One of the groups I recognized; the riders seen at the gas station and Visitor’s Center earlier. From the emblems on their leather jackets, I saw they were a motorcycle club from Oklahoma City. By this time, we nodded and smiled at each other. Who’s following whom?

Standing in line I struck up a conversation with an elderly man and his son, both from Texas, two hours west of Wichita Falls. They drive up here often; in fact, they are regulars at Meer’s. Waitresses and the owner’s wife greeted them by name.

Meer’s hamburgers are nationally known. The meat is freshly ground from the owner’s herd of Longhorns near the Refuge. The burgers are so large they are served in pie plates. Yesterday’s single meal and a simple breakfast caught up with me and I ordered a famous Meer’s burger. Despite my intent to take half of it back with me, I ate it all. I was hungry. But the burger left no room for desert. So, not only did I not eat pie on International Pie Run Day, I had no cobbler or even ice cream. I was too full.

Thank goodness I had enough cash left over after paying my campsite fee. Meer’s accepts only cash and I’m used to operating with plastic only. After bidding good bye to my fellow Texans at the table, I was back on the road heading south again and into the Refuge.

Having quenched my hunger, I rode at a leisurely pace. Regrettably I had to pass by the road up to Mount Scott. I wasn’t confident in the bike to make the ascent and descent on the mountain road. “Next time, I promise.” However, this time I turned down a road that I passed by on the way north. A non-distinct road sigh read ‘Holy City.’ “Huh? What was that all about?”

About half a mile I turned again and stopped in the road, astonished at what I saw. Ahead and in a slight depression was a cluster of structures –I hesitate to call them ‘buildings’- constructed with round red rock. In the bright sun they gleamed like round red candy balls piled on top of each other. Scattered along the depression and up the hillside, the only structure with recognizable form was a chapel. The rest reminded me of the structures I used to build with stones and Lincoln logs when I was a kid.

One looked like the façade of a castle, one like a tomb, another the section of inside a castle complete with throne. Religious choral music blared from somewhere, tall flood lights dotted the area and…… I wasn’t sure what to make of it. It seemed so out of place; there in the middle of nowhere.

I gave up trying to figure it out and wandered around finding photographic opportunities. I later learned the history behind the place: it started as an Easter Pssion Play in the early 1900’s. And escalated from there.

As I wandered back to the bike, there were my shadows: the bike club from OK City. I waved, they waved and I laughed to myself. I wondered where we would meet up next.

Time to explore. It’s what I like to do. So I backtracked and rode down several of the side roads, some paved, some gravel. I visited three of the most pristine and blue lakes I’ve seen in a long time (since leaving Oregon). They were such a deep blue that it was incredible. They provided a beautiful contrast for the prairie grass; colors ranging from beige, yellow, amber, and brown.

A flock of geese lazed at the edge of one lake, a couple paddle a canoe in another, a wader stood fishing in yet another. The hiking trails nearby, leading up into the mountains were inviting; I wanted to go exploring up there but wasn’t prepared. Next time I will be.

At the far western section is small Caddo Lake, nestled in the high prairie with mountains bordering their edges. A fence separates the restricted area from the public, but one can see for miles over the rolling prairie. I pulled onto a gravel/dirt area, parked the bike, shed the gear and just enjoyed the peace and solitude there. Very little traffic came this way. It was great.

After walking around the edge of the lake and over boulders, I found one that offered a comfortable seat with a view out across the prairie.

I watched as two bison strolled slowly to the fence, grazing as they moved. One plopped down and rolled, dust flowing up in the air betraying his spot. The grass is so tall it even hides a bison laying down.

​

The gray narrow road appears suddenly from over a hill then seems to just disappear into the tall grass. In the distance I heard the familiar sound of a bike approaching and shot the rider on his cruiser as he rode by.

I don’t know how long I sat but the sun was starting to cast shadows. Resisting temptation to curl up on a boulder and take a nap, I headed for the bike and, for curiosity sake, check the elevation on the GPS: 1,700 feet. It felt higher; perhaps because of the rounded mountains rising on the horizon or because it was so like the high prairies in New Mexico. It didn’t matter; I loved it. And didn’t want to leave.

As I headed back to camp, the split log fence along side the road tickled my curiosity. I slowed and then laughed loudly in my helmet. I had to stop; this was priceless.

 

[TexasShadow]

Doggies and coyotes

All the animals in the Refuge are free to roam anywhere. All except the prairie dogs. A small area is left for the prairie dogs to live. As you can see, they live alongside one of the Refuge roads with a split log fence to keep people out. But not coyotes. The area is so dense with the little fat critters that it is a coyote banquet. They are relatively tame because people feed them. Junk food. They seem to love potato chips. And, just like people who eat too many chips, they get fat, too. In fact, several were quite obese. I wonder if any get stuck in their holes.

I was returning to the bike with my camera when I spotted a coyote. Raising the camera up to my face scared it. Hesitating, it began to trot away, torn between the scary round thing that looked like it might shoot or plucking a tasty fat prairie dog off the ground. A man standing next to a silver truck was making coyote yips and yelps. This really confused the coyote and he’d trot closer, than turn and away. Over and over.

I was able to capture it in a few shots, but the zoom on my camera was not powerful enough for a good clear photo. I complemented the guy near the truck; he was really good.

“Sounds like you’ve had a lot of practice at that,” I said. He laughed and nodded, asking if I was able to get any photos of the coyote. I nodded; he got in his truck and pulled off. That’s when I noticed the large brown bison decal on his truck. He’s a ranger or staff person.

As I returned I saw another coyote checking out the plump little varmints. Wiley was eying one with great intent.

As I was gearing up to ride off, here came my shadows: the OK City club. This was getting weird. I waved as they pulled in to park near the fence and I headed back to camp.

 

[TexasShadow]

Sleep on the Range

By this time shadows were long and deep. I stopped to capture one more shot, simply because it caught me first.

By now the ritual was stopping at the Visitor’s Center to use the bathroom and fill the water bottles for camp. Late in the day and nearly closing time, hardly anyone was inside. I chatted briefly with the volunteers inside, laughing and sharing stories about their adventures on the Refuge. Thus far, my experience with people on the Refuge was friendly and personable. Except the campers. But that’s a story for later.

Back at the campsite I was surprised at how empty it appeared compared to the night before. Many sites had emptied; the area was quiet and peaceful. I cooked my dinner and read at the picnic table enjoying the rest and quiet. Shortly after sunset I just couldn’t keep my eyelids open anymore. I crawled into the bag and fell asleep.

Until cars and trucks began pouring into the campground. No more quiet night. A large dog nearby barked incessantly and a young child wailed for over an hour. I groaned, wishing I was in the back country somewhere.

Eventually the dog stopped barking and the child stopped wailing from exhaustion. I fell asleep and woke once very early in the morning still blanketed by darkness. The silence was broken only by a nearby owl and the bugling of elk not too far away. It’s been many years since I heard elk out in the wilderness; I smiled deeply as if it were a lullaby. And succumbed to sleep again.

 

[TexasShadow]

Epilogue:

Miles: 551.3 round trip

This trip provided a test for several things:
1. New REI down sleeping bag rated to 15 degrees. I couldn't believe how small this thing packs in its compression bag. It's roomy, warm, zippers don't snag, nice big footbox, adjustable head 'envelope'; it just plain rocks. The real test will be in December at Big Bend.

2. The ROK straps indeed rock. Makes packing and unpacking swift and painless.

3. Need compression straps for horizontal compression of bags (like clothes, pillow....). Remembering on the trip a place with an awesome supply of do-hickies for making horse tack, camping straps, etc, I expect to order what I need from them for making straps. The Rainshed in Corvallis, OR.

4. I need a new winter touring coat. The Shift enduro jacket is fine for moderate temps, even down to 40 (tested thus far) with the heated vest, but not colder. On the other hand, I've wanted to find a windproof vest or jacket liner for all my gear. A few bike sources sell them at what-price-glory. Visiting the Rainshed's website, they stock windproof polar fleece (Polartec Windpro and Polartec Windbloc), the same used by Aerostich to make their's. So that's on the list, too.

5. I borrowed Ed's camp stove and absolutely love it! It's on my Xmas list. Now to fabricate some type of portable windblock for it.

6. Werner's beef jerky medallions. I bought 8 of these for $2 to try from a gas station store. They provided protein for my breakfast and on the road. They are absolutely deeeeeelicious! (they're from Oregon; what do you expect? ) They are perfect for bike camping and bike trips, even a one-day or short road trip. I'm ordering a canister or two to have on hand for not only bike trips but snacks at work as well. A case of 6 canisters is cheaper than buying one, so if anyone in this area wants to split a case, let me know. (now all I need to find is smoked salmon jerky )

7. Again, never rely 100% on a GPS. Always have a map of some kind as backup or supplement.

8. Bike problem: bad; I mean really bad chain. I thought the trouble may be in the clutch or transmission. I lubed the chain three times in two days that weekend, but it made no difference. I noticed that it was too slack.... again. We had adjusted it (again) just two weeks prior and it was slack again. But all the noise, vibration and racket appeared more serious than a bad chain.

Last weekend we replaced the chain and front sprocket and all the issues are gone. In fact, the bike now whines like a hot tiger in pursuit (normal) and it runs great (except some vibration remaining at 5K rpm. Not sure what that's about.) Considering only 9K miles on the chain with proper maintenance (I lube and clean frequently), I wasn't happy with its performance and life. Hopefully this new one will be better.

9. I want to go back to the Refuge and hike some of the trails and mountains. And, of course, ride up Mnt Scott and eat cobbler with ice cream at Meer's.

10. I've jokingly said many a time that if I could adopt a bison calf, I'd take one home with me. Knowing that's not going to happen unless I refence my property with extra strong fencing. (and I'm not sure how the cows/bull next door would feel about the competition ) Well, now I have one. Without replacing my fences.

Wiley tries to ride Woody (Bison bison athabascae, or Wood Bison, is the larger of the two Bison subspecies. The herd at Wichita is of the smaller. The Woods Bison can be seen in Canada and Alaska. I don't know of any in the US unless at a zoo.)

The End

 

[The Bruce]

 

[Kat013]

I grew up a little ways north and west of the Refuge, near 183 and I-40. I've been to the Refuge many times, and eaten a Meersburger twice. I've driven to the top of Mt. Scott, then climbed halfway down the south face and back up again, three times.

<em>The roundness of these mountains, the large rounded boulders like bald heads, and the sea of waving prairie grass captured me. It is not like the Eastern mountain ranges where I grew up. It had the look, feel and smell of the West. And I am a lost child of the West. You breathe it all in, absorb it, and it claims you.</em>

I hear you. There may not be a lot going in in Oklahoma, but every time I go back, I know it's home. I've spent so much time hiking in the fields and forests and ancient mountains there that the ecology is intimately familiar to me. More so, since I'm a biology and weather geek.

I wouldn't necessarily want to live there permanently; the pace of life there is way too slow for me at this point in my life. But I have fond memories of tromping around in the state, so thanks for that little taste of home.

 

[Graubart]

Re: Ghosts

Soon I reached Henrietta, a quaint mid-sized town. I noted for the future that if I need to ride this way again, HWY 148 would offer a relaxing and scenic ride, preferable to US 281 and 287.

I grew up in that quaint little town.

Let me know when you want to explore Jack and Clay counties more.

Nice report and great photos!

 

[TexasShadow]

Re: Ghosts

[/QUOTE]

I hear you. There may not be a lot going in in Oklahoma, but every time I go back, I know it's home. I've spent so much time hiking in the fields and forests and ancient mountains there that the ecology is intimately familiar to me. More so, since I'm a biology and weather geek.

Ah boy; another biology nerd! Yea!!
I plan to return for some hiking, hopefully back country camping.

Slideshow/photos are up on Smugmug.

Let me know when you want to explore Jack and Clay counties more.

I'm in Jack county frequently I plan on doing more exploring in Montague, Wise and Jack soon. Lots of ghost towns in that area, many unaccounted for.

Maybe we can get our Ghost Town subsection soon?

Glad some of you enjoyed the report despite its length.

 

[Quick-Silver]

TS, I envy you because you find such neat places for your outings. Great story and pictures.

 

[Texfire]

Great ride report. I could almost close my eyes and feel I was there.

 

[Gilk51]

Re: Ghosts

Maybe we can get our Ghost Town subsection soon?

Texas Ghost Towns

 

[klrno2]

Home on the Range with Wiley

I once had a dog named Wile E Coyote, actually, he was my son's German Shepherd dog. We called him Wylie and he was a great dog.


I loved the shots of the coyote and the whole report. Thanks again Texas Shadow!

 

[Hookem42]

One of the better ride reports Ive read, great pictures, i felt like i was there!

 

[donroger1]

Great job Elzi. I haven't been in this section for a while.

Too long..................