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.