Buzzard's Roost & Judge Roy Bean

When I was in Chile, people often said that Patagonia was a desert. Here in west Texas, I'm beginning to understand what they meant—there are lots of similarities. Dry barren land, useless for growing or grazing anything, empty rolling hills that go on for miles, scrubby brush, and strong winds. Saturday the wind was against us all the way from Uvalde to Del Rio. The constant sound of rushiing air makes talking impossible, so it was time to don the old iPods.

We came to Del Rio at the end of the day and camped five miles outside of town at the Buzzard's Roost RV Park. I was averse to camping anywhere with the name “buzzard” associated with it, but the campsite turned out to be great. Rattana, the park owner, who is originally from Thailand, couldn't have been nicer. We had a chilly night (expect 80 in the daytime and 30 at night) and she invited us in to watch TV in her office.

We opted for a drink at the Buzzard's Roost bar nextdoor instead. John liked the sign for this place, which featured a buzzard holding a beer mug. Inside, free corn soup, hot dogs, and chips were on offer. We washed down the chow with some $1.25 drafts and met Gilbert and his friend Ray, two San Antonians who come out to Del Rio now and then to deer hunt on Gilbert's property. In Texas, many hunters try to lure deer in by setting up corn feeders, and that's what Gilbert and Ray had on their agenda, in addition to putting the finishing touches on Gilbert's hunting lodge. They bought us a round and we got into an interesting conversation with Ray, who was born in Laredo, Mexico, about the drug trade. He also told us about the gang problem San Antonio used to have—he was shot by a gang member when he used to own a convenience store. It must be nice to get away to the country. As we're discovering, there's a “whole lot of nothing” past Del Rio.

The next morning, when temps left my contacts-in-solution frozen into tiny hockey pucks, Rattana invited us into the office to sip our instant coffee more comfortably. “I was looking for you last night,” she said, “but it looked like you were already asleep!” We wound up chatting away the morning with Rattana, in what was a surprisingly philosophical discussion, or perhaps, discourse. Rattana basically told us her life story—coming from Thailand to New York and eventually out to Texas, surviving two marriages, raising three incredibly successful children, and finally doing a few things for herself—like buying a brand-new Mercedes. Rattana is a woman who has thought about life and spirituality more than most. She has dabbled in every religion, it seems, from Judaism to Jehovah's Witness. She went over with us the five commandments or precepts of Buddhism (don't kill, don't steal, don't commit adultery, don't lie, and don't develop addictions), and, with eloquent gestures, compared humans at various levels of enlightenment to various stages of a lotus in bloom. Of course, it did not surprise us in the least to learn that Rattana has sky-dived no less than 11 times and has also been to base camp at Mount Everest. If you ever do the Southern Tier, you have to visit Buzzard's Roost and say hello.

West of the Pecos

The next day, we traveled 60 or so miles to Lanngtry, with just one stop at tiny Comstock on the way, before crossing the jaw-dropping 270-foot high bridge across the Pecos River canyon. We were warned that a dot on a map can be deceiving, and that just because a town has a name, it may not have many goods or services. Even since the printing of the Adventure Cycling maps a few years ago, some of the little towns on highway 90 just seem to be drying up. Although Langtry boasts a “restaurant, gas station, grocery store, and post office” (any of which may or may not be open), the “urban” population (excluding ranchers) is a mere 17. Neil, a resident, and son of a resident, let us in to the community center to use the only available restroom in town. His father swung by the center in a pickup moments later, warning us to leave the center exactly as we had found it, and that bathroom services were not usually part of the free camping that was provided. John and I were, of course, happy to oblige. But I couldn't help but notice that this man, like many I have met in the Texan desert, had striking and intense baby blue eyes. Maybe it was his sun-weathered skin, or the fact that he was dressed head to toe in denim, but one look at those eyes, and there was simply no arguing.

Out in the middle of nowhere, we met our second touring cyclist of the trip (excluding the non-Lycra hobo cyclist outside of Del Rio): Duane, a countertop expert and dad from Grand Rapids. John made a great vegetarian chili for dinner, and we enjoyed learning about Duane's life and trip, as the sun went down. (I hope we don't hit that snow in the Rockies!).

The next day, the three of us visited the Judge Roy Bean Center up the road. John and I had never heard of Roy Bean, but apparently his brand of homespun justice, dispensed from the front porch of the Jersey Lilly Saloon, defined law west of the Pecos, where there wasn't any law to begin with. As one Langry resident put it later that morning, “Hell, there still ain't!”