The Quiet Ripple Defines The Pond

I make it to Charlotte NC. Well done truck! I spend time with son Ben. He is doing so well and I am very proud of him.

What’s more he has a 2000 Camaro with a 5.7 liter V8. He takes me for a drive throughout which I am absolutely terrified.

To get to Charlotte I drive through lots of States.

Before I get to Charlotte, I search in vain to find a campground around the town of Murphy Tennessee. I missed the Tennessee border line sign but I promise that I have been there. Anyway, I end up camping by a very grunge boat launch surrounded by urban tipping. At 11:00 there is a hammering on the door. I was asleep.

“Sir, you can’t camp here. No camping inside city limits.” says the young woman officer.

“Sorry, couldn’t find anywhere else.”

“Ok don’t stay more than 3 days.”

I think being an old guy with a British accent helps a lot in these situations.

Again before I get to Charlotte, I am snowed in way up in the Smoky Mountains National Park. The park closes down for 2 days. There is nothing for it but to snuggle down in the camper. It is wonderful; plenty food, plenty drink and the furnace is working perfectly. So cosy!

The best countryside since Mexico has been in Tennessee, North Carolina and Virginia. Beautiful wooded mountains, pasture with chocolate box farms.

Too much has happened to describe adequately. Here are a few snatches of the drive, so far, from Corpus Christi to Charlotte. It is a completely inadequate summary.

Jogging through Texas I stop at Goliad, site of the famous massacre https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Goliad_massacre I had never heard of it before.

Goliad is a great place.

The USA is very big. We trundle along over miles and miles of open country. I do everything possible to avoid Interstates and indeed major roads.

Having breakfast and consulting my map, the young lady who served my food asks,

“What is that Sir? My papa used have those things. What do all the lines mean? Why are they different colors? That is soooo cool!”

“You have never used a map?”

“Nope, I just use my phone.”

Caitlin, for that is her name, is a medical student. She is not dumb. Neither do I think this is a purely U.S. phenomenum.

I cross into Louisiana.

I camp by a boat launch. The guys are coming in after a day’s fishing. They all have beautiful new boats with huge outboards. They trailer them out of the water with admirable skill using huge, again seemingly brand new. trucks.

“Can I camp here?

“Of course you can buddy! Y’all very welcome.”

Since leaving Corpus Christi I have had a headache, a very sore throat and maybe a fever. Oh no! Have I got Covid? I screech into the next Walmart and get me some cough syrup.

I cross the Mississippi River at Natchez.

I drive up the Natchez Trace. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Natchez_Trace_Parkway

It is an interesting road that gives an idea of what the country was like in 1800, er lots of trees. Frankly it gets pretty dull after a while and I swerve off into the wilds of Mississippi.

“Sorry, I am lost.” I say to the lady in the country store.

“Hell no, you ain’t lost, this is Mississippi! Ain’t nobody lost in Mississippi! You ax anybody and they will set y’all right.”

Truck running very sweet as we roll over hundreds of mile of country. It is mainly flat and forested with plenty of evidence of a darker past. Lots of shacks beside big mansions. Most of the towns proudly note the date they were burned down by General Grant. Many, many memorials to the glories of the Confederate army. However, I have only seen one Confederate flag; apparently going out of fashion. I see more churches than any other variety of wildlife.

I love the South. Easy to mock but they have something.

The Whooping Crane is one of the rarest birds in the USA.  A few hundred migrate down from Canada to the marshes around Rockport Texas. I am here to see them. I book a trip on a Whooping Crane boat but it is 3 days away. I spend this time on the incredible beaches of Mustang Island and Padre Island.

It is still cold when I get to Mustang Island State Park but the furnace is working and I am very snug.  The sand on these beaches is beautifully clean and has the consistency of fine salt.  The beach on Padre Island is 60 miles long! The weather perks up and a wonderful time is had. There are lots of birds.

I rush back to Rockport to see the crane. I eat at The Boiling Pot. The menu is variations on crab, sausage, shrimp, potatoes. These are simply boiled and then flung on the table accompanied by a big pot of melted butter.You attack with your hands. Amazing food! 

I get ready to leave.

“Sir, your meal has been paid for.”

“What?!”

“Yes sir, a gentleman wanted to get the tab for your food.”

“Where is he?!”

“ He left 10 minutes ago.”

What do you make of that?

We embark next morning for a 3 hour trip around the wetlands. Captain Tommy is vey knowledgeable. We see lots of cranes but they are pretty far away making photography difficult.

Great fun but nothing like Mexico birdwise.

Suddenly I find myself crossing over the Rio Grande into the USA. In Mexico it is hot but I can see a cold front rolling in from the North as I chat to the friendly but firm customs guy. By the time I get into Brownsville it is cold, raining and getting dark. I run for a motel.

I head North to Corpus Christi, hunting the Whooping Crane. I pull into a Denny’s for breakfast and beside the restaurant is Discount Tire shop.

The truck needs tenderness. Her tires are very worn and the exhaust system is hanging on by cable ties and USB cables.

“Sir, get yourself some breakfast and coffee. We will have new tires on your truck by the time you are finished.”

I love the US! I have a great breakfast and sure enough the truck is re-shod when I stroll back to Custom Tires.

I get to Corpus Christi and track down Flanagan’s Muffler Shop. It is in a wasteland of auto-shops, scrapyards, interlaced with roads that are as wide as most motorways in the rest of the world.

Dale, who is the boss, is very, very Texan, small, wiry and unshaven. He is completely on top of his job. He runs the truck onto the ramp and informs, ” Have to change out the muffler buddy. A lot of these young boys come to replace their mufflers for something loud. I got a stack of used mufflers for your truck out back. They are stainless steel and will last longer than you will buddy. I can put on one of those for $200 or I can get y’all a replacement part from Toyota but they are mild steel. They ain’t worth shit and will cost y’all more than twice as much.”

“Sorry buddy, the boys can’t do it tonight, we are kinda backed up.” It is 5:00 in the evening.

“OK, I guess I can find a hotel and come back tomorrow.”

” If y’all want, y’all can pull up the truck out back and sleep there. The boys can get right on it tomorrow morning.”

Dalemay have lots of guns and perhaps votes Trump but he is a hell of a guy. Like Gunga Din, I feel he is a better man than I. He has my total admiration.

Both the tires and muffler replacements were so, er, life enhancing. The truck is as fit as a weasel. Watch out Whooping Cranes!

I head off to find the Biosfera El Cielo, https://biosferaelcielo.com which is somewhere in North East Mexico. It is reputed to be a good place for birdies.

I drive for 2 days from Fresnillo over flat desert plains. It is a dull trip made worse by a ghastly 2 hours trying to find my way out of St Luis Potosi. However even the grimmest road journey in Mexico is made bright by the rows of stalls that line the road on the way into and out of anywhere. Tacos, birria, burritos, carnitas, fruit of every sort, cold fruit juice, coconuts, roasted maize, steak and kidney pie, etc, etc.

I finally get to the tiny town of Gomez Farias, outside of which there is a Centro Interpretivo. I mime that I would like to find a birdwatching guide. 10 minutes later Mario shows. He is fantastic and seemingly very excited that I am there. He is determined to show me the Altamira Yellowthroat, which is only found within a few miles radius of Gomez Farias. When I say found, it is a simplification. We spend hours snuffling around drainage ditches and after much diligence Mario finds a couple. They move very fast in amongst the reeds. This is birdwatching at its most obsessive!

I am exhausted but Mario has the bit between his teeth and off we go into the now night to search for owls.

Next day at 07:00, we are off again now accompanied by Esteban who is to be my guide over the next couple of days.

The first target is the amazing Great Currasow that wander out of the forest to feed early in the morning.

Esteban and I head into the mountains up a very, very rough road. We spend 3 days hammering up and down tiny mountain roads, all in terrible condition.

We make our way up to the tiny village of Alta Cima, Esteban’s home town.

A bird you have never seen before is called a ‘Lifer’ in birdwatching vernacular. I do not think there is a term for birds that you have not even heard of. During the 3 day trip I only see 2 species that I have previously met, the other 50 or so I have not only not met but indeed never heard of. It is truly amazing birding!

Anyway, I could go on like this for a very long time but you get the picture. Esteban and I spend 3 exhilarating and exhausting days in the mountains. He is a genius. I camp in his garden and his very funny wife cooks me breakfast; beans, eggs and tortillas, every morning. It is a very simple mud house.

Thank you Esteban. Thank you Mario. Thank you truck. What an adventure!

After a couple of weeks in the fleshpots of San Blas, the time has come to move on. I have to start moving northeast. My next major destination is the La Reserva de la Biosfera del Cielo, which is over there somewhere.

I like to take small roads and set off up on a tiny one over the mountains towards the city of Fresnillo.

We go from sea level to 3,000 meters on a very, very steep and very broken road. I am in first gear coming out of the hundreds of hairpins that lead us to the top.

The prospects are breathtaking for a hundred miles!

The road has been tarmac covered at some date but now is in very bad condition. We swerve and slalom around the 50 cm deep potholes that judder the truck painfully if hit. There is no one on this road. Not quite true as there is quite a lot of horsey traffic.

At one point, three police/military trucks come by. Each has a heavy caliber machine gun and carries six horribly be-weaponed young men. I waved and to my surprise they waved back!

Occasionally, a collection of wooden huts shows up. The inhabitants are Indian and dressed in bright colors. It is getting dark and I do not know where I am. Wonderful thing about the 4wheel camper is that you can peel off into the woods and set up camp at will. This I do.

After a peaceful night, I gently weave my way out of the mountains and end up in the city of Fresnillo.

Fresnillo is a nothing sort of place but has lots of interesting small shops.

The recent, let’s say the last 200 years, history of Mexico is complex. This is another way of saying I know very little about the recent history of Mexico. A guy in a bar told me that at one point of time the government made Christianity illegal.

I stumble into a non descript restaurant that is full of men with weathered faces, all wearing white cowboy hats, and women wearing highly colored skirts and shawls. They only serve variations on mutton stew. I get a rack of lamb chops for 150 pesos. So good!

So, I am in the middle of Mexico with no very clear idea of where I am going. It will become clearer with time.

Sorry folks, more birds and food. A recent commentator on this blog pointed out that it is only about birds, food and sailing. I had not spoken this person for 30 years or so. “Is this what your so promising life has become?” he asks.

Well yes, I suppose so but I feel no guilt.

I spend some days in the grounds of the glorious Hotel Paraiso el Miramar near San Blas. There are masses of birds and 4 fish restaurants on the beach about 5 minutes walk away.

I return to San Blas for a boat trip into the mangroves.

There are so many birds. This is definitely one of the great birdwatching excursions. Do it.

I go back to San Blas to eat carnitas tacos.

What a wonderful time I have had in San Blas but St Valentine’s Day is approaching so I have to get out of town.

San Blas is my principal Mexican destination and is about as far South as I will go. So many reasons to come here, sea , sun, food, people but I am here for birds.

I meet up with old compadre Jose Antonio.

We meet at 6:30 and go after esoteric species. The first day, our prey is birds that are impossible to see in wetlands.

Birdwatching with someone who knows what they are doing, rather than my own aimless stumbling around, is a joy. Antonio is very good and we see so many birds, few of which I managed to photograph well.

Next day we head up in to the mountains to ferret around in the abandoned coffee plantations.

Great fun to spend a couple of days with Cathy and Santiago. She skippers her own Annapolis 41!

This is what I like to do: watch birds and eat fish.

Now cured, the truck is frisky, she paws the ground, she wants a good gallop.

A two day drive to the coast. So beautiful; mountains, plains, huge distances, no traffic. The truck revels in her health. She swoops and glides down to Durango. At a roadblock, I give a heavily armed FBI agent, his words, $150 because I do not have a vehicle importation paper. Fair cop. I hope he buys his señorita a pretty dress.

The road from Durango to the coast is a classic. It cuts through mountains and deep gorges by means of probably hundreds of tunnels and extravagant viaducts. One of the great drives. Sorry, I didn’t take any photos.

I camp at Caimanero beach. Of course, there is a fish restaurant just a couple of minutes walk away.

Grey whales frolic just off the beach. Dolphins play games with the breaking waves.

I start on the short hop down to San Blas but am much delayed by the wildlife beside the road.

I have reached San Blas! It was give or take for a couple of days but the truck is running better than ever. A glorious future awaits!

Nothing for it but to light out to the territories and try and find a garage. The nearest reasonable town is Creel, which to my surprise is at 2,300 meters. It is a 4 hour drive.

The truck works just fine over 1,500 revs; below that the engine stops. We haul ourselves up the appalling zig zag road out of Urique.

Those who have travelled in Mexico will back my assertion that the biggest danger is Topes. We used to call these things sleeping policemen but the accepted term is speed bump. I prefer sleeping policemen. There are hundreds between Urique and Creel. At each the engine cuts out. Huge trucks roar their anger as I stop dead, right in front of them.

In Creel, with much help, I find a garage. Antonio stops what he is doing and does what he can. Unfortunately he does not have the magic wand that diagnoses and cures Toyotas. “Go to big city.” he says.

I am fairly depressed. I am usually quite good at fixing things but Engine Control Module is beyond me. I have to find the wizard with the wand.

It is a 2 day drive to Hidalgo del Parral. Holy cow! The landscapes are jaw dropping. I must stay on the main narrative, otherwise I will fill pages with the descriptions of the very varied country we amble through.

I find a hotel with WiFi and Google ‘Toyota garage Parral.’ ‘Go to Garage Campos!”

Not easy to get there in rush hour traffic, stalling truck, no idea of where I was going.

Edouardo says come back in an hour.

I look at a couple of very old churches. I think I have seen too many. I can only think about the truck.

“Everything is fine.” grins the excellent Edouardo.

Phew! What a relief. I am back in business. The truck feels more relieved than I after 3 days of illness.