Enchanted Rock and Carlsbad, NM

A mother and daughter inspect fairy shrimp atop Enchanted Rock.

Fredericksburg, Texas:

Enchanted Rock State Natural Area was never a casual topic.

When the brag-worthy batholith was mentioned in conversation, folks couldn't quiet their praises.

Sure, of course I'd stop at the big granite dome once it crossed my route.

I was all set to visit- but my car had to make it there first.

-And that finicky Ford had other plans.

Chartreuse was being a real sweet, stalling stinker once I made it out of Austin, TX. 

I changed her oil, checked her fluids, replaced her spark plugs and drove her like a 20/20-visioned grandmother who never pushed the gas pedal too hard, but she didn't care. 

I still knew how to woo her. I'd shut her off, cool her down, give her some steering wheel kisses and bribe her with future-fuel promises. She'd start rolling, sort of.

After a bit of panic, I stopped at a gas station and the attendant reassured me that her "Check engine soon" light meant nothing urgent until it turned red.

It was orange. 

I drove to Fredericksburg and got much needed coffee from Greater Grace Coffee House and let Charty have a break. 

Andy White, owner of Greater Grace Coffeeshop, proudly sipping his coffee.

Inside, the cafe seemed less of a shop and more of a house. 

To make a long rant short, it was a phenomenal Christian mission home that also fronted as a cafe. They helped the community and kept the seniors fed for free. When I went, Andy White, the owner, explained the operations of the center while perfecting a maple syrup mocha.

I high-fived his commitment to his community and took my cup to-go.

Reaching the Enchanted Rock trailhead at last

the dome looked huge. It looked steep. It looked appropriately enchanting. 

The park ranger recommended I join the all-woman's hike at 9am and I hopped to the gazebo to find Rose, the guide. 

There she was, rosy cheeked and bright eyed, shaking my hand with a warm welcome.

We had a small group, namely just her, Megan and I, and she suggested we take the long route around the park.

Rose Ellis, our trail volunteer, pointing to plants in the vernal pools. 

She educated us on Nopalito cacti paddles, showing which fresh specimens were tastiest. She then swiped a bit of white gook from the plant, sharing that the red dye was cochineal beetle's juice and was once used to dye traditional Asian silks and Starbucks strawberry fraps. So much for vegan coffee.

She said there were vernal pools atop the dome that looked like steps. According to folklore, natives believed the pools were formed from footsteps of tormented souls, forever forced to walk the same path along the dome's summit. 

It wouldn't be so bad, walking along enchanted peaks forever. They had a good view. 

Little Dome's slab layers sliding down the granite over time. 

Rose then pointed out a set of slabs slipping down another batholith, Little Dome, next to Enchanted Rock. She said the sliding slabs exemplified the crumbling erosion from rain over time. The granite stayed busy.

And noisy- it heated in summer and made creeks at night as the rock cooled. People claimed to hear the rock growl on July nights. 

When we made it around the rock and back to the gazebo, our stomaches all growling, Rose bid the three of us adieu but insisted we contact her if we made our way back to the area again. We all exchanged numbers after talking about our separate sets of excursions.

"If you want to stay over tonight, June, let me know," she said in a voice like a long-lost, never-introduced aunt. 

"You can do your laundry and what not."

Albeit my heart melted and my humility hit new heights, I could't accept her offer, for I had my intentions set on reaching Carlsbad, NM. Enchanted Rock was merely a sweet pit stop. 

Carlsbad, New Mexico and the Carlsbad Caverns National Park: 

Stalagmites drip from the cavern ceilings in Carlsbad Cavern.

The drive to Carlsbad went less than leisurely. 

With the acceleration taking an eon to reach 60 mph, you might imagine my 6 hour drive took a bit longer than anticipated. Once I reached town, no vacant campgrounds remained.

I had zero desire to sleep in a Walmart parking lot that night.

Shamelessly, I stole WiFi from McDonalds, clicked into Couchsurfing and desperately sent requests to every host within the search engine's reach.

Two got back to me. One had a sick child. I was sick to my stomach. I dreaded the second email.

What if it said no as well? I held my breath. 

It was a confirmation message. 

I had a place!

Matt Boin, a beard rocking, fly-fishing outdoor-man had a couch I could crash on- so long as I didn't mind spending an evening hanging with another group of couch surfers staying over. 

I didn't give a damn, I was thrilled.

He gave me the tour- orange walled living room with nature photos, kitchen with kombucha brewing, bathroom with a double shower head, shelf with outdoor guide books. This guy was not like the rest of Carlsbad- he was a slice of Boulder, Colorado. 

All the couch surfers were dudes on spring break from Boulder, CO and learned he was from there. They were headed to the caverns in the morning and let me join them on their excursion. 

Eric, John and Sean were their names. 

They crashed in the guest bedroom after some pleasantries and party stories and we left for the park in the morning.

Eric, John, Sean and I outside of the Carlsbad Cavern.

 The cavern was 80 stories down. It was cathedral after cathedral of spectacular. It was absolutely futile to capture on film.

Diagram of Carlsbad Caverns, curtesy of Card Cow.

When we reached the natural entrance, we smelled an overwhelming aroma of bat crap.
A kid behind us shoved their sibling saying they farted.
The bats gossiped, echoing with every squeak. I couldn't help but think of how loud a fart would've been. We would've all known if that kid made a butt squeak.
Anyhow, the sounds of bats vanished the deeper we went and our night vision kicked in after a while.

 Then the cave grew vast. We could see all the limestone that dissolved from sulfuric acid and shaped into thousands of stalactite ceilings and stalagmite ground mounds. The features in Carlsbad dated back before the last Ice Age. We were walking through ancient earth and it felt pretty dang cool.

Every switchback exposed another angle of the endless, timeless towers. The canopies made me dizzy to look up and down at, and they only got bigger the farther we went.

As we made our way down, we crossed paths with the sweaty folks breathlessly making their trek back up. The elevator was broken. We were fated to walk right back up those 80 stories we so easily traversed down. We were adventurers, we didn't need an elevator.

Moving deeper, we reached the Big Room where the ceilings peaked at 255 feet, looking over a chamber 4,000 feet across. Numbers didn't do it justice, we felt remarkably small.

By the time we came out, the daylight burnt our eyes and the sun's forgotten heat stung our skin.
Our adventures as a pack were through, and we exchanged sweaty hugs before heading our separate ways.

To Corinne in Taos I roamed.

Abandoned bus on Highway 285 North.

Austin, TX: Part Two

Different kites soaring at Zilker Park during the Kite Festival. 

A Week with Statler and the Band:  

Not many people are willing to drop obligations and comforts and drive toward some unfamiliar town in Texas for a week. 
But then again, not many people are Statler Gause.

We chatted on the phone about the endless joys of Austin and after about a half hour, he concluded the conversation with
"Let me check with the bandmates, but I bet we could leave tomorrow and be there in time for the kite festival."
We would lay down vocals and a bass track for some songs.
Because of such news, I would plan to stay in Austin, TX another week. 

Fast-forward two days and Statler found me under the tangling skyscape of kites.

Zilker Park Kite Festival: 

There were butterfly kites, airplane kites, homemade half-working kites, you name it.
I saw one with the Millennium Falcon then a hundred with H-E-B (the local grocer) on them.
Parents were patiently giving their toddlers kite-flying tutorials. First dates were tangled in fallen-kite strings, laughing, unraveling. Misbehaved dogs were chasing low fliers, making snacks of them.

Upwards of 20,000 people crowded Zilker park, all exuberant, absorbed in the activity.

Festival attendee jumping around at Zilker Park.

Back in the day, Blue found a huge canary kite and insisted we hang it inside. 
Never did we fly it, but always, it flew from the same corner of the living room, staring down as we watched Amazing Race over breakfast.

Now, all the kites were staring down at me from Austin skies.

Statler and I explored the festival before making way to McKinley Falls campground.
Keenan and Tony beat us to the campsite and settled in. Blue would've gotten a kick out of these kids. 

We sat on coolers and suitcases and wet earth singing Bright Eyes and our songs around the fire. Then when we needed wood, Statler and I traveled to fetch some. 
Vick, sitting in his front yard next to a handwritten "Firewood Here" sign, waved us into his yard.
He gave us two extra mesquite bundles because he was nice and thought we were too. 
He told us kindly to come on back if we needed some more wood tomorrow.
We needed more than just wood tomorrow.

McKinley booked up before we could snatch a spot so we came back to Vick with a six-pack and asked to camp on his lot for the night.
He said sure, "but sign these liability forms, I don't want any trouble."

Then we were camping at the firewood guy's front yard, right up the hill behind the fortress of maple, mesquite, oak and pine.

We marked our plots then snuck back into the new-moonlit McKinley falls.
It was a pretty warm night and we intended to swim and steal campground showers.
Down we climbed, tossing our shoes and overclothes into the limestone boulders and went in. There was no use wading into the water from the gravel beach. We had to dive, it was damn cold.

Dark was the water, heavy was the waterfall,
glowing were the rocks, treading were our submerged legs.
We swam and floated and showered and left.

The next morning, our stomaches ached for Austin cuisine.
(Without rambling on our day-to-day particulars, try these.)

Austin Food Recommendations: 
Bouldin Creek Cafe- Here, we learned from a hot sauce bottle that yellow birds have crazy heat-tolerance for peppers. We didn't, and we sweat like wild animals. It was delicious. Try their Renedict and their huge breakfast tacos.

Mellizos Food Truck- Fried avocado tacos, portabello tacos, veggie tortas and unique salsa sauces made from Mexican-cuisine magic reside here. It's even got that Jarritos that Tony's obsessed with. 

Rio Rita's Coffee shop and Bar- The place local Evan Ralston calls his " caffeinated, creative, kooky, all-in-one space" where "awesome things just trip over you". Their lavender lemonade's killer, their infused liquors are banging and their hangover salad in a glass (Bloody Mary) makes a perfect "breakfast for Champions". They also have a crap ton of mismatched velvety sofas and and David Bowie paintings and "Arts and Drafts" nights.

Trailer Treasure Food Truck- Addictive shark kebabs with crickets and house-made pita. Enough said. They're ungodly good. Also, the folks who work their might as well be improv-comedy acts that feel the need to talk like pirates. It's an experience. You should experience it.

Daruma Ramen- I'll never look at my college years the same. If only I knew you could make ramen not taste like sadness and MSG- these guys melted my tastebuds with their veggie ramen topped with a soft boiled egg. They're a tiny little joint on dirty 6th, but their worth the walk through drunkies to reach there for dinner time.


Stormy Pace's Peak:
The next night, we stayed at Pace's Peak.
And by we, I mean
only
we
stayed there.

The cliffs next to our campsite at Pace's Bend. 

The park was completely abandoned, eerily vacant, when we pulled in at sunset.
We didn't think a storm would intrude on our good times or potentially cause flash floods or create any real consequence.

We just saw a couple of clouds and set up camp by the bluffs at sunset.
Then a couple of clouds turned to twenty and those clouds turned into a thick blankets of neon lightning.
That turned into a very, very closerange firework show which shook the cliffs we huddled on. We ran for shelter.

Inside the whisking tent, we set up our flashlight chandelier and listened to the deluge.
The echo of every raindrop amplified off the white, angry waves below.
We sang songs inside the dripping shelter before Statler hushed my ukulele verse.
"Shh, did you hear that?"
That? Oh, that low, sinister growl that sounded right next to our tent?
Yeah, I heard that.
It was close and we huddled closer.
Our tent wouldn't do much in the way of stopping a predator.
I mean, even the three pigs had a better chance than us, 
at least they chose something thicker than nylon.
No huffing would be required to blow our house down.
Maybe a pounce.

We pretended it was our imaginations, albeit we knew better,
and we made it to morning unscathed but perpetually paranoid.

Blue Bonnets, the Texas state flower, growing outside of Pace's Bend.

Finding Home with the Darwin's Pub and Once Over Coffee Bar Folks:

No longer yearning for drippy tents or soggy sleeping bags, 

the four of us sought real shelter.

House 1:
With no luck finding vacancy through local hostels or Couchsurfers, Keenan suggested we stay with Leandra, a bartending friend he'd met and sought quality time with anyhow. 

Leandra was the type of charming, intuitive lady that brought a sense of welcome with every syllable. We stayed at her home for the night but needed another place for the night after, since she worked.

Live music at Darwin's Pub on 6th Street.

No one wanted to host a car full of travelers.
We spent hours looking for a place while sipping caffeine at Once Over Coffee Bar.
There was no way we would camp since weather called for rain every day.

The hostels were booked and the Couchsurfers were unresponsive. It was South by Southwest (SXSW) and the city was crammed with extra bodies.
By time Once Over Cafe got to closing, Vinnie the down-to-earth barista got to wondering if we'd found anything.
Still, no.
He texted his roommate Lacey last-minute and asked if she'd mind guests- she said she wouldn't.

House 2:
We miraculously found a place! Vinnie was our knight in house-key-carrying armor.
We talked music and travels, read Allen Ginsburg, accidentally soaked our socks on the rainy patio-rug and crashed hard into their squishy couches. He was the type of laid back gent that knew all the open-mic nights, authentic communication meetings, slam poetry evenings and park benches to sit on.

In the morning, I woke before the boys (as per usual) and free-wrote verses with Vinnie over coffee. We were morning people, we weren't so different.
Everyone woke hungry and we took it upon ourselves to find Wheatsville Co-op ingredients. Banana pancakes!
Lacey whisked up some insane lemon-zest-and-leek eggs while I broiled some bacon and helped whip up a damn indulgent breakfast. They were incredible hosts, sure, but they were definitely new friends by the last bite.
We couldn't stay another night, but thanks to Darwin's, that was alright.

House 3:
We went to Darwin's Pub to visit Leandra and made friends with Travis and Scott, two fellow Darwinians. Scott was a track running, mustache growing,  Spartan-kicking doorman and Travis was a Japanese speaking, guitar strumming, dad-joke mastering drink slinger. They were grand company. They lived roughly 20 minutes north and invited us to stay.

We spent our last night as a unit playing ping-pong and dice over killer 4am barbecue Scott grilled up. The company couldn't have made for a better concluding evening and at last,
the sporadic week in Austin was coming to a close.
Dead is the Cat had to go home to Florida.
They left that afternoon,

but I soon decided to stay an extra day- to experience some SXSW madness.
I really wanted to get to know Travis and Scott and Leandra and Vinnie better anyhow.
Then that "one extra day" turned into an entire dance-filled lovely week.

Live-music echoed from every bar, free stuff swarmed out of each vendor, drinks doused through my thirsty throat and everything was crammed with drunkie-filled goodness.

Af the festival, I learned about Alpha Rev, Down and Outlaws, the Accidentals, Wolfmother and endless other jives, if you feel the need to learn some new tunes.
The week was dancey. It was sweaty. It was loud. It was hard to leave.

And my car didn't want to leave either, apparently.

Travis, hero-of-all-things-mechanical, saved the day by changing Chartreuse's spark plugs.  

After I finally got the nerve to drive west, Chartreuse my Silver Fox Ford decided to stall out.
With no way of leaving, I stayed until Travis got out his power tools and gave Charty a bit of bribing- namely, replaced some spark plugs and wires.
With her engine running supposedly smoothly, I set out for Carlsbad Caverns and gave Austin a sionara for now.

Austin, TX: Part One

Austin, TX: The Home of Lone Star Beers, Prickly Pears, and Constant Music for your Ears

Bed one was a 4AM blow-up mattress pad,

Bed two, a HI Austin hostel bunk with a lady who nibbled my sandwiches.

Bed three was a Drifting Jack's co-ed bunk 

and bed four was Ferny's Prius.

Day One: Cheer Up Charlie's  Summer Salt show

I hadn't met Evan and Aasiyah, the bridge engineers, prior to sleeping in their living room.
They were friends through a mutual friend, Xander, and I'd crash on their mattress pad as I got my bearings in the city.
It was a Friday night when I arrived and everyone was about to see a show-

Their living room's floor space was swallowed by folks sitting and standing, ready to dance.
We played the "Tell us your name and a fun fact about you" game when I entered.
I was June with a goal to eat every edible fruit listed on the long Wiki page of produce.
Danny was the snowboarder, Evelyn the traveler, Cameron the biker and so on.
We made our introductions, drank our Shiners and Lone Stars, then crammed into vehicles.

Inside Cheer Up Charlies, the bartender sported menu options such as
The Golden Ticket: whiskey, kombucha, ginger and lavender
Rosie Cheek: vodka, watermelon, rosewater and raspberry
Spicy Cuban: Rum, mango, elder flower and habanero
and
Kale and ginger margaritas.
Cheeky. Tasty. 

The venue was painted in spacey geometrical patterns and rocked a disco ball. Inside, Aasiyah and Evan swayed to the music while the rest of our group mingled in the crowd. They had the ambiance of a dive bar catered to quirky, music-obsessed locals. 
Live music, I'd come to find, was a non-stop ordeal in Austin, TX.

We danced this venue then that and ended up at Barbarella's where everyone wrapped arms in a group hug to sway with the last song, "Don't Stop Believing". The bar was jam-packed with stilettos, sweaty club clothes and weathered bar booths. The house lights came on and everyone herded out the door.

That was night one.

Day Two:  Pedernales Falls State Park

Daylight peered in after only 3 hours of rest, but we had a hike to do.
Pedernales called, and Shari, Aaisyah, Evan, Nick and Trey strove to trek its limestone pools and falls before the light faded once more.

A winding drive in, a rocky hike out, a slippery step through and a shady rock within the park entertained our senses. We stopped in our tracks once or thrice, hopping wet rocks until they led often only to dead-end currents.
At the day's end, we found a hike to a 3-mile summit.
The sun yellowed everything it touched, and at sunset, we sat atop the Pedernales peak and breathed the four winds in.

Man and his best friend atop Perdaneles' trails 

Day Two: Greenbelt and Hi Austin Hostel

The Barton Creek Greenbelt consisted of 7.8 miles of limestone bluffs, trickling creeks, freshly-drenched dogs, kids learning how to swim and exceptional amounts of greenery.
Tree roots grew exposed under the waterline, rocks bleached in the sun, cacti pricked along the trail, and climbers clinked to rock faces on cliffs.

It was pretty spectacular.

Cacti growing on the Greenbelt

I made my way through the brush, taking note of the limestone caves and creek bed rocks. Plenty of runners huffed past me and countless dogs sniffed my ankles, but for the most part I was meditating alone through the trail. It was nice, the quiet surrounding me.
I thought about the change in landscape from home.
Nothing in Florida or Carolina matched this.
With blue bonnets, the state flower, springing up in every grassy meadow, the Texas here wasn't the desert I expected. It was lively, it was thorny, it was Western.
Nature created a spectacular art piece, but I wanted to see the art the people of Austin made as well.
Hence, I visited Graffitti Park.

Graffiti walls at HOPE park

Atop Castle Hill, Graffiti Park resides where building foundations long forgotten have transformed into a concentrated free-expression zone.

Trash cans overflow with empty spray paint as artists perfect their line weight and surrounding bushes caught stray mists of color and took on new, vibrant identities. Youngsters shook their first cans of color, pondering the impossible task of picking just one thing at a time to paint.

Little guy learning how to spray his first tags

I met a mother and her son playing with spray bottles. When I asked for a picture, she said,
"He's going to grow up and be an artist." It was his first tag.

I left the Graffiti Park and soon found art in the architecture. It was sunset and the city lit up.
With my Magnolia Cafe Love Veggies dinner to-go in hand, I put my tripod to use on the Lakeshore trail and I snapped a skyline reminder between bites. That food swarmed with delicious seasonings.
This city buzzed with glowing delightfulness.
It was the home I wanted and it was the home I would make mine- eventually.

The view of Austin from Hi Austin Hostel's backyard

That night, I stayed at the ultra-clean, super organized Hi Austin Hostel.
Inside, a duo of British blokes named Jack and Jack gave my ukulele a go while a set of sweet, coy ladies lolled around in the kitchen munching the free, fresh bread.

The sweet, coy ladies became less timid as I made a sandwich.
Not only did they become friendly, they got hungry.

Lauren, the quirky Colorado native, told me my peanut butter apple sandwich looked glorious.
She simply must have a bite.
Upon cutting her a piece and witnessing her chew it, she picked up my sandwich's entire other half and seized it. Fine. I carried on. She had no intention of giving that half back.
"Do you have napkins?" she asked. No, I had no napkins.
"Could you get me one?" No, I, yes, okay fine, I got her a napkin and finished my sandwich outside.

I talked to the glorious hostel host, Nick, who shared wisdoms of events happening the next day.
Chicken shit bingo, he said, was happening the next afternoon.
Chicken shit bingo, eh? I'd give it a go.

Day Three: Chicken Shit Bingo, Bats and Dirty 6th Street

Sunday means chicken shit bingo. Chicken shit bingo means exactly what its title implies.
It means C Boys Heart & Soul Bar, with its forever-Christmas lights and Mardi Gras beads, hosts an afternoon with a bunch of chickens pooping on a Bingo board.
Live music plays and folks chase a lady with a burlap bag, trying to buy raffle tickets for a chance to win money.
I traded two bucks for a red ticket with a "25" written on it but Loretta, the chicken who was up, ate all the grains on 41 and pooped there instead. Bummer.
A flock of other chickens, one at a time, took Loretta's place and I lacked the gambling craving to buy more goes.
"The suspense kills," a man in a Harley Davidson shirt yelled, waiting.
It pooped. A guy named Michael won.
"Michael, quit your job! You just won chicken shit bingo," the front man of the band announced.
I quit hanging around the poop and got some fresh air.
Besides, I had bat poop to avoid soon enough at sunset.

Onlookers witnessing Chicken Shit Bingo at C Boys Heart & Soul Bar

Around 45 minutes before daylight ceases, countless bats at Statesman's Observation Center flew from under the South Congress Bridge in order to eat the sky's buffet of bugs. Before they came out, the bats chirped in waves, waking their cousins and friends until finally the chirps turned into a loud assembly of ready wings as a crowd formed by the water.

When I went, a man with an ice-cream cart hustled through the grass, offering sweet treats to onlookers.
Kids ran circles around their sitting parents.
"Is it sunset yet, is it sunset yet?" a little blond boy with glasses kept asking, tugging on his mom's shirt.
It was almost time, but not quite. The bats, responsible for pollinating agave, banana, cloves and durian, among other plants, had stage fright. They wanted to wait until it was barely daytime. The kids would have to wait.
While kids practiced patience, sort of, a mime kept waving at us from atop the bridge.
He made charade motions with his bat-hat implying we were going to get pooped on.
We didn't.
We watched from the river, a far better view in my opinion than from the bridge.

Bats coming out from under the South Congress bridge at sunset

When the view faded, it was high time for me to find my second hostel, Drifter Jacks.

Outside, they had murals on every wall. A pool table beckoned me along the AstroTurf patio area. The staircase lead me into a hallway with Jack Kerouac quotes and music blasting from a mini-speaker. 

Shay was the hostel hostess. Shay was the queen-of-cool. Shay wiggled her shoulders to the music, waiting for my reservation to go through as she told me they gave everyone over 21 a pin for free drinks next door, one-per-person, every night. This was my cup of tea. This was my kind of jam. 

The outside of Drifter Jack's Hostel, photo courtesy of Trip Advisor

Shay said the only rooms available for the night were co-ed. I hadn't ever tried out a co-ed bunk room, but it was my only option so I obliged. Coy upon entering, I noticed a gentleman sorting through his bags. I was going to use the bathroom to change, but another guy was manning the facilities. As I looked at the names on the bunks and no girls names stood out but mine. 

A moment passed and I asked the German guy Ralph if perhaps he wouldn't mind stepping out for just a moment so I could change.

"I don't mind girls changing in front of me," he responded. 

I felt a little odd about how he said it, so I bought some time sorting through my things. Eventually, I just changed swim-team style, putting my new clothes atop old garments and wiggling out of the bottom layer. He laughed at me and I squirmed my last sock on, power walking to the common room.

The Australian flight attendant, Amba, invited me out to drink with the boys.

She met me by the sofa and introduced herself along with her reason for lingering in Austin. She had a 72-hour layover from Houston. Carl was from the UK on a wanderlust excursion. Tommy, the Italian dancing machine, was taking a weekend away from opening a Dallas restaurant. Luke was supposed to be in Austin with his lady friend, but she missed her flight.  We were all to be hostel comrades. We were all to be at The Highball for Motown and swing dancing. 

We would all end up at dirty 6th street for dive bar hopping and dance move competing. 

8 miles of walking later, poor Amba in her heels took a victorious last step up the hostel stairs, she threw her shoes off and concluded the night a success. We team-breaked and hit the bunks. 

Tomorrow we would see Hamilton Pool. Well, all of us but Carl, who would stay up the rest of the night to leave for a 4AM flight. He brewed a coffee and we bid him adieu.

What a sad thing, hostel goodbyes are- never knowing if you'll ever see those faces again.

At least I'd see 3/4ths of them tomorrow.

"In bocca al lupo," Tommy bid Carl. Italian for good luck, he said.

Day Four: Hamilton Pool with the Hostel Kids

Amba, Tommy, Luke and I in the truck toward Hamilton Pool

After an hour of driving, the entrance sign read: NO SWIMMING TODAY DUE TO UNSAFE BACTERIA LEVELS and Luke, the driver, bit his lip.

He looked at his towel and shrugged. 

We all tucked our swim stuff back into the backseat and found our way to the collapsed underground river dome. It was a swimming hole with a 50-foot waterfall within a canyon area, formed from erosion.

The swimming hole of Hamilton Pool

With little regard to the signs, Luke doused in its stream and came out smiling like he'd successfully stolen a cookie before dinner. Satisfaction was in his eyes.
Soon enough, Spider House Cafe slam poetry would find its way into his ears.

That night, the sequin-toupee hostess riled up the crowd with hints of the "New Shit Night" slam.
Everything we would hear onstage was never heard before. The poets competed for a first place Benjamin-bill prize.

Danny Trail started off the night,

"My cat Franny is at war with everything. She pees on everything. She reminds me of America. We need to stop pissing on everything. May conservatives turn into conservationists."

 The red lit stage housed a flying golden cupid, poised as if waiting to high five the contestants. The hostess read terrible Tinder first lines while performers entered and left the stage. A drunk poet came up to the mic. He slurred something about the government and Lone Star Beers creating conspiracies.
The judges ranked his piece a 6.7 out of 10.

We left with stanzas poured into our bloodstreams and chatted about philosophies until sleep called.

Tomorrow would be a big day. I had to ready my pulse to pick up hammers.
Tomorrow I would build houses with Habitats for Humanities.

Day Five: Habitats for Humanities and Making Habitats out of Prius Hatchbacks

Mark, a 17-year-old volunteer, nails a roof with Habitats for Humanities

I'd never nailed sidings to a house, trusted scaffolding or really ever touched a power tool with confidence. Mostly, that's because I'd never worked for Habitats for Humanities. Phil and Nate, the organizers, showed me the ropes while Steve gave me patient instructions on how to properly use a hand saw.

I signed my waiver and noticed a kid on the roof. He had no fear climbing the wobbly ladders to the bird's eye view of the house. He sat Michelangelo-angled-hammering onto the roof shingles.

The sun was beaming, the heat was scorching, the Texas wind was unfriendly. Everyone was sweating, meeting occasionally by the big orange water cooler. 

This team was working on 6 houses simultaneously from the ground up and there was plenty of work to be done.

Their mission was to eliminate the cycle of poverty by creating affordable houses through sweat equity. Home owners of HFH houses had to put a down payment of 300 work hours into any given organization project. They could either help build their or their neighbors homes or they could work at the Re-Store where just about anyone could buy pieces for building projects at an a low price, hence, on the work site, a few future home owners worked away with us.

For four years I'd meant to work with Habitats for Humanities.

I probably wouldn't have gone still if not for Blue's and my road trip.

Albeit she couldn't hammer away or novicely saw wood with me, she was in the air doing some witnessing, keeping her eye out for all those loose nails (which were plentiful). 

Measure, chalk, chop. Measure, chalk, chop. I was getting the hang of it. Before long, my safety goggles and I were covered in saw dust and sweat and it was the end of the day.

Kabi and I wrapped a bunch of wires and handed them to the boys on the truck.

Mark got off the roof and monkeyed down the scaffolding. 

We were all tired and our work day was done.

 Shiferaw, Phil and Nate loading up the truck at the days end

Now, the question of the night arose. 

Ferny, with her love for all things minimalist, contemplated ditching the hostel to save a wad of cash. Ditching meant more money for strawberry milk and Whole Foods miscellaneousness.

Ferny took the last bite of food-truck rice and said we should go for it.

She introduced me to her hatchback, lovingly named Morismo- mystery in Spanish, and we got in.

She had the set-up mastered. 

Her bags were tucked behind the driver's seat and her yoga mat spread out on her folded down seats. 

There was definitely room for two.

As long as both of those two were about 4'2.

Which we weren't, but we sure perfected the Tetris-squish.

We squeezed in and made our diagonal way into a comfortable spot. 

She handed me a black opaque curtain with Velcro and informed me of how to attach it to the ceiling.

We stuck the curtains in a long square and fit compactly inside the now-private backseat. 

Mission success. 

We parked our cars close together on a residential block where a fence separated our car from our new neighbors' vantage point. I climbed into her backseat and we talked about fasting.

In the morning, with our flowery tree covered view of the block, we woke to a sunny disposition and a decision to seize the day with fasting and yoga at the park.

Our Prius motel's morning view from the hatchback window

To Mueller's Lake Park we roamed.

We binged on water and sun salutation stretches, 

talked to Whole Foods folks about the best ways to break a fast

and made our way back to the Prius the next night.

For the next 4 days, the Prius was our free motel. 

She said she hadn't slept in that thing since Portland,

Portland be damned, we were making it her home once more, and I was stoked to be her guest.