Originally released for publication March 23, 2005
(c) 2005 by Steve Martaindale
Feeling squeezed in? Thinking there’s not enough room to stretch out? Tired of listening to someone else’s music? Having trouble remembering how many of the neighborhood kids are yours because of how they all come and go?
Rest assured that there remain plenty of wide-open spaces, that not the whole world is an urban jungle. However, being aware of such a truth is not the same as seeing it.
In order to escape the spring break crush here on the beach, Leah and I slipped away for a few days last week. We picked a spot on the map we had not visited and plotted a circuitous course covering parts of South Texas we wanted to see.
First was the drive south on U.S. 77, which from Kingsville to Raymondville cuts through the 825,000-acre King Ranch. Maybe it was because we’ve made that drive many times or maybe it was because of the four-lane, divided highway with a wide right-of-way and lots of traffic, but there was no particularly strong impression.
However, after a brief stay in Port Mansfield, we headed west through Raymondville, mostly on farm-to-market roads, making our way through little communities that sported nothing more than a handful of houses and a road sign.
Between such blips on the map was an incredible amount of nothingness. Or what seemed to be nothingness.
Actually, we knew that much hides behind the miles and miles of fences and among the almost unbelievable amount of cactus and mesquite. Those and various other spiked and razor-edged vegetation are so thick one wonders how wildlife or cattle can get around.
HIDDEN TREASURES
We knew that deer, game fowl, javelina, rattlesnakes and the like lived throughout the area. We could see oil and gas wells. Roads regularly tracked off into the brush, leaving no indication to what they might lead. Many of those roads began with gates ranging from simplistic to elegant. It occurred to us that a customized gate was the best way for the ranch owner to assert his or her identity, since most passersby would never see the house.
After each such break in the routine, we would quickly return to more views of cactus and mesquite and mesquite and cactus, highlighted with a variety of wild flowers.
And on it went.
The view was no surprise; we knew what to expect. One can tell by looking at a road map that nothingness is king.
Take Jim Hogg County. It covers 1,136 square miles, slightly larger than Rhode Island, but the map shows only three state highways, emanating in five directions from the county seat of Hebbronville, and only four farm-to-market roads. Total length of the seven roads within Jim Hogg County is about 145 miles. That means there is a lot of white space on the map.
Additionally, the index tells us that the 2000 census counted 5,281 people in the county and that 4,498 of them were in the county seat, leaving 783 people scattered over the bulk of 727,000 acres.
Yes, one can learn all that from reference materials, but the soul cannot relate to it nearly as well as actually driving through all of the nothingness.
I cannot help but think about those who traveled such country before there were roads. The brush is intimidating to the point of making it difficult to believe that people would take off on horseback or afoot, not knowing how long it would last or even if it might get worse.
That is why the Brush Country is so awe-inspiring still today, because it has repelled most attempts to tame it and convert it to “civilized” land.
Those of us who occasionally feel squeezed in and have a need to stretch out hope the cactus and mesquite continue to hold their ground.
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(c) 2005 by Steve Martaindale
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