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There's a certain Aura about Texas

May 10th, 2007

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The speed limit on Texas Highway 90 between San Antonio and Del Rio is a decent 75 mile per hour, about 120 in metric speed-speak. Sporadic traffic, a starlit night and a silky smooth Saturn Aura make it hard to remain legal, but I’m doing a reasonable job avoiding lurking Texan state troopers.

While I bask in motoring delight, Lisa wrestles guidebooks, maps and the cell phone hustling accommodations. We inadvertently arrived in the Lone Star State on one of those pesky American-only holiday weekends and it seems every room has been grabbed by the ‘plan-ahead’ set.

Our strategy is to spend a few days in southwest Texas visiting Big Bend National Park then paralleling a section of the Rio Grande river as part of a driving loop through Presidio and Marfa. I smoked through the area on the 1985 ‘Cannonball One Lap of America’ and always wanted to return at a less frantic pace.

But now, 21 years later, I’m reluctantly considering the Aura’s attributes as a camper. Then Lisa leans into the cell phone.

“Yes, u-huh, yes…” then something about an envelope taped to the door of the Chisos Gallery. When she mentions ‘keys in a birdhouse’, I know we’ve scored.

Two hours later we pull into Marathon, an hour north of Big Bend National Park. The town seems nothing more that a string of cute shops and the fully booked Gage Hotel that sounded so Texan-hip in the guidebook. We blow through town so I execute a crisp U-turn and spot the Chisos Gallery on the second pass.

Sure enough, an envelope is taped to the front door containing directions to the Captain Shepherd’s Inn on a side street around the corner. Creaky stairs lead to our room, a rambling affair with horsewhips and well-used leather chaps nailed to the wall. We’re the only guests.

In the morning I wake to the smell of coffee. The inn is ours and Lisa had found the kitchen. Pulling out of Marathon, we meet a tow truck hauling a dead camper van. An omen perhaps? We didn’t bring a tent and, although the snazzy interior of the North American Car of the Year was a welcoming place to spend the day, I didn’t care to revisit the thought of sleeping in it.

I spend the next hour working the six-speed steering wheel-mounted paddle shifters through the deserted hilly terrain. The folks at Saturn have certainly done their homework in the suspension department and at times it feels like I’m driving a high-priced European road sedan. It is quick, quiet, stable and comfortable.

We spend the afternoon staring at Mexico across the meandering Rio Grande River. Then we motor to Study Butte, where the Chisos Mining Company Motel sounded like the place to be. But speedy Deena behind the desk drawled the news that rooms had been gobbled up long ago.

We head north; dejected we couldn’t stay at a place with tin coyotes on the roof. One of the most beautiful areas in the southern U.S. and we’ll probably end up in a far-off Super 8 motel.

Ten minutes later we hesitantly investigate cabins at Wildhorse Station and are greeted by Baby Girl, a greying overweight Chihuahua whose bark melts to whimper as she presses into Lisa’s neck rub. There’s been a cancellation and we soon find ourselves perched on the porch of a tidy mobile home. Not what we expected, but plenty of laughs as we tune in two barely visible television channels. I pass on The Price is Right and wash the car.

I’m absolutely at home. Who cares about fine inns and fancy resorts? Life is right in this mountainside trailer park in Study Butte. We’re asleep well before midnight.

“I guess it’s too much to ask for an iron in here?” Lisa’s mutter wakes me on another stunning, cloudless morning.

We drive south to Lajitas for breakfast and then follow the Rio Grande northwest to Presidio; regarded as one of the most beautiful drives in the United States. We stop and cool our feet in the river. Mexico is a stone’s throw away.

That afternoon we visit the Marfa Lights observation centre and read about mysterious night lights that have been spotted in the area since 1883. Some think they’re UFOs, others are convinced they’re marsh gasses or lunar reflections off crystal deposits in the desert mountains sprawling the horizon.

Another theory is car lights on distant mountain roads. Probably more of them on those pesky American-only long weekends when the likes of us are pounding the pavement rummaging for a place to stay.

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