The Vacation Rental

Storms and warnings of flash floods have dogged us for three days. Still, I remind myself, we are here for a reason—to see the Caverns of Sonora.  But I am just not sure I can do this.  All I see is a slick of water that has blown into the gray-stone vacation rental, pooling on the living room floor. 

All I can think about is thunder and lightning and the one-and-a-half miles of tortured caliche road with two gates and two cattle guards and pits and dips and soft sludge and standing water and our low slung car and more rain in the forecast and the potential for getting stuck and no bars on my phone and no 4G’s and total isolation. 

My paranoia wins.  I tell our hostess who is tidying the house in anticipation of our arrival, “I can’t do this.”

Walking to our mud splattered car, I tell Michael, “I can’t do this.”

The Resort

Apparently, there are other options.

We retrace the tortured path we previously drove down and head to the main lodge area.  We have our pick of cabins. No one else has booked anything for this Monday night in April. However, an unfamiliar, deserted resort on a day full of gloom laden clouds, with threats of heavy rain in the forecast, is not a comforting place to be. Images of the Bates Motel and Psycho and every scary Stephen King novel that has ever been written haunt each step we take.

Cabin number 5 was recommended. I open the door and close it just as quickly.  I can’t sleep here, I’d be depressed all night long. It is depressing.  Shabby bedding.  No kitchen.  Barely a window to let the light in.

I check cabin number three.  No better. 

I open the door to cabin number four. I might, just might, be able to sleep here. This room looks half-way happy.  But this is not what I paid for—wished for.  I wanted a house with a kitchen and a living room—not a bed in a shack. I paid for a house.  Michael tells me I have become uppity in my old age.  Maybe.

We are told the community kitchen in the main lodge—rustic personified with its unstained plywood walls decorated with all things Texas—is ours to use and that no one will bother us since we are the only guests in residence.  There are comfortable chairs and a TV.  But our sleeping quarters are down a very dark, dimly lit path. At the moment the lodge has been invaded by the management and cleaning help, so I start casting around in my memory bank for something to occupy our time.

A Drive to Eldorado

“Michael, let’s go for a ride. We can drive to Eldorado and look at the courthouse where I saw the Monarchs.” 

Twelve years ago, I think. I’m not really sure.  But I remember the day—walking around the grounds of the courthouse early one Sunday morning to take a picture. Stopping under the trees, I heard a giant whoosh, looking up I saw a sky full of butterflies taking flight. That was a magic moment, and I need one today.

On this dreary and gray cloudy Tuesday, the town looks depressing and lonely.  We head back to Sonora.  They have neighborhoods that are charming.  A downtown that is cute.

We look for a Mexican restaurant that is supposed to be good. No luck. Apparently we do not look hard enough.  Our previously purchased hamburger ingredients are in the main (and only) kitchen back at the lodge.  We head north.

Dinner

It’s Michael’s week. He cooks. Thank you, thank you, thank you. I grab a much-needed glass of wine, a magazine—Texas Parks and Wildlife—and sit in one of the overstuffed chairs that front the TV and faux fireplace in the lodge. Flipping through the pages, I find that I really do need to read the children’s book Old Yeller. I make a mental note to buy it, making another mental note not to EVER try to hike the four tallest peaks in Texas in one day. I read about the Monarchs. We all need to plant milkweed.

Smells wafting through the kitchen across the main room of the lodge tease my senses and make my mouth water.  I take another sip of wine.  Read another story. Michael puts the burgers on the table. The meal is delicious—the Sonoma Heritage Vines Zinfandel makes it even better.  Bless the man I married.

Sitting on the back deck of the lodge with our remaining wine, I could kick myself for not packing winter clothes.  The low sixties has been the norm, so I bless my Maine sweatshirt and my mental acuity for throwing it into the suitcase at the last minute—just in case.

I make peace with my surroundings, and bless the wine!

I bless many things this night.

Night

Still uncomfortable at being the only souls around in the middle of nowhere—within spitting distance of a lightly traveled farm road—we lock and bolt the cabin door before crawling under the covers.  Michael immediately leaves the warmth of the bed and takes extra precautions by pushing the small luggage rack against the door. To me, it doesn’t look like much of a hindrance.

So, I have to ask, “Is that so you can hear if someone breaks into the cabin in the middle of the night?”  

He smiles, “Yes.”

“…and what are your intentions if someone does break-in?”

“I’ll jump up and whoop  ’em,” he assures me.

Oh dear.

Morning

It is six a.m. and Michael still sleeps—highly unusual.  In the dark room I fumble for my Nook and begin to read.

At seven Michael jumps out of bed, not to whoop anybody, but to walk to the lodge to fix coffee and breakfast.  He loves the bed.  He loves the pillows.  No backache. Eight hours of restful sleep. I am not so lucky.

After showering, I dress for the day—even though we are the only ones here—I fix my hair before emerging from the tiny hunting shack.  

Michael’s culinary prowess, under less than perfect conditions, continues to amaze me.  Last night we were on an Easter egg type hunt trying to find a spoon to stir with, forks to eat with. Today we have a proper English fry-up.

Weather Bug and Yahoo Weather both tell me that storms are due to blow into Sonora at 3 p.m. and stay through tomorrow.  I suggest we should pack up and head home after we visit the cave, thinking it is a very good idea.

However, I am not a popular girl in this world of two, and I am told I have a very pessimistic attitude. But I win. After packing, we load the car and head to the privately owned cave. On our drive, I can’t help but wonder what floods do to caves—other than creating them, sculpting them, continuing their growth.