On the Way to Fort Davis

Packed up and tucked away in the passenger side seat of my trusty convertible Michael and I begin our trip back in time, heading toward the wild blue yonder, crossing miles and miles of Texas to get there.  Google Maps says it will take over six hours to reach the tiny town of Fort Davis deep in the Southwest Texas mountains if we do not stop for anything.

Isaack’s

When both hands of his watch point to twelve, Michael exits I 10 and journeys toward Junction, looking for lunch. A blast from the past—maybe the 60’s past—greets us in the form of a chef welcoming us to his restaurant with a promise of air-conditioning inside. How can we resist this invitation? We have no choice, we must have lunch at Isaack’s.

It is a step back in time in every way.  Our friendly waitress tells us she has been working at Isaack’s for the last fifty years. I’ve never done anything for fifty years. I’m impressed. I tell Michael that no matter what we order he must leave her a big tip.

Lunch is almost free. I order the blue plate special; a cup of soup, four pieces of fried fish with fries and coleslaw, and a dessert of peach cobbler, all for the high price of $8.99. Michael settles for a hot roast beef sandwich with tater tots.

Well, quantity and bargain price does not necessarily equal quality. The soup seems made from yesterday’s leftovers, the fish has a lightly fried exterior that cannot be cut with a fork (totally weird) with a mushy interior. The French fries are limp, and Michael’s tater tots taste of old grease. But—the crust on the cobbler is deliciously crisp, even though the peaches come from a can.  I move the food around on my plate to make it look like I really dug in.  We pay, leave the big tip, and depart the premises.  Glad for the nostalgia. But happy that the 1960’s blue plate special is not a regular part of our world.

On the Road Again

On the map, it shows there is virtually no civilization along I10. In reality, it is the same. Miles and miles of emptiness, mesas, blue sky, gray asphalt, and beautifully puffy white clouds. The closer we get to Fort Davis, the more the clouds mass into towering formations. The higher the clouds climb the more I worry that our Star Party at the McDonald Observatory this evening will not happen. I tell myself that there is time for them to disappear.  Lots of time.

This spur of the moment, impulsive trip came about late one night after reading an old journal post, where I made the statement, “Someday Michael and I will stay at the Indian Lodge.” Its charms being closed to us fourteen years ago when I wrote those words. It’s still not available, but things are going on out West and I believe in adjusting. I found another place for us to lay our heads.

Reaching the outskirts of Fort Davis, I caution Michael to go slow. If we blink, we might miss the old Fort Davis Drug Store & Hotel. But there it is—on our left in all its tattered weathered-wood glory. Driving beyond the old building, we make a U-turn. Unfortunately, Michael has to parallel park. Someone took the easy space. We did not back-track fast enough!

Fort Davis Drug Store & Hotel

Even though the building looks like it has been here since the Civil War, The old Drug Store itself first opened in 1913, inside the Limpia hotel. It relocated to its current location in 1950, and was expanded in the 1980’s to become a full-service restaurant and hotel.  The old-fashioned soda fountain of its drugstore days was kept intact.

Rolling our suitcase behind us, we walk into the seemingly antiquated space. You can’t help but love the nostalgia. The charm. This place is full to the brim—with everything. Booths. People. Fudge. It is all here from the proverbial soup to nuts. All for sale. If people aren’t standing in line to buy the decadent assortment of fudge, they are in a booth or at the counter having a late afternoon snack or early, cholesterol-filled dinner. I’m not bad-mouthing it–I love chicken fried steak and burgers and patty melts and all of those other things I shouldn’t. Ice cream. Fudge. Malts. I could go on forever, but we need to get settled.

After checking-in, given our room key and directions on how to get to our room, we are told, “Since tomorrow is Saturday, the drugstore will be closed. We will be open again on Sunday, but tomorrow is the Sabbath, so we close.”

There go my convenient breakfast plans. Apparently reading my mind our hostess says, “Don’t worry, we will have a pot of coffee and continental breakfast available upstairs for our guests.”

“I yam what I yam and tha’s all what I yam.” — Popeye the Sailor

Climbing the stairs, walking down the hall to Room #6—The Apache, we step through the open door into yesteryear. The one thing here that appears to be from the 21^st century is a flat screen TV. The room is large and clean and Western-themed cute, designed to sleep four. There is a queen-size bed as well as a set of bunk beds, the bottom half being the size of a double. This is where we will sit when in residence.  I find no sign of a chair at all.  They are all out in the hall.

I walk to the ancient wardrobe to hang-up a few items of clothing. There is one hanger.  Probably most vacationers live out of their suitcase and pack light–I try to. The air-conditioner is of an undefinable vintage that snorts and rattles but cools. The bathroom is compact. There are tons of towels if not tons of counter space.

For the extremely reasonable price of $99 for two, it is a bargain and a needed value for a family of four traveling together. The Apache even sleeps five. Each of the six rooms available is the same price and are full of beds—the number that can be squeezed into a room seems to be the main criteria for decoration. But this is not a place you would want to hang out for any length of time. It is, what it is—a place to sleep.

A Way Out

Michael leaves, then returns and beckons for me to follow him. We walk out on the adjacent deck and he points to the fire escape. “You are not serious,” I say.

I don’t see how he can be serious—but I think he is.  Hoping none of the guests that are here tonight smoke, I turn and notice the two lone rusted chairs pushed up against the wall. Our outdoor seating.  I’m not too sure we will be sitting out here and having coffee tomorrow morning.

“Are you ready to go?” Michael asks.

“Go?”

“To the McDonald Observatory.”

Well, we don’t have to be there till 6:30 p.m. and it is only 4:30, but I grab my purse, my raincoat—just in case–and we exit the building. I check to make sure I have the keypad code to get into the side door since the drugstore will be closed when we return. Back in the car, we begin our twenty-three-minute climb to the top of the mountain.