The Road Less Traveled

We both have our magnets; I love country roads, and Michael has a visceral need to be by, on, or in the water as often as possible.  Today both are on our agenda. But at 7:30 am, as Michael noses the car up RR12 toward 290, I feel like a kid who won’t eat his hamburger because there is mayonnaise, not ketchup coating the soft bun. Perfect for some, but anathema for others. I remember my grandson looking like the world was at an end when we ordered his burger the wrong way, and another grandson who wailed like I ruined his life when I sprinkled parsley on his spaghetti Bolognese.

Now I am as crushed as those two kids, and I try to be gracious and hide the way I feel but fail as we continue toward the fast and wide highway to get to our destination. Rather than complain, I say, “You might as well put the top up if we are going to take the highway.”

Very ungracious of me, I know.  And very spoiled. Suddenly Michael takes a left turn, and we are in the deep country. No cars, no stripes on the road. He ignores the turnoff to 2325 that will take us into Blanco and lead us on other country roads to reach South Llano River State Park, continuing instead on his detour and exploration of the smallest lanes around—just for me.

I look at him and say, “You are a patient man.”

I wish I could say he smiled, but I think it was more a look of resignation.

South Llano River State Park

A Ranch Turned Park

At 8:30 am on what should be a hot August morning, Michael offers me his long-sleeved shirt. Always in the car, when we drive under a cloudless sky, he uses it as a sun shield, but he can see I am cold. It remains covering my shoulders until we pull into the visitor center at the park two hours later.

I don’t know this park—but I already love it. The headquarters is in an old ranch house, very reminiscent of my grandmother’s farm, right down to the fence surrounding it.

I discover that we owe our ability to explore this 2,600-acre rectangle of Texas to the generosity of Walter White Buck, Jr., who moved to this part of the country with his family in 1920 when he was 18 years old. He took over running the ranch when his father died, nurturing and conserving the land, eventually donating the entire acreage to the state of Texas in 1970. His wish being the state would continue the conservation of the ranch and create a park.

Living here must have been a young man’s dream, roaming the rugged hills at the northern foot of the Texas Hill Country and dipping his feet into this portion of the spring-fed crystal-clear waters of the Llano River running through the ranch. Today’s young adventurers can follow Buck’s footsteps, exploring over 17 miles of trails—most of them in the Texas wilderness—and two miles of the Llano River.

Our Explorations

Before heading to the picnic area, we drive through the 58-unit campground. Most of the campsites are filled with travel trailers containing all the conveniences of home, including air-conditioning. It is a tiny city of adventurers who love the outdoors. And even though the campground is filled with trees and shade, I cannot find a tent anywhere. Since it is August, so I am not surprised.

My cousin tells me this is one of his favorite parks—mainly due to the proximity of the beautiful Llano River and his ability to practice kayaking skills with his wife. He told me that they have tumped and tumbled out of their kayak built for two, and then laughed at themselves as they haul and crawl their way back on board.

As we walk from our car parked in the picnic area and see that all of the tables are available, I berate myself for not packing a picnic brunch or lunch. I thought it would be too hot, but at 10:30 am, the weather is perfectly pleasant, yet warm enough for small children to laugh and play in the shallow waters designated as the swimming area.

Sitting at the empty picnic table, gazing out over the water and the land, I think that the only fly in the proverbial ointment is the proximity of Highway 377 to this part of the park. The growl of the few trucks that skirt the rugged rise beyond the river annoys me.

I don’t complain.

It’s All About the River

Ever the explorer, Michael suggests we walk down to the river. The trail here ends quickly; it is basically down to the water and back via two steep sets of stairs. Michael rolls up his pant legs and wades in. Like a wet blanket, I stay on shore, even though the sparkling water calls my name. As Michael ventures further toward the middle of the river to take a picture, I wish that I had taken my phone out of his back pocket—for many reasons.

Although the Llano is beautiful and cool and clear, I notice the very rocky, very uneven river bed. If I were walking on it, I know I would slip and stumble and then topple—I’m thankful Michael is more sure-footed than me.

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Returning to the car, we explore the park a bit more, stopping close to the entrance where more picnic tables dot the landscape. It is very apparent that here, it is all about the river.  The path to the clear water is a long gentle grassy slope. Bathing suit-clad tots march with their tiny oars held high. A family totes large gray inner-tubes down to the water. A Texas flag-inspired beach towel and two sets of very small colorful shoes tell the tale of what this park is all about for kids—water and squealing laughter.  But still, a fisherman casts his line into the river slightly beyond where families play.

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I almost wish for small children of our own. 

Almost.

Paddler’s Back Porch River Outfitter’s

Before beginning our winding drive back home, we stop at a small restaurant, referred to as a dusty hole by a gentleman from Alabama. If I can’t have a picnic in the park, this is possibly the next best thing. Simple. Unassuming. Unpretentious. I think of porches in Terlingua at sunset.

As patrons wander in, we notice that they are all locals—everyone knows everyone else. We are the only interlopers. Another couple appears on the porch—also interlopers—but they are not here to eat. The waitress directs them to a gentleman sitting at a corner table. The woman is as white as snow, and she and her significant other want to rent a kayak or canoe from the owner of Paddler’s Back Porch and take a trip down the Llano. Michael and I listen carefully as the owner discusses the ins and outs of being on the river today.

“Well, I wouldn’t advise anyone to get on the river in the heat of the afternoon. You will be on the water for at least 4 hours. It is a hard trip and a lot of paddling, and the question won’t be will your kayak or canoe tump over, but when and how often. And…”

The couple smiles, thanks him for his honesty, and departs, heading for the state park.  I hope they have reservations.

Lunch is long and leisurely, not because we order too much, but because everyone arrives at once, and apparently, they only have one cook and one waitress—who is getting a work-out. We are on island time—a place where the clock doesn’t exist. Not minding the wait, we are happy to be here. Clinking our bottles of Shiner Bock together in a toast to the day, we smile. It feels like a summer vacation.