I got up early today and went for a run. I was immediately concerned as nothing was open. I had 2 avacados, an orange and some almonds in my room that were looking like Christmas dinner at the moment.
It was a wet, drizzly jog though town; traffic was nonexistent except for a few cabs with no passengers. I made my way through the downtown plaza where there were the usual street people holding out cups and asking for monedas. I offered each of them a "Feliz Navidad!" between breaths and was always greeted by a quick smile.
Fortunately, stores opened aroun 10am today so I enjoyed a nice brunch of fresh squeezed orange juice, locally grown coffee and a sirloin.
I've been to a few church services before in Latin America and have never been let down so naturally I was looking forward to the evening Christmas service at the local Catholic church in the downtown plaza.
I was dressed to kill in kinda clean garb with freshly polished motorcycle boots that looked like patent leather. Immediately upon entering the church I was pleased to find a series of about a dozen dioramas depicting various events from the Bible. I really hope these were all done by elementary school kids or blind senior citizens as they were simply terrible. There was the scene with a doll fighting a smaller doll for David and Goliath, then the cardboard box/boat on the blue cotton balls for Noah's Ark and finally Moses parting the aluminum foil.
The service started promptly at 8pm when a procession of altar boys hefting 3ft sparklers came marching to the pulpit. "Awesome!" I was hoping for some Screaming Mimis or even some conservative black snakes, but was out of luck.
Being that I'm a Presbyterian, I'm not up to snuff on the vernacular associated with Catholicism. Their honch (sounds credible) led us in the Lord's prayer as well as Gracias a Dios en el Cielo to the tune of Gloria en Excelsis Deo. Similar, but different.
Later, honcho dos, who looked exactly like my wild-haired Maori housing coordinator in New Zealand, Popo, took the stage. She had clearly just come from an ugly sweater party where she probably won a ribbon. Popo then went over to the manger and hoisted Mexican Lil' Baby Jesus into the air for all to see, reminding me of a very similar scene from The Lion King, er, 'El Rey Leon', which I watched most semesters in Spanish class.
Now, the manger in which Mexican Lil' Baby Jesus lay was clearly not a wooden trough meant to feed the local bovine population. Oh no, here in Mexico he resides in a Vegas-styled orb-like device, akin to a large clamshell crossbred with an Easter egg. It has all mirrored surfaces and is filled with that fluffy plastic which is used to stuff Easter baskets. Under the fluffy stuff there appears to be a strobe light. The outside of the of the orb is adorned with wraps of garland, sequentially flashing Christmas lights as well as glass balls. Schucks, sure is fancy down here!
Monday, December 28, 2009
12-22-09 Tuxpan, Mexico
I got a late start, didn't leave till around 11 or so. Finding the way out of town was an adventure in itself. Throughout the entire ordeal I never saw a sign for Tuxpan, where I was headed. I first got some vague directions from the reception desk at the hotel which kinda got me in the right general area. Upon realizing I was on some little callejon I turned back onto a larger road and rode up alongside a taxi driver and yelled, 'Quisiera ir a Tuxpan!" He pointed behind him. "Cuantos kilometros!?" I asked. "Cuatro, Cinco..." I honked my horn twice in thanks and pulled a U-turn then rode up next to a moped. I asked him the same question and he pointed straight ahead. "Buena motocicleta!" He said pointing at my bike. "Gracias!" I hollered back. he gestured for me to follow him and revved his little bike and did some fancy swerves. I fell in behind him for several minutes before he pointed to an exit for me to take. It worked! A huge suspension bridge took me over a wide river and offered a great view of the city behind me.
I rode for about an hour before stopping at a Pemex, the only gas stations in Mexico. I talked to an older guy for a bit, he warned me that the roads are particularly dangerous this time of year as there are many people traveling and all are in a hurry. He went on to say apologetically that Mexicans typically drive carelessly and have little respect for others on the road- nothing I didn't already know.
Within a few miles I came upon quite the traffic jam. Cars were backed up for about 2 miles which took about an hour to get through. I't was hot and humid and my clutch hand was cramping up a times. There had been a head-on accident, no apparent injuries, but a lot of confused Mexicans standing around wondering what to do next. Upon leaving the accident scene, I stood up on the bike and rode for several miles with the wind blowing through my jacket and pants, the cooling sensation was almost worth the hour wait.
Upon getting to the outskirts of Tuxpan traffic was stopped by a Police roadblock. I've come across a few us of these already. They're soliciting money from cars, likely for a Tecate fund. Thus far I've just shrugged and rode past them, jumping over their little speed bump made out of tire tread. This time was different. the police man stood infront of me and demanded I pay him. I glared at him through my tinted face shield. He pointed for me to pull off the side of the road. I put the bike in neutral, dropped the kickstand, took off my glove and dug in my tankbag for a few pesos which I dropped in his palm. "Cabron..." I muttered and sped off.
I was in search of El Posada San Ignacio which nobody seemed familiar with. Finally an older gentleman gave me some directions to where he thought it might be. When I got to where I thought I was close I asked a few more people and was given more directions. The roads were not perpendicular, full of narrow one-ways with coarse sewer gates made out of railroad rails, people darting across the street and narrow scooters blasting past me on either side, not much of a relaxing ride.
I repeated my process of asking people perhaps 10 times and got to see various parts of the city. At times when I'd ask a person and they didn't know, they'd stop people along the street and ask until an answer was given, rather nice of them. It seems as though the locals feel obligated to give me some kind of an answer, but aren't terribly concerned with its accuracy.
I don't look at street signs as it's pointless. Streets change from block to block. One minute you're on Av. Alvarez then you're on Centro then Chingadera all without making a single turn.
I eventually saw the hotel; unfortunately it was down a one-way street. There weren't any cars coming so I gunned it and instantly heard a roar from pedestrians. Sorry 'bout that guys...well....not really.... I was surprised that amidst all the commotion and all the careless driving that there still seem to be some traffic laws that people adhere to.
The hotel was tidy and small with a mural-covered courtyard and parrots squawking, nice little place. I then set out as I usually do upon getting to a new place by walking increasingly larger circles around some easily-visible object, in this case, a large cathedral town in the plaza. I eventually stopped at a little cafe to get something to eat.
My Spanish is clearly not what it used to be, but I'm sure it will come back as I haven't spoken a word of English since crossing the border. My lackluster Spanish was particularly evident when I ordered a mushroom taco instead of a shrimp one. Champinones vs Camarones. Elementary stuff here.... The camarero gave me a strange look when I ordered the taco and asked if I'd like anything else on it, he suggested steak. I agreed thinking it would be kinda like a Mexican surf n turf. Though not what I had in mind, it was still good.
I rode for about an hour before stopping at a Pemex, the only gas stations in Mexico. I talked to an older guy for a bit, he warned me that the roads are particularly dangerous this time of year as there are many people traveling and all are in a hurry. He went on to say apologetically that Mexicans typically drive carelessly and have little respect for others on the road- nothing I didn't already know.
Within a few miles I came upon quite the traffic jam. Cars were backed up for about 2 miles which took about an hour to get through. I't was hot and humid and my clutch hand was cramping up a times. There had been a head-on accident, no apparent injuries, but a lot of confused Mexicans standing around wondering what to do next. Upon leaving the accident scene, I stood up on the bike and rode for several miles with the wind blowing through my jacket and pants, the cooling sensation was almost worth the hour wait.
Upon getting to the outskirts of Tuxpan traffic was stopped by a Police roadblock. I've come across a few us of these already. They're soliciting money from cars, likely for a Tecate fund. Thus far I've just shrugged and rode past them, jumping over their little speed bump made out of tire tread. This time was different. the police man stood infront of me and demanded I pay him. I glared at him through my tinted face shield. He pointed for me to pull off the side of the road. I put the bike in neutral, dropped the kickstand, took off my glove and dug in my tankbag for a few pesos which I dropped in his palm. "Cabron..." I muttered and sped off.
I was in search of El Posada San Ignacio which nobody seemed familiar with. Finally an older gentleman gave me some directions to where he thought it might be. When I got to where I thought I was close I asked a few more people and was given more directions. The roads were not perpendicular, full of narrow one-ways with coarse sewer gates made out of railroad rails, people darting across the street and narrow scooters blasting past me on either side, not much of a relaxing ride.
I repeated my process of asking people perhaps 10 times and got to see various parts of the city. At times when I'd ask a person and they didn't know, they'd stop people along the street and ask until an answer was given, rather nice of them. It seems as though the locals feel obligated to give me some kind of an answer, but aren't terribly concerned with its accuracy.
I don't look at street signs as it's pointless. Streets change from block to block. One minute you're on Av. Alvarez then you're on Centro then Chingadera all without making a single turn.
I eventually saw the hotel; unfortunately it was down a one-way street. There weren't any cars coming so I gunned it and instantly heard a roar from pedestrians. Sorry 'bout that guys...well....not really.... I was surprised that amidst all the commotion and all the careless driving that there still seem to be some traffic laws that people adhere to.
The hotel was tidy and small with a mural-covered courtyard and parrots squawking, nice little place. I then set out as I usually do upon getting to a new place by walking increasingly larger circles around some easily-visible object, in this case, a large cathedral town in the plaza. I eventually stopped at a little cafe to get something to eat.
My Spanish is clearly not what it used to be, but I'm sure it will come back as I haven't spoken a word of English since crossing the border. My lackluster Spanish was particularly evident when I ordered a mushroom taco instead of a shrimp one. Champinones vs Camarones. Elementary stuff here.... The camarero gave me a strange look when I ordered the taco and asked if I'd like anything else on it, he suggested steak. I agreed thinking it would be kinda like a Mexican surf n turf. Though not what I had in mind, it was still good.
Saturday, December 26, 2009
12-21-09 Tampico
Had a good ride through the countryside today. Things are finally starting to look like Mexico should with tons of palm trees and thick vegetation. I crossed the Tropic of Cancer along the way and stopped for a quick picture which reminded me to start taking my malaria meds.
I pulled off the road at a litle road-side restaurant of sorts for lonche. You could order chickens in increments of a half up to 1.5. I opted for the half which was nicely barbecued and hacked up. Sides included half a sausage, hot dog and bean soup (A staple at the mine in Chihuahua) rice and chips and salsa all washed down with Mexican Coke. (No, mother, not cocaine. Coca-Cola, it's a different blend made from sugar cane, quite good).
I made it to Tampico around noon. Traffic was unbelievable. Not slow going, just very hectic. Cars seem to interpret traffic laws and signs as mere suggestions. In towns in the States I always ride on either the left or right side of a lane, rarely in the middle as that's where the sand, road debris and oil slicks tend to be. I started with my usual riding technique here as well but quickly found that it wasn't going to work. If I were to ride on the right side of my lane then a car would pull up alongside me on the right, within my lane. I guess I'll just have to ride in the middle from now on.
I was on a loop circumnavigating the city when I found a nice hotel with a gated parking garage, so I took a room. It was much nicer than the night before, free soap! I hopped in a taxi to go to el Metro, a huge modern museum but was disappointed to find it closed upon arriving. Unfortunately the Metro was off by itself and a 15 minute walk was required to get another taxi.
Upon getting in my new taxi I didn't know where I was going so I told the driver to take me some place interesting. He dropped me off in central plaza, a good choice. There were dozens of 'boleros' (shoe shiners) set up in little booths polishing away. I got a smoothie and sat on a park bench and people watched for a while, enjoying the first warm weather of the trip.
I pulled off the road at a litle road-side restaurant of sorts for lonche. You could order chickens in increments of a half up to 1.5. I opted for the half which was nicely barbecued and hacked up. Sides included half a sausage, hot dog and bean soup (A staple at the mine in Chihuahua) rice and chips and salsa all washed down with Mexican Coke. (No, mother, not cocaine. Coca-Cola, it's a different blend made from sugar cane, quite good).
I made it to Tampico around noon. Traffic was unbelievable. Not slow going, just very hectic. Cars seem to interpret traffic laws and signs as mere suggestions. In towns in the States I always ride on either the left or right side of a lane, rarely in the middle as that's where the sand, road debris and oil slicks tend to be. I started with my usual riding technique here as well but quickly found that it wasn't going to work. If I were to ride on the right side of my lane then a car would pull up alongside me on the right, within my lane. I guess I'll just have to ride in the middle from now on.
I was on a loop circumnavigating the city when I found a nice hotel with a gated parking garage, so I took a room. It was much nicer than the night before, free soap! I hopped in a taxi to go to el Metro, a huge modern museum but was disappointed to find it closed upon arriving. Unfortunately the Metro was off by itself and a 15 minute walk was required to get another taxi.
Upon getting in my new taxi I didn't know where I was going so I told the driver to take me some place interesting. He dropped me off in central plaza, a good choice. There were dozens of 'boleros' (shoe shiners) set up in little booths polishing away. I got a smoothie and sat on a park bench and people watched for a while, enjoying the first warm weather of the trip.
12-20-09 Mexico border crossing
Before leaving Brownsville I topped off my tank and got some food and water for the road. I didn't want to stop till well past the border town of Matamoros. I hit the Mexican border around noon where I had to first pay $2.50 to leave the States. Once on Mexican soil I had to obtain my vehicle permit at a small building at the border. I waited in a sweaty room with about 40 other people, I was the only pale-face in sight.
I first had to obtain a tourist visa via a short line. The woman asked where I was headed. "Argentina" I responded. She looked up without moving her head and said, "Muy lejos...." (very far). She then asked me where I was from. Upon answering she quickly asked me why I speak like a Mexican. So I told her of my time spent at the mine in Chihuahua and she seemed pleased.
Finally it was my turn to deal with the crotchety old guy whose entire right side of his glasses were missing. I had to show my original title, registration, passport, driver's license and Mexican insurance before paying an entry fee of about $20. I got my proper stamps and permits with no problem and was on my way.
The border town was a total dump, as expected. Devoid of all vegetation and trash blowing around. Not some place I'd like to stay very long. I quickly found the proper highway leading southbound after asking directions from a man who was selling seeds in traffic.
The driving rules here are quite different from how they were in Chihuahua a few years ago. There is a double-yellow which kinda separates traffic. On each side of this there is a lane as well as what looks like a wide bike lane. These lanes are separated by a dotted white line.
If there is a car behind you then you straddle the dotted white line and they pass within inches of your mirror. If you're in a line of traffic, however, then most people don't ride on the white line, this then causes the passing car to veer into oncomming traffic, who then swerves out of the way into their little bike lane. When the passing car wants to get back into the lane because of an impending oncomming car, then he simply cuts in. If you're next to him when he cuts in then you must move into the bike lane.
I quickly realized that getting passed was rather dangerous so I opted to be the one passing. I drafted in behind a large black Mercedes with tinted windows who seemed to know what he was doing . We rode together for about an hour, speeding up to pass vehicles in front of us then pulling off onto the dotted white when we weren't passing and sometimes swerving into our bike lane to dodge oncomming traffic.
The speeds down here are quite higher than back home, limits are posted at 100km/h though the Mercedes and I flirted with the 200km/h mark at times, pushing the upper limits of the bike. Though going fast, no unnecessary chances were taken. That being said, I do realize that I need to ride safe. I'm sure I'll find a good technique of riding after a few days down here.
I ended up spending the night in the little pueblo of Soto la Marina at a so-so motel. There were tons of Christmas decorations up in town, my favorite being the rather dark-skinned Santa.
I first had to obtain a tourist visa via a short line. The woman asked where I was headed. "Argentina" I responded. She looked up without moving her head and said, "Muy lejos...." (very far). She then asked me where I was from. Upon answering she quickly asked me why I speak like a Mexican. So I told her of my time spent at the mine in Chihuahua and she seemed pleased.
Finally it was my turn to deal with the crotchety old guy whose entire right side of his glasses were missing. I had to show my original title, registration, passport, driver's license and Mexican insurance before paying an entry fee of about $20. I got my proper stamps and permits with no problem and was on my way.
The border town was a total dump, as expected. Devoid of all vegetation and trash blowing around. Not some place I'd like to stay very long. I quickly found the proper highway leading southbound after asking directions from a man who was selling seeds in traffic.
The driving rules here are quite different from how they were in Chihuahua a few years ago. There is a double-yellow which kinda separates traffic. On each side of this there is a lane as well as what looks like a wide bike lane. These lanes are separated by a dotted white line.
If there is a car behind you then you straddle the dotted white line and they pass within inches of your mirror. If you're in a line of traffic, however, then most people don't ride on the white line, this then causes the passing car to veer into oncomming traffic, who then swerves out of the way into their little bike lane. When the passing car wants to get back into the lane because of an impending oncomming car, then he simply cuts in. If you're next to him when he cuts in then you must move into the bike lane.
I quickly realized that getting passed was rather dangerous so I opted to be the one passing. I drafted in behind a large black Mercedes with tinted windows who seemed to know what he was doing . We rode together for about an hour, speeding up to pass vehicles in front of us then pulling off onto the dotted white when we weren't passing and sometimes swerving into our bike lane to dodge oncomming traffic.
The speeds down here are quite higher than back home, limits are posted at 100km/h though the Mercedes and I flirted with the 200km/h mark at times, pushing the upper limits of the bike. Though going fast, no unnecessary chances were taken. That being said, I do realize that I need to ride safe. I'm sure I'll find a good technique of riding after a few days down here.
I ended up spending the night in the little pueblo of Soto la Marina at a so-so motel. There were tons of Christmas decorations up in town, my favorite being the rather dark-skinned Santa.
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
12-16-09 - 12-18-09 Texas Boar Hunting
Mo had invited me to come down to his place 3 years ago with my friends Nic and Ruder, also from CSU, to hunt some wild boar in the Texas hill country. While inquiring about the logistics of the hunt I asked what gun to bring. "Just bring your huntin' knife, we're gonna stick 'em, you'll be jus' fine." That sounded like a terrible idea so we ended up bringing our hunting knives as requested but also packed our confidence-inspiring .357magnums just in case. Our hunt that year ended up being a success and we learned that guns weren't all that necessary so long as your not the slowest in the group.
Even though Mo wasn't going to be there this time, one of his employees, Danny, the boar hunting shaman, would be in town and was up for taking me out hunting for a couple nights. I had hunted with Danny the last time; he made quite the impression on us. When I first shook hands with him, it felt like I was trying to palm a basketball. The guy stands several inches taller than me and outweights me by a hundred pounds. He's a big dude. I have no doubt he coudl tie Chuck Norris' legs in a knot if he felt so inclined.
I called up Danny not long after getting to Mo's house to see if he was up for hunting that night. "Oh sho' nuff, mista, just meet me down at the shed at 7:45. We gonna try out some new dogs tonight, the guy sez they real good."
I rode down to the shed and met up with Danny before heading over to pick up Jason, the goat rancher. After a brief drive we connected with another guy, David 'The Percolator' Perkins, at a gas station. He had a long scar on his face, running from the corner of his eye down to his jawbone. His truck had a dog cage in the back with 7 dogs eagerly awaiting the hunt. "Jus' don't know 'bout dem dogs, Ben." Danny said quietly. "Why's that?" I inquired. "Well, they's all yella, every damn curr is yella, gotsta have more colors n dat."
The farm we were hunting on was owned by a friend of Danny's who'd been having problems with wild boars tearing up his fields. The boars will run their tusks lengthwise down a furrow to unearth the tender roots of crops to snack on. They'll also make large wallows in the dirt where they essentially dig themselves a sleeping pit which further destroys the crops. I was rather shocked to find out that it's not uncommon for a wild boar to eat a calf. Yes, pigs eat baby cows here in Texas. Danny wouldn't tell a lie.
Generally speaking, wild boars are not native to North America, they came as wild Russian razorbacks that were released some time ago and have since bread with local feral hogs and the javelinas creating what we call wild boars.
The first night of boar hunting was a total bust to say the least. Danny was right, the dogs were bogus. At one point Danny and I were standing with our lights off in some brush with the dogs barking and fighting each other about 20 yards off. As we stood their waiting, a decent-sized hog snorted its way past us, no more than 10 feet away.
The second night was quite a bit different. We decided to head up to Rock Springs, about 60 miles north of Uvalde to hunt with Wesley. Wesley is different. I'd hunted with him the last time I was down here and was excited to go up to his place again as he was nothing short of a a spectacle. He's the epitome of a hillbilly. He dropped out of ELEMENTARY school in the 3rd grade. Apparently, on his 2 mile walk to the bus stop every day he'd typically go run off in the brush and hide, spending his day with the wild critters of the Texas hill country.
Wesley can't reed or right, and has a total of two upper teeth, one white, one black. He's a goat rancher whose family has lived on the same spread for several generations. His home is constructed of corrugated tin walls and roof, the floor is a concrete slab. Upon entering his residence I came to find that the place is heated via leaving the oven on with its door open. Inside I counted a total of 13 mounted animal as well as 11 guns lying around. His wife (we'll call her Tina) had a won a raffle for a new rifle which she was awful proud of. She hefted the rifle into my hands, "How 'bout dat!" she said grinning.
I kinda met Tina last time hunting as well, on slightly different terms, though. We had been standing outside chatting with Wesley when we heard a baby scream from inside, followed by Tina throwing open the screen door and yelling, "WESLEY! THE CAT JUST BIT THE BABY!!" Wes didn't waste any time finding the guilty kitten inside. He grabbed it by the head kinda like those stuffed-animal vending machine tongs do and proceeded to hurl the feline through the screen door, off the front porch, skipping off the ground before darting off. "GIT!" was all he said.
The screaming baby has since 'growed up' to be about 3 years old. He's got an aptitude for swearing, so much so that he even made Danny snicker. "Ben, you hear what he just said!?"
Wesley was nothing short of one of the best boar hunters in Texas accoring to Danny. Because of this I was slightly confused by his knife of choice. I was assuming some stately-looking Texas Bowie knife but was quite wrong. The thing was some sort of multi-colored curve bladed Clingon battle sword. I really should have predicted this in hindsight.
Upon arriving at Wesley's place we were greeted with a cacophony of dogs barking and baying. The dogs we hunted with this time knew what they were doing. They were all hound dogs with the exception of Mox, the old pit bull. The hounds were of several breeds- blood hound, bone hound, red hound, blue tic hound and a little black mouthed curr. There was Deuce, Yoda, Bill, Squishy, Lacey and the one they referred to affectionately as 'dat lil' pup'. "Yep, she's gonna be a real good hog-dog someday." I was happy to find that Wes had gotten more creative with naming his dogs, the last time I was down there, his dogs were all named colors. Red, Blue, Whitey, Blackey, Yeller Bastard, etc.
We loaded all the hounds up into the truck cage and chained Mox on the top of the cage by himself. We then drove for about 10 minutes to a spot where Wesley thought there had been some recent hog activity. The hounds were let out and proceeded to run circles around the truck, darting into the brush and turning back, sniffing the ground trying to pick up scent. The dogs worked silently and were clearly focused on their job. After several minutes a dog let out a lone bark which triggered the other dogs to sprint over to his location. The dogs were now 'on scent' and tracked the hog for several more minutes before we heard another chorus of barking followed by a distant squeal. Danny checked the GPS collar on Bill, "They're still movin'." After another few minutes the GPS stopped moving, "They're all bayed-up now." This means that the dogs have surrounded the boar in the brush, when the boar tries to escape the from the circle, a dog with dart in and nip at it, pushing it back into the circle.
Danny let the dogs work the boar for several minutes to wear it out before calling out to 'Cut Mox loose!" Mox was still atop the dog cage quivering in excitement, he knew exactly what was going on and was keen to get in on the action. Mox exploded off the top of the truck and went crashing in a straight line through the brush towards the dogs, some 280 yards off. There was no doubt when Mox met up with the pack as an even louder squeal was heard.
The rationale is to let the hounds tire-out the boar to make him less of a threat for the pinch dog (Mox) who's got the most dangerous job. His only duty is to latch onto the boar's snout and not let go, something pits are instictively good at.
Mox wore a heavy leather collar about 6" long, fastened with three buckles to protect his neck from the sharp boar tusks. Other pinch dogs will wear chain-mail or even Kevlar vests for further protection.
We then made our way through the mesquite and loose white calichi towards the dogs. Upon getting there, it looked very similar to a National Geographic program where hyenas have jumped on a gazelle. Mox was doing his job by holding onto the snout and getting jerked around by the boar, but clearly wasn't about to let go.
The next step was for us to step into the mix. One man grabs the hind legs of the boar, wheel-barrow style to prevent the boar twisting back, while another gets alongside the boar, placing the knife on the boar's armpit, being careful not to nick a dog. One quick push on the knife ends the whole ordeal. The dogs instantly quit (except Mox) and looked up to us as if to say, "Hey humans, how'd we do this time?"
Upon cleaning the boar, we were happy to find it to be much more fatty than usual, typically wild boar is very lean. Several square feet of bacon was easily visible along the ribs, looking no different than what you'd see at the store. We ended up leaving the cleaned boar as a gift on the tailgate of Fernando's truck, one of the workers at the place. "He's really gonna like this one" Danny said proudly.
All in all it was a great hunt, we took two boars and a sow. The best part was of the hunt (besides indulging myself in the unique culture) was working with the dogs. It seems like the vast majority of dogs in the States are used just for companionship. There's nothing wrong with that, but it certainly doesn't allow for the dog to live to their fullest potential. More often than not if your dog chases after a rabbit or deer, he gets reprimanded, even though that's what instincts are telling them to do. These dogs, on the other hand, get to follow their instincts 100% of the time, quite interesting to watch.
Even though Mo wasn't going to be there this time, one of his employees, Danny, the boar hunting shaman, would be in town and was up for taking me out hunting for a couple nights. I had hunted with Danny the last time; he made quite the impression on us. When I first shook hands with him, it felt like I was trying to palm a basketball. The guy stands several inches taller than me and outweights me by a hundred pounds. He's a big dude. I have no doubt he coudl tie Chuck Norris' legs in a knot if he felt so inclined.
I called up Danny not long after getting to Mo's house to see if he was up for hunting that night. "Oh sho' nuff, mista, just meet me down at the shed at 7:45. We gonna try out some new dogs tonight, the guy sez they real good."
I rode down to the shed and met up with Danny before heading over to pick up Jason, the goat rancher. After a brief drive we connected with another guy, David 'The Percolator' Perkins, at a gas station. He had a long scar on his face, running from the corner of his eye down to his jawbone. His truck had a dog cage in the back with 7 dogs eagerly awaiting the hunt. "Jus' don't know 'bout dem dogs, Ben." Danny said quietly. "Why's that?" I inquired. "Well, they's all yella, every damn curr is yella, gotsta have more colors n dat."
The farm we were hunting on was owned by a friend of Danny's who'd been having problems with wild boars tearing up his fields. The boars will run their tusks lengthwise down a furrow to unearth the tender roots of crops to snack on. They'll also make large wallows in the dirt where they essentially dig themselves a sleeping pit which further destroys the crops. I was rather shocked to find out that it's not uncommon for a wild boar to eat a calf. Yes, pigs eat baby cows here in Texas. Danny wouldn't tell a lie.
Generally speaking, wild boars are not native to North America, they came as wild Russian razorbacks that were released some time ago and have since bread with local feral hogs and the javelinas creating what we call wild boars.
The first night of boar hunting was a total bust to say the least. Danny was right, the dogs were bogus. At one point Danny and I were standing with our lights off in some brush with the dogs barking and fighting each other about 20 yards off. As we stood their waiting, a decent-sized hog snorted its way past us, no more than 10 feet away.
The second night was quite a bit different. We decided to head up to Rock Springs, about 60 miles north of Uvalde to hunt with Wesley. Wesley is different. I'd hunted with him the last time I was down here and was excited to go up to his place again as he was nothing short of a a spectacle. He's the epitome of a hillbilly. He dropped out of ELEMENTARY school in the 3rd grade. Apparently, on his 2 mile walk to the bus stop every day he'd typically go run off in the brush and hide, spending his day with the wild critters of the Texas hill country.
Wesley can't reed or right, and has a total of two upper teeth, one white, one black. He's a goat rancher whose family has lived on the same spread for several generations. His home is constructed of corrugated tin walls and roof, the floor is a concrete slab. Upon entering his residence I came to find that the place is heated via leaving the oven on with its door open. Inside I counted a total of 13 mounted animal as well as 11 guns lying around. His wife (we'll call her Tina) had a won a raffle for a new rifle which she was awful proud of. She hefted the rifle into my hands, "How 'bout dat!" she said grinning.
I kinda met Tina last time hunting as well, on slightly different terms, though. We had been standing outside chatting with Wesley when we heard a baby scream from inside, followed by Tina throwing open the screen door and yelling, "WESLEY! THE CAT JUST BIT THE BABY!!" Wes didn't waste any time finding the guilty kitten inside. He grabbed it by the head kinda like those stuffed-animal vending machine tongs do and proceeded to hurl the feline through the screen door, off the front porch, skipping off the ground before darting off. "GIT!" was all he said.
The screaming baby has since 'growed up' to be about 3 years old. He's got an aptitude for swearing, so much so that he even made Danny snicker. "Ben, you hear what he just said!?"
Wesley was nothing short of one of the best boar hunters in Texas accoring to Danny. Because of this I was slightly confused by his knife of choice. I was assuming some stately-looking Texas Bowie knife but was quite wrong. The thing was some sort of multi-colored curve bladed Clingon battle sword. I really should have predicted this in hindsight.
Upon arriving at Wesley's place we were greeted with a cacophony of dogs barking and baying. The dogs we hunted with this time knew what they were doing. They were all hound dogs with the exception of Mox, the old pit bull. The hounds were of several breeds- blood hound, bone hound, red hound, blue tic hound and a little black mouthed curr. There was Deuce, Yoda, Bill, Squishy, Lacey and the one they referred to affectionately as 'dat lil' pup'. "Yep, she's gonna be a real good hog-dog someday." I was happy to find that Wes had gotten more creative with naming his dogs, the last time I was down there, his dogs were all named colors. Red, Blue, Whitey, Blackey, Yeller Bastard, etc.
We loaded all the hounds up into the truck cage and chained Mox on the top of the cage by himself. We then drove for about 10 minutes to a spot where Wesley thought there had been some recent hog activity. The hounds were let out and proceeded to run circles around the truck, darting into the brush and turning back, sniffing the ground trying to pick up scent. The dogs worked silently and were clearly focused on their job. After several minutes a dog let out a lone bark which triggered the other dogs to sprint over to his location. The dogs were now 'on scent' and tracked the hog for several more minutes before we heard another chorus of barking followed by a distant squeal. Danny checked the GPS collar on Bill, "They're still movin'." After another few minutes the GPS stopped moving, "They're all bayed-up now." This means that the dogs have surrounded the boar in the brush, when the boar tries to escape the from the circle, a dog with dart in and nip at it, pushing it back into the circle.
Danny let the dogs work the boar for several minutes to wear it out before calling out to 'Cut Mox loose!" Mox was still atop the dog cage quivering in excitement, he knew exactly what was going on and was keen to get in on the action. Mox exploded off the top of the truck and went crashing in a straight line through the brush towards the dogs, some 280 yards off. There was no doubt when Mox met up with the pack as an even louder squeal was heard.
The rationale is to let the hounds tire-out the boar to make him less of a threat for the pinch dog (Mox) who's got the most dangerous job. His only duty is to latch onto the boar's snout and not let go, something pits are instictively good at.
Mox wore a heavy leather collar about 6" long, fastened with three buckles to protect his neck from the sharp boar tusks. Other pinch dogs will wear chain-mail or even Kevlar vests for further protection.
We then made our way through the mesquite and loose white calichi towards the dogs. Upon getting there, it looked very similar to a National Geographic program where hyenas have jumped on a gazelle. Mox was doing his job by holding onto the snout and getting jerked around by the boar, but clearly wasn't about to let go.
The next step was for us to step into the mix. One man grabs the hind legs of the boar, wheel-barrow style to prevent the boar twisting back, while another gets alongside the boar, placing the knife on the boar's armpit, being careful not to nick a dog. One quick push on the knife ends the whole ordeal. The dogs instantly quit (except Mox) and looked up to us as if to say, "Hey humans, how'd we do this time?"
Upon cleaning the boar, we were happy to find it to be much more fatty than usual, typically wild boar is very lean. Several square feet of bacon was easily visible along the ribs, looking no different than what you'd see at the store. We ended up leaving the cleaned boar as a gift on the tailgate of Fernando's truck, one of the workers at the place. "He's really gonna like this one" Danny said proudly.
All in all it was a great hunt, we took two boars and a sow. The best part was of the hunt (besides indulging myself in the unique culture) was working with the dogs. It seems like the vast majority of dogs in the States are used just for companionship. There's nothing wrong with that, but it certainly doesn't allow for the dog to live to their fullest potential. More often than not if your dog chases after a rabbit or deer, he gets reprimanded, even though that's what instincts are telling them to do. These dogs, on the other hand, get to follow their instincts 100% of the time, quite interesting to watch.
Monday, December 21, 2009
12-16-09 Sabinal, Texas
I called up my buddy, Mo, prior to departing from Colorado to see if he'd be around as I passed through his neck of the woods in Texas. Mo and I became friends at CSU while sharing numerous engineering classes together and ended up doing our senior design project together as well. Mo's real name is Mikel Olander, though I really can't remember calling him by anything other than what his initials spell.
Mo comes from a farming family near Loveland, Colorado though has been living in west Texas since graduation, running Texas Pickle, a cucumber planting and harvesting operation. He's designed and built an array of machines and contraptions to pick, sort and ship raw cucumbers. Not your average 9-5 job exactly. After harvest, the future pickles are moved through several water-filled tanks and sorted by size with various gauges before being moved along with water wheels and converyor belts to their appropriate boxes await shipping.
Mo insisted that I stop by his place, even though he wouldn't be there. He gave me a long list of directions, only once actually stating a street name. Directions were given in relation to various old truck stops, new gas stations and forks in the road which would ultimately lead me to the blue house with white trim and a red door with the smashed-up mailbox on the front porch.
He also told me where to find the key he'd left for me and also how to turn on the water and electricty and noted that the deep freeze was stocked full of food as well as a variety of venison sausages he'd recently harvested. RC Cola and Coors yellow-bellies were in the fridge, guns are in the closet and ammo is by the water heater. "Make yourself at home Ben, stay as long as you'd like." Southern hospitality at its finest. Thanks Mo!
The house was great, tons of motorcycle and 4x4 magazines, leather working tools, random gun parts here and there and a total of 7 bullet holes in the windows. The place was surrounded by pastureland with a large herd of goats that grazed themselves around the property daily.
I was pleased to find how quiet things were at the house, nothing but the occasional bird or goat speaking up. The front porch faced west and I was fortunate to spend all three evenings watching the sun set.
Mo comes from a farming family near Loveland, Colorado though has been living in west Texas since graduation, running Texas Pickle, a cucumber planting and harvesting operation. He's designed and built an array of machines and contraptions to pick, sort and ship raw cucumbers. Not your average 9-5 job exactly. After harvest, the future pickles are moved through several water-filled tanks and sorted by size with various gauges before being moved along with water wheels and converyor belts to their appropriate boxes await shipping.
Mo insisted that I stop by his place, even though he wouldn't be there. He gave me a long list of directions, only once actually stating a street name. Directions were given in relation to various old truck stops, new gas stations and forks in the road which would ultimately lead me to the blue house with white trim and a red door with the smashed-up mailbox on the front porch.
He also told me where to find the key he'd left for me and also how to turn on the water and electricty and noted that the deep freeze was stocked full of food as well as a variety of venison sausages he'd recently harvested. RC Cola and Coors yellow-bellies were in the fridge, guns are in the closet and ammo is by the water heater. "Make yourself at home Ben, stay as long as you'd like." Southern hospitality at its finest. Thanks Mo!
The house was great, tons of motorcycle and 4x4 magazines, leather working tools, random gun parts here and there and a total of 7 bullet holes in the windows. The place was surrounded by pastureland with a large herd of goats that grazed themselves around the property daily.
I was pleased to find how quiet things were at the house, nothing but the occasional bird or goat speaking up. The front porch faced west and I was fortunate to spend all three evenings watching the sun set.
12-15-09 San Angelo, Texas
It has become more and more obvious that the old adage 'Everything is bigger in Texas' is at least partly true. This has become evident primarily with vehicles, billboards, roads and clothing sizes. These fellas are HUGE. I'm guessing the average person has around 2.5 chins in Tom Green County. Shoot, ya'lls a buncha chunkies! Now pas dem grits!
Another oddity that became blaringly apparent was Texan's affinity for their state. Specifically their love of Texas tatoos. I saw at least 5 tattoos of Texas in the local Wal-Mart. I have never seen a tattoo of the outline of Colorado, perhaps because we're just not as proud of our state. Then again, maybe it's because our state looks like a box.
I needed to check some emails so I went to the Mcdonalds across the street. I've stopped at several Mcdonalds to use their WiFi though didn't have much luck here. Upon asking the girl at the register if they had wireless, she gave me a blank look with a slightly opened mouth and didn't say a word. "You know, like, ummmm....internet..." I prodded. Still, no response. Her coworker then leaned over and said, "Mista, do you mean the Wee Fee?" Now I was the one with the blank look on my face. "Uh, yeah, Wee Fee would be great." "Oh, nah, nah, we don't got that here." She replied.
I ended up at a Starbucks that did have the Wee Fee and was fortunate enough to position myself facing a big ol' southern belle who gave a 5 minute monologue on raccoons. She was enlightening her coffee companion as to various facts and habits of the animal. First, raccoons (pronounced 'ruhkoons' down here) have a rough life with 75% of them perishing in road kill accidents. Later she went on to say that, "Cuz dem ruhkoons got little bitty opposable thumbs they can do ANYTHING a human can." Sure thing, lady.
Another oddity that became blaringly apparent was Texan's affinity for their state. Specifically their love of Texas tatoos. I saw at least 5 tattoos of Texas in the local Wal-Mart. I have never seen a tattoo of the outline of Colorado, perhaps because we're just not as proud of our state. Then again, maybe it's because our state looks like a box.
I needed to check some emails so I went to the Mcdonalds across the street. I've stopped at several Mcdonalds to use their WiFi though didn't have much luck here. Upon asking the girl at the register if they had wireless, she gave me a blank look with a slightly opened mouth and didn't say a word. "You know, like, ummmm....internet..." I prodded. Still, no response. Her coworker then leaned over and said, "Mista, do you mean the Wee Fee?" Now I was the one with the blank look on my face. "Uh, yeah, Wee Fee would be great." "Oh, nah, nah, we don't got that here." She replied.
I ended up at a Starbucks that did have the Wee Fee and was fortunate enough to position myself facing a big ol' southern belle who gave a 5 minute monologue on raccoons. She was enlightening her coffee companion as to various facts and habits of the animal. First, raccoons (pronounced 'ruhkoons' down here) have a rough life with 75% of them perishing in road kill accidents. Later she went on to say that, "Cuz dem ruhkoons got little bitty opposable thumbs they can do ANYTHING a human can." Sure thing, lady.
12-14-09 Canyon, Texas
Today was a long, straight ride due south to Canyon, near Amarillo. It started out below freezing in Colorado, each breath fogging the inside of my face shield briefly. There was also a nasty wind pushing me eastward and launching hundreds of tumbleweeds across the road in front of me. Things warmed up a little at the Oklahoma border, but I never actually saw the sun today.
I've seen a total of 3 other bikers in the 500 miles I've ridden thus far. All were going in the opposite direction.
At the end of the day I took a side trip to Palo Duro Canyon State Park at the recommendation of my buddy, Wayman. The canyon is the second largest in the US and has a great loop road running through it. I stopped at the visitor center where an elderly park volunteer informed me that the loop would take about an hour but would be a great ride.
He was right, the canyon road was almost entirely twisties and hills. The few straight aways allowed enough room to pull teh front tire off the ground briefly before diving into the next turn. The bike is significantly more powerful downhere at lower elevation, I'm looking forward to see what sea level does for it. There were also numerous concrete-lined river crossings with just a few inches of water in them. The crossings had steep entranrance and exit ramps which made nice little jumps, a pleasant change of pace after pointing the bike in a straight line all day. There wasn't a single other car on the road so I bent the speed limit slightly, completing the entire loop in 22 minutes including a bathroom stop.
I've seen a total of 3 other bikers in the 500 miles I've ridden thus far. All were going in the opposite direction.
At the end of the day I took a side trip to Palo Duro Canyon State Park at the recommendation of my buddy, Wayman. The canyon is the second largest in the US and has a great loop road running through it. I stopped at the visitor center where an elderly park volunteer informed me that the loop would take about an hour but would be a great ride.
He was right, the canyon road was almost entirely twisties and hills. The few straight aways allowed enough room to pull teh front tire off the ground briefly before diving into the next turn. The bike is significantly more powerful downhere at lower elevation, I'm looking forward to see what sea level does for it. There were also numerous concrete-lined river crossings with just a few inches of water in them. The crossings had steep entranrance and exit ramps which made nice little jumps, a pleasant change of pace after pointing the bike in a straight line all day. There wasn't a single other car on the road so I bent the speed limit slightly, completing the entire loop in 22 minutes including a bathroom stop.
Monday, December 14, 2009
12-13-09 Day 1
Heading out from parents' house in Boulder was surreal. I'd been planning the trip for about 11 months, but my departure date always seemed a long ways off, until now. My brother and dad guided me down the icey driveway to the street, both wished me luck. Mom waved goodbye with tearful eyes, she's clearly not amused with my latest adventure.
The plan was to head out I-70 to Limon then drop southeast to Lamar, an easy 4 hour ride or so. I had been riding for close to an hour when I saw a sign for Limon. 65 miles. 'What! 65 MILES?!' I yelled into my helmet, for some reason I thought it should have been just a few more miles down the road.
I quickly realized my foolishness. 65 miles is just a drop in the bucket when it comes to this trip. I honestly don't know how far it will be to the tip of South America. While laying in bed this morning and looking at the map on my iPhone I estimated it to be around 10-15k miles, guess we'll just have to see.
I also realized that I should probably enjoy the luxury of America's infrastructure. The road was perfectly paved, traffic was scarce, armed bandits weren't on the radar, my cell phone worked, the weather wasn't terrible and I didn't have to watch out for Mexican speedbumps. I slowed it down a bit knowing that things would be changing quite a bit in a few days.
It wasn't exactly warm outside, but I was bundled-up properly with an electric vest, heated grips, a balaclava with my body covered in Gore-Tex. I had also stuffed a few heat-packs on my thighs which worked great.
The plan was to head out I-70 to Limon then drop southeast to Lamar, an easy 4 hour ride or so. I had been riding for close to an hour when I saw a sign for Limon. 65 miles. 'What! 65 MILES?!' I yelled into my helmet, for some reason I thought it should have been just a few more miles down the road.
I quickly realized my foolishness. 65 miles is just a drop in the bucket when it comes to this trip. I honestly don't know how far it will be to the tip of South America. While laying in bed this morning and looking at the map on my iPhone I estimated it to be around 10-15k miles, guess we'll just have to see.
I also realized that I should probably enjoy the luxury of America's infrastructure. The road was perfectly paved, traffic was scarce, armed bandits weren't on the radar, my cell phone worked, the weather wasn't terrible and I didn't have to watch out for Mexican speedbumps. I slowed it down a bit knowing that things would be changing quite a bit in a few days.
It wasn't exactly warm outside, but I was bundled-up properly with an electric vest, heated grips, a balaclava with my body covered in Gore-Tex. I had also stuffed a few heat-packs on my thighs which worked great.
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