San Fernando Cathedral



The San Fernando Cathedral as seen from the Main Plaza in broad daylight.  Note the young pickpocket on the right, on his way into the chapel to confess his sins and, perhaps with some loose change in his pocket, promise to sin no more.

    In 1719, the Marques de San Miguel de Aquayo, governor and captain general of Coahuila and Texas, recommended to the king of Spain that 400 volunteer families be gathered from either Galicia, or the Canary Islands, or Havana, and transported to Texas to provide settlers for the colony.  In 1723, the king decided to send 200 families from the Canary Islands.

     The governor wanted these settlers to populate the area around his newest presidio, San Fernando de Bexar.  The mission Valero, later known as the Alamo, had been established there in 1720, and settlers were needed to farm and defend the land.  The Indians in Texas were not nearly as docile as those in Mexico, and the friars were having trouble recruiting slave labor.  Comanche didn't make good slaves.

     For the next several years, governmental delays kept the project on hold, but by midsummer of 1730, twenty-five families from the Canary Islands made it to Havana and ten more to Veracruz.  The king cancelled the project, but the ten families in Veracruz, fifty-six people altogether, decided to continue overland to the remote presidio at San Fernando de Bexar, and arrived there on March 9, 1731. 

     Due to marriages while en route, fifteen actual families arrived in Bexar.  The cagey islanders must have realized that single daughters, no matter how sweet, received no land, but young daughter-in-laws and their husbands were awarded a farm.  Four single men, ranging in age from 17 to 22, arrived with their families and were collectively designated the sixteenth family.  Each family was allotted a generous farm, and the single men each received one half a family share.

     In 1731, the Canary Islanders established the San Fernando Cathedral and started construction on the chapel, which was finished in 1750 or so.  To put this time frame in context, the population of New York City was around 9,000 loyal British subjects when San Fernando was started, and the famed San Juan Capistrano Mission in Southern California was not built until almost fifty years later, in 1776.   

     The San Fernando Cathedral has quietly existed in its spot in the exact center of the city of San Antonio for 282 years.  It is the mother church of the Archdiocese of San Antonio and the seat of its archbishop.  Pope John Paul II visited there in 1987, during the only trip to Texas by a sitting pope.

      In 1831, Jim Bowie married the beautiful Ursula de Verimendi in the San Fernando Chapel and his two children were, no doubt, christened there.  In 1836, William Barret Travis and Green Jameson watched from the church's bell tower, the highest structure in San Antonio, as General Sesma led the advance guard of Santa Anna’s army into town.  The Mexicans unfurled the famous blood red, “No-Quarter” flag from the belfry and it remained there during the siege and fall of the Alamo.

The cathedral during Richemont's presentation.

     Now, in addition to its other functions,  the building is used as a backdrop for a fantastic light and music show.   For the next ten years, four nights each week, the facade of San Fernando Cathedral will be used as a sort of movie screen to reflect the imagination of French artist Xavier de Richemont.   Visitors are urged to bring lawn chairs and find places in the main plaza to watch and listen as the free presentation unfolds three times nightly.

     The show is called “The Saga at San Fernando Cathedral” and consists of a series of psychedelic-like visions in intense full color that condense the three hundred year history of San Antonio into a twenty-four minute visual and auditory experience.  It is, in a word, incredible.

     I am not a fan of contemporary art.  I’ve seen too many slick talkers foist off absolute junk on unsuspecting patsies by calling it “art.”  We had an ole boy in Lubbock named Terry Allen that scratched out a living doing just that.  Oh, he also wrote some songs that pretty much rhymed, and picked a guitar around town, just about anything to make a living without working.  One time, at an art show in New Mexico, he put a used Airstream trailer house on display as a piece of art. If I remember correctly, he artistically leaned a broom up against the side of the trailer.  He was a lot better salesman than artist.

     This “video art installation” isn’t like that.  It is art on a level with any I've seen, but entirely different.  I watched the show on the Internet and was mesmerized.  In the beginning, the chapel was all darkness with hints of red in the background, as if the viewer is peering toward an early morning red sky through a dense black forest.  Thunder rolls.  It's raining.  The sound of the rain becomes music. I feel as if this represents the dawn of time—the instant of creation.

The church as it appears toward the end of the presentation.

     In continuous color, synchronized with fantastic music, the story of Texas unfolds on the face of the cathedral.  Geronimo, Sam Houston, Stephen Austin, LBJ, Abraham Lincoln and dozens of others are recognizable on the face of the chapel.  Tepees, horses, cattle and oil wells drift by.  The Alamo with Travis, Bowie, and Crockett, all in living color and all accompanied by appropriate music, fill the scene. 

     The music ranges from distant thunder to a lonesome flute or guitar.  A complicated pipe organ ensemble precedes the plaintive lyrics of simple folk music sung by a nasal hillbilly.  Accordions and mariachis follow symphonic sounds from a full blown orchestra and choir, all perfectly coordinated with the visual extravaganza taking place on the facade of the old church. 

     I watched in rapt attention as the saga played out.  I marveled at the talent of Xavier de Richemont, and the foresight of those who commissioned him for this piece, his first in the United States.  I watched the whole show on my computer and have yet to see the saga in person, but that will be remedied shortly.  If need be, I will go alone and sit in the cold rain.  I will see this work of art in person.

     For more information on The Saga of San Fernando Cathedral, and to view the work, go to www.mainplaza.org, read about the installation and see the show.

Some of the remains of the Texians slaughtered and burned by Santa Anna's troops at the Alamo were recovered by Juan Seguin and are interred here at San Fernando.

Luxury

A road like this in the moonlight becomes magic in a Jaguar

     When you see that title, your first thought may well be, “What does anyone from Lubbock know about luxury?”  I admit West Texas is not exactly chock full of luxury, but if you look past the surface, it is there.  

     As a young man, when I considered the word “luxury,” the first images that came to mind involved objects.  Automobiles, diamonds, mink, leather, and silk—that sort of thing.  After spending my life chasing all the above, I discovered that luxury has nothing to do with things.  Luxury is much more complicated—and simple.  It is a state of mind.

     In 1975, I made a decision.  I had been to the showroom three times the week before, looking, touching, admiring, and dreaming.  At two o’clock on Saturday afternoon,  a neighbor and I finished pouring his new concrete driveway.  He and I started at seven that morning, and worked in the heat and humidity of late-summer Houston.  We were hot and sweaty, dressed in tee shirts and cut-off jeans, splashed with concrete.

Remember, this was 1975

      “You want to take me down to Overseas Motors, Rudy?  I’m going to buy that car.”

     “Right now? Overseas Motors?  Dressed like that?”  Rudy was incredulous.

     “Right now.”  I said.  He grinned.  Rudy was a Rice professor, a PhD, and the idea appealed to his overdeveloped sense of irony.

     I wrote a check for a brand new, 1975 Jaguar XJ6L, a four-door sedan, midnight blue, with extended wheel base.  The seats were Corinthian leather and the dash gleamed with polished burled walnut.  The car had power everything, two gas tanks and a state-of-the-art sound system with eight speakers.  The speedometer was pegged at 140 mph. I drove it home that afternoon, dressed in concrete-splattered cut offs, with a day’s growth of beard and a lot of what I considered justifiable pride.

     The Jaguar was not just a car.  It was a statement.  I was thirty-nine years old, my company was thriving, my wife was lovely, my children were beautiful, and I was just getting started.  I well remembered the one room house on the dirt farm in Lubbock where I started first grade.  It would fit in my West University living room. I knew where I came from and I knew where I was going.  It was time everyone else did.

American version, with the controls on the left.

     Charlotte, Rudy, and Jola, his wife, loaded into the car for a demonstration ride.  Immersed in classical music from the unbelievable sound system, we eased onto the Southwest Freeway.  The powerful vehicle accelerated soundlessly while music and the smell of leather permeated the interior.  We were cruising at seventy in the far left lane as the independent suspension straightened the curves and buffered the road noise.  Luxury.  Pure automotive luxury.

     Tink.

     The small rock was evidently kicked up randomly by a junky ’63 Ford Galaxy going fifty miles an hour in the lane ahead of us.  The stone created a ding just under the rearview mirror in the exact center of what the English call the windscreen.  A dark circle, maybe three-eights of an inch in diameter marred my view of the world and shattered my sense of superiority.  I felt as if someone had kicked me in the stomach.  I wanted to cry.  I turned the music down and drove home.

     One night, in February of the next year, Charlotte and I drove from Breckenridge to Copper Mountain to meet some friends for dinner.  On the way back, it was late and powdery white snow covered the black pine trees that dotted the mountains.  A bright moon lit the landscape; the curvy road was lonely and dry.  The Jaguar was in its element.  Dual heaters silently kept the interior cozy and Ferrante and Teicher filled the car with fantastic music as I effortlessly negotiated the sweeping curves.  To this day, I cannot forget the intense pleasure I felt that night.  It is easily the most memorable drive of my life.

     Back in Houston, about six months later, Charlotte called me from Wagner Hardware, on the corner of Kirby and Rice Boulevard.  “The Jaguar quit.  Just died in the middle of the intersection.  What should I do?”

     “Call Triple A and have it towed home.  I don’t have time to fart with it now.  I’m trying to work.”   

      When I got home, I raised the bonnet and inspected the motor.  I checked the wiring connections and wiped dust off the air cleaner.  Nothing amiss.  I tried the starter.  The car started immediately and ran beautifully.  

     The next day, Charlotte took the Jaguar to the dealership.  They could find nothing wrong, so naturally, they replaced the spark plugs, the spark plug wires, the distributer cap, all the filters, the oil, the coolant and the fan belts.  The amount of the invoice was obscene.  During the next two months, the car died in the middle of the street four more times.

     No matter how fantastic the sound system, it is little consolation when you’re stopped in the center of a busy intersection with the motor dead and half of Houston honking at you.  Just ask Charlotte.  We bought a Buick station wagon for her and I kept the Jaguar to play with.

     I talked with an architect friend of mine who loved Jaguars.  “John,” I said, “I’m thinking of buying another Jaguar, an XKE.  What do you think?”

     “Jim, if you had two Jaguars, what would you drive?”

      The logic of his comment was obvious.  I had no reply.

       Charlotte still loves silk, fur, leather and Joy perfume, but my idea if luxury has evolved.  Luxury is simple.  A faucet that doesn’t drip.  A spotless bathroom. An intelligent conversation.  Sharp kitchen knives.  Warm, thirsty towels.  A drink of cool water.  Homemade lasagna.  Ironed sheets.  Strong, black coffee.  Things that touch you and make you feel good.  That is luxury.

     A friend of mine put everything in perspective.  He said when we’re young, we want everything to be up to date and stylish.  Our clothing must be snappy and well-tailored, our cars need to be sleek and shiny, and our women trim and shapely.  As we grow older, we begin to place a lot more value on comfort.

     A new Jaguar, fresh off the showroom floor, is nice, but it is not luxury.  It is a machine.  If you’re lucky, one day you might drive it through snowy mountains at midnight, and remember the trip for a lifetime.  That is luxury.  Luxury makes us feel good, no matter what it costs.

Putting the Lid on the Churn--Final Episode of the Fishing Trip

The Conejos River, near Platoro.

 

     The wake-up aroma of fresh-brewed coffee wafted up the stairs.  I knew it was sometime after 4:30, and, as John Wayne said, we were burning daylight.  That whole idea confused me, but I climbed out of bed and made my way to the bath room.  I could hear Roy telling his story as I dressed and went downstairs.

      Coffee just tastes better out of a heavy mug.  We pulled on jackets and went outside to sit on the front porch and drink the steamy brew, watch for any hint of daylight, and listen to Roy weave his endless tale.  He was building the drama as he neared the climax.

    “Finally, she got this little gleam in her eye and said, Uh, er, uh—oh shit!  I forgot!” Roy said.

     “What do you mean, she said, ‘I forgot!’ That doesn’t make any sense,” Collins said.

     “She didn’t say 'I forgot.'  I did.  I’m the one who forgot.  I don’t remember what she said, but it was really cool,” Roy explained.

     “Dammit Roy, you mean we been listening to a story for two days and you can’t remember how it ends?  What the hell kind of deal is that?”  Wayne was stunned.  He never failed to properly finish a story, even if he had to make up the ending, which I suspect happened more often than not.   We let Roy off the hook because we all tend to let details drop through the cracks on occasion.  That may be a function of age.

     I fixed “Country Eggs Benedict” for breakfast.  Simply split one of Neil’s big scratch biscuits and top each half with a thick slab of fried ham and a poached egg.  Smother the whole thing with a ladle full of Tabasco-spiked cream gravy and serve with a side of German fried potatoes and onions--sophisticated, southern, and delicious—stick to your ribs food.  I know, I know—some of it will also stick to the inside of your arteries.

     On a fishing trip, I don’t do real Eggs Benedict for several reasons.  We don’t generally bring English Muffins and Hollandaise Sauce to camp.  I could do the sauce from scratch, but it is just not civilized to serve Eggs Benedict unless preceded by spicy Bloody Marys and accompanied by crisp, dry, fermented-in-the-bottle Champagne.  After a breakfast like that, it’s impossible to concentrate on fishing.

A mountain with the not unusual name, "Old Baldy," adjacent to the Alamosa Canyon, near Platoro.

     Time passed, as always, and our few days stolen from reality came to an end.  Someone may find it possible to leave those fellows and not miss them immediately, but not Wayne and not me.  We talked all the way to Kerrville, over 800 miles, about Roy’s wonderful stories, Neil’s quiet wisdom, and James’ quick wit.  We marveled at how little we all have changed, while the world kept turning and perhaps, passed us by. 

     No doubt, we have changed—we’re almost eighty years old.  For one thing, we drink better whiskey.  We also drive better cars and eat better than we once did.    All of us parlayed the lessons we learned in West Texas into a good life.  The work ethic we learned is taken for granted out there, but in the rest of the world it is much admired and sought after.

     I think the lack of change in our personalities is due to the fact that we were pretty well satisfied with who we were when we got out of high school. We chose not to change.  College and professional life taught us new ways to express our ideas and expanded our vocabularies, but short of superficial changes, we stayed true to the land of our youth and the rules of life we learned on the high plains.

     We all have made new friends.  Part of being from the Texas panhandle has to do with being open to friendship.  In the early days out there, neighbors lived on lonely farms, miles apart, and seldom saw each other.  When they did get a chance to visit, they took full advantage of the opportunity and regaled each other with stories, news, and gossip.  Friends were necessary, whether building a barn, rounding up cattle, fighting Indians, or chasing outlaws.  New friends were desirable, and old friends were indispensible.  We inherited these traits, refined them to suit the times, and live with them to this day.

Neil, James, Wayne, and Roy.  Four better fly fishermen may exist somewhere, but I doubt it.  About 280 years of experience is represented here.

     The guys on this fishing trip are some of my closest friends.  We’ve known and loved each other since we all had pimples.  We’ve shared each other’s highs and lows.  We know instinctively which buttons to push…. and which ones to leave alone.   We sometimes don’t visit for months, but that does not matter—we know where we stand.  We’re friends.

    James Collins called yesterday to wish me a happy birthday.  During our conversation, he mentioned that Neil and he were already planning next year’s event and it was going to be a regular stem-winder.  He intimated that if Wayne and I were nice to him for the rest of this year—very nice to him—we might be invited.  Ford nailed it—the little S.O.B. has been that way since he was five years old.

The Fishing Trip----Part Three

    

One of the massive hammer mills in the canyon beyond Creede.  Ore was loaded into wagons under the shed at the base, but back then few people rode bicycles--they got exercise in other ways.

                             

     Monday morning we broke camp—meaning we moved our gear out of the log cabins and packed the vehicles—and headed for Platoro, Colorado.  On the way, we visited the old mines in the steep canyon just above Creede.  The mines at Creede operated continuously from 1890 until 1985, producing tons of silver, gold, lead, zinc and copper.  In the early days, ore was broken down here in massive hammer mills, then loaded on mule trains and carried overland to the railroad at Alamosa, where it was loaded onto railcars and transported to the smelter.  The whole canyon is full of history.

     Bob Ford shot Jesse James in Missouri, and ten years later, Ed O’Kelley shot Bob Ford in a tent saloon in Creede.  Bat Masterson and Poker Alice both lived and gambled there for a time.  Wide open, with gambling halls, saloons and whore houses, the local motto was, ”There is no night in Creede.”

     When the “Holy Moses” Mine was discovered in 1889, six hundred people lived in Creede.  By the end of 1891, the population had grown to over ten thousand.  When the mines closed in 1985, the locals continued digging for gold, changing their focus from ore to tourists.  The little city is filled with brightly painted, perfectly restored Victorian buildings.

     We made our way through South Fork and on to Monte Vista, then, because there are no front roads, took back roads to Platoro.  Platoro is a mining town, and an active mine still operates, boring into the mountain on the western edge of the community.  No idea what they mine there, but there may be a clue in the name.  A Mexican friend tells me the name Platoro is a combination of Plata, Spanish for silver, and Oro, which means gold.

Looking down into the metropolis of Platoro, at the curve of the Conejos River. 

     The last forty miles of road into Platoro is dirt, and according to the signs, must be graded by the county once each twelve months.  We arrived at the Skyline Lodge, cabin number eleven, about two P.M.  Roy Turner had already arrived—his gear was inside.  He was out exploring, but drove up within fifteen minutes.

     Ratisseau said having Roy show up was, “just like the cherry on top of an ice cream sundae.” As soon as we stowed our gear, the fishermen began to talk in tongues as they prepared for battle and pulled on their waterproof suits of armor.

     “I reckon I’ll use one of them black-and-yellow pity pons this afternoon,” said Wayne, “or a solid black cinco loco.  Them big ‘uns cain’t hardly let one of them cincos go by.”

     “When I think back over the past sixty-some-odd years of fly-fishing, I doubt if I ever caught anything on a pity pon, much less a cinco.  My best luck has always been with a red-and-green jumble-iya, tied on a number eight hook with my daddy’s secret knot,”  Roy drawled.

     “I wouldn’t use anything red and green today.  Look at those birds—they’re going crazy over dark blue hotty-tottys.  I tied me some of them last week and that’s what I’ll be using,”  McMullen put in. 

      “You guys need to make up your minds and get moving or we won’t get any fishing done today,”  Collins said.  “I’m gonna use one of these McFly Terminators that Neil tied for me last Christmas.  Never fail to catch something with one of them.”

Roy, Wayne, Me, James, and Neil in front of cabin #11.  I took one look at this picture and started a diet.

     As I sat there on the porch and listened while the group discussed the proper weight of a leader, the exact color of a fake tsetse fly, the most advantageous length for a rod, and the type of line best-suited for dry-fly fishing, I suffered from an utter lack of understanding.  Except for the obvious West Texas accents and phrasing, I could have been listening to a bunch of Greek farmers arguing about the best way to cook a goat.

     After the afternoon fishing, Neil broke out a bottle of Ezra Brooks, and happy hour commenced as we fried trout for dinner.  Now, let me point out once again, none of us are spring chickens.  The guys moved slowly getting into their fishing gear.  They took forever to rig the fly rods.  Everyone maneuvered gingerly up and down the rustic steps at the front porch, and it took three rest periods for any of us to clomp up stairs to the bedrooms.  Not so with the whiskey.  A sack of crushed ice and more than half of Neil’s bottle disappeared instantly.  I suppose the thin air up there melts ice and evaporates good bourbon.

     I hated to put a damper on the festivities, but I had to relay a comment to James Collins. “Now Collins, I don’t hardly know how to say this, but I need to tell you something.  Our friend, Davis Ford is hurt that he was not invited up here to enjoy this trip with the rest of us.  He wouldn’t want me saying anything, but he was absolutely crushed.  He had a little catch in his throat when he told me you all had been friends since before the first grade and he couldn’t understand why he wasn’t invited.  Maybe you ought to call him—you know, maybe help him feel better.”  Davis had asked me to lay a good, thick guilt trip on Collins and I did my best.

     “You tell Davis Ford if we’d wanted him up here we’d have invited him.”  Guilt trips don't work on Collins, and that closed the subject of Davis Ford.  “Pass that bottle over here, Jimmy Paul—as Rat says, ‘I need a half-sole on this drink.’” 

     Later, when I told Ford about the incident, he laughed heartily, and said, “The little S.O.B. hasn’t changed a bit.  He was just like that when he was five years old.”

     Turner started telling a story about two of our classmates.  During a brief pause, Ratisseau told three jokes.  Roy went on with his story.

     As Roy caught his breath, someone mentioned that Collins was the only guy they knew who reached puberty and went bald all in the same year.

     “Nineteen sixty-one at Fort Bragg,” Collins said.  “I was a brand new second lieutenant.”

     Roy went on with his story.

     “Let’s call Merriman,” Ratisseau said.  “Maybe he knows how Tom is doing.”

     I had Larry’s number in my phone, and he answered immediately.  He and Brenda were on vacation in the Caribbean somewhere.  We passed the phone around and everyone talked with him a few minutes.  We marveled at what a great age we live in—routinely talking with a friend in the Caribbean from the outback of Colorado.  Roy went on with his story.

     For dinner, we had fresh, pan-fried trout, crisp wedge salad, and corn on the cob.  I made a cherry cobbler that was a bit dry, but otherwise passable.  After we cleaned the kitchen, it was bedtime.  Everyone knew James would be fixing coffee at 4:30 in the morning, so we better get to sleep.  Roy went on with his story….

A bit dry, because I was unacustomed to working with fresh cherries, but passable.

To Be Continued…..

The Fishing Trip Continues---Part Two

The Rio Grande doesn't look like this in Texas

                                    

     At 4:30 on Sunday morning Collins put on the coffee.  That is not something unusual for James—he makes coffee every morning at 4:30.  Has for years.  He gets up when he wakes up, makes coffee, and then sits, drinks coffee, and plans his day.  I think it is one of the reasons he has always been successful.  He’s thinking about problems and working out solutions three hours before the rest of the world wakes up.

     Neil, Ratisseau and I straggled into the kitchen as we awakened.  It was forty degrees—too cold (and too dark) to sit at the picnic table outside.  McMullen mixed up a batch of scratch biscuits, fried a pound of bacon, made gravy and we feasted—bacon, eggs, biscuits, gravy, coffee, orange juice, and sweet milk—Collins quoted a high school friend, “The Queen of England don’t eat no better’n this.”

     We quoted a lot of old friends that morning.  We decided Charles Flowers had picked up the “Queen of England” quote from Robert Benton, who used it often.  We talked about people I had not thought of in years.  We laughed about things that happened during high school, while we were learning math and English and how to live and who we were.  We remembered sixty years ago, when we were teenagers trying to decide who we should be when we grew up.  We all helped each other over the adolescent rough spots.

     By the time it was daylight, we finished breakfast, cleaned the kitchen, made more coffee and moved outside to continue our visit.  I enjoyed these same guys in high school.  They were older, and perhaps wiser now, but they were the same friends with the same personalities I had been drawn to over sixty years ago.  We shared the same high plains values, the same ambitions, the same goals. After all these years, McMullen still lights up the room when he smiles, Collins can double me over with his dry wit, and, of course, Ratisseau just loves to tell a story.

         About mid-morning, the fishermen, like so many gladiators, pulled on their waterproof armor and girdled up for battle.  Trout are civilized fish.  They mostly don’t care for breakfast before ten am or so, and it is foolish to try to catch them before the day warms up.  Evidently, the fish take a siesta in the early afternoon, and have dinner around five, because the fishermen adopted that schedule and were very successful with it.  My friends were pros—no frenzied casting, no frantic splashing from place to place, no indiscriminate fly-switching—just quiet, skilled fishing, dropping the fly at the proper place, and teasing the trout into taking it.

There may be three better fishermen in the world, but I doubt it.  The Rio Grande is just behind those bushes.

      Neal and Wayne hustled off to a pre-selected hot spot, and Collins, knowing my interest in Texas history, gave up his morning session with the trout and took me on a guided tour of the Rio Grande headwaters.  We drove the high road past the Rio Grande Reservoir and followed the river up toward its source.  The road was literally cut through the forest.  It was unpaved, narrow, steep, and rocky, with no guard rails or shoulders. I was glad for James’ four-wheel-drive Land Cruiser.

     As we climbed higher, the Rio Grande branched into a north and south tributary.  The river was no more than a creek now, and the north branch cascaded downhill past us and on to the intersection below.  Stony Pass, where this primitive road crossed the Continental Divide, was about three miles farther up.  From that pass, the road meandered seventeen miles downhill into the old mining town of Silverton, Colorado, on the western slope. 

      Five hundred yards uphill from where we stood, a snowmelt spring marked the source of the river and once defined the westernmost border of the Republic of Texas.  From the spring, the border went due north to the 42^nd parallel, which was Texas’ northern border, in present-day Wyoming. 

     In my youth, nothing would have kept me from fighting through the trees and following that creek uphill to stand at its source.  I would have insisted upon a picture, standing astraddle the Rio Grande.  Now, I had to admit the mountain was steep and I was not forty anymore—hell, I’m not even sixty anymore.  With some effort, James found a place wide enough to turn around, and we went back downhill and downstream to join the fishermen.  I had been close enough to the ancient Texas border.  I could feel it.  Thanks to James, I can write about being there.

     The rest of the day, the Rio Grande was kind to the fishermen.  James called it, “One of the single greatest afternoons of fishing I ever had.”  I felt he was being rewarded for taking the time to let me explore.

The cobbler looked better after it was baked.  As you can see, we ate well.



     Somewhere in the bowels of the big Ford pickup, Ratisseau found a jug of Crown Royal for happy hour that evening, and we prepared an oriental stir-fry with veggies and chicken that was simply delicious.  I fixed a black-iron skillet peach cobbler that would have been somewhere around average at home, but was absolute perfection in the clear, crisp air, sixteen miles north of Creede.  Tomorrow, we are going to meet Roy Turner at a place I’ve never heard of—a place high in the mountains called Platoro, which, in Spanish, means silver and gold.

To Be Continued-----

Lubbock Boys Go Fishing---Part One

   

    

The Homestead Cabin at Freemon Ranch--built in 1874 to "proof up" the claim for timber and minerals.

     Wake up, don’t just lay there like cold granite stone------Merle Haggard filled Wayne’s big Ford pickup with sad country music as we headed west across the Llano Estacado—the land of our youth.  It was good to be back—back on the road and back on the high plains. We didn’t call it by a fancy Spanish name when we grew up out there.  It was just the high plains of the panhandle of Texas, and we had no idea how that country would mark us for life.

     James Collins called before we got to Big Spring, to tell us not to go to Pagosa Springs as planned, but drive instead sixteen miles past Creede to a place called Freemon Ranch.  He said the water at Bruce Spruce Ranch was muddy and fishing would be no good and we’d have better luck on the Rio Grande near Creede. 

     I was silently happy that I didn’t have to tell anyone we fished at Bruce Spruce Ranch—it sounds vaguely effeminate and is hard for an old man to pronounce.  I was also anxious to see the headwaters and the source of the Rio Grande because that was the northwestern border of Texas from 1835 until 1846.  Wayne adjusted his fancy GPS and kept his foot in the carburetor.

     James and Neil McMullen had invited Wayne Ratisseau, Roy Turner and me to join them on a fishing trip.  They made an offer we could not refuse.  I did not get the fishing gene, but I went along to keep the coffee pot warm, do a little cooking, and make sure all the lies got told.  Not much I’d rather do, and no one I’d rather do it with.  All these guys had been my friends since our sophomore year at Lubbock High School—sixty-two years, if anyone is counting.

A typical sunset on the high plains, where we grew up.  Because this is a daily occurrence, sometimes we forget.  Thanks to my friend Rick Palmer of Amarillo for reminding me.

     Wayne and I made it to Las Vegas, New Mexico, before dark, and the next day, we got to Freemon Ranch before two o’clock in the afternoon.  The lady there showed us our cabin and said that James and Neil were out fishing.  The air was clear, the valley was green, and the high mountain setting was magnificent. 

     The Freemon Ranch consists of a cluster of log cabins built in the early 1900s, with a trout stream running through.  According to the marker, one cabin, the “homestead cabin,” was built in 1874.  It had a sod roof but was past occupation, only used as a prop now days.  Our cabin was cozy, with indoor plumbing and a kitchen.  We unloaded the pickup and Wayne, a consummate fisherman, could not wait to gird his loins and do battle with the wily trout.

     As a novice, I just do not understand the serious nature of this undertaking.  Wayne was dressed, appropriately I thought, in shorts and tee shirt.  He sat on our cabin’s front porch and removed his shoes and pulled on a pair of heavy woolen socks.  He smoothed the socks over his ankles, and slid one leg into what appeared to be rubberized khaki-colored overalls, with black rubber feet attached, not unlike kiddie’s jamas.  It was a struggle.  He got one leg in and sat there hyperventilating before he attempted the other leg.  

     The air in the Colorado Rockies leaves something to be desired.  Oh, there’s plenty of it, but like a lot of things when you get outside Texas, it is just not real satisfying.  You can breathe up several gallons of it and still feel deprived.  Texas air, on the other hand, is something you can get your teeth into.  A couple of good deep breaths and you’re ready to take on the world.  In the high country of Colorado, it takes a whole vacant lot-full just to get on a pair of overalls.

     Wayne struggled into the left leg of his fishing suit and, leaving the trousers around his knees, began the ordeal of putting on his waterproof, lace-up fishing boots.  Several minutes and quite a lot of gasping later, he was completely dressed—up to the knees.  He rested awhile.

     Ratisseau stood and pulled the khaki rubber overalls up to his waist and sat back down to rest.  After a few minutes, he stood up and batted around behind himself, trying to locate the straps to his rubber long-handles.  I helped him as much as I could—as I said, I’m a novice.  Besides, I haven’t worn overalls since George R. Bean Elementary School.

Wayne, with his loins all girded, explaining why he cannot reveal the secret knot.  Those of you who know Wayne will understand that no one has a camera with a shutter speed fast enough to catch him with his mouth closed.

     With my help, Wayne had little trouble finishing.  He pulled on a fishing vest and an old hat.  Now it was time to rig up his fly rod and pick the perfect fly, one that was irresistible to even the Albert Einstein trout.  He chose a black ant-looking thing and tied it in place with a knot that only fly fishermen can know.  As he tied the knot, he turned his back so I could not watch.

      Fly fishermen teach the knot to their sons in a coming-of-age ceremony.  With the knot secure, he added just the proper amount of leader so the fish would not see the line and would believe that clump of horsehair was a real live black ant.  Many years ago, Wayne built that fly rod and tied many of his own flies.  His dad taught him, after he showed him that secret knot.

      As Wayne went down to the stream that flowed through the ranch to prove he was physically and intellectually superior to a 10-inch speckled fish with a half BB-sized brain, I found a shady place with a porch swing to breathe the mountain air, drink in the scenery, read about Sam Houston, and wonder about the water in that creek.  How long did it take that particular water to make it to Del Rio, on its way to the gulf?

Here, fishy, fishy, fishy-----This creek feeds the Rio Grande, which...well you know what the Rio Grande does.

      James and Neil came in a couple of hours later, carrying a creel full of fish.  They most always catch-and-release, but when Roy comes Monday, we’re gonna have a fish fry. 

    This, of course, will be continued…..

Part Five---Mirabeau Lamar, General Hugh McLeod and the Santa Fe Expedition

   

The Llano Estacado, not the Mexican Army, defeated the Santa Fe Expedition. 

      After the Battle of Plum Creek, in August of 1840, Mirabeau Lamar, President of Texas, still faced problems.  He had been elected by an overwhelming majority of the votes, largely because both his opponents committed suicide before the election.  His policies differed greatly from those of Sam Houston, who preceded him and would follow him as president of the republic. 

     Unlike Houston, Lamar mistrusted all Indians and felt that they should be forced out of Texas by whatever means available, up to and including extermination.  Houston was against slavery and wanted Texas to become a state of the Union.  Lamar wanted to continue slavery and did not want to be annexed by the United States—he wanted to build a nation that stretched to the Pacific Ocean and was recognized as a world power.  Lamar felt that Texas, with all its land and its vast potential, would be foolish to become subservient to any other country.

     Lamar wanted immediate recognition of the Republic of Texas by France, England, and other world powers, which he hoped would enable the republic to borrow money from world banking institutions.  Texas was dead broke, unable to collect taxes and, even after formal recognition by Britain and France, unable to borrow.  During Lamar’s three year tenure, the republic generated a bit over one million in revenue, and spent almost five million.

     To distract the public from these problems and as a first step toward expanding the empire to the Pacific, Lamar started a campaign to annex New Mexico, at least that part east of the Rio Grande, which Texas had claimed since San Jacinto.  The trade along the Santa Fe Trail would go a long way toward alleviating Texas’ financial situation and Lamar was convinced that the people of New Mexico were ready to join Texas and split from the despotic rule of Santa Anna, who had returned to power in Mexico.  Lamar believed when he announced Texas was ready to assimilate New Mexico, the New Mexican people would jump at the chance to become Texans.

     Lamar tried to get support, financial and otherwise, from the Texas Congress for his plan to send a “trade mission” to New Mexico.  The legislature would have nothing to do with the idea, so Lamar, on his own, appropriated $89,000.00 to finance the mission.  No doubt he exceeded his authority and went against the constitution, but he managed to get the expedition organized and funded.  He chose his young friend, Hugh McLeod, now a 27 year-old brigadier general, to lead the military component of the expedition.
    
     McLeod was lap-dog loyal to Lamar.  He was red-headed, freckle-faced, a bit rotund and a quite  jolly fellow.  A lot of fun at parties.  He was also dumb as a post.  There was a reason he was last in his class ar West Point.

     The Santa Fe Expedition consisted of 21 ox-drawn wagons carrying about $200,000.00 in merchandise, several businessmen, four civil commissioners, one newspaper editor, five companies of infantry, and one artillery company.  Including the soldiers, the expedition totaled 321 men.  General McLeod was in command of the military forces, which were there to lead and protect the expedition, not for any aggression against New Mexico.

     With Mexican guides, eighty head of beef cattle for food, provisions for ninety days and high hopes, the wagon train left Brushy Creek, in the vicinity of present-day Round Rock, on June 19, 1841.  The guides must have been dandies.  Six weeks later, heading for Santa Fe, they were closer to Oklahoma City.  They made it to the vicinity of present-day Wichita Falls, and mistook the Wichita River for the Red River.  After following the Wichita for twelve days, McLeod realized their mistake and sent scouts north to hunt for the Red River.  The Mexican guides deserted.

     McLeod eventually found the Red River, and followed it west.  His command was in trouble—supplies were running low, there was little food, no one knew how far it was to Santa Fe, progress was slower than anticipated, and Indians had stolen some of their horses and all of the beef cattle.  When the little group found the Llano Estacado, McLeod split them up and sent a patrol west on horseback to find a route to the trading villages of New Mexico, while he and his group camped in the valley.  They couldn't find a place to climb the Caprock with twenty-one wagons.

     The men in both groups were starving.  According to the reporter Kendall, they ate snakes, prairie dogs, toads, and anything else they could catch, and they didn’t cook it long.  Indians had stolen their cattle and most of their horses.  They lost six soldiers fighting Comanche, and morale was non-existent.

     On September 12, the advance patrol sent back a guide to lead McLeod and the wagons into New Mexico, where the Texans expected a hero’s welcome. In the meantime, the Mexican guides who deserted made it to Taos and told of the expedition headed toward New Mexico.  The Mexican authorities were less than pleased.

     When Governor Manuel Armijo heard of the expedition, he considered it an armed invasion.  He brought 1500 troops to San Miguel and captured the advance party on September 17^th, then surrounded and captured McLeod’s main force near Tucumcari on October 5^th.  Captain William G. Lewis, who spoke Spanish, convinced both Texas parties to surrender, which may not have been a difficult task.  The troops were thirsty, hungry, tired, and unwilling to fight a much larger force.  Captain Lewis lied when he assured them that the Mexicans would treat them kindly and send them back to Texas with full bellies.   Whether or not he knowingly lied is a matter for debate.  Surrender to a friendly army may have appeared to be a good option to the starving troops, but Armijo’s army was not friendly.

     The Texan captives were bound and listened as the Mexican officers debated their fate.  Governor Armijo was determined to execute all the prisoners, the accepted Mexican way of dealing with revolutionaries. When the officers' vote was taken, the prisoners were spared by one vote.  Early the next morning, they were bound together by twos and started a march to Santa Fe, then El Paso, on to Mexico City and finally to Vera Cruz and Perote Prison, where they arrived in December of 1841.  Many died during the march from Santa Fe to El Paso, but the sadistic commander (an officer named Salazar) was replaced by a more lenient individual in  El Paso and the rest of the 1200 mile march was less strenuous.  Most of the prisoners were released in April of 1842, after diplomatic pressure from the United States Ambassador, Waddy Thompson.

     Governor Armijo confiscated all the trade merchandise for his own use and continued to rule New Mexico with an iron fist.  He was known to be corrupt—rumors persist that he started his fortune by stealing sheep from his employer and selling them back.  In 1846, he was prosecuted for treason and cowardice during the Mexican/American war, but was acquitted.

     Captain William G. Lewis was released by Armijo and rewarded with his choice of items from the Texan merchandise wagons.  He was widely considered a traitor and was shunned by both Texans and Mexicans for the rest of his life.  His intervention resulted in the surrender of all the Texas troops without a shot being fired.  He may or may not have been aware of Governor Armijo’s plans.

     Even though Hugh McLeod was popular with his men and with President Lamar, he was not a good choice to lead the expedition.  His choice of guides was obviously flawed, he allowed the beef cattle and over eighty horses to be stolen by Indians, he had no idea of the whereabouts of Santa Fe or how far it was from Austin, he split his troops and surrendered without a fight.  All in all, not unforseeable results from an officer who was considerably less than bright..

     General McLeod was treated leniently while in prison, because of his rank in the Texas Army.  He returned to Texas and retired from the military when Sam Houston regained the office of president.  McLeod, a lawyer, opposed Houston on every major issue for the rest of his life.  He died of illness during the Civil War while serving as a Lt. Colonel in the unit that became Hood’s Texas Brigade.   In honor of his contributions, Hugh McLeod’s grave was moved to the Texas State Cemetery in Austin.

Mirabeau Bonaparte Lamar--Georgia Fire-Breather, Statesman, Poet, Visionary, and President of the Republic of Texas

 

     Mirabeau B. Lamar was blamed for the failure of the expedition.  A “Letter to the Editor” in the Austin newspaper of the time suggested that he be traded for the Texan prisoners in Mexico.  His political opposition considered him a much better poet than President.  Lamar truly believed that Texas should stretch from the Gulf to the Pacific and worked tirelessly toward that end.  He believed strongly in education and introduced legislation that forced each new county to set aside three leagues of state land to finance a school system.  His work resulted in the establishment of Texas A&M in 1871 and Texas University in 1876. 

     George Wilkins Kendall of the New Orleans Picayune, who went on the expedition and wrote a book-length report about it, wrote at the time,

President Lamar’s estimation of the views and feelings of the people of Santa Fe and vicinity, was perfectly correct.  Not a doubt can exist that they all were, and are (1843), anxious to throw off the oppressive yoke of Armijo, and come under the liberal institutions of Texas; but the Governor found us divided into small parties, broken down by long marches and want of food; discovered too, a traitor amongst us; and, taking advantage of these circumstances, his course was plain and his conquest easy.

     Had this mission proved successful, Lamar would have been heralded a greater hero and the history of Texas, Mexico, and the United States would have been drastically altered.  Lamar was a dreamer, who, like his rival, Sam Houston, dreamed big dreams.  History will remember him for his substantial contributions to education in Texas and no one will blame him for his grandiose dreams.  That sorta comes with the territory….




Thanks Jimmy, for the idea for this series.  Hope you enjoy....