March 2018, Guadalupe River State Park – Walking the dog, I gaze toward the heavens to watch Southwest jets in airways that traverse the city of Houston and I imagine what destinations are in store for the passengers aboard. I yearn to visit new places, but travel is not always about boarding a plane. Travel can be just a matter of picking a place to go. So in conversation with my friends Skip and John, I mentioned that I was overdue for camping, to which Skip reminded that it had been nine years and a dog ago since joining them. Given my urbane deportment and urban existence, some might be surprised that camping appeals to me. But camping is just code for drinking under the stars, right?
The dramatic cliffs are home to a nesting colony of cliff swallows during the spring and summer.
Skip, John, Michael, and I decided to meet for a camp out at Guadalupe River State Park.
I had another motive for the excursion. I was smitten and actively pursuing unique ways to amuse my young paramour.
This narrative is a travelogue with thoughts on the art of camping, friendship, love, life, and the great outdoors.
***
Preparations began, lists were made, and text chains were hysterical.
Michael: Does our campsite have electricity?
Skip: Yes, electric and water.
Me: Good, I’ll be able to power my chandelier and water fountain.
John: Doesn’t Coleman make a chandelier by now?
Me: Not a crystal one.
I also struggled with the decision whether or not Delta Dawn would join us. In the years past, I had few issues camping with Penny Lane or Katie Scarlett, other than the possibility of Miss Scarlett eating someone’s car if we stopped en route. But about the only time she was normal in her life was outdoors. (Katie Scarlett is buried in Skip & John’s garden beneath a scarlet-glazed birdbath, which Skip refers to as a mosquito incubator.)
Delta Dawn is one of the world’s least outdoorsy English Springer Spaniels; but, then again, I might be considered one of the least outdoorsy Cajuns.
Me: I’m only 50% on bringing Delta Dawn.
Michael: Bring her.
John: We love dogs.
I was also assigned the procurement of a few packages of firewood—but firewood is a seasonal product for Houston stores.
Me: I couldn’t find firewood so I bought a few two-by-fours and had them cut up.
Michael: Girl, they’ll have it in the country.
Me: Well, you know, when you’re on a mission to get wood…
***
We would have an interesting group.
I met Michael and Skip when we were members of Bayou City Boys Club. BCBC was a non-profit men’s club limited to 35 “good-looking guys” who hosted extravagant parties benefiting AIDS charities. And though it might have looked like 35 image-obsessed party boys, the membership consisted of lawyers, accountants, doctors, investors, designers, executives, techies, realtors, teachers, and other respected professionals. Our membership could mobilize for each event like a hive of bees, handling every aspect of fundraisers as well as the management of a 501(c)(3) organization.
Michael and I were usually assigned to do decorations; one year our committee carved Olmec heads out of immense blocks of Styrofoam for the Jungle Party, greeting guests as they entered downtown’s Verizon Theater. Skip was usually IT and website maintenance.
I met John when he was Skip’s guest on the BCBC firetruck during a Pride festival, driving down Westheimer with cocktails, throwing beads and drenching onlookers with a firehose. The two coupled shortly thereafter.
BCBC disbanded in the late 00s due to the economic downturn and the changing nature of HIV charities. And while I was respected within the group, I am not sure that I was very popular—so the relationships that I maintained are valued.
Skip has a PhD in bioengineering; and John has a PhD in Chemistry. When I get between those two having brain sex, a heated discussion over the monomer subunits and molecular mass of homopolymers or whatever, I tend to get lost. And Skip is sweet, so if I admit to being confused he will stop and start from the beginning, explaining slowly things I could never understand anyway—I have no desire to know how amphiphilic block copolymers are synthesized. This phenomenon might also be attributed to Skip’s Caperger’s, my own term for a combination Capricorn and, I suspect, a mild form of Asperger’s.
Our shtick was to undertake the same still life, landscape, or sitter. (Michael & Katie Scarlett at Onion Creek, Utah.)
In this crowd, I am the least-educated. Michael also has his own stack of sheepskins, including a Master’s Degree in environmental biology.
He and I became close and traveled together in years past, from a first class trip to Europe to roughing it in Utah, and much in between. We also did paintings and had a few public exhibitions of our work. Our shtick was to undertake the same still life, landscape, or sitter with the outcomes, as interpreted through two different artistic minds, displayed side by side.
When the paintings were unveiled, everyone recognized the sitter, even though the portrait did not include his face. (“The All Seeing Eye” by Troy Broussard, 2004, 24 x 30” oil on canvas.)
We even painted Skip once. I was hosting a dinner party for eight when Skip and Michael got into a lively debate over the population of China—a dispute easily solved by Google. But before the friendly quarrel was settled, an alcohol-lubricated bet was made; if Skip lost, he agreed to pose for us. Skip lost and ended up naked in my studio a week later.
When the paintings were unveiled at Lowell Collins Gallery, everyone recognized the sitter, even though the portrait did not include his face. Skip has an extremely recognizable tattoo on his chest and, as he is always running around half-naked, the Eye of Horus betrayed his identity.
Michael lives in San Francisco now and commutes to Shreveport, maintaining his mother’s company.
As for the inclusion of my gypsy love interest, it was not to be. We both made mistakes and the relationship did not end well. After parting ways, I met someone new and extended an invitation for camping—which was declined. Alas, the trip evolved for me from courtship to curative, as a time to reconnect with friends and to mollify my bruised heart and humbled ego.
***
There is tons of gear involved in camping with no room for surprises once you get where you are going. And part of the preparation is putting hands on all of your shit.
I bought my Sundome fifteen years ago when I upgraded from my old pup tent. (“Pup Tent” by Troy Broussard, 1995, 6 x 9”, oil on canvas.)
I had not setup my tent in nine years and my fear was finding it dry rotted or mildewed. I bought my Coleman Sundome fifteen years ago when I upgraded from my old pup tent. It is easy to assemble and has held up in some uncommonly harsh conditions; one being an ice storm with tropical force gusts at Pedernales Falls in 2006 while other tents nearby collapsed. (I thought I would die from hypothermia that night.)
My tent went up in John’s backyard within five minutes and though it had that funky old nylon smell, it was in great condition. After a quick interior vacuum it was packed up and we were on our way out for beer and crawfish.
Coleman still makes the Sundome, although in Kool-aid colors and blackout lining; it is a classic design (“Tent at Garner State Park” by Troy Broussard, 2004, 24 x 30” oil on canvas.)
Coleman still makes the Sundome, although in Kool-aid colors and with blackout lining; it is a classic design. Founded on an innovative gas lamp over a hundred years ago, the Coleman Company, Inc. is an American institution specializing in mainstream outdoor recreation products. With headquarters in Kansas and facilities in Texas, most new merchandise is manufactured in China. My new Chinese made Coleman water bottle leaks like a dribble glass–it was not inexpensive either.
Another important travel tool is my Pochade Box. Years ago, when Michael and I toured together, we assembled Pochades which are simply compact painting kits containing palettes, paints, and canvases that convert into easels. We even carried the boxes onto a transatlantic flight (including palette knives)—TSA searched them, but once we intrigued agents with current magazine articles about our exhibits, they were allowed on board. I went through my paints and only needed a few new tubes.
And now, to wax poetically for four paragraphs about my sleeping bag…
***
It was a gorgeous day, more like spring than winter—despite forecasts for rain. The drive was lovely, and I was the first to arrive to Guadalupe River State Park, about 30 miles north of San Antonio.
The terrain is extremely rocky and a level 16 x 16’ tent pad of crushed granite is provided,
I took off my shirt to soak up some sun and disassembled my brilliantly packed trunk. The terrain was rocky; a level 16 x 16’ tent pad of crushed granite was provided and tents are only allowed within that square.
It took a little mental geometry to figure how to accommodate three tents.
***
By the time Michael arrived, I was as baked as an apple pie—and I had gotten some sun too.
After sharing a bottle of champagne, he donned his river shoes and we ventured to the park’s grandest feature—the Guadalupe River. We discovered a blue-green waterway only a few feet deep across it, lined with ancient cypress trees with gnarled roots and bark whitened by time and limestone silt. Pebble beaches lined the banks on both sides.
The Guadalupe River—we discovered a blue-green waterway only a few feet deep across it, lined with ancient cypress trees.
The state acquired the property in 1974 with the park opening in 1983. The land is bisected by the river where high limestone bluffs support cypresses and other native trees and grasses. And woodlands of Ashe juniper provide nesting grounds for the endangered golden-cheeked warbler.
The dramatic limestone walls are home to a nesting colony of cliff swallows during the spring and summer.
Since 1689, the name Nuestra Senora de Guadalupe has been applied to the waterway. And artifacts dating from the Archaic Era have been found throughout the Guadalupe River valley, evidence of human habitation for thousands of years. The indigenous peoples encountered by explorers ranged from the Huaco (Waco), Lipan Apache, Tonkawa, and Karankawa Indians, tribes eventually displaced by European and Mexican settlers.
The river is a popular Texas fly fishing locale. Rainbow and brown trout are sought along with Guadalupe bass, largemouth bass, smallmouth bass, Rio Grande cichlid, white bass, and striped bass. (I did bring my fishing gear.) The San Antonio River flows into it north of Tivoli, ahead of the entry into the San Antonio Bay estuary.
Michael donned his river shoes and we ventured to the park’s grandest feature—the Guadalupe River.
There are several dams along the waterway, the most notable being Canyon Dam which forms Canyon Lake at New Braunfels. And the river is known for rapidly changing conditions and is prone to severe flooding, the highly regulated flow being set by the Army Corps of Engineers. When the flow gauge exceeds 1,000 cubic feet per second, it is considered to be too dangerous for recreational purposes—except for expert kayakers and white water rafters.
The nation’s attention focused on the Guadalupe River in July, 1987, when a flash flood swept a bus of children away near Comfort, a bit upriver from the park. As the Pot O’ Gold Ranch hosted a church camp for over 300 kids, a foot of rain triggered flooding on the river which resulted in the evacuation of campers.
While most busses crossed without incident, one carrying 39 children and four adults from Seagoville Road Baptist Church near Dallas stalled in a sudden rush of water. Pastor Richard Koons and three other chaperons instructed the passengers to form a human chain by which they could reach safe ground. But the flood swept everyone away. Parents and press descended upon the area hoping for miracles as helicopters attempted rescues. Ten children died with one body never recovered. The tragedy was retold in a 1993 made-for-TV movie called The Flood: Who Will Save Our Children starring Joe Spano as Reverend Richard Koons.
And after a few throws of a stick into the rushing water, Delta Dawn caught on and finally acted like a dog for once.
Though dogs are to remain on leash within park property, Micheal let Delta Dawn loose to frolic in the river–who can keep a dog leashed while playing fetch or swimming? And after a few throws of a stick into the rushing water, she caught on and finally acted like a dog for once.
***
Michael originally thought to hold off on setting up his tent because of limited space, until Skip and John’s larger tent was in place. But knowing to expect those guys when you see them, he got his gear situated as I opened wine and occupied my hands with a sketch. It is a perfect day to drink a lot and tell the rat race to piss off.
“I want to see the stars before I go to sleep,” Michael said as he pounded tent stakes into the ground.
I wanted to see the stars too and I jotted his quote at the bottom of my sketch—sparking a celestial theme for this travelogue.
***
The stars were already fully visible by the time Skip and John arrived. And because Skip was in charge of dinners, and, as I had eaten little all day, my vices were really kicked in.
The stars disappeared as Coleman lanterns came out as gear and food was unloaded.
“I want to see the stars before I go to sleep,” Michael said as tent stakes went into the ground.
It was mindboggling to consider that the Milky Way, our celestial home, is a galaxy with a diameter of about 180,000 light-years and contains between 200 and 400 billion stars with at least 100 billion planets—small compared to our neighbor the Andromeda Galaxy containing a trillion stars. Organized into spiral bands, the center is an intense radio source called Sagittarius A, which is a supermassive black hole. But the stars visible to us around the campfire have a relatively low surface brightness which are diminished by artificial light—a third of Earth’s inhabitants are unable to see the Milky Way from their homes due to light pollution.
That is far out.
And, surprise, I got fucked up.
***
A five star hotel is the pinnacle of travelling; but as they say, camping is a 5 billion star accommodation. My new air mattress, fresh sheets, a Pendleton blanket, a North Face sleeping bag, and a Temper-pedic pillow transformed my tent from camping to glamping. And as I turned in, my mind absorbed the events of the day, and though exceedingly happy with my companions, I could not help but think about the person missing from the trip. Though seemingly impossible, perhaps I had not had sufficient alcohol to dull that particular impulse.
An air mattress, fresh sheets, a Pendleton blanket, a North Face sleeping bag, and a Temper-pedic pillow transformed my tent from camping to glamping.
As a loner, there is an infrequency of romantic encounters. While my standards are high, I am also quite inept in the seductive arts. Last July I met an exquisite creature—beautiful but swarthy, street tough but tender, promiscuous but selective, proud but necessitous—and we began a dalliance. We were very different, including our ages. But the two of us found common interests and we taught each other new things—including new things in the bedroom. I read that the average adult has sex 54 times a year, so I had a lot of ground to make up.
British author Virginia Alison wrote:
I am wild, untamable, the storm and the eye within
an unpredictable gypsy, with passion beyond your wildest dreams
and unquenchable desires
for you and you alone…
Persistent and fiercely loyal,
today I choose to be all of these
and more…
Will you still be here tomorrow?
What began as casual companionship and canoodling bewitched me mind and body. Crushing, I thought, was a high compliment to pay someone but it stung to realize that I was not as important in return—so insignificant, in fact, that the gypsy cancelled on my birthday dinner. Unrequited affection hurts but that confirmation of indifference ripped my heart out. I countered with toxic rebukes that should have been beneath me. Now the two of us are not even speaking. I made a fool of myself; but at least I was a fool in pursuit of love. And for that I cannot be too ashamed.
The very week after my birthday I met another stunning individual at a bar in Galveston—subdued, sweet, and southern. We exchanged numbers and it was encouraging to have met someone else so beautiful. But after several rebuffed dinner invitations and other clumsy attempts to woo, I was told that we should “just be friends”.
It would have been fun to share this trip, not that I planned to turn the Sundome into Caligula’s Pleasure Barge. And while I am unclear about what is audible between tents and drunks, tent sex could be excusable but drunken masturbation would just be sad.
But it is futile to dwell on who is missing. Some relationships sparkle like the brightest stars—what I had is just a dot lost in the Milky Way.
***
I think Delta Dawn was genuinely surprised when she woke up in a tent.
I think Delta Dawn was genuinely surprised when she woke up in a tent.
When she heard the guys moving around she bolted upright, fascinated by the view from the tent window. It was something she had never seen before.
(Katie Scarlett would have not been able to handle the air mattress; she was terrified of inflatables.)
***
We hiked to the river and up a cliff to the Rough Terrain trail. Once we were clear of any other park visitors, Delta Dawn was freed from her tether and we were all cautious not to plunge to our grizzly deaths. I got as close to the edge as I could.
Someone mentioned that the cliffs were 1,100 feet high.
Someone mentioned that the cliffs were 1,100 feet high at the Scenic Overlook. I believed it because we were above the treetops. Across the divide are more remote hiking trails within the Bauer Unit–the Bauer Trail, the Hofheinz Trail, and the Bamberger Trail. The historic Bauer House is visible across the river from the overlook, a historic log fachwerk and frame homestead from 1873.
Not all who wander are lost. Skip had an app on his phone that guided us.
It was a vigorous hike and I was concerned about having to go back down a cliff just as steep—we did not, taking the gradually sloping Cedar Sage Trail back to the campground. I was glad I brought my walking stick.
***
By 4:20 it was starting to rain.
***
Skip was prepared for inclement weather with a tarp to cover our picnic table; he hung from the trees like a monkey while engineering bungees to support the covering without intermittent dumps of water from the edges—a form of tarpaulin roulette. And during the worst part of the rain we huddled beneath the covering for wine and conversation. None of our fun was dampened by the weather, but chilly rain and mud has a way about subduing activities.
Sadly, it was also too wet for Michael and me to set up our travel easels.
***
There is an old joke that camping is only fun until someone burns a wiener…
There is an old joke that camping is only fun until someone burns a wiener, alluding to the age old tradition of roasting hotdogs, of course–ha ha. But that is not how we camp. Skip’s organizational and planning skills flew into action and meals were carefully calculated. On Saturday night we had a venison roast with sweet potatoes, asparagus, and wine.
One cannot be more civilized than drinking good wine with good food and good company.
***
Conversation became a bit cerebral at times; I thought physical chemistry was simply sexual attraction, but apparently it is the study of macroscopic, atomic, subatomic, and particulate phenomena in chemical systems in terms of the principles and practices of physics.
Ummm, I like purple.
Amidst thought provoking conversations and sprinkles we attempted a group selfie. John is a shutterbug and an antique camera collector. Skip and I held our places as John and Michael would countdown, set their cameras, and run like hell to look natural by the flash. Hilarity ensued as, between the blurry images and me looking fat, we attempted a dozen shots or more, trying to get one right.
We took a group selfie. (From left: Michael, Skip, me, Delta Dawn, & John)
“The use of a Coleman lantern to illuminate a long exposure,” John said, “casts an awfully harsh light.”
But his finished product is great; there is something odd and old timey about it.
***
Everything I own was filthy, but the dirtiest clothes often lead to the most memorable days.
***
En plein air is the term for painting outside. Plein air painting improved in the mid-19th century with the advent of paint tubes, as opposed to grinding minerals into powder to mix with linseed oil, bringing natural light to particular importance as evidenced by the Impressionists.
I set up my Pochade on the edge of the river and painted a limestone bluff.
And though Michael made his departure, I set up my Pochade on the edge of the river and painted a limestone bluff—my final opportunity to admire the lovely Guadalupe. At least Michael took some nice photographs.
The Texas legislature has provided for the convenience of making a donation to Texas State Parks when registering a vehicle or boat. I know it is difficult to consider being generous while the government has their greedy hands into more of our after-tax dollars, but the program generates $1.6 million a year.
And this is one of the more beautiful Texas parks I have visited—though it is hard to prove by my finished painting.
***
Breaking camp is never as easy as set-up, especially when everything is filthy.
***
All the guys complimented Delta Dawn on her behavior and, pleased myself, I wondered why I questioned taking her. That was a happy dog, the whole time. I doubt she even cares about her pads, raw from the limestone trails; limping is a small price for her to pay for such outdoorsy fun.
This is one of the more beautiful parks—though it is hard to prove by my finished canvas. (Guadalupe River by Troy Broussard, 2018, 11 x 14” canvas.)
My legs were sore too, despite my 10,000 steps a day on my Fitbit, including many stairs. And my trick knee has been agony.
Come to think of it, the gypsy has an old skateboarding injury. We would have all been limping by the end.
***
As for my failed attempts at romance, I feel better after spending time with friends. So my inamorato was uninterested in my affection. Was I not good enough? Was I delusional to think that doing fun things, travelling, sleepovers, deep conversations, and scorching sex constituted a relationship—or even a friendship worthy of prioritizing my birthday? A few persons have since explained that, though not a prostitute, the gypsy has a reputation for hook-ups with dudes for drugs or money. I hate to believe that, nor do I care—except I cringe, hoping that my experience was more special than some random old creep with a pipe or a paycheck. I miss that rascal so it is difficult to admit defeat. Had our tryst ended on better terms, it would be an easier chapter to write into history.
Regarding the shy new swain, we recently graduated from friends to fornicators. But I prefer to not be a booty call—I want to have dinner or happy hour, get to know one another, perhaps even drinking under the stars…
***
Anthems to nights you cannot remember with friends you cannot forget.
Anthems to nights you cannot remember with friends you cannot forget.
It was a great feeling to spend intense time with friends, realizing that little has changed—that we can pick up where we left off. Good friends are like the stars—you do not always see them but you know they are always there. And old friends remind us that love and loyalty still exists.
In Instant Karma, John Lennon wrote:
Well we all shine on
Like the moon and the stars and the sun
Yeah we all shine on
Come on and on and on on on
The trip was too short. But there is already discussion about another camp out in the fall, perhaps at a locale more convenient for Michael–though I did drive two days to camp with him in Utah.
Camping is not just going to a lot of trouble to temporarily live like a homeless person; camping is about reconnecting with friends as much as it is about reconnecting with nature.