Rides, ramblings and rants on a motorcycle.
- We are scientists, too!
10.15.2008,6:45 PM
Butterfield Trail: Denison
"Denison started to be a town, and it surely was a tough one. Towns north started as the railroad came along. Several houses were built down in the bottom and a depot and town-site laid off with a man by name of Captain Faulkner selling town lots. There were two saloons, a dance hall, a hotel, and a few dwellings, a turn table for cars, two or three big wells. Both tracks (M. K. & T. and H. & T. C.) ran side by side up to Denison." -from recollections of John Malcolm, ferryman on the Red River (1)
After leaving the park we rode into Denison which did not exist until years after the first stagecoach wheeled into Texas heading for Sherman. Everything about Denison exuded 'railroad.' The townsite was laid out on land bought and prepared for the arrival of the Katy railroad in the early 1870's. It was even named after its vice-president, George Denison. Just like the military forts, entrepreneurs and opportunists built to cater to vices as well as orderly businesses: saloons, gambling joints, prostitution brothels and the ubiquitous tents. (Ironically, tents could be called the first 'architectural' feature of early American architecture.)
By 1886, the town's first post office opened. In addition to the Katy, by the early 1900's seven other railroad connected Denison with points east, west, north and south. Dension rigned as the state's most important railroad town. Even today, railroad tracks still crisscross the town.
I was tossed into the world of 'Coincidence' when I learned that Denison was the home of the noted horticulturalist Thomas Munson, whose brothers were amongst the town's founders. While living in Oregon, I conducting research in fruit plant diseases. Munson was best known throughout the field for his collection and breeding of disease-resistant grapes. Most of today's cultivars can be traced back to his collection of the mid to late 1800's. His work was acknowledged by the French govenment which named him an honorary member of the French Legion and named Cognac, France, a sister city to Denison. Ten years later and I was tossed back into my own past.
Along a street paved in brick stand historical St. Luke's Episcopal Church. Construction began in 1875 with the main portion of the church still standing. Over the many decades the church has expanded and still commands presence on the brick-paved street and stately trees sheltering its sidewalks.
A gem of a find near downtown Denison is an old tavern and hotel. Ernst M. Kohl, a German Navy captain, built the first floor to house a grocery store and saloon in 1893. Constructed of timber and stone with wrought iron hardware throughout, the top three floors were added in 1909-11 for Kohl's family residence. Situated right next to a web of railroad tracks, the business catered to railroad travelers and was converted to a hotel in the 1930's as The Traveler's Hotel.
The building has tremendous character, reminiscent of European architecture. The thick oak doors, windows and other details strongly contrast the modern additions. After the hotel closed for business in the 1960's, several new owners have tried to restore the building. 'For Sale' signs were posted on the barricaded doors with notices that it was a private residence. On one wall is a plaque denoting it as a Texas Historical Landmark (1975). I hope that some day the building will be open to visit.
The Butterfield stagecoaches stopped at one of the many springs that flowed in the area before their scheduled station stop in Sherman to the south. One such spring was Sand Spring on the edge of town. The spring no longer flows there, but a small grassy area surrounded by residences and adorned with willow trees evokes images of the area as it might have been back in the mid-1800's.
From Denison we rode south to Sherman, the first station stop and town on the Butterfield Overland Trail through Texas. And to another surprise.
(1) Chronicles of Oklahoma, Volume 16, No. 3, September, 1938. COLBERT FERRY ON RED RIVER, CHICKASAW NATION, INDIAN TERRITORY. Recollections of John Malcolm, pioneer ferryman. Recorded by W. B. Morrison
(1) Chronicles of Oklahoma, Volume 16, No. 3, September, 1938. COLBERT FERRY ON RED RIVER, CHICKASAW NATION, INDIAN TERRITORY. Recollections of John Malcolm, pioneer ferryman. Recorded by W. B. Morrison
Labels: Adventures, Butterfield Trail, history, Texas
,6:33 PM
Butterfield Trail: More Ghosts
More Ghosts: Historical Markers
“No matter where you go, there you are.” Or ‘were.’ One discovery on this adventure was the ‘winking’ historical markers: it was ‘here,’ then ‘there,’ and “Now where is it?”. Like the ubiquitous “Where’s Waldo?”, many historical markers are “Where is it?”.
During the planning stages of this adventure I marked the most significant historical markers on my well-worn maps. Finding some of them has been like a treasure hunt.
Colbert’s Ferry, OK. The OK Historical Society erected a plaque on a granite maker in 1936 near Colbert’s old house and the nearby road. Although we were warned that the marker might have been moved into town, we looked for it since we were on the very same road. And didn’t find it.
Riding through the town of Colbert later (after giving up finding access to the ferry landing on the OK bank), I spotted two historical markers in the center of town. After a quick assessment of traffic, I executed a quick U-turn (in the intersection, a big no-no) and coasted to a stop in front of the plaques. Sure enough, one commemorated Colbert’s Ferry. But it is not the original marker.
I kept a close eye open for a purported marker alongside the Hwy 69/75 bridge spanning the Red River. No marker. On the return trip to the other side of the river, we stopped at the Texas Visitor Center, barely a mile from the south bank. In between the gigantic star and the magnificent gigantic building (it’s Texas, remember) were several historical markers relocated from the old bridge (pre-1995). One for Colbert’s Ferry, one for the Red River Bridge War, and the others I didn’t read.
We would encounter several cases of ‘missing’ –or ‘misplaced’- historical markers along the way. A few were obviously stolen, others moved and consolidated with a group of markers. One missing marker left me disappointed; it was one I had much anticipation of finding. Some were far removed from the actual location of events. Like a one-stop-shop, read-it-all-here, but ‘you can’t get there from here.’
I would much prefer historical markers be placed on location or close-by to ensure public access. The intent is to try and ‘touch’ history by ‘being there.’ It evokes a sense of place and time, and empathy, enhancing understanding of the process of history, not just dates and names.
A suggestion to historical societies: be more creative in the text on the markers. Most of those marking the Butterfield Trail are duplicates of each other; they’re boringly redundant. There’s nothing awe-inspiring to read on them, missing an opportunity to bring life to history for people. A suggestion: Why not make them a geocaching adventure?
Labels: Butterfield Trail, history, Texas
10.14.2008,12:26 PM
Butterfield Trail: More ghosts
Ghosts: Ferries
I stood on the sand bar looking across, down and up the sluggish river wondering, ‘Where are the boats?,’ ‘Where are all the wagons, horses, cattle, and bustling people?’.
A vivid imagination could conjure up hazy images of men pushing boats, long poles stabbed through the water into the river bed, strong backs and arms straining in rhythm across the muddy current. You might see scores of cattle submerged in water up to their shoulders and haunches forming a moving living bridge as they forged across the river, the calamity of bovine bellows punctuated by cracks of whips and hoots of cattle drivers on horseback.
One might envision the ghost of a steel or wooden bridge sitting quietly atop the two tall cement piers piercing upright out of the riverbed. The two pilings stand like giant tombstones, a testament to decades of humanity crossing indifferent flowing water. Imagine its predecessors -wooden bridges and creaking ferry boats- and its descendents, the steel railroad trestle and modern white characterless straightaway spanning the two shores.
Unlike decades, even 150 years ago, when events on both shores changed daily, weekly, monthly. Now everything around appears to be a long continuum, with only one road across the water. Yes, you can get there from here.
Close to the pilings upstream, I could make out a gently descending, grassy wide bank on the Oklahoma side. Barely discernable were two ruts down this bank, disappearing into the water. Could that be Colbert’s ferry landing?
I shrugged to myself; I might never know for sure. Instead I was satisfied by viewing the expanse of the north river bank knowing that in this vicinity, so close now, was where thousands of lives crossed the river and dissipated into time. So little is remembered.
Casey and I compared notes of the trail through Texas and I recommended he not miss Jacksboro. In addition to the small town being a favorite of mine, it is also a good representation of mixing old and new, sometimes appearing suspended in time.
(photo courtesy of Ed)
I climbed back up the gouged steep bank, grabbing onto branches to pull myself up but avoiding the prolific growth of poison ivy. In the small grassy clearing, we turned the bikes around, mounted and rolled the throttle forward for the ride back to the main road. Riding the bouncy wide trail bordered by tall and dense trees caused me to wonder if Ormsby felt the same thrill of adventure as he gazed out the windows of his stagecoach.
Back on the wide sandy road, there I was on my green whining gasoline pony, standing on the pegs and coaxing it forward with an aggressive twist of the throttle. Knowing this was the old road to and from the toll bridge made me feel as though I was racing through decades in the expanse of a few minutes.
With a confident thrill of skimming over sand, I grinned widely as we approached the broken asphalt near the modern highway where people sped by in their boxes on wheels and entrenched in the fleeting moments of their short lives. As I left my visit to many ghosts spanning a river and 150 years, I felt as though I had emerged from a time machine.
Next: Dennison
Labels: Adventures, Butterfield Trail, history, Texas
10.13.2008,10:07 PM
Red River Bridge War
It was well-known in the rest of the fledgling nation that the Butterfield Overland mail route was a precursor of the expanding rail network. As if an experiment, the stage coach trail blazed a route through the ‘wild frontier’ of the southwest. Not far behind the stagecoaches tracks were laid for several railroad companies. One of these was the Missouri-Kansas-Texas Railroad (commonly referred to as the ‘Katy’); it was the first railroad to enter Texas from the north.
The Katy built a bridge spanning the Red River and parallel to the Texas Road. After the first passenger train crossed the bridge into Texas, on Christmas day of 1872, all freight wagons stopped using Colbert’s ferry service. Their traffic was reduced to half.
Shortly thereafter, Colbert and his head ferryman, John Malcolm, considered building a toll bridge to replace the ferry service.
Colbert sold his charter to the Red River Bridge Company that he helped found. This company rebuilt the toll bridge in 1892, which was destroyed in another flood (1902). Resorting to the ferry service once more, another toll bridge was quickly built. This bridge remained in use until 1931 and was one of the two bridges that made national news in the “Red River Bridge War.”
The notorious conflict between Texas and Oklahoma was over the opening of a toll-free bridge over the river. In July 1931 the newly completed free bridge, built jointly by the two states, opened for traffic between Denison, Texas, and Durant, Oklahoma. A few days afterwards the Red River Bridge Company filed a petition in the United States district court in Houston for an injunction preventing Texas from opening the bridge. In 1930, the Texas Highway Commission had agreed to purchase the toll bridge for $60,000 and pay the company a sum for their unexpired contract should the free bridge open before then. The Governor of Texas, Ross Sterling ordered that the new free bridge be barricaded at the Texas end.
In response, Governor William (Alfalfa Bill) Murray of Oklahoma opened the bridge by executive order, claiming that the land on both sides of the river belonged to Oklahoma dictated by the Louisiana Purchase treaty of 1803, and that the state of Oklahoma was not named in the injunction. Oklahoma highway crews crossed the bridge and demolished the barricades.
Governor Sterling then ordered a detachment of three Texas Rangers to rebuild the barricades and defend the Texas Highway Commission workers enforcing the injunction. The next day, Governor Murray ordered Oklahoma highway crews to demolish the Oklahoma approach to the toll bridge, rendering that bridge impassable. No traffic crossed anywhere!
A special session of the Texas state legislature passed a bill allowing the Red River Bridge Company to sue to the state over the issue. The next day, Governor Murray declared martial law along the northern approaches to both bridges, called in the Oklahoma National Guard, and appeared at the site armed with a revolver. An Oklahoma court issued an injunction prohibiting Murray from blocking the northern toll bridge approach. Murray directed the guardsmen to allow anyone to cross either bridge.
The famous bridge that appeared in Time Magazine was dynamited on December 6, 1995, and replaced with the one we rode over twice the day before.
Next: Ferry Ghosts
The Katy built a bridge spanning the Red River and parallel to the Texas Road. After the first passenger train crossed the bridge into Texas, on Christmas day of 1872, all freight wagons stopped using Colbert’s ferry service. Their traffic was reduced to half.
Shortly thereafter, Colbert and his head ferryman, John Malcolm, considered building a toll bridge to replace the ferry service.
“He and I had several conversations in regard to it that spring and he went to Washington to see about getting a charter. Gov. Throckmorton of Texas and others assisted him in getting it. When he came back he told me that he got an introduction and shook hands with the President, and he was surely proud of it. I asked him if he would not have to get some authority from Texas. ‘No,’ he said, ‘the Chickasaws claim to the high water mark on the south side of Red river and when I sold my land over in the bottom I reserved the right for a boat or bridge landing and a way out.’ Finally he got his charter that Fall.”The bridge was finished in 1874 or ‘75, costing $30,000. Unfortunately, it lasted barely a year.
Both bridges were lost in the flood. With no other way across the river, Colbert’s men and the rail company built large barges to transport traffic across the river until new bridges were built a few years later.
“In August '75 or '76 there came the biggest overflow that was known on Red River. The railroad bridge went out first. One span of it floated down and lodged against the north pillar of the wagon bridge, but did not even shake it. There was a heavy drift of logs and trees coming down and much of this lodged around the middle pier. Sometimes it would break loose then big cotton-wood trees would strike it endwise and bounce back like rubber balls.”
Colbert sold his charter to the Red River Bridge Company that he helped found. This company rebuilt the toll bridge in 1892, which was destroyed in another flood (1902). Resorting to the ferry service once more, another toll bridge was quickly built. This bridge remained in use until 1931 and was one of the two bridges that made national news in the “Red River Bridge War.”
The notorious conflict between Texas and Oklahoma was over the opening of a toll-free bridge over the river. In July 1931 the newly completed free bridge, built jointly by the two states, opened for traffic between Denison, Texas, and Durant, Oklahoma. A few days afterwards the Red River Bridge Company filed a petition in the United States district court in Houston for an injunction preventing Texas from opening the bridge. In 1930, the Texas Highway Commission had agreed to purchase the toll bridge for $60,000 and pay the company a sum for their unexpired contract should the free bridge open before then. The Governor of Texas, Ross Sterling ordered that the new free bridge be barricaded at the Texas end.
In response, Governor William (Alfalfa Bill) Murray of Oklahoma opened the bridge by executive order, claiming that the land on both sides of the river belonged to Oklahoma dictated by the Louisiana Purchase treaty of 1803, and that the state of Oklahoma was not named in the injunction. Oklahoma highway crews crossed the bridge and demolished the barricades.
Governor Sterling then ordered a detachment of three Texas Rangers to rebuild the barricades and defend the Texas Highway Commission workers enforcing the injunction. The next day, Governor Murray ordered Oklahoma highway crews to demolish the Oklahoma approach to the toll bridge, rendering that bridge impassable. No traffic crossed anywhere! A special session of the Texas state legislature passed a bill allowing the Red River Bridge Company to sue to the state over the issue. The next day, Governor Murray declared martial law along the northern approaches to both bridges, called in the Oklahoma National Guard, and appeared at the site armed with a revolver. An Oklahoma court issued an injunction prohibiting Murray from blocking the northern toll bridge approach. Murray directed the guardsmen to allow anyone to cross either bridge.
“On July 27 Murray announced that he had learned of an attempt to close the free bridge permanently, and he extended the martial-law zone to the Oklahoma boundary marker on the south bank of the Red River. Oklahoma guardsmen were stationed at both ends of the free bridge, and Texas papers spoke of an "invasion." Finally, on August 6, 1931, the Texas injunction was permanently dissolved, the Oklahoma guardsmen were withdrawn.”
The famous bridge that appeared in Time Magazine was dynamited on December 6, 1995, and replaced with the one we rode over twice the day before.
Next: Ferry Ghosts
Labels: Butterfield Trail, history, Texas
10.09.2008,9:44 PM
Butterfield Trail: Roads to nowhere
Two treats rolled into one as we followed three vehicles down a sandy roadway towards the Red River. For the first time since last February and since my ankle injury, I was riding on sand. A few moments of anxiety arose in my Lizard Brain followed by a short dialogue in my head:
“Oh no! Sand everywhere!”
“Stop it! Scoot back on the seat, sink weight down into the pegs, move center of gravity to mid-core and, for our sake, ROLL THE THROTTLE OPEN!"
“Uh, okay. Um…. How am I doing?”
“Is the front tire ‘floating’ over the sand?”
“Uh huh.”
“Good. Now don’t let off on the throttle.”
“I’m sweating…..”
Leaving the sandy road, we followed the lead vehicle onto a trail of mowed grass growing on the sand. I could scoot forward a bit and relax the rest of the way.
The other treat was finally visiting the location where hundreds of stage coaches, wagons, horses, mules, cattle and people traveled from one domain to another. Although the land that the river meandered through like a lazy fat snake was the same, politics, culture and economies were not. This human-ordained boundary divided more than just two shores on a river.
The Texas shore and south were experiencing growing pains during the mid and late 1800’s. Even after Oklahoma was ratified as a state of the union, the north shore was referred to as Indian Territory: a giant tract of land providing refuge to native Indian nations forced from their home lands in the east, west, south and north. For many years it was a tinder box of Indian nations, tribes and bands that historically competed with each other for resources and cultures. Mixing in military and naïve settlers added a volatile component because of clashing interests. Yet common more than opposing goals finally prevailed, although at a great and terrible cost.
When five nations from the eastern and Mississippi states were forcibly marched into territory set ‘forever’ aside for them by the US congress, the Chickasaw and Choctaw settled in the southeastern region north of the Red River. These and the other three nations -Creek, Cherokee, and Seminole- realized that, like the coyote in the wild, they must adapt or perish. Despite the massive loss and disruption to their populations, social and economic structure, they adopted culture and policies of the dominant EuroAmericans while retaining a degree of their traditional values and heritage.
Many roads and trails transporting military, settlers, livestock, mail, and other Indians traversed through Indian Territory in all directions. Most gateways south into Texas –Texas Road, Shawnee Trail, and military roads- crossed the Red River in the Chickasaw Nation. Quick to foresee opportunities, entrepreneurial Chickasaws obtained charters from the Nation to develop and maintain toll ferries and bridges generating income for their families and revenue for their tribe.
Benjamin Franklin Colbert, a descendant of Scottish and Chickasaw lineage, began farming and running cattle on Chickasaw Nation land after moving from the Mississippi area in the late 1840’s. In 1849 he purchased property on the north river bank where Joseph Mitchell had built the first ferry in 1842 but died five years later. Colbert hired J.B. Earhart, a Pensylvannia native, to make improvements on the pre-existing ferry operations. Later, Earhart became involved with the Butterfield Company and would appear again on the southern stage route in Texas. Oddly, I would ‘meet’ Mr. Earhart again weeks later.
The Nation granted Colbert a charter in 1853 to establish and maintain the ferry on the Texas Road to accommodate the increased traffic flow between Texas and northern territories. Colbert and citizens of Grayson County in Texas together influenced the Butterfield Company to relocate their river crossing from the Preston Road and ferry to north of Sherman, Texas, at the improved ferry.
Colbert built a house north of the ferry landing and cultivated several hundred adjoining acres. The ferry business flourished as traffic moved from the Preston crossing to his ferry service. Problems arose on the Texas bank of the ferry service when M.A. McBride, the landowner, wanted a part of the ferry business. The resolution of the dispute forced Colbert to purchase McBride’s property on the Texas side of the river.
John Malcolm, a Scottish immigrant, worked as Colbert’s ferryman for many years. His recorded recollections of those years present a living description of the ferry and life around it.
“It was a pretty place. The main road was about one-fourth of a mile north of the house and led down to the ferry. Several hundred acres were in cultivation and there were houses for the negroes in different parts of the fields. It was a stage-stand where the coaches changed horses and drivers. One coach went south at night and the other went north usually about noon.
The boat carried four two-horse wagons. The toll was $1 for a two-horse wagon, $1.25 for four-horse wagons and $1.50 for six horse wagons; 25 cents for man and horse, and 10 cents a head for loose cattle or horses.
There was very heavy immigration all through '71 and '72 and we would put across from 25 to 200 wagons per day besides loose stock; it was also the main road for freight between Fort Gibson and Sherman, Texas.
The freight wagons were from four to six mule teams with trail wagons and ox wagons from four to five yoke of steers to each wagon besides trail wagons. Their load would weigh 30 or 35 hundred weight on front wagons and 20 to 25 hundred weight on the trail wagon. There would be from 20 to 30 teams to an outfit under a wagon master. The boat ran on a cable across the river and made a round trip in 25 to 40 minutes if we had no trouble and a good current. “
“There was a store on the Texas side about 200 yards from the ferry landing. In it were sold groceries, some dry goods and whiskey…… Coming from the north it was the first chance to get whiskey and was the last chance, if going north.”As traffic across the river increased, Colbert and Malcolm added another boat; “Each boat could carry six to seven two-horse wagons. The upper boat ran on a steel cable moved down just far enough apart so that the two boats would not collide.”
The agreement with the Butterfield Company was that Colbert maintains the road and transports the stage and passengers across the river free of charge. His house served as the station where food was provided for passengers and fresh horses replaced those that brought in the coaches.
On September 20th of 1858, the first stagecoach, passenger and mailbags of the Butterfield Overland Company reached Colbert’s ferry 34 hours ahead of schedule. I reached it 150 years late.
Next: Ghosts of ferries and bridges
Labels: Adventures, Butterfield Trail, history, Texas
10.02.2008,11:59 AM
Butterfield Trail: Surprises
Early risers get the sunrise, not the worm. Crawling out of the tent, the camera and I shuffled over to 'my' spot on the cliff and shot the sun rising over the lake. Sunrise and sunset; my favorite times to photograph.
Breakfast was grand; the coffee tickled brain neurons into motion and the modest breakfast sit well. Since we had decided to stay in the park another night, Ed rode to the office to see if we could stay in our camp spot. Disappointment showed on his face when he returned; all sites at the campground were reserved for Saturday and Sunday. Our options were to find another camp ground and site or one of the shelters.
Meanwhile, we rode the bikes to the park's amphitheater, a small secluded clearing in the woods next to the group camping parking lot. Bob Montgomery, a well-known speaker of Texas history, was scheduled to present on the Butterfield Trail. Although a Concord stage coach was also scheduled, it's appearance was canceled because of hurricane disaster where it resided (near the coast of Texas). The coach was one of the three main drivers of this weekend trip. Although I didn't know it then, my disappointment would be negated by a surprise the next day.
We rode into the parking lot confused about where to go for the presentation. A cluster of boy scouts were gathered around with their leaders and a few other unfamiliar people. Parking the bikes out of the way we followed the scouts and others down a path into the woods where wooded benches served as seating. We learned that the boy scouts were earning their trail patches that day. A few other adults from the park grounds were there, which I didn't pay much attention to. All my attention was on Bob's talk.
While he related the history behind the overland mail route, I had my maps sitting on my lap and armed with pencil ready to jot down notes and correlate map data. As it was, he and I briefly exchanged information on a few details and shared a common passion in retracing the general route. I related our attempt to find Colbert's Ferry on the Oklahoma side of the Red River, mentioning that both banks were on private property and access was futile.
Back at the parking lot, one of the staff excitedly pronounced that 'Casey from Wells Fargo' was on his way to the park. I didn't make the connection immediately, but quickly put the pieces together: Casey, a curator at the Wells Fargo in San Diego, who is retracing the Butterfield trail in its entirety. I recall finding and reading his blog site months ago during one of my many Google searches on the trail. It so happened he was in the area that day and making an appearance at the park. What a surprise!
Shortly a large van pulled in. It was painted in reds and yellow with a mural on the sides depicting a map of the trail. What a colorful 'coach' it was! Casey stepped out amidst greetings after which he graciously showed the few remaining scouts a model of the coach. Using the model he provided details of how passengers and mail were carried and the drives and animals.
Afterward, Casey interviewed the park superintendent Paul Kissel on video. He commented that when time permits, short clips of vids taking on his adventure may be uploaded to YouTube. During all the fuss, another staff told the others that she had acquired permission for Casey and Bob to visit Colbert's Ferry landing on the river bank. Excitement was probably evident in my face when I humbly asked if I could accompany them. A "Sure; why not?" was met with big smile and prolific thanks.
Gearing up, I rode up to the office where Ed was registering us for another day at the park and told him the good news. He and the staff laughed at my jumping up and down as evidence of my excitement. A few trucks and cars waited in line for the land owner to lead us on the trail to the site; Ed and I were sitting on the bikes ready to follow.
Another surprise!
Next: Colbert's Ferry
Breakfast was grand; the coffee tickled brain neurons into motion and the modest breakfast sit well. Since we had decided to stay in the park another night, Ed rode to the office to see if we could stay in our camp spot. Disappointment showed on his face when he returned; all sites at the campground were reserved for Saturday and Sunday. Our options were to find another camp ground and site or one of the shelters.
Meanwhile, we rode the bikes to the park's amphitheater, a small secluded clearing in the woods next to the group camping parking lot. Bob Montgomery, a well-known speaker of Texas history, was scheduled to present on the Butterfield Trail. Although a Concord stage coach was also scheduled, it's appearance was canceled because of hurricane disaster where it resided (near the coast of Texas). The coach was one of the three main drivers of this weekend trip. Although I didn't know it then, my disappointment would be negated by a surprise the next day.
We rode into the parking lot confused about where to go for the presentation. A cluster of boy scouts were gathered around with their leaders and a few other unfamiliar people. Parking the bikes out of the way we followed the scouts and others down a path into the woods where wooded benches served as seating. We learned that the boy scouts were earning their trail patches that day. A few other adults from the park grounds were there, which I didn't pay much attention to. All my attention was on Bob's talk.
While he related the history behind the overland mail route, I had my maps sitting on my lap and armed with pencil ready to jot down notes and correlate map data. As it was, he and I briefly exchanged information on a few details and shared a common passion in retracing the general route. I related our attempt to find Colbert's Ferry on the Oklahoma side of the Red River, mentioning that both banks were on private property and access was futile.
Back at the parking lot, one of the staff excitedly pronounced that 'Casey from Wells Fargo' was on his way to the park. I didn't make the connection immediately, but quickly put the pieces together: Casey, a curator at the Wells Fargo in San Diego, who is retracing the Butterfield trail in its entirety. I recall finding and reading his blog site months ago during one of my many Google searches on the trail. It so happened he was in the area that day and making an appearance at the park. What a surprise!
Shortly a large van pulled in. It was painted in reds and yellow with a mural on the sides depicting a map of the trail. What a colorful 'coach' it was! Casey stepped out amidst greetings after which he graciously showed the few remaining scouts a model of the coach. Using the model he provided details of how passengers and mail were carried and the drives and animals.
Afterward, Casey interviewed the park superintendent Paul Kissel on video. He commented that when time permits, short clips of vids taking on his adventure may be uploaded to YouTube. During all the fuss, another staff told the others that she had acquired permission for Casey and Bob to visit Colbert's Ferry landing on the river bank. Excitement was probably evident in my face when I humbly asked if I could accompany them. A "Sure; why not?" was met with big smile and prolific thanks.
Gearing up, I rode up to the office where Ed was registering us for another day at the park and told him the good news. He and the staff laughed at my jumping up and down as evidence of my excitement. A few trucks and cars waited in line for the land owner to lead us on the trail to the site; Ed and I were sitting on the bikes ready to follow.
Another surprise!
Next: Colbert's Ferry
Labels: Adventures, Butterfield Trail, history, Texas
9.29.2008,8:21 PM
Butterfield Trail: Camp
Camp Sweet Camp
I’m amazed sometimes at how we as a civilization can harness the power of this planet, such as harnessing the flow of water to power a city of people. Dams are a testament to that.
Riding back into Texas from OK on HWY 91, we rode over the Denison dam that bottles 2463188 acre-feet of Red River water over 89,000 acres. The resulting reservoir is one of the largest in this country; in four Oklahoma counties and two in Texas (Grayson and Cooke). Building of the dam began in 1939 and was completed in February 1944. Only three times has water gone over the spillway: 1957, 1990, and July, 2007.
Riding over the dam gives a sense of imbalance: several feet above placid water as far as one can see on the west side, a deep valley below with trees, green grass and a wide river of water nonchalantly flowing down stream. It evokes a weird sensation.
We headed south to the nearest town: Denison. With bar-b-que dancing in our heads and throats yearning for cold iced tea, we found the unassuming Hickory House restaurant near downtown.
(photo courtesy of Ed)
The meat and sauce were good with several sides to choose from. Blue Bell ice cream seems to be popular up in that area, we saw it advertised many places. Hickory House was no exception. I ate like a starving dog and topped off the meal with a small dish of ice cream. I was satisfied.
It had been a busy day and it was catching up with us. Thoughts of kicking back at the campsite were looming over both of us and we headed back to the park. By now most of the staff at headquarters knew us and we were waved in without checking in for the rest of our stay.
Back at camp, we peeled off our gear and settled in for a relaxing evening by the lake. A few nearby campsites were occupied, but it still was relatively empty. Since we were at the end of the campground, we had the luxury of only one neighboring site. It was time to relax and I did what I usually do: find a spot by the water and sit.
Something about bodies of water pulls me like a magnet, or a fish out of water. It soothes the body and mind, turns thoughts inward, and I’m soon dropped out of the race and into a pond of pensiveness.
The sun was dropping down in the western sky casting a warm yellow glow on facing surfaces. Shadows and reflections danced all over the water, the cliffs and the ground. Dusk is one of my favorite times to photograph, trying to capture the serenity, textures and details that only angled sunshine can impart.
I watched others enjoy the lake in different ways.
Soon I was about ready to close my eyes and succumb to unconsciousness. I crawled into my bag and fell fast asleep.
That is, until a carload of ‘sorority girls’ pulled into the campsite next to us deep in the night, tittered, slamming car doors, talking incessantly, and giggled while trying to erect a huge tent by the light of their headlights.
Next: Surprises
I’m amazed sometimes at how we as a civilization can harness the power of this planet, such as harnessing the flow of water to power a city of people. Dams are a testament to that.
Riding back into Texas from OK on HWY 91, we rode over the Denison dam that bottles 2463188 acre-feet of Red River water over 89,000 acres. The resulting reservoir is one of the largest in this country; in four Oklahoma counties and two in Texas (Grayson and Cooke). Building of the dam began in 1939 and was completed in February 1944. Only three times has water gone over the spillway: 1957, 1990, and July, 2007.
Riding over the dam gives a sense of imbalance: several feet above placid water as far as one can see on the west side, a deep valley below with trees, green grass and a wide river of water nonchalantly flowing down stream. It evokes a weird sensation.
We headed south to the nearest town: Denison. With bar-b-que dancing in our heads and throats yearning for cold iced tea, we found the unassuming Hickory House restaurant near downtown.
(photo courtesy of Ed)
The meat and sauce were good with several sides to choose from. Blue Bell ice cream seems to be popular up in that area, we saw it advertised many places. Hickory House was no exception. I ate like a starving dog and topped off the meal with a small dish of ice cream. I was satisfied.
It had been a busy day and it was catching up with us. Thoughts of kicking back at the campsite were looming over both of us and we headed back to the park. By now most of the staff at headquarters knew us and we were waved in without checking in for the rest of our stay.
Back at camp, we peeled off our gear and settled in for a relaxing evening by the lake. A few nearby campsites were occupied, but it still was relatively empty. Since we were at the end of the campground, we had the luxury of only one neighboring site. It was time to relax and I did what I usually do: find a spot by the water and sit.
Something about bodies of water pulls me like a magnet, or a fish out of water. It soothes the body and mind, turns thoughts inward, and I’m soon dropped out of the race and into a pond of pensiveness.
The sun was dropping down in the western sky casting a warm yellow glow on facing surfaces. Shadows and reflections danced all over the water, the cliffs and the ground. Dusk is one of my favorite times to photograph, trying to capture the serenity, textures and details that only angled sunshine can impart.
I watched others enjoy the lake in different ways.
Soon I was about ready to close my eyes and succumb to unconsciousness. I crawled into my bag and fell fast asleep.
That is, until a carload of ‘sorority girls’ pulled into the campsite next to us deep in the night, tittered, slamming car doors, talking incessantly, and giggled while trying to erect a huge tent by the light of their headlights.
Next: Surprises
Labels: Adventures, Butterfield Trail, history, Texas
9.27.2008,6:45 AM
Butterfield Trail: River Crossings
River Crossings and "You can't get there from here"
“Lonely river
In the stillness of the night
Your restless nature keeps you raging on
Changing courses
Shallow waters, tangent streams
Lonely river, do you wonder what it means”
-Lonely River, lyrics by Wayne Kirkpatrick, Michael W. Smith
Civilization around the world blossomed on the banks of rivers, lakes and oceans. Rivers exemplify change: a trickle or flood of fury, sweet or salty, sandy bars and towering cliffs. They can change course overnight and gnaw out a grand canyon over eons of time. They supply us with everything we need: food, water and navigation. Rivers are the arteries and capillaries of the earth.
Possibly no other river southwest of the Arkansas is filled with as much history as the Red River that divides three states, Texas, Arkansas and Oklahoma. Although the name derives from the red-clay farmland around its watershed, much blood was lost in and around its waters.
Several famous trails crisscrossed the Red River before and after it became a dividing line for Texas and Oklahoma. A favorite waterway of the Comanche to the west and the Witchita and Cados to the east, many lines of military, wagons and thousands of cattle crossed its waters. Many forded the river waters on foot or horseback near sandy banks. Some were swept downstream.
A half-Chickasaw citizen, Benjamin Franklin Colbert, foresaw the commercial enterprise of supplying a ferry across the river on the Texas Road that ran north and south through Oklahoma and Texas. In 1853 Colbert was granted permission by the Chickasaw nation to operate a ferry service across the river. It was to become the main road crossing the river with access to Texas and the last stop in Oklahoma for the Butterfield stagecoaches. It also became a matter of widely reported controversy years later.
Trying to find the exact location of the ferry on both sides of the river was a goose-chase. A historical marker near the Texas end of the HWY 69/75 bridge on claimed the ferry was alongside the modern bridge. No doubt, the ferry was located somewhere east of the highway and railroad bridges. But how far down? Where?
Of course, the explorer in me asked, “Can I get there from here?”
While contemplating the river on both sides of the bridge, I took advantage of scrutinizing the trestle for the bridge built by the Missouri, Kansas and Texas Railway. This is the second bridge built by the MKT after the Red River flood of 1876 destroyed the first one (1872). Suspension and railroad bridges are especially photogenic; I couldn’t resist this one, too.
Several late night hours zooming in on Google Earth and collected location claims from books and websites led me to one or two candidate places for the ferry on both river banks. Considering that the last ferry crossing there was around 1873, guesses were shots in the dark. River banks dramatically change from furious floods, washed away trees, wild vegetation growth and human carvings. They could be anywhere within a mile downstream of the modern bridges.
The only way for me to find them was to ride there and see for myself. Well, I soon learned I couldn’t get there from here.
Like most of the land the Butterfield trail covered, the banks within a mile east (and beyond) from HWY 69/75 are private property. Respecting landowners privacy, I certainly wasn’t about to traipse around the banks of the river and dodge bullets. So I shot off an email to the Grayson County Historical Society requesting information on the landowner where the ferry led up the Texas-side riverbank. The reply was less than helpful, “Try the county legal register.”
From my online research, Oklahoma appeared to be more aware and preservation minded of the Butterfield Overland Trail than here in Texas; at least north Texas. Ironically, more details of the Texas crossing side of the river is accessible on the website of the Oklahoma Historical Society and their long-time publication, Chronicles of Oklahoma, even first-person accounts by one of Colbert’s slaves and a ferryman.
I sent an email to the OK Historical Society and was astonished at the helpful response. A staff member contacted Bryan County and traced the current landowner. Despite her Herculean efforts with phone calls and contacts, apparently the current landowner is unaware of the property’s historical significance and less than cooperative.
The next plan was to ride the back roads of where we hypothesized the locations and ‘see what we can see.’ Nothing ventured, nothing gained. First, a stop near the town of Colbert at the Oklahoma Visitors Center, where a row of bikes gleamed in the bright sunlight.
These riders were from Texas on a day ride through OK. A couple on a spot-tourer asked me questions about the Sherpa. They thought it would be a great first-bike for the lady, but she was doubtful about it’s endurance on the highway. I then explained with examples all the places that little pony has ferried me. I could see a few eyes light up and shine; they liked the idea of being able to ride almost virtually anywhere and over everything with a light bike.
After the photo op and farewells, we entered the Visitor Center. I posed the question, “Anyone know where Colbert’s ferry was on the river?” I had three or four different replies and listened to several stories handed down through grand and great-grandmothers. Few of them agreed. After being referred to a lady at the florist shop in Colbert, we headed out into that town to pursue the lead.
Although the woman was not at the shop, I saw a book on Colbert’s ferry, compiled and published by members and descendents of the town. It contained first-hand accounts and stories of the ferry and the Colbert family. I would gladly have bought one of those, but I didn’t have the opportunity to ask if they were for sale.
The day was becoming hot. Realizing we had reached another dead end, we decided against any more wild goose chases and ride back roads we had marked on Google maps. I was hoping that one might lead us to what now had become analogous to a treasure hunt.
I knew from reading various sources that several historic ruins and items were, or are, still present on the property that once was a thriving and busy thoroughfare. According to sources, foundations remain of Colbert’s house and a well. Another coveted find on my list was the Colbert family cemetery, also on the property. Again, you can’t get there from here. Or there.
Our hunt took us on a narrow winding road, under and over bridges including this strange bridge on which trees and various undergrowth resided.
Although the road eventually paralleled the river, a jungle of vines and thick tree and shrub canopies obscured any views of the water or banks. At the intersection of the paved road and a gravel road snaking south, I stopped. This looked like the spot where the OK Historical Society had placed a marker commemorating Colbert’s Ferry. But I couldn’t find a trace of it anywhere. I think the comment made by one of the women at the visitor’s center was correct: it had been moved to a place in the center of the town, a few miles north.
Not far down the gravel road was a dead-end: a gate. According to Ed’s GPS, the road through that gate led down to the river. By now fully frustrated, I voted to ride down a gravel road to the left. A street sign indicated it was public, but we weren’t too sure about that. It was like riding down a dark hole in Alice in Wonderland.
At a curve the road narrowed and Ed suggested I wait there while he scouts ahead. He didn’t get far before he started turning around and I heard a barking dog. While I waited, my curiosity was fixated on a rough two-track trail traversing a bank and into the trees. I wondered…… is that it? Is that the old trail to the ferry and river?
By that time, I think hunger and thirst made me think all the roads heading towards the river were candidates for the trail and ferry. We gave up. Yet I still felt a strong pull to go forward, through the gate and into the looking glass.
We both agreed with fatigue in our eyes that it was time to conceed and head for some food and liquids. To Texas, young riders! And a feast on bar-b-que. Oh, and ice cream.
“Lonely river
In the stillness of the night
Your restless nature keeps you raging on
Changing courses
Shallow waters, tangent streams
Lonely river, do you wonder what it means”
-Lonely River, lyrics by Wayne Kirkpatrick, Michael W. Smith
Civilization around the world blossomed on the banks of rivers, lakes and oceans. Rivers exemplify change: a trickle or flood of fury, sweet or salty, sandy bars and towering cliffs. They can change course overnight and gnaw out a grand canyon over eons of time. They supply us with everything we need: food, water and navigation. Rivers are the arteries and capillaries of the earth.
Possibly no other river southwest of the Arkansas is filled with as much history as the Red River that divides three states, Texas, Arkansas and Oklahoma. Although the name derives from the red-clay farmland around its watershed, much blood was lost in and around its waters.
Several famous trails crisscrossed the Red River before and after it became a dividing line for Texas and Oklahoma. A favorite waterway of the Comanche to the west and the Witchita and Cados to the east, many lines of military, wagons and thousands of cattle crossed its waters. Many forded the river waters on foot or horseback near sandy banks. Some were swept downstream.
A half-Chickasaw citizen, Benjamin Franklin Colbert, foresaw the commercial enterprise of supplying a ferry across the river on the Texas Road that ran north and south through Oklahoma and Texas. In 1853 Colbert was granted permission by the Chickasaw nation to operate a ferry service across the river. It was to become the main road crossing the river with access to Texas and the last stop in Oklahoma for the Butterfield stagecoaches. It also became a matter of widely reported controversy years later.
Trying to find the exact location of the ferry on both sides of the river was a goose-chase. A historical marker near the Texas end of the HWY 69/75 bridge on claimed the ferry was alongside the modern bridge. No doubt, the ferry was located somewhere east of the highway and railroad bridges. But how far down? Where?
Of course, the explorer in me asked, “Can I get there from here?”
While contemplating the river on both sides of the bridge, I took advantage of scrutinizing the trestle for the bridge built by the Missouri, Kansas and Texas Railway. This is the second bridge built by the MKT after the Red River flood of 1876 destroyed the first one (1872). Suspension and railroad bridges are especially photogenic; I couldn’t resist this one, too.
Several late night hours zooming in on Google Earth and collected location claims from books and websites led me to one or two candidate places for the ferry on both river banks. Considering that the last ferry crossing there was around 1873, guesses were shots in the dark. River banks dramatically change from furious floods, washed away trees, wild vegetation growth and human carvings. They could be anywhere within a mile downstream of the modern bridges.
The only way for me to find them was to ride there and see for myself. Well, I soon learned I couldn’t get there from here.
Like most of the land the Butterfield trail covered, the banks within a mile east (and beyond) from HWY 69/75 are private property. Respecting landowners privacy, I certainly wasn’t about to traipse around the banks of the river and dodge bullets. So I shot off an email to the Grayson County Historical Society requesting information on the landowner where the ferry led up the Texas-side riverbank. The reply was less than helpful, “Try the county legal register.”
From my online research, Oklahoma appeared to be more aware and preservation minded of the Butterfield Overland Trail than here in Texas; at least north Texas. Ironically, more details of the Texas crossing side of the river is accessible on the website of the Oklahoma Historical Society and their long-time publication, Chronicles of Oklahoma, even first-person accounts by one of Colbert’s slaves and a ferryman.
I sent an email to the OK Historical Society and was astonished at the helpful response. A staff member contacted Bryan County and traced the current landowner. Despite her Herculean efforts with phone calls and contacts, apparently the current landowner is unaware of the property’s historical significance and less than cooperative.
The next plan was to ride the back roads of where we hypothesized the locations and ‘see what we can see.’ Nothing ventured, nothing gained. First, a stop near the town of Colbert at the Oklahoma Visitors Center, where a row of bikes gleamed in the bright sunlight.
These riders were from Texas on a day ride through OK. A couple on a spot-tourer asked me questions about the Sherpa. They thought it would be a great first-bike for the lady, but she was doubtful about it’s endurance on the highway. I then explained with examples all the places that little pony has ferried me. I could see a few eyes light up and shine; they liked the idea of being able to ride almost virtually anywhere and over everything with a light bike.
After the photo op and farewells, we entered the Visitor Center. I posed the question, “Anyone know where Colbert’s ferry was on the river?” I had three or four different replies and listened to several stories handed down through grand and great-grandmothers. Few of them agreed. After being referred to a lady at the florist shop in Colbert, we headed out into that town to pursue the lead.
Although the woman was not at the shop, I saw a book on Colbert’s ferry, compiled and published by members and descendents of the town. It contained first-hand accounts and stories of the ferry and the Colbert family. I would gladly have bought one of those, but I didn’t have the opportunity to ask if they were for sale.
The day was becoming hot. Realizing we had reached another dead end, we decided against any more wild goose chases and ride back roads we had marked on Google maps. I was hoping that one might lead us to what now had become analogous to a treasure hunt.
I knew from reading various sources that several historic ruins and items were, or are, still present on the property that once was a thriving and busy thoroughfare. According to sources, foundations remain of Colbert’s house and a well. Another coveted find on my list was the Colbert family cemetery, also on the property. Again, you can’t get there from here. Or there.
Our hunt took us on a narrow winding road, under and over bridges including this strange bridge on which trees and various undergrowth resided.
Although the road eventually paralleled the river, a jungle of vines and thick tree and shrub canopies obscured any views of the water or banks. At the intersection of the paved road and a gravel road snaking south, I stopped. This looked like the spot where the OK Historical Society had placed a marker commemorating Colbert’s Ferry. But I couldn’t find a trace of it anywhere. I think the comment made by one of the women at the visitor’s center was correct: it had been moved to a place in the center of the town, a few miles north.
(it was; found it)
Not far down the gravel road was a dead-end: a gate. According to Ed’s GPS, the road through that gate led down to the river. By now fully frustrated, I voted to ride down a gravel road to the left. A street sign indicated it was public, but we weren’t too sure about that. It was like riding down a dark hole in Alice in Wonderland.
At a curve the road narrowed and Ed suggested I wait there while he scouts ahead. He didn’t get far before he started turning around and I heard a barking dog. While I waited, my curiosity was fixated on a rough two-track trail traversing a bank and into the trees. I wondered…… is that it? Is that the old trail to the ferry and river?
By that time, I think hunger and thirst made me think all the roads heading towards the river were candidates for the trail and ferry. We gave up. Yet I still felt a strong pull to go forward, through the gate and into the looking glass.
We both agreed with fatigue in our eyes that it was time to conceed and head for some food and liquids. To Texas, young riders! And a feast on bar-b-que. Oh, and ice cream.
Next: Camp sweet camp
Labels: Adventures, bikes, Butterfield Trail, history, Texas
,6:35 AM
Butterfield Trail: Beginnings
Another morning, another day. As I look out the window of the train, thoughts go round to a familiar train: what did this all look like 50, 100, even 200 years ago?
I decided to find out. On the Butterfield Overland Mail Route.
One hundred and fifty years ago on September 20th (1858), a stage coach loaded with bags of mail from cities and towns on the east coast and one passenger crossed the Red River into Texas. Shortly after leaving the stage station owned by Benjamin Colbert, a half-breed Chickasaw, several black slaves pulled and pushed the stage down an embankment, onto a wooden barge and out into the wide waters of a sluggish river that separated Indian Territory from the state of Texas.
Driving the team of horses forward and pushing the stage up the cutout embankment on the Texas side, the coach and its contents began its ride on a 740-mile trail from the Red River, west into the prairies and Cross timbers, and south along the plains to El Paso. Across creeks, murky rivers, dusty plains, rocky hillsides, rolling prairies, and over passes, stage coaches of the Butterfield Overland Mail connected newly acquired and settled California and states on the east coast.
The endeavor was an awe-inspiring feat. Although in some respects, it was doomed before it started. Yet as the first trans-continental US mail carrier, it blazed the way for the railroads into the frontier and across the country. The stage line attracted entrepreneurs and settlers and it proved to be the fastest carrier at the time for both passengers and mail. And it demonstrated perseverance and will power.
As those two and one-half years of the stage’s operation navigated through rough country and tumultuous times, changes rapidly forced the demise of the southern route. And that is what I discovered along the trail: changes. They still roll along.
I wanted to begin my trek not in Texas but north of that watery border, the Red River. It seemed fitting to embark on the trail just as did the westbound stages, entering Texas from Indian Territory on an already old and well used trail: the Texas Road.
The two most used trails into east Texas were the Shawnee Trail that passed through Preston and the Texas Road. The former was a favorite trade and military route, the latter crossed several miles east down river at various points. One was where the modern highway is (Hwy 75) and another about one mile downstream where Colbert established a successful ferry service connecting the two river banks.
This was my primary goal and destination last weekend: Colbert’s Ferry. I had hoped to access the exact site on the Oklahoma side. Like many locations on the original trail, “you can’t get there from here.”
Disappointment on the first day was to be reversed in ten-fold on the second.
Leaving early Friday morning, we reached Eisenhower State Park on the southeast end of Lake Texoma. I had spent an enjoyable weekend there two years ago and it was the obvious place to set up base camp for the first and part of the second day.
In the three years I’ve been visiting Texas State parks, I’ve learned arriving early means getting choice campsites. At 11:00 in the morning, most of the campgrounds were empty. On recommendation from the staff at the registration desk, we quickly located the primo campsite on a bluff overlooking two coves of the enormously long lake. It was perfect.
After setting up camp, we stripped the bikes down to usual street fare and hit the road again; destination Oklahoma. Crossing the bridge on HWY 69/75, we pulled off on the east side of the highway.
Here, and in the expanse of a mile downstream, are over a century of stories, including one that made the newspapers in New York City and other eastern centers. But it all began about a mile downstream where one man who bridged two cultures impacted transportation and politics of two states for many years.
Next: River Crossings and "You can't get there from here."
I decided to find out. On the Butterfield Overland Mail Route.
One hundred and fifty years ago on September 20th (1858), a stage coach loaded with bags of mail from cities and towns on the east coast and one passenger crossed the Red River into Texas. Shortly after leaving the stage station owned by Benjamin Colbert, a half-breed Chickasaw, several black slaves pulled and pushed the stage down an embankment, onto a wooden barge and out into the wide waters of a sluggish river that separated Indian Territory from the state of Texas.
Driving the team of horses forward and pushing the stage up the cutout embankment on the Texas side, the coach and its contents began its ride on a 740-mile trail from the Red River, west into the prairies and Cross timbers, and south along the plains to El Paso. Across creeks, murky rivers, dusty plains, rocky hillsides, rolling prairies, and over passes, stage coaches of the Butterfield Overland Mail connected newly acquired and settled California and states on the east coast.
The endeavor was an awe-inspiring feat. Although in some respects, it was doomed before it started. Yet as the first trans-continental US mail carrier, it blazed the way for the railroads into the frontier and across the country. The stage line attracted entrepreneurs and settlers and it proved to be the fastest carrier at the time for both passengers and mail. And it demonstrated perseverance and will power.
As those two and one-half years of the stage’s operation navigated through rough country and tumultuous times, changes rapidly forced the demise of the southern route. And that is what I discovered along the trail: changes. They still roll along.
I wanted to begin my trek not in Texas but north of that watery border, the Red River. It seemed fitting to embark on the trail just as did the westbound stages, entering Texas from Indian Territory on an already old and well used trail: the Texas Road.
The two most used trails into east Texas were the Shawnee Trail that passed through Preston and the Texas Road. The former was a favorite trade and military route, the latter crossed several miles east down river at various points. One was where the modern highway is (Hwy 75) and another about one mile downstream where Colbert established a successful ferry service connecting the two river banks.
This was my primary goal and destination last weekend: Colbert’s Ferry. I had hoped to access the exact site on the Oklahoma side. Like many locations on the original trail, “you can’t get there from here.”
Disappointment on the first day was to be reversed in ten-fold on the second.
Leaving early Friday morning, we reached Eisenhower State Park on the southeast end of Lake Texoma. I had spent an enjoyable weekend there two years ago and it was the obvious place to set up base camp for the first and part of the second day.
In the three years I’ve been visiting Texas State parks, I’ve learned arriving early means getting choice campsites. At 11:00 in the morning, most of the campgrounds were empty. On recommendation from the staff at the registration desk, we quickly located the primo campsite on a bluff overlooking two coves of the enormously long lake. It was perfect.
After setting up camp, we stripped the bikes down to usual street fare and hit the road again; destination Oklahoma. Crossing the bridge on HWY 69/75, we pulled off on the east side of the highway.
Here, and in the expanse of a mile downstream, are over a century of stories, including one that made the newspapers in New York City and other eastern centers. But it all began about a mile downstream where one man who bridged two cultures impacted transportation and politics of two states for many years.
Next: River Crossings and "You can't get there from here."
Labels: Adventures, bikes, Butterfield Trail, history, Texas
9.22.2008,9:54 PM
Tracing the Butterfield Overland Trail
"We Americans are the best informed people on earth as to the events of the last twenty-four hours; we are the not the best informed as the events of the last sixty centuries." -Will Durant
A person can read history books, watch documentaries and movies, listen to the regurgitation of historical fact and dates from their chair or couch. But you can't really [I]know[/I] history unless you are there. The very ground, creek or river water, rocks, sand, mountain or fertile valley..... what ever you stand on or near. Perhaps that is why history repeats itself; we don't really know what happened and why.
"No matter where you go, there you are." Where you stand or sit imparts a sense of place: people, animals, flora, fauna; birth, life, death. All of it was there before you, are there with you now, and will be long after you leave. Natural and man-made events are a movie on constant play and reruns. And we're all together actors on this stage of time.
If you put your book down, turn off your television or radio, or walk out of the classroom, place yourself in any location and you can experience a piece of that history. Whether it was hundreds of tens of years ago or in the making, being receptive will impart knowledge and a sense of what transpired before, during and perhaps what the future may bring. It all flows along into a narrative full of life: emotions, dreams and dashed hopes, joy and pain, merriment and anger, success and strife.
History is the documentary of our humanity.
By plane, car, van, boat, horse, bicycle or hiking staff you, too, can visit history. I choose to do so on two-wheels: a motorcycle. When I was very young, I dreamt of crossing the country on my horse. Well, I am in a sense; many horses inside an engine.
In Lessons of History, Will Durant wrote, "Civilization exists by geological consent, subject to change without notice. " Considering the recent events of Hurricane Ike, and how modern and primitive man flexed and bent around the climate and geology of the southern United States (and northern old Mexico) to eke out livelihoods, it amazes me how rapid our culture has grown. Many call this progress, but some aspects of our past are worth salvaging, retaining them in our current society. Lest we forget, it was to those who came before us, and those who were already here, that we owe much of our prosperity. They blazed the trails for us, losing family, friends, and neighbors along the way. We can learn from them.
Regardless, tracing history and the stories of this country over the last 150-175 years is a lesson in how flexible we really are, and how far we've come. One can't help but wonder how far we will go.
So I embarked upon not only tracing the Butterfield Overland Trail but many, many trails, paths and traces crisscrossing through history. No book can be as rich as traveling along and experiencing history then and now, like watching a movie unfold before you, at times fast forwarded. And what better way than on a motorcycle.
A person can read history books, watch documentaries and movies, listen to the regurgitation of historical fact and dates from their chair or couch. But you can't really [I]know[/I] history unless you are there. The very ground, creek or river water, rocks, sand, mountain or fertile valley..... what ever you stand on or near. Perhaps that is why history repeats itself; we don't really know what happened and why.
"No matter where you go, there you are." Where you stand or sit imparts a sense of place: people, animals, flora, fauna; birth, life, death. All of it was there before you, are there with you now, and will be long after you leave. Natural and man-made events are a movie on constant play and reruns. And we're all together actors on this stage of time.
If you put your book down, turn off your television or radio, or walk out of the classroom, place yourself in any location and you can experience a piece of that history. Whether it was hundreds of tens of years ago or in the making, being receptive will impart knowledge and a sense of what transpired before, during and perhaps what the future may bring. It all flows along into a narrative full of life: emotions, dreams and dashed hopes, joy and pain, merriment and anger, success and strife.
History is the documentary of our humanity.
By plane, car, van, boat, horse, bicycle or hiking staff you, too, can visit history. I choose to do so on two-wheels: a motorcycle. When I was very young, I dreamt of crossing the country on my horse. Well, I am in a sense; many horses inside an engine.
In Lessons of History, Will Durant wrote, "Civilization exists by geological consent, subject to change without notice. " Considering the recent events of Hurricane Ike, and how modern and primitive man flexed and bent around the climate and geology of the southern United States (and northern old Mexico) to eke out livelihoods, it amazes me how rapid our culture has grown. Many call this progress, but some aspects of our past are worth salvaging, retaining them in our current society. Lest we forget, it was to those who came before us, and those who were already here, that we owe much of our prosperity. They blazed the trails for us, losing family, friends, and neighbors along the way. We can learn from them.
Regardless, tracing history and the stories of this country over the last 150-175 years is a lesson in how flexible we really are, and how far we've come. One can't help but wonder how far we will go.
"At any moment a comet may come too close to the earth and set our little globe turning topsy-turvy in a hectic course, or choke its men and fleas with fumes or heat; or a fragment of the smiling sun may slip off tangentially -- as some think our planet did a few astronomic moments ago--and fall upon us in a wild embrace ending all grief and pain. We accept these possibilities in our stride, and retort to the cosmos in the words of Pascal: 'When the universe has crushed him man will still be nobler than that which kills him, because he knows that he is dying, and of its victory the universe knows nothing.'"
- Will Durant
So I embarked upon not only tracing the Butterfield Overland Trail but many, many trails, paths and traces crisscrossing through history. No book can be as rich as traveling along and experiencing history then and now, like watching a movie unfold before you, at times fast forwarded. And what better way than on a motorcycle.
Labels: Adventures, Butterfield Trail, forts, Texas
9.10.2008,7:52 AM
Suspended
I've been suspended in time for the last month and a half.
I don't remember what turned on the light bulb in my head, or even when. Some time ago -several months- when riding a bike and traveling was something I used to do in a former lifetime (aka before broken ankle and surgery), visions of riding here, exploring there, anywhere a map would take me, filled my head. I missed riding; I missed traveling. I wondered what it was like one, even two hundred years ago, to travel. Where did they go? How did they get there? What did they encounter? Who were these people, anyway? And what was the land like back then?
A bulb lit up and an idea sprouted. Soon it grew. And now it's started. Retrace the Butterfield Trail through Texas.
Hours and hours have captured me pouring over resources: old maps, first and secondary accounts -passengers, drivers, ferrymen, sons and daughters of station masters, reports to the government, online archives, chronicles, books and more books, whatever I can get my hands on. But my efforts are piddly next to some exceptional explorers, and I'm certainly not the first.
Putting the many pieces together can be overwhelming. One man's masters thesis was the result from three years of pouring over Texas land survey maps and minutes. The Conklings from El Paso wrote the most comprehensive text -three volumes- from their research and personally retracing the trail in the early 1930's. A.C. Greene and his wife retraced 900 miles of the trail in Texas and wrote a book in 1994. Two brothers rode most of the trail from Missouri to New Mexico on motorcycles (cruisers). Why am I doing it, too? Why do I do anything?
Because I want to.
I don't have the luxury of taking a week or two off from work to ride the trail from where it crossed the Red River to entering New Mexico west of El Paso. I wish I did, but I don't. So I'll have to retrace the trail in bits and pieces; it may even be disjointed. But from what I've experienced thus far, it could take me more than a year to fully explore it. Because unearthing exact locations is like hunting for the invisible snark. What I've found instead are more than 150 years of stories and history.
You can read about history in books and papers. But the only way one can experience history is to be there, talk to the people about their families that have lived there for generations, listen to their stories, stand on those places in the stories and imagine.
No matter from whom you hear or from what you read the stories, they may differ slightly or greatly. Even first person accounts. Noone now can know if it really happened this way or that, or if it was really here or there. But you learn enough, fit the pieces together as best as you can, and you can almost hear the clanking of the harnesses, the rolling of the wheels, smell the musty creeks and feel the coaches shudder as they roll across the prairies, over rocks, through the mud, feel the dust on your face in the desert, and the hunger and thirst when there is no water or food at the stations.
It becomes more real.
So this is what I have embarked upon. Using the Sherpa as my pony, traveling in between the past and modern times, searching for a ghostly trail that ran through Texas and history. Because I can.
Stay tuned.
Labels: Adventures, Butterfield Trail, Texas