Day 36: Stinnett, TX

March 30, 2013

With a song about living underneath the Amarillo sky playing on the country radio station, Robert and I head out to breakfast in Borger, the next town over. On the way, he tells me about the history of the empty landscape I'm looking out on.

"This area used to have a lot goin' on. Used to be a line a bars right here, a hundred-fifty homes on down that way, and not far ahead there was a whole town. Used to have a grocery store, a post office, all a that. Now it's all gone."

He tells me that at one time, back in the 1920s or 1930s, Borger had 1,500 prostitutes before the Texas Rangers came along and ran them out of town. He also points out the office of an Edward Jones financial advisor.

"This ain't a big town. Maybe 13,000 people. But we got four or five a these places 'round here. Lotta millionaires in these parts. Wouldn't know it to look at 'em, drivin' old beat up trucks, but we got lots of 'em."

We end up at the Nu-Way Diner, where you can still smoke indoors. We eat breakfast with Robert's cycling buddy Johnny and I learn a little more about life in West Texas.

"Yeah, they got a problem with cattle rustlin' 'round here," Johnny says. "Those rustlers have stolen more than ten-thousand cattle in the last few years. Just drive up, pick up a calf, and then haul ass outta there. Got the ranchers all upset. They're ready to take matters into their own hands. Then they gotta worry about coyotes and wolves, too. And this one guy, in the mornin' he comes outside 'cause his dog is raisin' hell, and he finds a mountain lion layin' on his kids' trampoline!"

The old guys find it funny. I add nervous ranchers with shotguns and wildlife with sharp teeth to the long list of reasons why it's wild-camp-at-your-own-peril out here.

On the way back home, Robert takes me out onto the county's back roads. I see the area's two carbon black plants — the only ones left after the EPA shut down the other 12. All of the roads and dirt around the plants are covered in a thick black coating and the branches of all the trees in the distance are tinged in a lighter shade. Then it's on to the Conoco Phillips oil refinery.

"There used to be a company town right out here next to the plant, over where all those trains are now. See where those tanks are? All that area used to be houses, a grocery store, a school, all a that. But then they closed the town, just shut it down, and all the people had to go somewhere else. That's when the businesses started dyin'."

Farther on I see the crumbled buildings and rusted metal structures of what used to be Electric City.

"Used to be a hundred or more homes out here. This place generated power for everythin' 'round here. Then they opened up plants in Amarilla an' a big one down in Muleshoe. Now it's all shutdown and gone."

And that's how an area goes from 30,000 people just a few decades ago to down to less than half of that now. It explains why the downtown area of Borger is mostly empty or sad-looking storefronts. It's the reason all that's left of what used to be the mall is a rough-looking JCPenney's.

When your shorts have a two-inch-wide tear in the crotch and you find yourself in the Texas Panhandle, you're willing to compromise your principles and hit up a Wal-Mart.

It's almost noon by the time we make it back to the house. That would make for a late start, the wind's blowing as usual, and I'm not sure how far into the barbed wire wonderland to the north I can make it before dark. So when I'm offered the chance to stay for another night I take it. Less than an hour later we're back into the silver Cadillac Sedan de Ville with 300,000 miles, heading again onto back roads, this time with Jan along for the ride. The roads are narrow and curving with steep ups and downs, and soon my stomach starts to turn.

"Gotta worry about H₂S out here," Robert says. "That's poisonous gas. It comes from the natural gas operations. It's bad stuff — it'll kill ya. If ya can smell it, it's probably already too late for ya."

Nice. When I rode past this area yesterday I saw an open dirt road out into ranch land and thought, "I could camp out here if I had to, that'd be ok if it was dark enough." Turns out it's not just angry ranchers or wolves or mountain lions you have to worry about. The Texas Panhandle becomes crazier with every passing hour I spend here.

The farther we drive, the more I add to the long list of things that used to be out here but aren't anymore: gas plants, oil wells, marinas, boat shops, a steakhouse (now a propane shop), and little communities gone forever. Even the water's missing. The lake I passed yesterday won't be a lake much longer, because it's man-made and the water levels have steadily fallen in the last few years. In as little as 18 months it could dry up entirely.

Later it's on through Amarillo. It's the first day I've been in a car in five weeks and the first time I've gone backward and not forward. It's a strange feeling. The drive takes us to Palo Duro Canyon, which people around here like to call the Grand Canyon of Texas. Well, it turns out not everything's bigger in Texas. It's still an impressive sight — huge and beautiful, with the green trees of the rim fading into the browns and reds of the steep and textured canyon walls, all set against the sharp blues and whites of the sky. But when you can almost wave to the people standing on the canyon floor, the Grand Canyon comparison falls a little flat.

The visitor center, a beautiful CCC-era stone building, gives me a chance to look at stuffed birds and sheep and also fossilized pieces of shit presented under glass.

Because every meal I eat in Amarillo has to be insane, for dessert at a place called Malcolm's I order — with Robert pushing me all the way — a $13 behemoth called the Marathon. It has ten scoops of ice cream — alternating vanilla and chocolate — along with whipped cream, hot fudge, hot caramel, nuts, sprinkles, and a ring of bright red cherries. 72 ounces of sirloin steak it isn't, but I'm still kind of intimidated.

This time I walk away a winner, and not even close to puking it all back up.

After side trips to Sam's Club and two Walmarts, and one last gas station pit stop, the Caddy turns north and we start the 45-minute run back to Stinnett. The sky glows pale orange and blue in the light of the late evening and country music plays on the radio. Jan sleeps stretched out across the back seat while Robert pops Hot Tamales and handles the steering wheel in a pair of light brown leather gloves. As a cold breeze rushes through the crack of an open window, he points out what those twinkling lights to the east are (an outfit that arms and disarms nuclear weapons), and I think about how, in the span of just a few days, the Texas Panhandle has gone from a featureless square on the map to a detailed collage of sights, sounds, smells, and history I'll never forget.

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