Go West Young Man!

"For always roaming with a hungry heart, much have I seen and known...my purpose holds to sail beyond the sunset, and the baths of all the western stars, until I die." - Tennyson, Ulysses.

Captain's Log - 10/19/16 - Journey to the Northern Fortresses

      In the good ol' days that everyone longs for because they never actually lived them, the original real estate owners of this vasty republic were fenced out of their own backyards by brittle treaties and a string of fortresses manned by boys. Here the line between "civilization" and "savagery" was drawn with sword and tomahawk as the Stone Age fought a long defeat with Modernity, finally bowing to our numbers, our science and, primarily, our germs. Though I am passionate student of history I had never visited these garrisons of ghosts. So this past week I headed out to the horizon to stretch my horizons with my parents and rediscover a window in our great state's past.

      We headed out on a golden morning from our home in the hills, stocked up like a conestoga wagon with an ice chest or three, packed tight with picnic supplies to brave the prairies ahead. We drove past the beekeepers of Llano and honey-golden flowers blazing in dew and sunbeams. Creeks gradually dried up turning into orange ribbons of gravel as the odometer ticked off the miles. Lush waves of grass groomed the bellies of brown and black horses grazing the day away. Eventually we passed up the old ghost town of Pontotoc. These days it's known mostly for it's cornucopia of wild flowers bedding down in front of the ruins of an old Academy every Spring. However, tragedy has struck and the old ruins sitting there since 1882 are now gone. Gone. I don't know know if they were mowed down by a scythe of high winds or collapsed under their own weight. I could handle that, I guess. But I will be furious if I learn that the property owner bulldozed them because of insurance reasons. Seeing them gone was a punch in the gut. Here's a few pictures I took about five years ago to give you an idea of what has been lost.

Another Texas Roadside destination vanishes, victim to the ravages of time. RIP Pontotoc Academy. You survived typhoid epidemics, fires, and 130 years of progress to provide me and my camera some great afternoons. Here's a link to the Handbook of Texas Online page about Pontotoc and San Fernando Academy. 

As we traveled onward, the country side continued to dry up and take on a harsher appearance. The few homes dotting the countryside were built of some reddish stone, mostly empty and crumbling into ruins. We were driving through a countryside pock marked with skeletons. The terrain became generally rugged except for the occasional creek valleys where fields, pecans and oaks painted a pastoral scene. Small herds of Appaloosa horses clipped the high grass and soaked up the sun. We could still see the full moon racing alongside us, faint and transparent in the noon sky as onion paper in a Bible. Then as we neared Brady a gigantic gravel factory rose up out of the hells it dug, spewing man made mountains of gravel and dirt to pile up like the ancient pyramids. A blight and a curse upon the land. Progress.

 We went on through Brady, skirting north of the lands where Conquistadors searched for silver and preached the Good News with fire and sword. They left their own fortress there after being driven out by the Comanche. 

I will post more about this particular spot on a future blog about James Bowie and his search for the famous San Saba Silver Mines. But here are a few pictures from a trip I made a few years ago to those stubbles of stone that some say bear the mark of Bowie upon them. 

Within about an hour we past the Santa Anna mountains between Coleman and Brownwood. These two mesas provided a primo lookout point for Texas Rangers during the Indian Wars. You can see for miles and miles in every direction over the flat lands that surround it. There's a local legend that a band of natives once lived at the mountain's feet, living a life of peace and plenty far away from the wars in the eastern part of the state. At some point a white woman was brought captive to this tribe and taken to wife by the Chief. She in due time bore him a beautiful daughter that became the most sought after flower amongst that small tribe. Her mother died of heartache, I suppose because she couldn't get over being a slave, and was buried on top of the mesa. When the young girl came of age she had her heart set on marrying a brave from her tribe when the bluecoats finally came rushing in an apocalyptic wind upon their settlement. The battle waged back and forth in the shadow of the mesas and the dust drank deep from the gore of both sides. When it became apparent that the Bluecoats may not win, they asked for the daughter of the white captive in return for leaving the tribe from further attack. The tribe declined for she had never know the society of the white eyes and this was her home. The battle recommenced. The chief sent the young maiden to the top of the peaks to watch over the surging tide of battle and pray to the Great Spirit to save her people. To her despair, her mother's people won and most of the tribe fell to the sword and bullets of the white eyes. But rather than be dragged into the world of the white man, the maiden jumped from the cliffs and embraced the rocks below, entering a new world with her people in the afterlife. 

Such is the legend. 

As we neared Abilene, yellow fields of bitterweed engulfed us. Good thing there aren't much in the way of dairies up here. Bitterweed turns the milk sour if cows eat it. I thought it was a good symbol of how barren and rugged the land was becoming - nothing but bitterweed oceans and mesquite under a wide open sky. As we drove into Abilene, I regaled my parents with stories of my college days here, pointing out landmarks and the stories that lay behind them. I also started out my career as a news photographer here, so there were many stories of the adventures of a poor photog in this city of the plains. Though we'd been snacking the whole trip up, we decided we needed some real grub and pulled into Joe Allen's for a fill-er-up.

I had never eaten here in my college days but I had heard mostly good things about the place. They did good yeoman's work. The pork rib was one of the best I've ever had. Tender, moist and well seasoned with a dry rub that wasn't too salty and was impregnated with a nice smoky flavor. I'm pretty sure it was mesquite since that's the wood dujour out here. That's all there is. 

The brisket was moist yet bland with a nice bark but was, frankly, pretty disappointing. The sauce was a good one though - tangy and sweet perfectly balanced. It made a perfect marriage with the brisket chopped into little chunks, mixing up the sauce with the moist meat and bark. My parents had the chopped beef sandwiches, so I think they got the superior form of brisket served there. 

The sides were good, nothing special. The bread was homemade and heavenly. I could have eaten a meal of bread there with nothing else and been perfectly satisfied. All in all, it's a good place to eat, you just need to know what to order. So, order either a chopped beef sandwich or some ribs and bread. ;) I've heard from locals that service has had issues in the past but we got our food almost immediately and the server was a nice, conversational young man. So if you have tried it before and been disappointed, might want to give it another go. 

After filling our bellies with some good beef, we continued our trek to our first official historical stop of the day: Frontier Texas!

Frontier Texas! is a very well put together history of the West Texas area from Abilene on up to the Fort Belknap (Graham, Texas) area. This region saw an incredible amount of colorful characters live, love and die within its epic confines. Comanches and Kiowas are the primary focus in regards to the Native Americans, but the museum does delve into the prehistoric past with a broader range of native peoples who called this area home at one time. Many arrowheads and other examples of American Indian technology abound. Holograms of actors rise up like dreams over campfires giving informative speeches to the viewer on the life of the character being played. Frontier legends Cynthia Ann Parker and Britt Johnson make an appearance. You are introduced to many folks you've never heard of before and more than a few that you have if you have ever watched westerns. Quanah Parker, Wyatt Earp, Doc Holliday, Big Nosed Kate, Pat Garrett, Bat Masterson and other western legends all passed through this area. It's an utterly captivating historical panorama that will take you hours to wade through. I highly recommend it if you are ever in the area. 

Comanche Buffalo headgear and weapons. Imagine a screaming warrior coming at you wearing that thing on his noggin.

This war shield is decorated with the scalps of three women killed in a raid.

A grim display of the buffalo slaughter that took place in this area back in the 1870's. Millions of buffalo once roamed these plains. Within little less than a decade almost all of them were completely wiped out.

This mountain of skulls actually sent a wave of sadness through me when I saw it. The wanton destruction man is capable of never ceases to surprise me or fill me with loathing.

This Sharps rifle killed 20,000 buffalo, even possibly the last wild white buffalo sighted in Texas. It's hard to contemplate one instrument of death killing that many magnificent creatures just for their hides.

The Sharps belonged to J. Wright Mooar, who came down this a-ways from Dodge City, cleaned the area out of buffalo and stayed in Scurry county to become a rancher. Scurry county is also the county where he killed the last wild white buffalo in Texas. His memoirs are a great source of information upon the how the west was won. He became a respected pioneer but I still say bad cess to him for doing his best to put an entire species on the brink of extinction and the greed that fueled him.

Below is a picture of the beautiful purple crowned prairie grass waving in the West Texas breeze outside the museum. My mind's eye dreamed up a green ocean of the stuff, violet capped waves glistening as far as the eye could see. You just don't see images like that anymore as you drive about America. I regret sometimes being born in this age where so many of the world's wonders have been eaten up by "civilization." Progress. I certainly appreciate the modern medicine and technological wonders that go along with this day and age but why couldn't we have the technology and the scenery?

The last stop of the day before the hotel was Fort Phantom Hill. Interestingly enough, the Fort lay just about a hundred yards past the small lakeside cottage my friends and I used to party at during our college days. It still looks more or less the same, though it was hard to tell as I had never seen the place during daylight. Brought back fond memories of misadventures that later blossomed into stories that I still love to tell. 

Though it has its fair share of ghost stories, Phantom Hill wasn't named after spooks but was named after the fact that what looks like a hill from far away, fades away the closer you approach to it. The bluecoats came here in 1851, picking this spot because of it's higher elevation and it's proximity to the Clear Fork of the Brazos River, which has been dammed up and is now Lake Fort Phantom. Soldiering has never been an easy life and it was even more brutal soldiering on the Texas frontier. Here the young men and handful of officers' wives endured all the harsh extremities that Texas can throw at you. Northers blew in, freezing them and their animals to the marrow, while in summer the temperatures reached in excess of 100 degrees. Imagine marching around in that stifling inferno while wearing wool uniforms. Rain was mighty scarce - just like today - and with almost 300 soldiers stationed on this spot, there wasn't near enough grass to feed all their horses and work animals. Hail, tornadoes, ice and snow and the eternal howling wind drove the White Eyes mad. Rampant illness borne of malnutrition ran like wildfire through the fort. The water tasted bad and the only good water they could find was in a small spring four miles away. The fort's well ran dry more often than it stayed wet. With all this misery it's a good thing there were relatively nothing but good relations between the BlueCoats and the native peoples for that first year or so. Few episodes of violence reared their head and the Comanches met them mostly on friendly terms. The famed Comanche war chief Buffalo Hump regularly visited. He would later appear in Larry McMurtry's Lonesome Dove series. Other visitors represented the Kiowa, Lipan, Apache, Wichita and Kickapoo tribes. The Blue Coats' only enemy here was Texas herself.

That was for the first two years. Then in 1853, everything began to unravel. Comanche attacks began. Wagon trains sacked, pioneers scalped, women kidnapped and outraged. As the Indian attacks escalated, the government decided it would be a good idea to switch over to mounted cavalry divisions. The soldiers at Fort Phantom were infantry mostly. Little cavalry. And you can't chase a Comanche on foot.

Finally in 1854, three or so years into its existence, the fort was abandoned. The commanding officer at the time, Newton C. Givens, as a parting gift, set the place ablaze. He later faced court-martial for this, but managed to squeak by with just a 9 month suspension. The whole fort didn't burn down but most of it did. Yet, it still remained a depot for all sorts of traffic - stage coaches, cowboys, buffalo hunter, traders and US Cavalry from the Fort Griffin to the North and Fort Concho far to South in San Angelo.

Now it's just a very photogenic set of chimney ruins, along with a small storage building, a gun powder room across the road, and a large commissary with planks of wood still latticing the cold stones with their shadows.  It's a beautiful area and doesn't take long for you to mosey through. I wish it had been reconstructed some more and had some living history type of stuff, like some of the other forts in Texas, but the silent sphinxes of reddish stone tell their own muted stories if you listen closely enough in the never ending wind. 

As I walked out of the shade of the commissary I happened to look over and froze in my tracks. In the distance, through the waves of shimmering grass I saw the image of a white buffalo. It only took me a second to realize it was just a target, propped up against a pile of dirt but for a split second I had a feeling of what it must have been like to be a Comanche riding through the wilds of this land of infinite hostilities and happening upon a lone white buffalo grazing in the cool of the evening. The Comanche held the white buffalo to be sacred. So perhaps this will be a bit of good luck for me. Or it may mean nothing at all. But for some odd reason I felt like I was looking upon some strange ghost of the past as I walked the Phantom Hill and gazed upon a sacred creature. I looked at him. He looked at me. We both recognized something of the other in each of us. The moment stretched out in silence as we nodded to each other in respect. Then the gunfire of hunters rattled off in the distance. 

And I woke up.

copyright Ben Friberg, 2016