Spearman--Part Two
Oh no, these blues are gonna rub me raw
Oh no, these blues are gonna rub me raw
Rub me raw, hit me.
--Warren Zevon
As Route 66 passes through Sayre, Oklahoma, it's called Main Street, and that's where the Beckham County Courthouse sits. It's a historic structure, a big red brick edifice with Tuscan columns and a dome, not the sort of thing you'd expect to find in a little farming community. I've read about it, seen it in the Grapes of Wrath, and now I've pulled up in front to see it in person. The courthouse is open to visitors and tours are free, but now that I'm here I've lost motivation. I keep sitting in The Turtle, thinking. I think about Mike Dewlen and Gary Milton, and Nettie's son Ray, and I think about serendipity, and I think about my being here, in an old FJ-40. Then I think about Patsy Kingsley, and I know that it's time to leave the Mother Road. I have to go to Spearman.
The Oklahoma and Texas panhandles are criss-crossed by dozens of state highways, county roads, ranch roads, farm to market roads, and a few unmarked roads that seem to lead nowhere. In Austin I bought a Magellan GPS, but even before reaching Sayre I'd already decided that I didn't like being told where to drive by a black box. I leave the courthouse and find a convenience store with gas pumps, fuel up The Turtle, go inside and buy an official Texas road map. My new GPS comes off the windshield and I dump it inside the Tuffy. I'll use the map to ad lib a route. According to the mileage chart, it's 145 miles to Spearman, or 3 hours drive time. No one is waiting, and I don't care if it takes 16 hours, again. Today I'm in no hurry.
I toy with routes, and select a beginning leg. From Route 66 in Sayer, I'll take US 283 North. Guessing at distance, it looks like I'll follow 283 for about 50 miles, passing through the Black Kettle National Grasslands before turning. The Turtle and I start rumbling northward, and once again we're greeted by sunny skies and little traffic. Now we're in Indian territory. In the grasslands it's so deserted that I can easily imagine Comanche and Cheyenne villages nestled amongst the Cottonwoods, and herds of bison grazing on the plains. These were their lands. Several years before Little Big Horn, General Custer led a surprise attack on a Cheyenne encampment here, the Battle of the Wachita River. Historians describe the attack by Custer's troops as a massacre, an unprovoked ambush of a peaceful band en route to their reservation. Most of the Cheyenne were killed including their leader, Black Kettle; his wife was shot in the back while fleeing. These grasslands were named for Chief Black Kettle. I'm driving slowly, barely chugging along in 3rd gear, when I see markers for the Wachita Battlefield Historic Site. I park and study the information board for a moment. There's a visitor's center, with organized tours, and lectures. Not really my thing, so I randomly wander around alone, down a primitive hiking path that takes me to the river. Approaching, I see a Native American family standing at the river's edge. They're a nice looking family, mother and dad and three well dressed kids. No native garb; they're wearing good old American clothes, and the kids look as though they could be models for The Gap. They're very still, the five of them holding hands, and they appear to be praying. I feel like an intruder so I stop, observe a moment of silence, turn and quietly leave. If there are spirits, as the Indians believed, I'm sure they're right here.
Not far past the grasslands, US 283 intersects State Highway 33. I've not been here before, but my map says it's a paved two lane road, and it leads West. Good enough for me, and that's the direction we need to travel next, so I make the left turn and begin following SH 33 as it parallels the river. Studying the map, I didn't see a direct path to Spearman, which is probably fortuitous. I need to take advantage of this time. Zig-zagging across the panhandle and being contemplative, maybe I'll have an epiphany. I can only hope so, because I sure don't know what I'm doing here.
This little road, SH 33, leads about 40 miles West to an intersection with US 83. There I'll turn North again, and it's only 10 more miles to Canadian, Texas. These are the Texas High Plains, almost 4,000 feet above sea level. Except for Palo Duro Canyon, Texas panhandle topography is pretty much the same, flat grassy prairie lands, with occasional red slate hills. There isn't much in the way of native vegetation. You don't see many wild flowers, and no towering trees or lush forests. What you do see is windmills, farms and ranches, cacti and scrubby Mesquite trees, tumbleweeds, and miles and miles of cultivated fields. Everyone has heard the old saw about beauty being in the eye of the beholder. That's nowhere more true than here on the High Plains. Some have described the countryside as stark, barren, monotonous, even ugly. I spent my formative years in Amarillo, at least some of them, and I've never bought into those characterizations. I find these lands majestic, even starkly beautiful. Watching the scenery, time passes quickly and before I know it, here's US 183. I turn right, following the arrows pointing toward Canadian. It's nearing 3 PM and I remember that I haven't eaten all day.
So here comes Canadian. I went to school with people from this area but can't recall ever being here. If Patsy and I had come through Canadian, I doubt I'd remember. I know it's called "The Oasis of the Texas Panhandle" because it sits in the verdant Canadian River valley. I also know it's the Hemphill County Seat and has a population around 2,200, because I just read all about it on the chamber of commerce billboard. Driving through town I spot City Drug. It's in a weathered brick building with a window sign advertising old fashioned milk shakes and deli sandwiches. I need to be settled in before dark and don't know where I'm staying so I can't waste time on a sit down meal. I dash in, order a strawberry shake and a smoked turkey sandwich, and hit the road again. It's an outstanding overstuffed sandwich, and the shake is made from hand dipped Bluebell Ice Cream. I can't even remember the last time I had a real milkshake. The things you can find in small towns.
Only 60 more miles to Spearman. Barely more than an hour and I'm there. The obvious question is why? Is it closure I'm after? I hope not, because I don't believe there's such a thing as closure. The notion that you can take something that's eaten away at you most of your adult life, experience some kind of catharsis and leave it behind strikes me as ludicrous. I don't buy it. But here's another thought. Since the storm in Clinton, I've had this eerie feeling that an invisible hand is steering me toward Spearman. If that's true, I'll be provided with the reason once I'm there. I consider the very real possibility that I'm taking this Twilight Zone nonsense too seriously, but I'm on final approach now and determined to play this out.
I leave Canadian slurping on my shake, still traveling North on US 83. After half an hour, the shake and sandwich are gone and I turn West on Ranch Road 759. Since leaving the Black Kettle grasslands the temp has started dipping, and outside Canadian I begin seeing snow. Not fresh snow, but there's accumulations on the ground along the roadside and drifts are visible in the fields that border the road. Thirty miles to go and I start formulating a plan. I need to get my bearings and find a place to sleep. Tomorrow I'd like to talk with Patsy's parents, and visit the cemetery. It's just after four as I ease the Turtle into Spearman, running on fumes. The only gas station I see is an Alsup's convenience store ahead, 3 banks of fuel pumps and several trucks parked outside. This is good, because I need more than gas. I need information. I assume Spearman is large enough to have motels and I'm sure everyone knows where the cemetery is located.
There's a large woman about Nettie's age manning the register, and a line of weary looking men buying beer and smokeless tobacco, and lottery tickets. I wait and after they leave, I buy bottled water and several energy bars. And I ask my questions.
Me: "I wonder if you could help me out? I have a couple of questions."
Her: "I'll try. What kind of questions?"
Me: "I was wondering where I could find the motels."
Her: "There's only one motel. The Nursanickle, over on 207."
No way. I can't see me staying in anything called Nursanickel. I have a backpacking tent and a zero degree bag bungeed to the roll bar. This might be a good time to break 'em out.
Me: "And what about campgrounds? Anything nearby?"
Her: "Up at Lake Palo Duro. It's about 10 miles North. You cain't miss it. Foller the signs."
Me: "And the cemetery, are there more than one?"
Her: "Jest one, Hansford County. Go out 207 and it's right outside town."
Her: "What do you need from the cemetery? There won't be nobody there"
Me: "I want to find the grave of a friend. And I'd like to visit her parents. Do you know the Kingsley family?"
Her: "Lord yes. Known 'em for years."
Me: "Patsy, did you know her?"
Her: "Everybody knew Patsy. That girl could sing like an angel. Terrible what happened to her."
Me: "Could you tell me how to get to her parent's farm? I haven't been here for years?"
Her: "Oh Honey, they're gone. Evelyn passed a few years after Patsy, and then Mister Kingsley. They're out there with Patsy. All right there together."
Me: "Thanks. I appreciate the help."
As I'm leaving....
Her: "I wouldn't do no camping. It's gonna be real cold tonite."
I trust my cold weather gear, and sleeping outside sounds good in spite of the weather. I follow the signs and ten miles north of Spearman I find Lake Palo Duro. At it's entrance there's a self pay station. $2 entry fee plus $4 to camp. I stuff six bucks into a deposit envelope, then drive around looking for a place to pitch my tent. There's a good bit of snow on the ground but I find a bare spot on high ground near the lake. It's isolated and I can't tell if it's a designated camp site, but there's a rutted trail leading there and The Turtle takes it with ease. 5:30 and the sun is beginning to drop. I walk down to the lake and sit on a rock, watch the sunset, and think about serendipity again. Thirty five years ago Patsy and I came to Spearman in an FJ40. Here I am again, another 40, and tomorrow The Turtle will take me to her grave.
....to be continued
This may be the first Mud thread which my wife has allowed me to read to her.... I'm really enjoying this.
