A Walk
This is about a walk. It is an aimless verbal wander about a semi-aimless hike along the Red River. I’m remembering it and I’m going through the trees again now. It is present and past. I am 53 now. I think. He is 55. For a moment in the year we are two years apart, in the way of bad mathematics. In another month, we’ll only be a year apart. Do you understand? People with siblings understand that math. We are 18 months apart, my brother and I. He lives on the other side of the river, north. Oklahoma to my Texas. We meet at the river sometimes.
In the time of our youth we’d have been drinking beer for this. I’d probably have started a beautiful ranch day like this with a breakfast beer. It sounds awful in retrospect but I remember them fondly and when you’ve got a day of no responsibility, and you are disappeared from the world, why not? Looking back, some of our most fun walks in the woods involved beer, or something or another. Yes guns. No cameras. No phones back then to tote about. Less sense to tote about then too. But it was a hell of a lot of fun. That was a different part of our life river. It almost seems imaginary on most days.
But we were not drinking now, here. Fresh off of too much coffee, I stood with my brother on the porch. My big brother. My champion of old and the one I followed everywhere, from Wichita Falls to Dallas and on to Austin.
Somehow we grew up. We parted. We had families. Our children are now adults or chronologically close. And we are a little gray. A little creaky. A little more solid and a little more sane. But in this part of our lives we have acquired land, a parcel cut in half, his on the west and ours on the east.
Earlier today I painted. Art? I guess. In a garage, a metal storage structure. If you open both of the garage doors there’s a nice breeze. Painting is more of an action for me. More of an emotion with colors. It is getting something out of me. Mostly, I can observe emotion instead of inhabiting it and channel it. Like opening the valve on a pressure cooker, I can let things develop or escape through color. Age. I don’t consider myself good at it. But I do it fervently anyway. Messily. Joyfully and confidently, even if it is coming from a place of irritation or anger. Perhaps especially so then. Paint…walk away. Too literal. Paint over it. Mess it up real good. Better.
He said, remember you said we ought to go walk the river and find the path up to Chant Hill? I had said that yesterday. We had thought about it. Yes. Let’s do it. I said you take your gun and I’ll take my camera. Pigs, after all.
We split one long strip of land along the Red River, where there is some real wilderness. Upland it is something of a pool table, flat and good for farming and grazing cattle. Down here, it is lush and wild. If you can make it through the rocky drops and the flora, you step out into Oklahoma. The Red River curls and curves and cuts, creating wide sandy beaches on one side or the other of its flowing water. It is different every time. Every storm. Every dry spell. It changes.
When I want to appreciate everything around me, I take the camera. When I want to get something out of me, good or bad, I grab the paint. I’ve never thought of it quite like that but when I want to capture something I take a camera. When I want to release something, good or bad, I paint. With the painting I had just walked away from, I needed to let a black outburst dry, so I could pile on more later. I wasn’t angry. It looked angry and that bothered me. Forms are fine. But like I said, too literal.
Here in the river land, to entertain myself I have paint, the camera, food to cook, and a pencil to write. Mood determines the activity. But I get so dirty here so early that sitting on the furniture seems ill-advised. One generally gets up and moves. It is a good system in the modern age.
He is staying with me for the weekend. The little house on his side is losing the battle with nature. Bees and skunks and snakes and time have the upper hand. We decide on the adventure. Load the vehicle. The camera case is so heavy but I want all of the things. If I see a snake, it’s one lens. If I want to stick my lens into the petals of a flower, it is another. I’ll decide on a rig to walk with when we get closer to the river. We will drive west close to our mutual property line in a 4 wheel drive ATV buggy and draw down to the river on foot. There are a few spots to visit along the way. Favorite spots.
It is warm but not Texas hot yet. It is still March, after all. The wildflowers are just starting. A low carpet of intense green is peeking up through the dead brush and spent native grasses, like a new Ireland peeking through a tired, spent, but regally aged land. For a moment. Right now you can still get to the river without getting mauled by insects, arrested and imprisoned by brambles, or glazed over with the oily sticky substance that makes Poison Ivy so effective.
We check the bluebonnets on the way. There was a late and deep freeze. It looks as if someone sprayed the field haphazardly with a defoliant. Half are luxurious. Half look mostly deceased. But oddly they show some hint of rebound. Maybe if it rains. Maybe. An odd year to be sure. Our mother gave us each a fifty pound bag of seed when we bought the place. Most of the stubborn seeds refused the offer to grow in Clay County. But the ones that took have shown just how tough and beautiful these flowers are. The family is spreading like Will and I did. Moving a little bit away. Starting new pods, spreading happily from the source.
There was once a population of rattlers with the bluebonnets up on the hill. I haven’t seen any there recently. That certainly doesn’t mean they aren’t there. But last week as I was walking the tank dam below the rocky hill, looking for arrowheads I walked right up to a craggy hole in the earthen works that contained a basking rattler. She was asleep or unbothered by my presence. Or pretending to not be there. Or scared. As it turned out she had no rattle. Damaged or lost. When she had enough of my hovering and slithered deep into the earth again, her last turn downward revealed the end of her. I suppose it is not a tail if you are all tail. But the last flick of her turn revealed the telltale black and white bands but no rattle. Curious and dangerous. More dangerous. No chance of warning even if she chose to be merciful in that way.
So we make our way from the blooms to the tank dam where no plants seem to want to grow. Nobody there today. Perhaps they are out and about, trying to find a rabbit or a rat after a winter rest. Perhaps they have decided to stay down in the earth a bit longer.
We picked up some rocks. Talked about petrified wood and meteorites. Always watchful for snake shaped things. Patterns. He is a geologist. It is fun to pick up rocks with him.
I wander off and pick up some big rocks and put them in the back of the vehicle to take back later to fortify the other dam closer to the house, one rock at a time, where the pigs won’t stop making trails to get down to the water. Then will come the cattle when we move them to the west pasture and they’ll finish off what the pigs started and we will be hampered crossing from east to west. Several of the rocks I considered had scorpions napping on the underside. They scurried off reminding me of what they would do the next time I wasn’t being cautious.
Checked for critters at the next water crossing. In a handful of yards, the situation shifts from a dry rattlesnake den to a muddy brown low water crossing where I’ve met several water moccasins. Nothing but water the color of the red soil. It comes from the spring above where it comes in clear to what they call Dead Man’s Pond, a story that predates us possibly by a hundred years or more, perhaps some grandfather made up that story to keep people out or to just turn a good yarn. The creek below slowly makes its way down to the Red River. Or tries to anyway. In dry times like now it gets trapped in distinct little rivulets. Long puddles.
Up and over the hill the clouds look like something from a dream…where you wake up and know you were dreaming because the clouds looked unreal.
Am I dreaming?
Turned off before the gate and went down to the deer feeder. He spotted some turkeys running off so we tried to chase them down on foot which was folly. But worth it trying to get a closer look. We mostly saw their tail feathers.
Went through the gate and spotted a lovely orange butterfly. Not a monarch. Something else. Perhaps a moth. I think it is only the butterflies that can raise up their wings. Is that right? I took a few photos and he turned back to get his gun. He casually swung it over his shoulder like these men do who are accustomed to walking long distances toting firearms. Just another tool. Different things in different worlds. We’re going into the river bottom and we’ll see something. Might not be worth shooting. But we will see things. There’s even talk of mountain lions sometimes. Will they migrate this far? We’ve never seen one but they come in two counties over so it’s worth considering. You’ll be surprised either way. Might as well have considered it so you’ve got some sense of what to do other than shit yourself.
Two tall trees were hiding a calling bird. I could hear the chirping and scurrying. Turned out to be a covey of quail. A blessing in these parts. I thought I heard another turkey. I stood under a tree thinking it was right above me til he pointed out that it was two tree branches rubbing against one another. Sounded exactly like a box call for a turkey. Imagine how few know that sound. Of both a turkey in the wild or the screech of a box call. The tree did a pretty great imitation and we wondered about how many jakes come under that tree looking for a brawl. Surely they are not so easily fooled, but then again, they fall for the box call.
Walking down to the bottom he was ahead of me and just about ran face first into a green snake which was entirely surprised to see my brother’s head in front of him all of a sudden. Probably had never seen a human being before anyway. Imagine the shock. I’m glad I wasn’t in front. But it was a lovely creature. He later said it was a Rough Green Snake. We paused and I took photos, glad I had chosen a nice telephoto lens. Venomous or not, I’m not inclined to put my face within reach. And this snake was exactly at face level.
Marked our exit route because they tend to disappear when you need them again. All these trees close in behind you. All the ways to go up again look familiar and also foreign. There are few ways up from the river that don’t end in a bog, or impassable thorns and rocky outcroppings. Some, though technically passable, mean sticking your hands into crevices where you ought to not stick your hands. The footing on dried leaves and loose soil can be treacherous. For me anyway. My husband can pick his way through them like some wily animal. I will walk on to find an easier way. None of it is particularly easy.
A huge burl on the base of a tree trunk. That is the marker. The bulbous burl as big as a bus. A tree growing sideways. Those will do. We are about to walk a mile or two through terrain that changes daily, weekly, seasonally, and while there are permanent land masses above us they are difficult to discern through the canopy.
Walked toward the river. So far along already, and so many nice moments, and the walk now begins.
Only 30 yards ahead north and not yet overgrown but still some hard walking. Lots of downed trees. The grass is already thick. Wondering where the snakes are because you know damn well they are everywhere. Holes in the ground. Armadillos? Badgers? We are both wearing tall boots, snake boots. This is not terrain for anything but sturdy boots. If it isn’t snakes, it’s ants. And if they have to climb a few feet to get to dinner you have a chance to swat them off. If not the ants, then the prospect of turning a less than young ankle.
Straight off the first thing I saw on the beige sandy expanse was the smallest little prong shed. I feel like finding antlers is such luck but I didn’t expect to see them there for some reason, in the sand. The beauty of the spring grass is that the white antlers shine against the green and when the fall foliage is beaten down you can see the antler sheds from far away. I’ve been hunting sheds for weeks but didn’t have it on my radar today. And we found two. The water is off far across and closer to the Oklahoma side now so we walk the beach on our side. Good as Galveston and even better because we’re the two only people on the river for miles. An Okie would say we were in Oklahoma on the Texas side and while technically true, there is no law that says I have to admit it.
It is beautifully disorienting to step down from a native grass pasture to what is essentially a strip of forest and then into sand. Walking the river bed means you can run out of land at any time and might have to hop back up into the trees to pass another few hundred yards inland if you can. It is a space without time. That is until, the river deposits the trash and lost treasures that have floated down the river. I’m often finding deflated soccer balls, busted beer coolers, bottles. Today it was a child’s jumbo plastic building brick. A sand toy from the bridge near Byers where people go to party and play on the weekends.
On these river walks, it’s entirely possible that one will need to turn back and search for a new way back up into the trees. Following game trails is often the best. They are superhighways really, though they are all lower to the ground and sometimes the two-footed are at a distinct disadvantage battling the growth.
Kingfishers and other shore birds are a little annoyed with our presence. We see eagles down here at times but none today. Cardinals are flitting about in the trees off the river. We lazily make our way upriver, making tracks in the sand, avoiding the slippery mucky bits that appear, watching the shoreline as it widens and narrows according to its rules, making its own track eastward.
We find the inlet, a driveway size opening into the upland. We hop over and down into the dry stream bed that runs from the other side of the property all the way to the river. Usually mucky and impassable by foot, it is dry and looks like a brown bobsled luge. This is the bit where you expect four sows and thirty piglets to come down like a tidal wave of angry bacon at you. This is their road, not ours. Thus, the brother with the gun. It bears explaining that the feral hogs in Texas are neither polite nor cute. The boars have tusks that compare favorable to a saber tooth tiger. They reach upwards of 250 pounds. They are often all traveling together and are unpredictable and can be aggressive. Many conversations can be had between reasonable people about whether the word need can be applied to an AR-15 but this is one scenario where one can use the word in all seriousness. Yes, the pigs usually avoid contact, as do we. You can hear them snorting and snuffling and then running away, often not seen at all. But when a couple dozen pigs are running toward you and you have limited escape options, it is the weapon of choice. Beats climbing a tree that is crocheted top to bottom with poison ivy. This is not conjecture. Last week on a walk with my husband at the other end of the property, a sizable group was jogging right at me down in the river land, and blessedly veered away and ran for the river. It is sobering.
We walked easily through the dappled sunlight until we reached the low water crossing closest to the river. The steep sides and the washouts make it all but unfordable by even the most macho vehicle and the investment to get machinery down there to fix it is a constant challenge on my brother’s side of the world. But on foot, we pop up out of the dried bed and into a lush field bordering on fairy tale in description. There are moments when you can stand there and see stories playing out and comparing these small moments to the most lovely travel destinations that you have visited. Then you see the brambles that seem to be growing around your legs just like the fairy tale, and smack a bug off your face, and wonder how many ticks have jumped down from the trees directly onto your scalp during the walk. It revives one quickly from story book imaginings and back to the real challenge of finding the “road” that is passable when it is used five or six times a year with a vehicle but practically invisible when the land has its way for a spell. But we find it. When I wonder at this clearing, my brother remarks that it is utterly possible that a small tornado following the river could clear out an acre or two of trees and brush leaving these strange pockets, and no one would really know. It is possible. Nature is wild in all her mysterious ways.
There is perhaps a week or so more before the growth and heat makes this very path miserable. Winter can be stark but it is the best for exploring. This is a lovely green awakening, but it welcomes you only momentarily.
We wander toward the rock outcropping, a vertical wall up to pasture land. He thinks a cave overhang he has visited is just up this way. There is a spring and a well-worn path up to Chant Hill. It is nice to be oriented for the moment. The path is for animals, not humans. This is where we imagine a mountain lion would lay in wait if they have moved this far east. Thankfully we encounter no large cats, or small ones. There are plenty of wily little bobcats in the area.
At some point I comment that if I fall he may have to carry me out because I have two small but pointy antlers sticking out of my back pocket. Within a hundred yards one of my clunky boots gets caught under a limb hidden in tall grass, and the other one catches another, and I’m brought to my knees in an instant. As usual, I protect my camera in the fall and not my body. I should remember at this point that fixing a knee will be more costly than the camera. He helps me up and I remind him that my knees and the camera were my last concern and I’m happy to not have five distinct stab wounds in my rear and legs. All is well.
And somehow we have walked past one hundred trees growing sideways, but there is the tree with a burl at the base as big as a bus. I could recount each conversation, each time we held a branch so the other could pass, how we talked about how my husband would enjoy riding a motorcycle up the stream bed, the stories we told about our children, or memories of old friends we haven’t seen in ages.
Smarter folk would have had a bottle of water on the walk but we were pleased to see the path to the gate and head back to the house with a can of something for the ride. Sparkly and fruity. No beer in sight. Maybe we are growing up. In some ways.
It is strange to consider now. Like the last time you reach down and pick up your child, there is some last time you get the privilege of wandering in the woods with your big brother. And you don’t know if until you look back and it dawns on you that you don’t do that anymore. Had my husband been around this weekend instead of coaching, he would have perhaps been the one on this walk with Will. Perhaps I would have stayed at the house. Had our kids been about, perhaps we wouldn’t have ventured off. Much older, and our bodies might start cautioning us to consider an easier path.
I was born with a best friend. I was lucky that way. But nothing stays the same. In all the good ways, life is a river. Family is a river. Always moving on. It slows sometimes, it rushes at you sometimes. It throws you new curves often. Any little part can be difficult or hard to get through but it looks fairly majestic with viewed from above. I still have this old friend. I’m so grateful. I won’t wait so long to go wandering with him again.
(Photos March 2025…a few taken the week before our walk and a few by phone).