White knuckles through Texas

Since the windscreen is yukky with sticky insect impact, we make a quick detour to Walmart to buy Windex wipes before heading north for the next leg of jour journey. I buy a notepad and a couple of pairs of knickers. I love Walmart undies. $3.48 a pair versus $16 or more in Australia. My checkout chick is an incredibly gnarled old chook. A hundred if she is a day. I suspect she may make the record for elderly checkout workers. Scraggle-toothed and wispy-haired she is. I find this a good thing. I am so impressed by the workforce of seniors in the US. I’m told that some of them are working because the pension is so inadequate - which is a negative. But the thing that impresses me is that they are in the workforce at all. Imagine this in Australia. Hah. Ageism rules. But here in the US, retail employers are employing older people in droves. From Walmart to upmarket department stores, there they are, seniors working alongside juniors. No sign of ageism here.

Bruce is always eager to get back on the road. Today is only a three-hour drive.

With sparkling windows and fresh mango spears as a snack, we alert Google Siri to our destination and head north out of Galveston.

It is only 46 miles to Houston but it is a bit of a white-knuckle drive. We whoosh over the 8-lane bridge onto the mainland and up through the corridor of refineries. Huge billboards advertise the Space City Dialysis Centre, Texas City Dike Converter, Drive Safe Eat Messy and more insistent invitations to sell your car, sell your car, sell your car.

Then we come to the Sell Car turnoff. This is the exit. We couldn’t see evidence of traffic flooding off the road to sell itself at all. We could see car yards. We could also see an outlet mall and a complex of mini storage.

So, the people who came off the highway to sell their cars could have a splurge at the mall with the money and then, since they didn’t have a car in which to carry their purchases, they could put them into storage.

Or so we fantasised in gales of laughter.

Perhaps after all these months on the road we have a spot of cabin fever?

The furious traffic thickens as we near Houston. It is the third largest city in the USA.

More advertising lines the road. Eye Clinic. Attorney. Mercedes Benz. BMW. Mattresses.

Oh, no, and more Sell Us Your Car.

Bubba’s Restaurant has a huge model dead shark hanging from posts. No thanks.

Houston is close. We approach the lattice of sleek cement sculptures - overpasses and underpasses. Over and under. Upper and lower. Cement cement. A network of tiered roads complete with baffling roadsigns.

There stands Houston in hazy silhouette.

The air is not the best. The sky is pale blue with an iodine brown hue.

We whiz past medical and dental centres, a massive white building which seems to house one gobsmackingly huge law firm.

The traffic has become seriously intense, a big shiny, gleaming moving mass of metal.

All these cars. They show the stupefying scale of things in the US, says Bruce.

More overpasses and more relentless cheek by jowl commerce.

More billboards: Live like people not like bees. God listens to 84.3KSB radio. Need an Attorney?

And we enter the City of Houston in a choke of traffic.

It is a handsome city, if you don’t count the heavy haze.

A picture of children playing with a white rabbit on a Montessori school strikes a note of irony. Not in this air.

The lovely buildings of Houston flirt with the eye. This city has a glory of aesthetic architecture. It also has grackles lined up on its electric wires. Those sleek and interesting birds have gained some sort of extraordinary dominance in the urban landscape.

We’re not staying in Houston, just pausing for lunch and driving around to get a feel for it. It is huge.

We find a Chili's Restaurant. One of my very favourite chains in the USA. Therein we get freshly-brewed coffee and gorgeous, zesty char-grilled chicken breast on rice with broccoli. Light, clean, my cup of healthy lunch. Then menu reveals that it is only 420 calories.

Finally, we are gunning our way out of handsome Houston on the Interstate 10 beltway, when we spot the sign:

Yo Quiero Yo Car.

Ye gods. You must be kidding. Do these people never stop? The sell-us-your-car people have gone bi-lingual.

Eek. Don't look up. Now there are four storeys of overpasses above us.

And an ad about pelvic floor problems.

What an odd country.

An Ikea gives one a flicker of normality. Then again, we are on a 14-lane highway and everyone is speeding.

White knuckles.

Buildings are still big around us. We are in the outer commercial burbs of Houston. Memorial City to be exact. There are massive medical centres, Costco, Best Buy, more high-rise apartments and hotels. Oh, and overpasses of five levels above us. They are very high. Very high indeed. Daunting.

Here's a Texas thing we don't see elsewhere. Boot City which sells those glamorous Texan boots, of course. On a big scale. Of course. Car yards. Siri directs us to Old Katy Road. also known as Route 10.

A electronic sign says Ozone Alert Today.

Why am I not surprised?

Omni, Marriott, Raddison…hotels, hotels. The city goes on and on.

Houston, we have a problem. Space City, we can’t seem to get out of you.

But you are very impressive. Heading northwest, there is the handsome Methodist West Hospital.

Urgent Care, Animal Care. Kohls. Walmart, A Halloween store has a giant pumpkin face strapped on the top of it.

More massive, towering overpasses. Medical plaza, Boot Barn, Dollar Tree, Nail Salon.

This must be Katy. There is a Katy water tower. And Katy Mills.

Oh, we are leaving Young Harris County. Didn’t know we were there. Second time we’ve run into Young Harris. There is another in Georgia.

The roads take us north through wastelands and car yards, past a medical supplies factory which is the size of a city block. Scrub, wasteland, big sky. Igloo Ranch makes eskys. It is massive. We’re on a plain, Hay. Flocks of birds.

Here we are, flat as a pancake Texas, says Bruce.

More hayfields. Low pine scrub.

Open road.

Well, apart from the heavy transport speeding along it.

We ignore the turnoff to San Antonio. We pass Sealy with its big Sealybration billboard.

Nothing much to Sealy that we can see. A caravan yard.

But they are serious.

Another sign says: Looking Forward to Being Home. Exciting to be Here.

Open land. Cattle. Low scrub and grassland.

It is ranch country.

Oh, and Trump/Pence country. Lots of signs.

A feedstock processing plant. A quail farm.

Farm machinery. Vultures aloft. Not the prettiest part of the world.

Siri instructs us to take the Austin turnoff on Texas 71 West.

Cattle sparsely in the fields. Buzzards circling low.

It’s now rough road. 81 miles of it ahead.

Mesquite is appearing in the roadside scrub, indicating a change of climatic conditions.

Smallholdings and big properties. Occasional grandioise ranch gates at the roadside.

Flat land gives way to gentle undulations and thick scrub.

A big gate announces the Bald Eagle Outback Silverado Ranch. It sure is big.

Over the Fayette County line and into Ellinger. Reduce speed.

The town is down at heel.

The lovely scent of fresh-mown grass wafts into the car. They are mowing the verges big time with lots of men and machinery. Prisoners, we wonder?

Hayfields and big sky.

And now the shores of Lake Fayette with towering chimneys and puffing smoke from a big coal plant. High tension wires.

Roadkill. More circling buzzards.

Moving north we find low hills and greener pastures with cottonwood trees showing the courses of streams and creeks in the landscape.

And then, out of the blue, a huge car yard out in the middle of the fields.

Some things are hard to explain. Why is it out there? There is no ostensible crop. Just cars.

We’re on the Texas Independence Trail.

Trump/Pence signs adorn a First Baptist Church. They can’t be too offended by his predatory sexuality exposed, we laugh.

Black cattle. Fancy ranches. One is called LongHorn Frog Ranch. Hmm.

Oh, look, actual long horns out there.

We’re hammering along at 80mph.

The Ladybird Loop invites us to a scenic point. Nah.

It’s only 30 minutes to Austin.

Here's Historic Smithville with open agricultural lands, more vultures aloft, a hotel, a garage, a store. Goodbye Smithville.

Hello Colorado River - the Texas version, Crockett Ranch, Black Tree Ranch…more Trump/Pence signs.

Stark trees where once a fire must have gone through. Scrub. The Hillbilly Sawmill.

We have to lower speed. Traffic congestion. A junction with traffic lights.

Bastrop. And here comes the usual commerce - mattress store, Lowes, TJ Max, mini-storage.

The Bastrop First Baptist Church may be the squattest ugliest church I ever saw. At least it has no Trump sign.

Oh, but here are some, outside a mini storage facility.

A petrol station says $1.79 petrol. That’s 70 Australian cents a litre.

Why are we ripped off for petrol in Australia, laments Bruce.

Aren’t we there yet?

A hoarding asks: Does advertising work? It just did.

A pecan shed. A McDonalds with buzzards overhead and grackles in a row on the telegraph line. Farm land. Hay. Sorghum?

A sign to Circuit of the Americas. A huge motor racing complex. Out of town. For here we are, at Austin’s outskirts. We can see the city on the skyline.

Up over the highest and scariest motorway overpass and here we come, at long last. Adelaide’s sister city, Austin, Texas.

The rough road to Galveston

Goodbye Louisiana.

Lake Charles is not famous as a tourist destination but it can brag at least one well-run travellers’ hotel which turns an overnighter into resort stop. Thus, with excellent free breakfast and a gorgeous swim in an open-air pool where an exquisite little green frog dwells in the towel box, we left the Marriott Courtyard in our loaded car and hit the road in fine fettle and high spirits, full of curiosity about what next we will find on the road.

We’ve been going for four of our six months. We are not a bit tired of the adventure. It has been endlessly surprising and enriching, the cross-country drives far more entertaining than we ever could have imagined.

And, despite the dire warnings of certain of our friends about the perils of being confined in a car for all these weeks on end, we are still smiling. Truly.

Lake Charles has struck us as a serene, uncluttered city until we head for the amazing inverted V-shaped bridge whereupon a broken-down truck has caused a massive traffic jam.

As we crawl up the steep bridge, we get a good look at the scale of activity around Lake Charles and it is simply staggering. Empires of petroleum refineries stretch out beyond the bridge. Oh, my. Oh, my. It takes the breath away. Immense does not begin to describe the vista of steaming chimneys, pipes and tanks.

Somehow, I am not surprised to see an exit sign pointing to a place called Sulphur.

The road is vile. Rough and worn with overuse, it makes for a rutted and rattling ride. As if to make up for it, it sports a beautiful broad median which is nothing less than a glory of healthy pampas grass.

The route through this industrial heartland is heavily populated. Endless chain hotels. Then more chain hotels. Petroleum must attract a lot of visitors or temporary workers.

We’re not at the Texas border yet according to Google Maps. It is about 2 miles away. But a big, cheeky sign predicts: We love Texas.

The official Texas state line comes in the middle of the bridge over the Sabine River. Siri Google chips in and bids us an Aussie-accented welcome to Texas. We cheer and welcome each other.

The road is awful. Rough and messy. Lots of roadworks. Jostling traffic. Trucks, trucks. Good grief, this complete white-knuckle chaos is called the Martin Luther King Junior Drive.

As the road improves, it becomes a wonderland of tall pole advertisements. They are a cultural revelation in themselves:

A Little Big Gaudy Boutique

Crane & Rigger Certificates

Dentures $395

Hurt in a Truck Accident? We have a lawyer.

Here’s a newie.

Jackpot. Sell us your car. (Texasdirectoauto.com)

No Bluffing. Sell us your car (Texasdirectoauto.com)

Every mile, another one.

When the Chips are Down. Sell us your car. (Texasdirectoauto.com)

Talk about a hard sell, er, buy. We ponder various scenarios of people deciding to sell their car while hurtling down a highway. We decide we could never hitch-hike with all our luggage - and anyway our fabulous car renters, Alamo, might just want their olive green Rogue back.

In between car signs and amid scrubby forests and grassy fields, other odd signs line the road.

Keep Texas Beaverish. Huh?

Texas is Whataburger state. Hmm. OK.

We pass Cow Bayou and the town of Vidor and, er, are you kidding, Truckville?

It’s a nasty pale road and the traffic is growing yet more intense and fierce. We get stuck behind a rubbish truck putting out such a rank and putrid wake of stench that we gag. Get past it. Get past it. Not so easy. It is barrelling along at 70mph.

So we dip off at a services exit, breathe deeply, open the windows, breathe some more, and find a Cracker Barrel family restaurant and store for lunch.

Soothingly, it has rocking chairs on a long porch. It is full of quirky memorabilia. I find myself sitting beside a 1924 class photo of commercial studies graduates. Look at all those perfect marcel waves.

The waiter is a gruff old guy who should have retired years ago. Kids are screaming.

The menu is down home. So is the clientele. We order clam chowder and salad. They are delicious.

Siri Google guides us neatly around a detour back to 10W.

The sky is big and cloudy over what is now a rural landscape. It’s 91 deg. F outside.

The road improves as we pass Beaumont, Texas. Flat landscape, ploughed fields, young crops.

10-acre ranchettes for sale.

Hay fields.

Scruffy grassland.

Plains. Rice fields, scruffy grass, trees. Turtle Bayou, Crawfish Ranch Restaurant. Gator Junction. A row of portaloos at the roadside. Hmm. Lovely.

We’re stuck behind a truck towing a smallish tank. Bruce says the small tank means it is carrying a heavy liquid. He suggests sulphuric acid, carbon tetrachloride, or bromine. We check the placard number. Sulphuric acid, eeek. Put your foot down, Bruce. As we pull away Bruce remarks rather proudly that the production and use of sulphuric acid is an excellent single measure of the industrial capacity of a nation.

Trinity River. Huge, glorious swamplands, great expanses of swamp with grazing birds and then over the Lost and Old River. What a name. We allow our imaginations to play with it.

We swing onto Texas 146 south and are heading past big, ugly commercial stretches with churches and liquor stores side-by-side, and into the burbs of mighty Houston.

The skyline is all oil refineries.

Traffic lights stop us. Bright, white rings of light flash around the red stop lights. Very fancy.

Of course we pass mini storage. It would not be America without punctuation marks of mini storage. I love it. Why can’t I ever get a good snap of one?

There’s a Masonic lodge and a sprawl of downmarket sandy-brown coloured suburbs. The road is now big and wide. The Rogue ratchets along its expansion joints. It’s an uncomfortable percussion which goes through the body. Oh, how I hate the expansion joint roads.

Slightly classier brown suburbs emerge and oh, here comes an utterly fabulous bridge.

A mighty, towering, elegant cable-stayed bridge. Massive. We pass over it sighing with admiration.

And all around us now are oil refineries.

We’ve come to the Port of Houston. Cranes and more refineries. Refineries as far as the eye can see. I am gasping at the scale of this. I can’t believe it.

A long, long, long tanker train sits on the rail lines parallel to the road out there.

Hotels are dotted down the highway.

Suddenly, tucked behind a line of huge posturing high-voltage power pylons, there’s a very salubrious, nay positively posh suburb lush with palm trees. What incongruity. My jaw has dropped.

Roadside sign: Guns and Porn.

Another one: Bed Bug Kits. What the..? Yes I did not read it wrong. Truly. They’re offering DIY Bed Bugs kits. They kill roaches, too.

And now, amid Wells Fargo, the Snow Cone Express, One-stop Smokes Shop and Jet Ski Rentals, we are stuck in a traffic jam. Ah, busy America.

That is Texas City over there, says Bruce. That is the site of the worst industrial accident in American history. It was in 1947. A French ship carrying ammonium nitrate fertiliser exploded after the cargo had become too hot on the dock. The explosion killed all the crew and wiped out everything in the vicinity and had a domino effect on other ships loaded with ammonium nitrate. The explosions went on. The place was pretty much flattened. Hundreds were killed and thousands injured. Texas City looks as if it is powering away today.

Indeed, this whole area is powering away Those stately pylons are converging to create a stunning high-rise latticework of wires. There’s the power plant over there.

And here’s another magnificent

bridge, one which curves up and crosses the water in a gracious undulation.

Beyond it are more and yet more oil refineries and who knows what they all are. The intensive industry stretches as far as the eye can see. It is gob-smacking.

Heavens. now we pass a roadside golf course. And next to it, wasteland.

Those pylons go on and on.

We follow them.

They cross canals and salt marshes. We become aware of the lovely scent of petrochemicals.

But here is the sea.

There are fancy homes on the shore. And here we go over another mighty, beautifully designed and engineered bridge. A whopper. More holiday homes lining the shores on the other side which turns out to be Galveston Island - a very long and thin island of sand hills and marshes and a very important port.

Galveston, oh, Galveston. You are our chosen destination.