The 1-LAH Log
Part 1

0.7 miles. 6:37. The temperature, according to KTRH, is 52. The Navigator says, "Think Palm Springs." The Driver spots the silhouette of the bayfront Sterling Mansion off to the left and recalls that in the days before air conditioning this was where Houston came in the summer to keep cool.

1.2 miles. 6:41. North on Highway 146, which is filled with pickups and antique Ford LTD's--it's near shift-change time at the refineries which are twinkling on various parts of the lightening horizon. The Photographer has begun his manic perambulations about the back seat. The Driver quietly puts on a cassette of the Bach Toccata and Fugue in D Minor and is quickly soothed—though he is already worried about the scarcity of 7-Elevens in these parts.

11.6 miles. 6:54. The Navigator yelps. We are proceeding north on Highway 134 and she has just spotted, moored in the Houston Ship Channel the Battleship Texas, a mammoth and heroic object of war on which she has an intense fixation. Nothing will do but that we stop so that she can be photographed at dawn with the ship. When she returns to the Wagoneer she reports that the experience was "near-orgasmic." The Driver replaces Bach with Tchaikovsky (First Piano Concerto).

12.6 miles. 7:08. Three other cars take the Lynchburg ferry with us. The Driver glances back at the white shaft of the San Jacinto monument and remembers stories of how Texas civilians had a grandstand seat here on the north bank and watched and cheered in 1836 as the decisive battle in the war for western Nroth America progressed.

At I-10, the highway changes to FM 2100, and we prepare ourselves for the long, straight run to the northernmost reaches of Houston. A white van is parked beside a service station at the interstate, bearing the sign "Med Center Van Pool," with six people in it. As we wait for our light, a seventh person arrives, parks her car, and gets in.

14.4 miles. 7:16. We enter Highlands (pop. 7500), "The Pearl of the San Jacinto," as the sign has it. The Driver recalls seeing another of the mottos of the city of Highlands on its Chamber of Commerce literature: "Gateway to the World's Tallest Masonry Monument." We pass Fig Orchard Road. The Driver, ever eager to share his store of Houston trivia, mentions that, following its founding in the 1920s, the Highlands area for a time grew more than 50% of the United States' supply of figs.

21.2 miles. 7:28. In Crosby, Texas, we spot our first Wal-Mart. The Driver patiently explains to the two crew members, who are entirely too urbanized for their own good, how Wal-Mart is a retailer that shuns cities and has become the largest retailer in America.

At 7:31 we stop for breakfast at Big John's Bar-B-Que, a log-cabin-style structure complete with drive-thru. Etravee Williamson, a svelte African American woman in her 20s, serves us a large, cholesterol-enhancing breakfast (eggs, classic grits swimming in real butter, thick bacon, biscuits, gravy) for $2.50. The Driver chats with Etravee, who is from Ohio and doesn't want to live in Houston because of the crime and is happy in her waterfront house on nearby Lake Houston with her dogs, cats, and husband.

As a bloated Safari crew settles back into the trusty Wagoneer, The Photographer remarks that what we're doing is tracing the de facto city limits. The Driver agrees and, in view of the cheap, big country breakfast, observes that we're sort of playing footsie with Houston, dipping into the city, out into the country, and back into the city. Much of this north-south stretch of FM 2100 in fact is hard-core non-urban America, well-protected from Houston by two buffers—the industrial east side of the city, plus the San Jacinto River.

We zip past the Crosby High School marquee, which reminds us that "He who is wrapped up in himself makes a small package." Then abruptly we're back in it, passing a large store calling itself California Creations—Hot Tubs, Pools, Spas.

Then it's back into the country with a hand-painted sign--Barrels $7, the first of many such barrel-signs we will see.

The Wagoneer has a full head of steam (meaning The Driver has turned the Cruise Control on) as we glide past Newport, a Lake Houston community which never caught on quite the way its kin to the north around Lake Conroe have.

Reaching FM 1960, we make a brief sashay westward to a Dairy Queen for early morning refreshment. We are waited on by the fortyish manager. From Silsbee in Deep East Texas, she has been here five years and says she mostly gets fisherpersons, though when asked about her strangest customers she mentions a person of indeterminate sex and heavy make-up who had on the previous Saturday caused something of a stir. She makes our day when she tells us her name: Sue Le Bleu.

Backtracking to FM 2100, we find ourselves at the jumping off place and, undaunted, proceed into the vast unknown territory north of FM 1960.

31.3 miles. 8:25. North to Huffmann. Immediately we pass Huffman's version of the Galleria, a large metallic building calling itself the Texas Dance Hall and Skating Rink. A second glance informs that Mundo Earwood is the performer of choice this weekend. That is the "one" of Huffman's one-two punch, because seconds later we come to Desirable Lane and the encounter with the Easter House...

31.7 miles. 8:36. In a state of rather intense culture shock we pull away from the plywood tomb. As we do so, an East Texas mother in a '57 Chevy pickup stops in front of the display so her three-year-old daughter can have a look. Feeling a certain kinship with Michael Valentine, the Martian visitor to Earth in Robert Heinlien's Strangers in a Strange Land, we get back on FM 2100 and head into the heart of the Piney Woods of East Texas.

33.4 8:40. Contrary to what our maps tell us, the road ends at a T-intersection. Which way? Ramshackle cabins are dimly visible through the thick undergrowth. Dare we knock and ask directions? Memories of Jon Voigt's deep woods misadventures in Deliverance cause The Driver to doubt the wisdom of that choice.

"We're lost, we're lost!" The Photographer is shouting from the back seat. The Navigator appears to be mellowed out and is thus of little help. On the tape deck Glenn Gould has his own problems, trying to find a meaningful way through Bach's Goldberg Variations.

"When in doubt, go west," The Driver mutters and turns left on something called Wolfen Road. He thinks with longing of the masses trapped in rush hour on the Loop at this very moment—chaos, perhaps, but at least it would be familiar chaos.

The woods grow thicker, the cabins more ramshackle. The Navigator, unable to find Wolfen Road on her maps, tosses them into the air in disgust. The Photographer continues to bounce about clicking this way and that. "Great local color," he says.

"Tobacco Road, that's what it looks like," The Driver says. "These woods must be teeming with incest." No one laughs. The Driver wonders whether you could see the Williams Transco Tower if you climbed one of these 60-foot pine trees.

We round a bend and to our amazement find ourselves entering the Houston city limits. The Navigator gathers her maps off the floorboard and informs us that we must be approaching the most northerly portions of Lake Houston--all of which, in an attempt to protect the water supply, City Council has included within the legal boundaries of Houston. Sure enough, we cross a couple of muddy sloughs and then encounter a "Leaving Houston" sign after passing Strange's Fishing Camp—a low-water venue whose rundown remoteness would make it the ideal filming site for a slice-and-dice movie.

The pine trees become a blur as The Driver seeks a speedy return to civilization. The Bach tape ends and The Photographer reaches across and inserts a cassette of his own. Blues-like sounds fill the Wagoneer at considerable volume. When asked by The Driver, The Photographer, in a reverential tone, identifies the musicians as "Cropper, King and Staples."

A street sign appears—Huffman-New Caney Rd.—which reassures us that we are close to our planned path, on the way to the Eastex Freeway. Trailer houses—most definitely these are trailer houses and not mobile homes—dot the forest, resting on concrete blocks and surrounded by chickens, goats, and an occasional emaciated horse. Where is Tina Louise? The land sinks and greenish water traps the road on either side. Spiky palmettos puncture the dense underbrush.

The Photographer lets out a shriek and the Wagoneer stops in front of a house trailer in whose "yard" we observe an aging gazebo, a life-size plywood Uncle Sam, a tiny red-white-and-blue windmill with "76" painted on it, two large plaster deer, a number of live goats, assorted pigeons and a portable sign saying "Burn Barrels $5." The Navigator, ever the Californian, wants to knock at this person's door and talk about yard decor. The Driver, ever the realist, nixes the suggestion.

Onward through the forest and we pass a sign saying "Welcome to East Montgomery County, Fastest Growing County in the Nation." Such boosterism cheers all good Houstonians' hearts, and we know we are headed back into it. Sure enough, the trailers in East Montgomery County may be on concrete blocks but more than a few sport shiny satellite dishes aimed at the stars and one imagines forest families huddled about the Trinitron watching Politburo discussions from the Kremlin followed by Test Matches from the cricket fields of Tasmania and the like.

48.6 miles. 9:18. Another T-intersection and the maps fail us again (are you listening, Mr. Key?). The day is now heavily overcast. We can't find the sun. Which way is west? Off to the left The Navigator spots a spiffy Victorian re-do hiding among the trees. Priding ourselves on our knowledge of trendy rules ("when in doubt, choose gentrification"), we turn left. A wise choice, for, just past a trailer with a portable illuminated sign reading, "U-Need-A-Bookkeeper--We Welcome Walk-ins!", we reach Loop 494 which The Navigator in a nonce finds on the map. Dropping her ambassadorial cool, she shouts, "Left, left! We're in New Caney!" One imagines that her tone is not unlike that which came from the crow's nest of the Nina on the morning of October 12, 1492.

49.0 miles. 9:22. We emerge from the forest into a minor clearing filled with commercial activity huddled about—what a beautiful sight—the Eastex Freeway. Excitement at these comforting signs of the urban way of life fills the interior of the Wagoneer. The Photographer, snapping away wildly, is infected with the manic mood of the moment and repeats his call for more volume.

50.4 miles. 9:27. Our northerly progress on the freeway is interrupted by what appears to be a well-preserved classical Greek temple fronting the feeder road. Close inspection reveals it to be the entrance to something called "Roman Forest," and the columns to be sort of jigsaw Ionic. Curiosity about what Rome has to do with the Piney Woods leads the Wagoneer to penetrate the area.

Passing a rustic looking community center ("Ladies Club Meets on Wednesdays"), we are soon crossing streets with names such as Appian Way, Forum Court, and Caesar's Circle. The homes, however, could just as easily be in Memorial. Apparently the only thing Roman here is the developer's whimsy. The Navigator, like all good Californians a pagan at heart, suggests a search for Caligula Street, but the best we can come up with is respectably Christian thoroughfare called Constantine Way.

Back on the freeway we hurtle north, passing the A Touch of Class Club (BYOB, says the marquee).

63.2 miles. 10:01. We reach Splendora, a remote outpost of the Houston art world (sculptor James Surls established a studio here some years ago, and has attracted other Bohemians and Would-Be Bohemians). The Driver recalls that one of the great, overlooked comic novels of recent decades (by Edmund White) took its name from—and is set in—this little town.

Turning west on FM 2090, we pause for refreshments at a no-name convenience store. There is no Big Gulp machine, and taped to the cash register is a hand-written reminder, "All Accounts Due Weekly," which brings forth in The Driver's mind a flood of memories from an easy-going, trusting, pre-city life, now vanished.

As the road meanders idyllicly through the pines, passing the Grangerland Volunteer Fire Department, The Driver reminds his comrades-in-adventure that one of the problems with setting a route was geography. Houston, he points out, sits on high (he makes quotation marks in the air around "high" and smiles ironically) ground between two rivers, the San Jacinto and the Brazos, and once you get outside the city proper there are not many bridges. "So, we have to go this far north to get over the San Jacinto."

73.9 miles. 10:21. Right on FM 3083, which leads us to the Crater Hill Historical Marker, where we read that when the Conroe Oil Field was being developed in 1933 a well "east of here" blew up and created a 600-foot-deep lake.

Nothing will do The Photographer but that we find the lake. Which is why, Mr. Coffee, you found red sand on and in your lovely Wagoneer, for the search for Crater Lake took us off pavement onto roads—"trails" is more accurate—with real ruts. Twenty minutes of twisty driving reveals nothing except oil wells, gas wells, and more trailer houses—one with a log cabin add-on and one with a rusty, bent pickup on which some one has spray-painted "Beat Me."

Just past an unlikely inland sign ("Shrimp for Sale") affixed to a fence post, we encounter a telephone company crew. Judging from their surly demeanor and heavy accents, they appear to be close kin to either the Hatfields or the McCoys. They assure us that we passed the lake a couple of miles back.

As we are turning we notice a street sign—Roy Harris Loop. It's The Driver's turn to do the crow's-nest shriek: "If that's Roy Harris Loop, this must be Cut and Shoot!"

Both Navigator and Photographer are unimpressed, they being of a younger generation. The Driver patiently explains how Roy Harris in 1958 put Cut and Shoot briefly on the world map when he came out of nowhere and fought Floyd Patterson for the heavyweight title in Los Angeles. Though he lost (kayoed in the 12th round), for one brief, glorious moment Cut and Shoot was the center of the sports-page universe. It warms The Driver's heart that, though the rest of the world has forgotten, Roy's townspeople have seen fit to name a street for him. The crew members are still unimpressed.

Impatient with today's young people who have so little respect for history, The Driver, forgetting about 600-foot-deep lakes, goes barreling back toward pavement. The Navigator and Photographer, sensing friction, busy themselves with tapes, finally settling on the soundtrack from Fritz the Cat, which does nothing to improve The Driver's mood.

83.3 miles. 11:06. All is forgiven. The crew is fascinated by the Conroe Oil Field Historical Marker and listen politey as The Driver goes on at length about other early oil discoveries in the area.

86.1 miles. 11:13. Left on Highway 105 into Conroe. East Conroe is stacks of oil field debris--pipes, valves, drilling rigs, some new, some rusting—graphic evidence of how Houston sucked the wealth from surrounding towns. And only recently, as the city got so big that its suburbs began reaching this far, did it start to return some of that wealth. Though 40 miles from downtown Houston, Conroe--founded a hundred years ago as a sawmill by Isaac Conroe (1834-1897), a native of New Jersey—is fast becoming a suburb itself, complete with cute boutiques (in front of one strip center sits a converted caboose bearing the legend, Hair Conductor). But the best sight in Old Conroe is an antique Mobil station. Abandoned but in excellent condition, it sports an octagonal office topped by a still-intact red Pegasus.

87.5 miles. 11:16. In sight of I-45 we pull in at a Burger King for rest rooms and refreshments.

Innocent of the fact that he has just entered The Twilight Zone, The Driver steps up to the counter. He is waited on by the manager, whose first words are, "Where did you get that cap?"

The Driver explains that he recently spent a couple of months riding ships in and out of the Port of Houston and wrote a story on the harbor pilots. Having come to greatly admire the skill and fortitude of that tiny group, he chose to wear the souvenir cap they gave him on today's expedition.

There are in fact only 58 pilots, and it seems Rod Serling arranged for the son of one of them to be the manager of the Conroe Burger King. Wes Parker introduces himself and talks somewhat wistfully about his lifelong ambition to follow in his father's footsteps, but times are hard and he was laid off by Exxon as he was working his way toward getting his pilot’s papers. Resisting a sudden urge to give Wes the cap, The Driver procures drinks for the crew and retreats, pondering the nature of coincidence, synchronicity, and the like.

One Lap Around Houston Part 3>>

Magellan's Log 13

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