ONE LAP AROUND HOUSTON OR BUST!
by Douglas Milburn
178.6 miles. 2:27. The San Gabriel Cemetery ("Sinse [sic] 1919") is a blur of brightly colored plastic flowers on the right, and is followed by assorted bail bond outlets, which in turn abut the Fort Bend County Jail. 183.1 miles. 2:34. Hallelujah! We cross the Southwest Freeway, onto FM 2759. The miles fly past now as we follow the Brazos. Off to our left, on the other side of the river is Highway 6 and the huge First Colony development. Here, we're in lush, blackland river bottom, with farms and neat white houses. A Texas version of Tom Sawyer country. 195.0 miles. 2:44. We turn in at Brazos Bend State Park, because we had told the Art Director we would be coming this way and the art director thought a shot or two of the alligators would liven up the story...
We pay our entry fee at the ranger station and start looking. The Photographer has put the Talking Heads back on the tape player. The road curves, the land drops, the landscape changes from near-swamp to pure swamp, and the Alligator Warning signs are now interspersed with signs that say Keep Pets on Leash. The Navigator, who has never seen a reptile in the wild any larger than a horned toad, is visibly nervous. We stop at Horseshoe Lake and dismount, leaving the engine running for a fast getaway. If there are alligators here, their protective coloration is beyond anything Marlin Perkins ever encountered. We slosh about, finally approaching a lone fisherman standing pole-in-hand under a live oak heavy with Spanish moss. It is terrain like that through which Adrienne Barbeau coquettishly fled from the Swamp Thing. "Caught anything?" says The Navigator. "Not a one," the thin middle-aged man answers. "Been here long?" "Three days." The sound of the Talking Heads drifts to us from the Wagoneer. "Uh, seen any alligators?" "Nope, not a one." The Photographer, who has all his cameras ready, is frustrated. He half-heartedly takes a few shots of alligator-free swamp to prove to the Art Director that we tried. 212.4 miles. 3:47. We re-cross the Brazos, which puts us back on the right, or Houston, side of the river. At ever-increasing speed, we pass through the crossroads village of Rosharon and head toward Alvin. Here there is no sign of Houston. The land looks hard, drab, and is littered with aging trailer houses. The first thing we see in Alvin is a billboard for the First National Bank of Alvin--with the "F" formed by an merry green alligator standing on its hind legs. We make a pit stop for gas at an Exxon station which proudly displays two Golden Nozzle Awards (this was no explorer's hallucination) for selling a million gallons of Extra Unleaded. It is only as The Driver signs the bill that he must get the license number off the Wagoneer and with straight face has to write in the blank: JEEP 4U. Who are we to look a gift Wagoneer in the mouth, but really, Mr. Coffee... JEEP 4U? Following Alvin, the expedition becomes a blur. The run to Galveston is filled with weirdness which, as The Navigator pointed out, has now become the norm: stacks and stacks of oil field equipment, next to a bird sanctuary sign, next to a tiny portable building with a tiny plastic mansard roof and a portable sign in front saying: God is Love. The Prayer Center is across Highway 6 from a dark gray, three-story crenelated castle, which if we had encountered it earlier in the trip would have consumed many minutes and much film. Running alongside the Santa Fe Railroad, we pass through the little town of the same name. It comes complete with adobe bank (which uses the state of New Mexico sunburst in its logo) next to an adobe 7-Eleven. The Driver is tiring and is tempted to skip Galveston, but one of his oldest theories is that Galveston really is part of Houston, so on we go through increasingly frequent symptoms of nearby ocean—houses with metal jalousies, houses on stilts, truckloads of palm trees, a failed West Bay resort called Flamingo Isle.
The Gulf Freeway feels like home, as does Bay Area Boulevard--even de-annexed, it will still be part of Houston. We're aiming for Highway 146 and the run into Morgan's Point—it's going to be close to make it before sunset. And The Driver, tiring, makes a wrong turn onto Fairmont Parkway, which accounts for our detour through Pasadena. No matter, because otherwise we would not have gone by the Greenhouse Nursery on Spencer Highway which features the world's largest hanging basket. A good 12 feet in diameter, it is filled not with spider plants but full-size shrubs. The grass may be greener in Pasadena, but the spirit is still that of Houston. As the sun fades in the west, we dash through La Porte, hardly noticing the Starship 200 Club next to Angel's Club and Motel across the street from Angel's Grocery. Angel must be doing well. Nervously The Driver puts the Bach Toccata and Fugue back in the tape deck. Even The Photographer is caught up in the historical importance of the moment and, smiling, says, "The volume is just right." The Navigator has put away her maps and appears lost in thought. Finally she says to The Driver, "The truth is, I was dreading today. It seemed such a long trip for so little—but it has been one of the extraordinary experiences of my life." The Driver and Navigator nod in agreement—it truly has been one of those gift-of-the-gods days. At 6:19, as the sun sets, we pull up on the spit of land we left 11 hours and 49 minutes before. We have done it. The next time someone asks you that often-asked question, how far is it around Houston, now you know: 317.85 miles. How big is Houston? A circle of that circumference contains 8,036 square miles, which is roughly the size of New Jersey. And what did we learn? Apart from the geographical diversity (from seashore to swamp to pine forest to ranchland) and the commercial diversity (from burn barrels to pipelines to semiconductors), it all comes down to a state of mind, which is the real unifying factor tying all of Houston's chaotic diversity together. If you think the inner city is crazy, try the edge. The next time Montrose--or Sharpstown, or whatever your neighborhood--becomes just too much, remember: The weirdness doesn't stop. Not only is it Energy City. It's Energy Edges too. END
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The first thing you see when you drive into this 4,897-acre park is
a sign: Warning: Alligators--Do Not Feed or Approach. You soon notice that these signs are
placed about every ten feet and you start getting fairly nervous about alligators.
236.6 5:01. We cross the long causeway to Galveston Island and reach
the Gulf of Mexico, dip a toe in, and head north, following a van along 61st Street with
the admonition on the back to "Surf Naked."