My heart is light. I’m in a beautiful picnic area along a crystal clear trout stream shaded by massive contorted sycamore trees. The fisherman reports lots of native Gila trout. I’m frying up peppers, squash, and beans with tortillas for brunch. The tourists here are retires and local families with native and Hispanic diversity. A teenage boy wears knock off designer jeans and a long ’70s hairdo. Not quite a mullet. I’m probably a sight too, disheveled, needing a bath, my cooking box spread on the table. Its a beautiful hike upstream on catwalks suspended above the river. I’m seeing even more tree diversity, like home. Mixed with the sycamore and elm, I find alder, yucca, grapes, .

20 years ago a fabulous woman named Tree took me to Silver City. Its in the middle of nowhere, at over 5,000 ft, and remains a fabulous small mountain town in the desert. With artsy divergent characters on every other block and decent coffee shops what’s not to like. Compared to home its like a cross between Carrboro and Durham without the growth. Cool shops, hiking, national forest, low cost of living, and mild winters. I may have to live here someday.

I head out on an clear evening with a full tank of gas and a full cup of coffee, for long straight roads leading to I-10. Coming into Las Cruces at night is a glorious sight, the angelic god, laid sleeping, a barely stirred mist, an endless pool of light. Now El Paso. The Wall, The River. Mexico. Its single story ware houses, with street lights to the horizon. The Wall again. Gotta stop, and set foot in the state of Texas.

Texas

The bar has Harleys parked outside the 1970’s one-story, strip mall architecture. The bands back up against the glass storefront. They’re great. Artsy boomers playing traditional latino and pop. Some English speakers in the room, its working class. I can pull off gruff bearded guy in public but I get a non-alcoholic beer, to feel like I fit in. There’s a good vibe. A beautiful young couple at the bar get up and dance. He, a swarthy handsome man with impeccable cowboy wear, black hat. She, with playful dancing, trashy shorts, and deep alluring eyes. The woman in the band does half the singing, now a slow soulful crooner. The piano player sings quietly, plays well and loves playing. I should be performing music too. Next, I head to the Coco Bar for a high energy millennial Latin pop band. They are tight, driven by guitar & drums, with two cheesy, but talented, lead singers, his and hers. I’m one of a few gringos in this crowded joint. The place was hopping, lots of money and good times. I see a middle class mainstream Latino America. It’s a good vibe.

I had a melancholy day coming across Texas. It was cloudy and I drove into a blue drizzle. The endless 12 foot fences of the Texas hill country must cost millions. Why do people need exotic game ranches, do they hunt giraffe in there? There’s a cold front comin’ and there’s an authoritarian veil to this state. I need a shower. I get a room in Houston. Amazing Taco truck. Best of the trip! My city nerd guru said, “surprise, Houston has some good qualities”.

Houston

I haven’t felt this grounded by the landscape, since I was in Hangzhou. The place has this depth of sacred oomph, it’s public and intentional, where society and nature yet apart are intertwined. I must see the Japanese garden. Herman Park, in Houston’s museum district, was designed by George Kessler, a student of Olmsted. The lake is well loved by muskovy ducks, local families, and rowdy squirrels. Our beloved bald cypress is here and tropical flowers coming into perennial status.

This may be one of the finest municipal gardens I have seen. There’s a toy train train too, lol. Here its a narrow gauge for kids to ride on with the parents, a fun and memorable experience I’m sure. I love all the dwarf palmetto and live oaks. The park takes advantage of the open structure of our southeastern woodland ecosystem. Lots of native plants working here. The architectural details are tasteful, the pace of the paths leisurely, and the execution of the landscape is grounded, sacral, and serious.

A memorial here is for the pioneers that made the city. That has colonial connotations for me. However, a man walking by looks Pakistani and I think, a monument to the spirit of pioneering, of immigration, for all of us, that works. Getting close to the Statue of Sam Houston on a horse, he looks like a horrible conqueror. I don’t know anything about him but I suspect the worst. I’m wrong. It turns out he is quite an interesting and iconic American legend. Certainly not a saint but unique. At 16, Houston went to live with Indians. He joined the army, got a law degree, was governor of Tennessee. After his divorce, Houston was adopted by the Cherokee as an official tribal member. Finally he went to fight for Texas independence. Houston outsmarted his enemies and a small army of revolutionaries captured Mexico’s leader. Santa Anna was released in exchange for independence. Sam Houston became the first president of Texas.

Driving through Port Arthur Texas. With all these refineries it feels like I’m in the belly of the beast. I’m not feeling upset or cynical, it’s just what it is. It makes me realize how addicted we are in our culture living beyond our means burning these Last Hours of Ancient Sunlight.

Found a nice campsite on the gulf. This is good. If it just stays like this for the night I will be pleased. A constant breeze rustles the tall grasses. I can hear the howl of wind out on the water. I’m camped on a dead end street by the gulf shore among the ruins of a vacation village that was washed away decades ago. This whole gulf coast will be frost free someday, from Houston to Tallahassee. Tropical. Just heat and water. And more horticultural diversity than you can toss a coconut at.

It’s breezy . That cold front is coming in, its breath mixing with mine. I’m in the youth collective garden in a park in New Orleans. Lovely citrus trees bearing fruits, tasteful raised vegetable beds, and a sorghum cover crop in the field behind. Cypress and palms adorn the bayou edge. Seeing the well tended youth garden, I realize I need to put my money where my mouth is. Put my life and my efforts towards a positive future in solidarity with youth and gardening. There’s really nothing else to do in this world. I will make the case that industry, technology, and agriculture cannot mend this broken world. We can use those tools but horticulture, community, and art will be our salvation. For me it’s clear as day. However my people don’t see beyond their high beams. We don’t know how powerful we are. We call it comfort but I find this world excruciating.

So I’m going to wrap up this writing after Louisiana. God it was good to get out of Texas. I love it there but something makes me feel paranoid. Probably all the guns, boots and concrete. I spent a little more time in New Orleans checking out the sculpture garden at the museum of art. Then I took a trolley ride into the French quarter for Halloween. I do love our southern cities. They’re colonial, gothic, American, and haunted. They’re bursting with every flavor of cultural diversity we could muster. I have high hopes for the South. It will come out from its past. And woe be to those who get in the way.

I spent a few days getting to Greenville South Carolina. To see the little farm in the hood at woofer Beth’s. That’s another up and coming town. I’m now at home but dreaming about keeping this road trip going down east. I need some time to digest. I will be back with more writing.

Goodbye for now,

T. Mayer