MY 50-STATE STRATEGY

WHERE’S WILE E.? Fort Stockton's town symbol, the roadrunner, is a bird frequently seen around these parts, running up to speeds of 20 miles an hour while pursuing its prey.
A CHILI RECEPTION
EVERY ONE OF THE FOLKS IN San Antonio who gave me advice about Big Bend each suggested I stop at Fort Stockton on the way there to pick up food, ice or what have you?
As I wandered a bit off the track on the trip over, it was now late in the day, so it seemed like a convenient stop-over for the night before the three-or-four hour trip left down through the Glass Mountains and onto the park.
A sun-bleached town of just under 8,000, Fort Stockton at dusk reminds me of what passes for urban Alaska, abandoned buildings and business just left there, mixed in among the going concerns, drab weather-beaten paint jobs next to heavy pastels colors. Low-lying buildings, some hand-painted signs, deserted side streets, long shadows, short grass, bleak, very windy - in other words, it’s a 21st-century frontier town.
After I settled in to an almost-empty RV park at the city limits (one of seven parks in town), it was recommended that I visit Sarah’s Café for dinner. I’m glad I did. This is one of those tiny hole-in-the-wall joints where everyone-who’s-anyone around Southwest Texas eventually eats.
The walls were covered with framed newspaper and magazine reviews, clippings and personal accolades from local and regional periodicals, as well as some autographed photos from hereabouts-famous satisfied customers. Similar places crowd Boston's neighborhoods.
After a cup of chili, then a delicious authentic Mexican dinner of chicken fajitas, spicy rice, refried beans and a guacamole salad, the two owners (also the hosts, waiters and cashiers and, take note, recorded by their real names), Cleo and Mike, came over and sat with me as I finished a second Tecarte brew in a frosted mug. Delightfully diminutive, about mid-70s, the pair finished each other sentences, sometimes clashing over the details. They have been running this café since 1969, taking over from Cleo’s mother Sarah, who had opened the joint in 1929. I noticed that Cleo was wearing a rather hip T-shirt and their answer to my question about it cleared up something I had wondered about earlier in the day.
On Interstate-10 heading west, I had seen several different souped-up vintage Corvettes, one red, one blue, pulled over by the cops at different intervals east of Fort Stockton. Later, as I pulled into town, at several stoplights, I was next to a couple of other vintage roadsters, one a modified corvair, with the drivers revving those heavy engines for all they were worth, tensing for the green light, then peeling out. Hmmmm?
Cleo and Mike filled me in…
Annually, the town plays host to the start for the 60-mile, Fort Stockton-to-Sanderson, Big Bend Open Road Race - which means whatever car makes and models, however modified, whatever speeds they can attain. And tomorrow was race day. This year is the eighth edition.
As I was leaving, some locals told me about 140 cars started last year, with the winner running at 166 mph, and that the same figures were to be expected this year, adding that it was the first race of its kind anywhere and that some speeds have gone over 200 mph. They also called it "the most exciting race in the world." Giving that statement the hometown discount, it still sounds like the racers are in a heck of a hurry! It starts from about four miles out of town and the road is closed all day - except to the racers, of course.
Race looks like a straight shot southeast to just about 20 miles from the Mexican border. Fortunately, I was heading southwest. Unfortunately, I had to do so some prep in the morning for Big Bend, so I didn’t have time to go out for the start. Would’ve like too, though.
After several morning errands, I stopped at Burrito’s Café. Along with a chili, chorizo and egg breakfast burrito, I sampled a bowl of menuto. No, not the boy band, but a savory Mexican breakfast soup of beef tripe and hominy with a backbone of chili peppers. Obviosly unaware that I’m a decades-long fan of that Saturday morning staple, tripe Italian style, the waitress seemed shocked when I ordered it. It was different, but nonetheless delicious.
Despite my short stay in town, I sense that almost everyone here, Angelo and Hispanic alike, is bi-lingual, passing easily, almost unconsciously, between English and Spanish (another class I should have paid more attention in!). But, even though parents here may converse in Spanish, it seems they always address their kids in English.
After I purchased some perishables, I searched all around town for block ice, but after five stops, no go. At the fifth place, I was finally directed to an icehouse down the end of the strip.
Talk about making something out of nothing. This was an old, stripped-out liquor store with a hand-lettered sign for ICE. The freezer was pumped way up (it was cold in there!). Way-back-when, the owner, a big, tall, heavyset guy with a 10-gallon straw hat, must have gone down the street to what-has-to-be the smallest WalMart ever opened and bought out the entire plastic container aisle - all dimensions, all capacities – and then had his helpers, a couple of local guys, fill literally hundreds of them them with water and stick them in the freezer. After waiting my turn, I chose a block that took up half of my cooler space. One of the helpers turned its bin over on the freezer floor, rapped on its sides with a hammer, loosening the ice, and then dumped the block in my cooler. The owner looked at it, then said, “That’s only an itty-bitty tiny one … Four bucks, then,” as if he prices his product on a case-by-case basis.
Hey, you need this stuff down here, and this is the only guy in town who’s got it. Just proves the American dream comes in all shapes, all sizes and all situations – even ice-cold ones.