“Tell me if there’s anything to look at” I say, getting back to my book. Actually, the long, flatter than flat, Texan highways give me nothing but pleasure. The white line along the edge is mesmerising; the dot that becomes a truck is mesmerising; counting pylons is mesmerising. The fact you can look over your shoulder and back again and the view’s the same . . . There are attractions along the road, it’s just they’re spaced one hundred miles or so apart.
When we crossed back into Texas from New Mexico west of Amarillo to head southeast in the general direction of Dallas and beyond, the wind was whipping up a dust storm and there was a dirty smudge around the horizon. Advertisers are onto a good thing here; they know drivers are bored, eager to read anything. So although there’s nothing and no-one around as far as the eye can see, nowhere selling anything, they snatch this opportunity to play with their minds, taunting road-users with the 72oz steak on offer 40 miles away, or the Macdonald’s burger 78 miles down the road. Sometimes, at the end of the ten minute drive between spotting and passing a lofty pole, the billboard turns out to be carrying messages of a more philosophical nature – Protect Your Heritage (horse and cowboy), Don’t Mess With Texas, or God is Alive. These are hard times; poles are frequently shared, so it’s not uncommon to see a big picture of a steak next to, say, Jesus is Lord.
In fact, driving along, it becomes apparent that what most interests Texans is big steaks and God – which might go some way to explaining to the steady spread of the cowboy church. I’d been spotting cowboy church signs outside sale barns and stock sheds around the country, but the majority of them are here in Texas, where there are now estimated to be well over 200. They are essentially churches, but with a message that’s pertinent to the cowboy way of life. Their roots are in the Christian outreach programs on the rodeo circuit, which started because it was easier to take a preacher man to cowboys, rather than wait for cowboys to leave the stockyard or saloon and come to church. When the attendance grew, the cowboy mission set up fixed places for services, usually on or by ranches or markets. They do baptisms in stock tanks, sing country gospel and keep it all short. I stood outside a cowboy church on a rubbly hill looking at a metalwork cowboy kneeling by his horse (also, a ‘watch out for rattlesnakes’ sign). It was all still and quiet, and the traffic, the pace of life below, made it poignant.
I have to make an honourable mention here to the super-friendly staff at the Super 8, Kenley Avenue, Wichita Falls, Texas. I did not want to go to a Super 8, nor Wichita Falls, but hey, guess what? Funny, normal, helpful staff turned a miscalculation of driving time into a good thing. I can not, hand on heart, recommend the motel as a top choice to anyone whose budget is uncapped, but I can recommend the Texas Roadhouse, which the girls at the desk recommended to us. Actually they were horrified we’d been driven through Texas before and hadn’t even tried one. I can’t believe we hadn’t either – they’re everywhere and very good (if you like great big slabs of grilled meat).
And a thank you to the officer who cautioned us for speeding so we wouldn’t do it again and posed for a picture.