June was a blur. A manic, colorful, full-of-surprises blur. It already seems years ago, but at the time felt like six months combined into one. Of top priority was Cowboy’s twenty-third birthday. I’d told him we’d take him to dinner on his birthday, but that his party would be on a different day, at a location that would remain secret for a while.
Surprises are tricky business with Cowboy, as are any other events. If he knows we are withholding information, he may sign “Surprise” to me more times in one day than there are stars in the sky. If he knows details of what’s coming up, well, he signs every detail over and over. We often try to hold out as long as possible before divulging plans; it simply depends on our stamina. Finally, after six weeks, we told Cowboy we’d be celebrating his day at a lake house with his closest friends, a trip we’d taken in previous summers.
But first, before the birthday trip, camp was scheduled. Glorious, miraculous, worth-every-penny camp. Due to Covid, camp was cancelled in 2020, so we’re sending him twice this year. We all need it. And so, for months, Cowboy talked about upcoming camp. Occasionally he brought up his birthday, but camp trumps everything else happening in the universe. Simultaneously, I was spending countless hours – okay, well, I did count them – about 24 hours total planning our couple vacation we’d enjoy while Cowboy was in paradise. Cowboy’s first camp of 2021 would be in the Texas Hill Country – my second home. For me, there’s nothing better than elevated land; the only hills I have close to my house are occupied by ants.
Planning is my forte. But planning to not plan is my biggest challenge. I’d tried it on our road trip to Jersey in 2018, and it worked out well, although I can’t say it was completely stress-free. I busily searched for hotels, while Flash drove toward towns we were interested in. So, I reasoned, being spontaneous for a week-long trip to the Hill Country would be easy peasy.
After leaving ecstatic Cowboy at camp, we headed west, to Ingram, where the hills become increasingly glorious. As trip director, I announced, “We’re going to see the hills first. I have a surprise.” I’d had to plan a little bit – it’s a hard habit to break. Flash obliged, promising to close his eyes when we neared our destination. I drove, of course, since his keeping his eyes closed was not conducive to driving, although sometimes I can’t tell the difference when he’s in Houston rush-hour traffic. As we got closer, he “closed one eye and looked the other direction” – the man doesn’t follow surprise protocol well.
Finally, I shouted, “Okay, look.”
He opened his eyes, looked straight ahead, and asked, “Stonehenge?”
In front of us stood a replica of England’s prehistoric monument, as well as a few replicas of the Moai statues of Easter Island. Right smack dab in the heart of the Hill Country, where the Hill Country Arts Foundation is also located.
“Stonehenge II,” I replied.
It was dusk, and we were the only ones on the grounds. Peaceful is an understatement; the only noise was the wind through the nearby trees, and my laughter at Flash’s creative poses. After an hour or so of love among the “ruins,” we were back on the road with no destination in mind. I drove Flash to see The Copper Cactus right down the road – an establishment that boasts the SS Minnow, a boat on land that has been converted to a B&B by a local artist. Being 7 p.m. by that time, the office was closed, as were any other B&Bs near Ingram. As the sun lowered, so did my zeal for spontaneity. Most of the lodgings I’d checked on my phone had no vacancies. I’d had romantic notions of stumbling upon a quaint little place with a serene, picturesque overlook of a valley below, complete with a pool and hot tub.
“So, where did you want to stay?” Flash asked, but with no worry in his voice. I later learned, up until that point, he’d thought I was lying about being free and unfettered by too many plans – he thought I’d had prior reservations somewhere, and this was another surprise. I suspect the greater surprise was learning I had nothing up my sleeve.
“I’m just going to keep driving,” I announced. “But not further west to Hunt, although it’s gorgeous. All the inns there are full, and I don’t drive the hills in the dark. So we’ll go north.”
“What town do we want?” he asked.
We both knew. We always know. It wouldn’t be the same if we didn’t have a night in Fredericksburg.
“Okay, Flash, it’s up to you; find us a place.”
This, dear reader, was a first. It was a dark and storm-less night. The mood was pensive, and the road long. Is my beloved up to the task? I wondered. Or will we end up lost somewhere between Ingram, Texas and Oklahoma? As Flash searched the internet for any room in any inn, I drove on. Unfortunately, it was a little confusing driving an unfamiliar route, and I missed the one exit to the quickest way to Fredericksburg.
“What are you doing?” Flash shrieked like a schoolgirl, although he’d deny it. “That was the exit to the freeway.”
“Where?”
“Back there,” he clarified.
“Oh. I thought that looked like a weird left turn. I’ll turn around.” That’s right, dear reader, I was willing to break the “don’t circle back” rule of Lindquist trips, but there was no turn-around. Not for miles. Not for 20 more minutes, and by then, we’d be almost to Fredericksburg by the slow route.
“How about the Inn on Baron Creek?” Flash suggested.
I’d seen it both on the internet and on previous trips to Fredericksburg. It was lovely. But, again, it was dark-thirty, so I wasn’t sure they’d have a room.
“I’ve always wanted to stay there, but we couldn’t afford it all those years ago,” I replied. I was impressed that he’d picked the price, as well as a place that romantic. We switched places, so I could navigate the inn’s website while Flash navigated our route.
Unbelievably, the website showed two vacancies. I called the inn directly, to make sure. The young man working the front desk offered us either a king suite or a cottage by the creek, saying he would charge the same price for either. He would show us both when we arrived. It was a Hill Country Vacation Miracle. We rolled into the parking lot at 9 p.m., and that cheerful angel showed us around. As soon as we saw the cottage overlooking the creek, we both fell in love with it. And it was only a few steps to the outdoor pool and hot tub. With all the nearby restaurants closed, we drove to HEB and bought two personal-size microwave pizzas. Pizza never tasted so good, as we had dinner by the pool before diving in.
Birds woke us up the next morning, the pool and creek were sparkling, and I never wanted to leave that place. I walked to the lobby to see if, by yet another miracle, there had been a cancellation and we could stay another night. Indeed, someone had not arrived on time, and the manager switched them to a different cottage that had become available, so we could stay in the same one for another night. It was Christmas in June.
As I skipped to the car for our drive to Enchanted Rock, I saw a brochure in the lobby that screamed my name, bringing both fear and courage. “Fred Moped,” it read, “Backroads is what Fredericksburg is known for.” Mopeds. A million years ago, in Key West, I’d wanted to ride one, but it never happened. I tossed the brochure to Flash and said, “We’re doing this. They bring the mopeds to our hotel, bring helmets, everything. Then they pick it up later,” I explained as I called Fred.
In true small town style, Fred said, “Just call me when you are on your way back from Enchanted Rock, that way you can enjoy your time there and not hurry.”
After failed attempts to make on-line reservations for Enchanted Rock State Park, we arrived to find that there was plenty of vacancy; apparently, summer is their light season. That, dear readers, is because only the insane go to hike there in the afternoon during summer months. The insane, and Flash. There was no way I was going to climb that granite dome in the 140-degree heat of 12:30 p.m. So, Flash decided we’d hike a trail at the base of the Rock, something we’d never done. We’d take a short walk. No big deal.
Seven minutes later, it felt like we’d been through the desert, minus a horse with no name; if only we’d had that generic horse to take us back to civilization 60 yards away. The heat was slap-you-in-the-face-like-a-wall-of-fiery-steam brutal. I’d never experienced such heat in the Hill Country. My face was burning hot, and I was dripping with sweat. Then, we came to a spot right by a stream. The spirit of the Cartwrights, of the Bonanza television show, came over me, and I knew how to survive.
“Take off your shirt, Flash,” I demanded, with a sense of urgency.
“Honey,” he replied, “here? We can get arrested for that.”
“Oh stop it,” I protested, “it’s too hot and cactus-y for that. Just take your shirt off, dip it in the stream, and put it back on.”
“Ahhh…that helped,” he sighed after following orders.
“Okay, you’re my lookout,” I said.
I flung my strapless bra to Flash as fast as possible, ripped off that supposed-to-keep-you-cool wicking shirt, dipped it in the stream three times, and was dressed again before you could say “Indecent exposure.” Being a stripper saved my life that day, which I highly advised to a young family about to embark on the same fated trail. After our walk, Flash decided he had to climb Enchanted Rock. At 2:00 p.m. With no water with him. He explained that if he took water, he knew he’d climb to the top, and it was too hot for that. Drinking before he climbed, he reasoned, would be enough.
“I’m not carrying you off that mountain,” I screamed behind him. I discussed the male ego with the man next to me on a shaded bench; he nodded his head in understanding.
Flash survived, and after cooling down, we met Fred back at our inn. He took us to a quiet side street where I could learn to ride. Meanwhile, Mr. I-Drove-a-Harley-So-This-Is-Nothing was ready to roll. I took a few spins around a church parking lot, but could never remember how to lean when I made turns; Flash used to remind me every time I rode on the back of his Harley. After a few minutes, I was ready for real-time. We bid adieu to Fred, and “stayed off the busy streets” like he had advised.
Until we didn’t.
Next thing I knew, Flash decided we needed to turn on Adams Street – not the main strip, but busy for my taste. But it wasn’t just any turn; it was a right turn. I glanced to my left, saw cars far away, then prayed aloud, “Jesus, help me” as I turned into the second to the right lane on the four-lane road. There may have been screaming involved; if so, I blocked the trauma. We headed to Tubby’s, where I had the best burger on our trip, then rode again. Fred had recommended we drive to the Pioneer Cemetery, where there were wide roads and fewer people.
There are moments in your life you’ll always remember. A wide open road, cloud cover, just the two of us, and a few drops of rain made this ride one of those moments. I practiced making turns in and out of the narrow roads of the cemetery, hoping it wasn’t a sin, and we hit the open road again.
“Wild Hogs, Baby,” I yelled at Flash. “This is fantastic.”
“Now you know why I loved riding my Harley.”
Indeed. It was the high point of the week for me. For Flash, perhaps not. When he saw a couple of guys on Harleys as we turned to make our way back to the inn, he wanted to hang his head in shame.
“Hey,” I bellowed, “we’re almost 60, and we’re riding mopeds, Baby. We’re cool.”
After our ride, we jumped in the inn’s pool, then got ready to meet local friends Hannah and Sparkle for a Mexican dinner. Because our favorite German restaurant was closed on Tuesdays. Of course. Because on every Hill Country trip, we re-learn the way of small towns in Texas. If the place isn’t closed on Mondays, it will be on Tuesdays, and sometimes on Wednesdays. Afterwards, our friends took us on our first nighttime spotlight tour of Fredericksburg, teaching us where to shine our flashlights to find deer and other critters. Glowing orbs looked back at us, confirming we’d found them. We ended the night on Hannah’s porch, my favorite spot in town, where we drank iced tea, and solved the world’s problems in the comfort of her rocking chairs.
Wednesday, we drove to Old Baldy, a mountain outside of Wimberley that has stone steps all the way up.
“Oh, I can do steps,” I confidently proclaimed. “So much easier with steps.” And it was, for the most part, until a section of particularly steep steps. Still, it was worth it to reach the summit and look out over town. And, of course, Flash had to climb it a second time, at 1:30 p.m. on a sunny day, while I waited in the car. We had lunch at Ino’z on the Wimberley town square, our special place since we first went there on our honeymoon in 1994, when it was called John Henry’s. We walked along Cypress Creek, then shopped for about 10 minutes, simply because we hadn’t been there in years. But this trip was not about shopping. Or fudge. Or yet another yard ornament to add to my metal menagerie.
No, this trip was about firsts. So we made our way to San Antonio for our two-night resort stay, sans Cowboy, which I’m pretty sure is a sin in Cowboy’s book. Having our priorities straight, we immediately went to check out the water amenities. The lazy river had closed for the day, but there was still plenty of swim time in the large pool.
When I saw the pool, I gasped. “Oh, Flash, I think I made a mistake.”
“Why? This is great.”
“No,” I whined, “this isn’t at all what I wanted. Oh, I’m sorry.”
“What are you talking about? You did a great job picking out this place.”
“Children…” I hissed, suddenly resembling The Child Catcher in Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, dreaming of a land for adults only. “I didn’t think there would be so many children.” Of course not. Why would there be kids at a resort with a water slide, lazy river, pool games, etc.? How odd.
“It’s okay,” Flash consoled.
“Hey, I didn’t drop off Cowboy at camp this week just to be surrounded by children every day.” Now, dear reader, before you condemn me as harsh, I love children. I ran a Mother’s Day Out program, babysat as a teenager, and wanted four of my own. But Couple Vacation Land demands restricted young’uns. It’s a law.
Remembering that we had privileges at the resort’s sister property down the road, we packed up the swim bag, and arrived there in eight minutes. It was heaven on earth. Floating under the stars on a beautiful lazy river, with no children nearby, and the old oak trees making a canopy over us, was amazing. As if knowing my every need, the resort also offers an “adult pool,” and the water was perfect. Our time there was a close second to riding mopeds. We plan to return to both resorts with Cowboy one summer, but he did get to visit one of them after we picked him up from camp. Cowboy’s friend Kirana was vacationing there with her family, so we joined them for the day. It was our first time to spend time with them as a family, something we also plan to repeat.
As we headed home the next day, my heart was full. It had been our best trip in years, and perhaps our all-time best to the Hill Country. Not because it was all spontaneous. Or because it was all planned out. But because it was just the right combination of both – which is kind of like life.
