Wealth is Time and Starlight
Not all wealth is counted in coin. Some of it is the warmth of a late sun, the company of a soul, and the hush between crickets and stars.
Turkey, Texas — April 15, 2025
The day was a long, exquisite day of doing: NOTHING!!
Morning comes, and there is no time to waste. Everything curves toward mental recovery.
I sprung from sleep with the light of day. I drenched my thirst and closed the window that was giving me frigid dreams. A car door startled me, so I checked out our new neighbor here at the primitive campground parking area (she was prepping for a long day's hike). Satisfied that there was no danger, I turned my energies to penning my thoughts on the day prior.
Time lost meaning as it always does with creative endeavors.
The rumble of a three-quarter ton truck pulled me from my keyboard and I peeked out to see that we were being visited by the park ranger.
I cracked the door, naked save for my pajama bottoms. “Hey, Ranger! Good morning. You're probably wondering where our sticker is.”
He was polite, and acted surprised when he glanced at our windshield. Registration is required when you show up after hours at a state park, as we have.
“Sorry about that.” I state. “We'll get rolling and stop by the station and pay up this morning.
“That'll be fine sir,” he nods with a thick drawl. “I appreciate your conscientiousness.”
Leaning in and closing the door I realize how tired I am. It swoons over me like a teenager in love. The object of my desire: sleep.
So, I shutter my device and climb back in to that glorious cave at the back of CamperVan Beethoven and collapse under the blanket next to my soundly sleeping bride of 3 decade.
And—I am gone!
——————
Two hours pass and I rouse a second time today. The interior of our mobile domicile is still dark and cool this morning. My wife is STILL unmoved by the brilliance of the day. This is normal. The stress keeping her up all night, so sleeping until noon is not unusual.
Opportunity strikes! I realize It is free time and the wolf can go out and play.
Donning my daywear, I collect my journal and a bottle of water and whisper that I'm going for a hike. I climb out of our home away from home and set out on an adventure.
The trail is paved as well as any dirt road I've ever traveled. Better than some. Clearly it has been recently graded, or they keep the trails in this state park in a better state than almost any other I have visited. And it is all mine. Not another hiker in sight. Just the rugged cliffs clawing to the sky all around me. This has the making of a fantasy location. Or Sci Fi.
A few side excursions are enjoyable, but when I see sign on a side trail that says 'No Water? Turn Back.', I am intrigued. What trail would require that? This is west Texas, it should be a given that no hike should be undertaken without water.
The path quickly goes up the side of the tallest of the bluffs, and I MUST climb this. It is calling me. And adventure I could not take if she was with me. She hates climbing. Even gradual climbs frustrate her. I think it is because she is much shorter than I. My long gait makes for much faster travel with less energy. I am moving more mass though... so maybe it's a wash. In either case, she doesn't like difficult climbs, so if I'm going to make it, now is the time.
A few hundred feet in, I realize why water is required. I am sweating like a sieve. Since there are no humans to consider the decorum of shiftlessness, I doff my water-wicking green topo print adventure shirt. I'd prefer to keep it from getting too sweaty. I like to wear it every daily if I can.
Nakedness is a form of childishness. My mother used to tell frequent tales of how I hated wearing clothes as a toddler. As soon as something went on, I'd wriggle out of it. Vestiges of that live in my old bones. But the desire is tempered by civility and concern for my poor neighbors. Generally, the clothes stay on.
The climb is grueling. Less than a thousand feet, but steep. Some of the trail is pleasantly sloped switchback, but a lot of it is stone staircases. One false step and—disaster. I am very careful about foot placement and weight. Hiking alone isn't smart. I could tumble into a ravine with a broken leg and it might be a day or more before someone can find me. So, extra caution is required.
Every 15 minutes, I stop and huff and puff to calm my heart and regain my breath. They are opportunities for recovery and reflection. The view is just getting better and better. And it's lovely to stop and look close at things normally ignored—the tiny lavender flowers that seem ordinary unless studied closely. They then become microcosms of wonder and detail. They are awe-inspiring. To think the Creator took the time and energy to make even these small details important says something about that personality.
Those same flowers work on a macro scale too. Across the canyon, I can see a wide flat top covered in them. The visual is a blanket of lavender. Bright and soft, shrouding the rugged red earth below filled with all manner of pointy and prickly thing.
The ants are attractive in their own right. Bulbous little creatures with black heads and thorax with bright read abdomens. They scurry with diligence to carry their treasures home or in search of them. The red abdomen makes me think momentarily of the baboons in Ghana. What a sense of humor to design a feature like that. Especially these tiny things. It is like a hidden joke between the Designer and whoever takes the time to look close enough to notice.
Brilliant!
From the top, I gasp at the overlook! Red cliffs surround this bluff like a fence around a yard. Each spotted with bright greens and purples and the occasional clump of yellow. Here at midday, it is stunning. Golden hour tonight would be simply majestic. But, there's no way I'd climb down that treacherous path in the dark. Besides, someone is probably wondering where I am.
Down is faster than up, but harder. The strain of knees is replaced with the potential for twisted ankles lost balance. The stairs sometime require climbing down backwards so as not to tumble headlong downhill. I can make up speed by jogging on the smooth switchback, but that same tempo slows to a crawl at the steps.
I meet two German women on the way up. I am sorry I can't tell them the hardest is behind them. They are geared for at least two nights, based on their pack size and pace. They notice my sketchbook.
“Oh, did you paint?” One asks with a this German drawl.
“Yes, I mean no.” I stumble. “I usually do, but this morning, it was just writing. Could I read you what I wrote from the top.”
“Ya!” They say in parallel.
I read the brief essay I have penned about being in the wilderness. It is embarrassing. Sharing work always is. But they are polite and comment it is 'very good'. I thank them, but know it's middling at best. Still, praise feels good in any form.
I bid my fellow hikers farewell with 'be careful up there girls!' And continue to bound down the hill.
The 90m climb up is completed downhill in only 30 minutes. I am surprised. But glad I can get back to camp before the missus misses me.
We break camp, check in with the rangers, and squeeze in some sightseeing. Eventually, we decide to overnight a second time and soak up all that Turkey and Quitaque have to offer.
The morning’s shirtless hike to the Caprock bluff has left me sunburned—not terribly, just a tender pink I can feel. It tingles.
We snap photos of the first Phillips 66 in the state and linger among an incredible collection of old cars and trucks, including the vintage bus Bob Wills and His Texas Playboys used to tour in.
Lunch is at Lete’s—tacos and nachos. It’s just okay. But the tea? Super.
We spend a few hours at the Bob Wills Museum and the nearby library. The city manager, sporting a cast from a broken leg, hobbles in just to unlock the museum for us. We learn later that she doesn’t know how to work the interactive display, so that part remains a mystery.
We poke our heads into a building marked “Tractors Inside—Come In and Look.” Inside is a shrine to restored vintage tractors: bright, shiny paint, new tires, rebuilt engines. Woolfinia lets the door swing shut behind us, and it latches tight. We’re trapped—except for the wide-open garage bay where the tractors drive in and out.
Across the street, we arrive at a mercantile just after closing time—5:01. Disappointed, we turn to go, but the owner appears and happily unlocks the door for us. She’s a sweet young mom, pretty and trim, confident in her words and movements. Her two tow-headed boys—maybe four and five—dart around the store as Woolfinia shops for shoes and I chat with their mom.
Energetic and direct her long blonde ponytail is tied up high, and she walks through the shop pulling long cords to click on the lights one by one. She tells me all about the Bob Wills Festival, starting next week—how the town will swell from 300 people to over 9,000. She smiles and says, “April gets the town to December, and December gets the town to April.”
We pass the old barber shop mentioned in the museum. I lean out the van window and ask if the hairdresser is available for a haircut.
“Absolutely!” she says, bubbly and bright. “Just give me ten minutes.”
We retreat to the local wine bar for a glass. I order “Poker Face,” Woolfinia tries something else—name forgotten. The pours are generous. We split a cauliflower crust pizza that’s just shy of divine. Hunger helps.
Then it’s time for my haircut. Page, the stylist, is a gregarious woman of 60 with braces on her teeth—unexpected and charming, a sign of her adventurous spirit. She works at the barber shop that's been in Turkey for over a hundred years. She takes her time and showers me with praise for my hair. She knows how to earn a good tip.
I’m glad for a hairdresser with personality. My regular gal has it too, but she’s cut from rougher stock—her language can drift blue. Page is different. She asks about our journey, expresses sorrow for the losses we’ve endured, and shows a kind curiosity about who we are. When Easter comes up, we mention that we’re students of the Bible. She smiles politely but doesn’t pursue it.
After our goodbyes to Page, we return to the wine bar for another round. Then a bottle.
Earlier, the place was nearly empty. Now, it’s alive. The bar is full, and the owner—a weathered woman with a high-and-tight hairdo—hustles to meet everyone’s needs. This is the local watering hole, and the town is thirsty.
The men wear bootcut jeans and well-worn leather belts. The women are mostly moms in their forties, though one younger woman clings to youth in a fitted tee and yoga pants that show off glutes she has clearly worked hard to earn. Genetics probably helped.
Behind us, a young couple wrestles with a toddler and a newborn—boisterous dad, exhausted mom.
I take the opportunity to jot down the day. I’m spending time like a wealthy man with an endless supply of it.
“Time is the substance I am made of.” —Jorge Luis Borges
But when I see it’s 7:30, we know it’s time to go.
The wine has done its work. As the sun sets, so has my darling. The crickets begin their serenade. The van doors are flung wide to creation’s splendor, and with no cloud cover, we see the first pricks of starlight.
Glorious. Simply glorious.
The chance for an outdoor shower—au naturel and complete with hot water—is too good to pass up. It’s amazing. This is born of necessity as I didn’t have time to install the shower pan. So, we just fling those back doors open and take advantage of the hot water heater I installed. Full time hot water in a van is second only to having your own toilet in terrific things.
Tonight, it is just us and the night. I need to bother with shower curtains or modesty.
Now, the stars are fully on. The Big Dipper hangs overhead like a chandelier. Galaxies spill millennia-old light onto my tiny eyeballs. We are framed by ultimate blackness.
Jehovah!! Oh, Jehovah!!!
This is…
Words won’t do it justice.
“Lift up your eyes on high and see: who created these?”
—Isaiah 40:26
“For my part, I know nothing with any certainty, but the sight of the stars makes me dream.” —Vincent Van Gogh
#travel #essay #turkey #caprock #memoir #100DaysToOffload #Writing #poetry
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Thank you for coming here and walking through the garden of my mind. No day is as brilliant in its moment as it is gilded in memory. Embrace your experience and relish gorgeous recollection.
Into every life a little light will shine. Thank you for being my luminance in whatever capacity you may. Shine on, you brilliant souls!
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