April 2, 2006
Liberty, Texas to Little Florida Beach, Louisiana
The Day I Met Rita and Various Sorts of People
It was 7 months after Hurricane Katrina had destroyed New Orleans and points East on 8/29/05. I had heard of Hurricane Rita but "her sister" Katrina had received most of the notoriety. I can only speak for myself when, as the day began, I had not much of an appreciation of big sister Rita's range, power, and fury.
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I was up early, outside and trying to be quiet while pumping up my tires. The fellow in the next room was concerned and came outside to see what was going on. He relaxed a bit when he saw me and my bike.
The sun was coming up as I left the hotel and headed East. Route 90 was relatively deserted on this Sunday morning and remained so all the way to Nome. Since there wasn't very much happening there, after a short convenience store break I moved on, leaving US-90 by turning South on Farm Route 365.
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I followed Route 365 through quiet farm and ranch country. Upon reaching another intersection, I turned right, heading East, and remained on Route 365. I liked the Texas Route signs with the outline of the state and the numbers inside its perimeter. They also said things like "Farm Road" and "Ranch Road" on the signs.
I was making good time and reached the small town of Fannett, where I stopped at a local convenience store. I grabbed a few rations and took a break in a field across the street. In the field, I started to sit down but realized a giant ant hill was close by, so I was more strategic about where I sat. It is said everything is bigger in Texas. I don't know for sure but it is certainly true of the ant hills.
Had I known what was to come, I would have stocked up a bit more but I did not. I was expecting that the next store or restaurant would come along with the kind of regularity to which I was accustomed, in Pittsburgh.
Beyond Fannett, there is some open country, complete with ranch land, and cattle. I saw a longhorn steer in amongst a small heard of cows. He eyed me up as I passed by.
Down the road a bit, I passed the entrance to the Rife Ranch. It appeared to have a fair amount of land but I didn't see anyone around with whom to converse ( except the aforementioned steer, who wasn't very friendly) so I kept on moving.
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Route 365 led me into Port Arthur, Texas, an industrial area surrounded by beautiful waterways. The stacks from the oil refineries were sending out smoke and that heavy smell of oil was in the air. It was here that I began to notice damaged properties, gradually at first and then more severe.
Passing by one house, I noticed some damage to it but the structure next door was practically all rubble. The homeowner was out front with his dog. We spoke briefly and it was from him that I began to learn about Hurricane Rita. She was a larger and more powerful storm that hit areas from Lake Charles, Louisiana to near Houston, Texas, approximately one month after Katrina. As the cities were smaller and the areas were more rural than New Orleans, the news media did not report on their tragedies as thoroughly as they had with those of The Big Easy.
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If you Google the storm now, there is lots of reporting but back then, Katrina got all the headlines and most of the reporting. Very little was in mainstream media regarding Rita. If there had been, I probably wouldn't have taken this trip. Because Rita followed closely on the heels of Katrina, there was almost 100% evacuation and very few deaths. However, property and land damages were severe. The lives and livelihoods of local residents were significantly affected
I continued onward and reached another small store that was under the Route 82 Bridge. Again, I stopped briefly but naively didn't buy very much. From there, I got back onto Route 82 and headed Southeast. The high bridge provided some beautiful views of the Sabine River below and the oil refineries of Port Arthur, off in the distance.
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I followed Route 82 to a small park, just before a bridge. The bridge goes over a water gap between two land masses. This area is called Sabine Pass, a strategic area during the Civil War. I left Texas, while crossing the bridge, and entered Louisiana.
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It was about 10 miles from the border to a little town called Johnson Bayou. I read somewhere that (the USA's 36th) President Lyndon Johnson used to like to come here and the place was named for him. The road (LA-82) was deserted. Approaching Johnson Bayou, I saw more of the aftermath from Hurricane Rita in the form of damaged homes, an abandoned boat on the side of the road, and a trailer park courtesy of FEMA.
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There wasn't much to Johnson Bayou, when I reached it with 78 miles under my belt for the day. I hoped to have been able to make camp on the shores of the Gulf and to have a peaceful evening. A convenience store appeared, beckoning me inside. The shelves were pretty barren and I wished I had stocked up earlier in the day.
I spoke with the snippy woman working behind the counter and was told this little store had just re-opened within the past few days after having been wiped out by Hurricane Rita. A few other patrons came in, some of them oil workers (she was nicer to them). While there was not much on the shelves, two big barrels filled with ice and single cans of beer were popular with patrons.
Apparently, in Louisiana, it is legal to drive with an open beer, provided you are not legally drunk. So, every blue collar guy in the area was coming in after work to get a beer, cigarettes, chewing tobacco, or some other pleasure after their shifts had ended. I don't know why but the thought that the driver of every approaching vehicle was drinking beer didn't phase me. I had bigger concerns, like finding real food and a place to camp.
Yes, it was late afternoon on a Sunday but the oil business is a 24/7/365 operation. So, even at this hour, people were working and shifts were changing.
When I asked the lady behind the counter if people were allowed to camp on the beach, her snippy demeanor changed... and not for the better. She said the beach had been very badly damaged by the storm. There were holes in the beach, some of which were up to 20 feet deep. If someone fell in, they would have a very difficult time getting out and could drown. She also said the police patrolled the beach and would not allow camping.
When I left the store, the area seemed pretty deserted, so I decided to take a ride down the sandy road anyway, to see what had occurred along the shoreline. It was about a mile long and led to a place called Martin Beach. There was significant damage to the beach, which had not yet been restored.
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I reluctantly decided to heed her advice and not try to camp there. However, no towns were reasonably ahead ahead on the map. I went back to the main road, turned right, and continued East. Route 82 now seemed even lonelier than it had been before I reached the little store. Evening was coming on and I had absolutely no idea where I was going to spend the night.
One thing was certain, I would not be experiencing my usual Sunday evening routine of settling back to watch 60 Minutes and getting mentally prepared for another week of work. I headed on Route 82 for about 10 miles, desperately looking for a place to stealth camp but all that seemed to be around me were vast marshlands, this road, and the Gulf, way off to my right but impossible to reach.
After several miles and all of a sudden, this little cluster of houses and a small network of sandy streets appeared to my right. I turned in and started looking for someone to ask about camping possibilities. There seemed to be nobody around. Upon reaching the beach, I decided my tired and sweaty body needed to cool off. Carefully, I waded into the Gulf and thoroughly rinsed myself off. It felt heavenly. I don't know how toxic those post-Rita waters may have been but at that moment, I didn't much care. It felt good to submerge my tired body into these warm waters.
A look around revealed this beach did not have the same degree of damage that I had seen 10 miles to the West at Martin Beach. The homes seemed to have sustained a lesser degree of damage, as well. This must have been a protected little cove.
Still needing a place to make camp, I got back on the bike and continued riding through this small neighborhood. Just when I had nearly given up on finding someone to ask, there appeared a young guy and his daughter who were getting something out of their car in the driveway. He seemed surprised to see me and my bike but he was a lot friendlier than anyone I had encountered back in Johnson Bayou.
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I asked him if it would be OK to camp on the beach and he heartily replied that it would not be any problem. Remembering the earlier warning, I asked if the police would come around and kick me out. He laughed and said, "Hell no. There aren't any police around here." I believed him and in my mind questioned the credibility of the grouchy lady at the convenience store. This little beach community was a stone's throw from Route 82 while getting to Martin Beach required a mile trek down a narrow sandy road. Were the police really going to drive down there at night to see if some bike camper from Pittsburgh had fallen into one of those 20 foot deep holes? I think not. If they were related to her they'd probably say, "Let him tread water all night and if he's still floating in the morning, we'll fish his sorry ass out of there." In reality, I never saw even a police car during my entire tour. If I had met any, I'm sure they would have been nicer than that rattlesnake lady at the convenience store.
The young fellow told me the name of this place was Little Florida Beach (it wasn't on any maps at that time). I thanked him and went down past all the houses to a deserted section of beach which had some brush, trees, and a small rise behind it. There I made camp and crawled into my screened protection just as it started getting dark. Good thing, because the blood thirsty bugs became fierce with the nightfall.
The sound of the small waves crashing was peaceful and there were not too many other noises that night. But even after doing 90 miles, I was having trouble getting to sleep. As I was starting to doze off, someone was thrashing in the brush behind me. Then, someone spoke to me. At first, I didn't know what to think but quickly realized it was the young fellow and his daughter coming by to check on me. We talked for a minute and then he asked me if I'd like to come up to the house and have something to eat. I readily accepted because those barren shelves back in Johnson Bayou hadn't replaced all of the calories I had burned on this day.
Up at the house, it turned out that he also had a wife and a young son. I ate a spaghetti dinner with the family. At one point, he offered me some Tony Chachere's Original Creole Seasoning to sprinkle on my Spaghetti. I am Italian but since I wasn't anywhere near anything familiar to me (and there wasn't any Romano Cheese), it seemed like the right thing to do. It was great and I haven't been without some Tony's in my spice cabinet since!
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We talked for a while, after the kids went to bed. He told me this house belonged to a doctor who had hired him to repair it after the storm. There had been some damage but not to the extent that other areas had received. Part of the deal was that he and his family got to live there while he was doing the work. He had been at it for several months and the work was nearly done.
Finally I said I was going to head back down to the beach. The fellow then said, "Hell, why don't you just sleep here on the screen porch?" I remembered the fierce bugs back at the beach and thankfully I had brought everything up with me. Accepting this offer was a no brainer. We all went off to sleep, which came over me quickly and heavily. I suppose I was more at peace, with a full belly and not having to worry about bugs, police, the convenience store lady, or deep holes swallowing me up while I slept.
All told and under the circumstances, my first bicycle venture into Bayou Country went pretty well.
Today's ride: 90 miles (145 km)
Total: 125 miles (201 km)
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2 months ago
If you read further, you'll see that I ran into some not so nice people but they were eclipsed by all of the nice folks I met. I suppose that after having gone through the hurricane, some folks were not in the best of moods.
I hope your future tours are full of the best sorts of folks.
2 months ago