If you were to drive through Sanderson, Texas, on the main highway, Route 90, unless you needed to stop for gas or to use the bathroom, you would likely keep going. You might comment on the rundown motel and the boarded up businesses and think, this is a dead town.
Wednesday, January 15 - Friday, January 17, 2020
After arriving at Liz's casita on Wednesday afternoon we went across the street to introduce ourselves to her sister, Rebecca. She was expecting us. We sat and talked for a bit, then she went to her freezer and pulled out some leftovers that we could heat up for our dinner, lasagne and beef strogonoff.
We knew we'd probably be staying for a few days. The weather forecast called for rain and thunderstorms through Friday. Getting struck by lightning in Texas was not how either one of us wanted to die.
Staying in Sanderson wasn't a worry. We had a comfortable place to stay. (Liz had told us we could stay in her Sanderson casita as long as we needed.) We had enough food (not a trivial consideration as Sanderson only had a convenience store and one restaurant, not open for breakfast). And we still had a couple days of cushion for getting to San Antonio in time to meet our children on January 25.
But what would we do with ourselves during that time? What did Sanderson have to offer bicycle tourists like us? After we settled in on Wednesday afternoon we set out on a tour of the town to find out.
We walked down the residential street where Liz's house sat. Her house and Rebecca's were both modest homes with small well-kept yards, typical of the neighboring houses. But further along, as we took a right turn and approached the main street along the highway, the neighborhood quickly degraded. Many of the houses desperately wanted a paint job and repairs. Old bicycles, wrecked cars, and trash littered the front and side yards. I thought, "Don't people care?"
We were struck by the number of houses that were not only abandoned but in complete ruins. They had collapsed roofs and trees and shrubs growing inside. These were not fixer-uppers.
The highway was lined with businesses marked by faded signs and boarded up windows. I thought, "This town was once something. There's a story here. I wonder what it is."
Darkness was settling over the town as we approached the convenience store that also served as a gas station and truck stop. We wanted to pick up a couple beers. As we crossed the highway we were accosted by a man who looked to be about our age sitting in a golf cart on the edge of the parking lot. "Are you finding your way around okay?" he asked.
We walked over and struck up a conversation. I said, "There must be a story behind all the closed businesses."
"I've lived here for 62 years," he said. He told us about two tragedies that visited the town during his residency. In 1965 a wall of water came down the canyon in the night and killed 26 people. (http://terrellmuseum.info/flood/) In the 1990s two freight trains collided, killing four people, one of them his father. He said it could just as easily have been him. He worked as an engineer on the freight trains when they had a regular stop in Sanderson.
Ranching and the railroad were the major drivers of the town's success. When the federal government stopped paying subsidies to the ranchers (goats and sheep), ranching went downhill. When the railroad shut down its operation in Sanderson in the 1990s and made Alpine the maintenance stop the town lost another major employer. Since then the town has struggled but it hasn't lost its sense of community. He told us, "If you need anything, ask anyone for Sarah or Jim Davis. We've got your back."
That made two people looking out for us in Sanderson, Texas.
Staying in a new town for several days is like peeling the layers of leaves off an artichoke. Like the first, outer leaves, our initial impression of Sanderson was bitter. Meeting friendly souls like Jim Davis and Rebecaa and learning more about the town's history gave us a sweeter taste.
We would have two more days to keep pulling away layers and get to the heart of the town.
Thursday morning we slept in and I read a book I found in the casita, Where the Red Fern Grows. We had no internet access, the library didn't open until 2:00, and it was too cold and windy, with rain threatening, to go for a walk. We went across the street to see Rebecca and find out what else we could learn about the town.
Rebecca didn't grow up in Sanderson but her family ranch is nearby so she is well-acquainted with the area. She decided to settle here in her retirement about a year ago because, she said, it's affordable and quiet and she loves the wide-open country.
Rebecca told us that the problem with abandoned properties is that often they get tied up in trusts and it becomes difficult if not impossible to find out who the owner is and who has the legal ability to make the sale. So the property just sits.
Somewhere else someone told us that there are owners who don't want to sell because they have an emotional attachment to their property. I guess they are akin to people who let stuff accumulate around them. They don't want to get rid of anything because - who knows? - they might need it someday. Maybe that's the way it is for some of these people who have junk engulfing their yards.
In the afternoon we set out for the library, a ten minute walk down the street, so cold and cloudy I expected to see snow flurries scattered by the harsh wind. The library, in a modest building, is open five days a week, from 2 to 6 p.m. It had four computers, two of them occupied. Rob and I were able to use the other two for four hours while locals came in and out, visiting with the librarian. It was a pleasant way to spend an afternoon.
Then Rebecca picked us up and we went to dinner at the Ranch House, the only restaurant in town, where they don't have a liquor license and the waitress packs a gun. I ordered the fried catfish with a side salad, Mexican rice, and Texas toast. The fish was tender and moist, the toast thick and buttery. It was all delicious, especially the homemade tartar sauce. I was curious about how the mesquite beef brisket would taste. Rob wouldn't order it but Rebecca did and shared with us. It had a pleasant smokey flavor, if a bit dry. Rob had pork chops.
Later I asked Rob why he didn't want to order the catfish. He said, "I can't stomach eating such an ugly fish."
I said, "It is ugly, But at least it wasn't served with the face attached."
We'd hoped to get back on the road on Friday, but we woke up to rain so we stayed in bed and slept for another couple hours. By then the rain had stopped and the sun was out, but it was too late for us to leave for the 88 mile ride to Comstock. Instead we went for a walk, starting with the streets up the hill, away from the highway.
Set up against the foothills we found the high school football field and track. We saw hiking trails going up the mesa on the edge of town. Then we discovered the affluent part of Sanderson, modest houses that were well-cared for, and further along a town park with a playground and swimming pool. Nearby was the high school. We passed a number of small, simple Protestant churches. Walking along the highway we checked out the local hardware store.
We visited a beautiful memorial garden dedicated to the 26 people who lost their lives in the 1965 flood. I looked at the list of names. "Rob, this is so sad," I said. "So many people have the same last name. Whole families died."
Behind the memorial garden sat the old train station, alone among weeds, no longer in service.
We knew we'd probably be staying for a few days. The weather forecast called for rain and thunderstorms through Friday. Getting struck by lightning in Texas was not how either one of us wanted to die.
Staying in Sanderson wasn't a worry. We had a comfortable place to stay. (Liz had told us we could stay in her Sanderson casita as long as we needed.) We had enough food (not a trivial consideration as Sanderson only had a convenience store and one restaurant, not open for breakfast). And we still had a couple days of cushion for getting to San Antonio in time to meet our children on January 25.
But what would we do with ourselves during that time? What did Sanderson have to offer bicycle tourists like us? After we settled in on Wednesday afternoon we set out on a tour of the town to find out.
 |
| The little guest house on the left was our home for three nights. |
We were struck by the number of houses that were not only abandoned but in complete ruins. They had collapsed roofs and trees and shrubs growing inside. These were not fixer-uppers.
The highway was lined with businesses marked by faded signs and boarded up windows. I thought, "This town was once something. There's a story here. I wonder what it is."
Darkness was settling over the town as we approached the convenience store that also served as a gas station and truck stop. We wanted to pick up a couple beers. As we crossed the highway we were accosted by a man who looked to be about our age sitting in a golf cart on the edge of the parking lot. "Are you finding your way around okay?" he asked.
We walked over and struck up a conversation. I said, "There must be a story behind all the closed businesses."
"I've lived here for 62 years," he said. He told us about two tragedies that visited the town during his residency. In 1965 a wall of water came down the canyon in the night and killed 26 people. (http://terrellmuseum.info/flood/) In the 1990s two freight trains collided, killing four people, one of them his father. He said it could just as easily have been him. He worked as an engineer on the freight trains when they had a regular stop in Sanderson.
Ranching and the railroad were the major drivers of the town's success. When the federal government stopped paying subsidies to the ranchers (goats and sheep), ranching went downhill. When the railroad shut down its operation in Sanderson in the 1990s and made Alpine the maintenance stop the town lost another major employer. Since then the town has struggled but it hasn't lost its sense of community. He told us, "If you need anything, ask anyone for Sarah or Jim Davis. We've got your back."
That made two people looking out for us in Sanderson, Texas.
Staying in a new town for several days is like peeling the layers of leaves off an artichoke. Like the first, outer leaves, our initial impression of Sanderson was bitter. Meeting friendly souls like Jim Davis and Rebecaa and learning more about the town's history gave us a sweeter taste.
We would have two more days to keep pulling away layers and get to the heart of the town.
Thursday morning we slept in and I read a book I found in the casita, Where the Red Fern Grows. We had no internet access, the library didn't open until 2:00, and it was too cold and windy, with rain threatening, to go for a walk. We went across the street to see Rebecca and find out what else we could learn about the town.
Rebecca didn't grow up in Sanderson but her family ranch is nearby so she is well-acquainted with the area. She decided to settle here in her retirement about a year ago because, she said, it's affordable and quiet and she loves the wide-open country.
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| Rebecca is enjoying her retirement in Sanderson, Texas. |
Rebecca told us that the problem with abandoned properties is that often they get tied up in trusts and it becomes difficult if not impossible to find out who the owner is and who has the legal ability to make the sale. So the property just sits.
Somewhere else someone told us that there are owners who don't want to sell because they have an emotional attachment to their property. I guess they are akin to people who let stuff accumulate around them. They don't want to get rid of anything because - who knows? - they might need it someday. Maybe that's the way it is for some of these people who have junk engulfing their yards.
In the afternoon we set out for the library, a ten minute walk down the street, so cold and cloudy I expected to see snow flurries scattered by the harsh wind. The library, in a modest building, is open five days a week, from 2 to 6 p.m. It had four computers, two of them occupied. Rob and I were able to use the other two for four hours while locals came in and out, visiting with the librarian. It was a pleasant way to spend an afternoon.
Then Rebecca picked us up and we went to dinner at the Ranch House, the only restaurant in town, where they don't have a liquor license and the waitress packs a gun. I ordered the fried catfish with a side salad, Mexican rice, and Texas toast. The fish was tender and moist, the toast thick and buttery. It was all delicious, especially the homemade tartar sauce. I was curious about how the mesquite beef brisket would taste. Rob wouldn't order it but Rebecca did and shared with us. It had a pleasant smokey flavor, if a bit dry. Rob had pork chops.
Later I asked Rob why he didn't want to order the catfish. He said, "I can't stomach eating such an ugly fish."
I said, "It is ugly, But at least it wasn't served with the face attached."
We'd hoped to get back on the road on Friday, but we woke up to rain so we stayed in bed and slept for another couple hours. By then the rain had stopped and the sun was out, but it was too late for us to leave for the 88 mile ride to Comstock. Instead we went for a walk, starting with the streets up the hill, away from the highway.
Set up against the foothills we found the high school football field and track. We saw hiking trails going up the mesa on the edge of town. Then we discovered the affluent part of Sanderson, modest houses that were well-cared for, and further along a town park with a playground and swimming pool. Nearby was the high school. We passed a number of small, simple Protestant churches. Walking along the highway we checked out the local hardware store.
We visited a beautiful memorial garden dedicated to the 26 people who lost their lives in the 1965 flood. I looked at the list of names. "Rob, this is so sad," I said. "So many people have the same last name. Whole families died."
Behind the memorial garden sat the old train station, alone among weeds, no longer in service.
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| It's natural to compare a town you're visiting with the one you live in. Rob and I were both impressed that this town with obvious economic challenges had a high school track. It took Rob and a group of several other folks over twenty years to convince our relatively affluent town to build one. |
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| The football field sits next to the track. |
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| It's only right that I include a picture of a modest, well-maintained home as a counter balance to the abandoned one featured above. Clearly, there are people living in Sanderson who care very much about their home and community. |
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| When we told Rebecca we might be needing some fuel for our stove she suggested we stop in here. All the lawn art stays outside overnight. Evidently nothing is stolen in Sanderson, Texas. Inside, we made our way past aisles crowded with more lawn and garden decorations and trinkets before coming to the heart of a hardware store, packed with just about everything a small town might need. But no fuel for our stove. |
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| The train station's days are in the past. Amtrak stops in Sanderson, but you have to be out on the track and ready to flag it down. |
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| We saw many of these storm drainage ditches in lieu of sidewalks. We assumed they were put in to mitigate the effects of another major flood. |
Traveling by bicycle we don't just pass through towns. Rather, each town we come to is an opportunity to get off our bikes. We'll remember a town not for what might be listed in a travel guide (if the town is listed at all) but for the diner where we had a second breakfast, or the town square where we ate lunch. Or maybe it will be the bridge we crossed, or the cup of tea and delicious pastry in the local coffee shop.
When we park our bikes people aren't shy about asking us about our adventure and we, in turn, aren't shy about asking them about their town. What do you like about living here? What makes your town work?
Sometimes we've been forced to stay in a town longer than we might have chosen, forced by saddle sores, wildfires, headwinds, or rain to stay put for a couple days. We don't choose the town; it's just a random place where we happen to land. But while we're there we peel back the layers of the town, try to find the heart of the town, what makes it a place where people choose to live and work and play.
When we returned from our walk on Friday morning Rebecca's next-door neighbor was outside. We stopped to talk. Jack bought his Sanderson house recently. Although he's of an age to retire, he still runs a business and can do it from his new home. And Rebecca told us someone just bought the house up the street that needs major repairs. He plans to fix it up. People are moving to Sanderson, Texas.
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