Chapter 6: Texas and the Borderlands
Crossing the Sabine and entering a new frontier — Texas, the Southern Tier, and the people who carry you forward.
I crossed the Sabine River and entered Texas with my toothbrush tucked between my teeth—mid-ride, mid-thought—as I prepared to dismount and capture the moment in photos and memory. That single object and that river crossing at Bon Weir—a modest junction not far from a small town in East Texas—were easily overlooked by others, but for me, the river and the crossing felt oddly monumental. It was surreal and symbolic—a stripped-down emblem of the life I was living. No ceremony, no checkpoint—just a steady roll across a waterway rich in history. Once the dividing line between empires and now the border between Louisiana and Texas, the Sabine marked the beginning of a vast new chapter. I had come far, but the road ahead would stretch much farther. For now, I would explore the biggest state in the lower 48.
From the Sabine River, I rode west along Route 96 toward Silsbee, where the Southern Tier Bicycle Route picked up in earnest. It’s a route many cyclists know—though each rides it in their own way. I was excited to join it, but quickly disillusioned. Much of the routing seemed better suited to vehicles than bicycles—heavy traffic, high-speed corridors, and uncomfortable road noise. At times, it felt like an afterthought, as though the designers prioritized simplicity over safety. My experience with the Southern Tier reminded me that national routes don't always mean optimal ones. The route overwhelmed my senses so completely that I initially rode past the Red Cloud RV Park, as though exiting a highway off-ramp.
But what better way to appreciate the hospitality I discovered at Red Cloud? Carlos took me back to the local supermarket to retrieve a package of English muffins I’d bought knowing the park had a shared kitchen and a toaster. He welcomed me for dinner, and again for breakfast and coffee the next morning. Before that out-and-back trip with Carlos, the park manager had even offered to loan me her car. Carlos, like others along this ride, didn’t lose track of me. He called and messaged long after I’d reached Ushuaia. The following morning, I visited the Bank Barber Shop, where Bubba gave me a pro-bono fresh trim and his son Jasper treated me with equivalent kindness and curiosity. It’s moments like those that remind me: the people you meet on a journey don’t just support the story—they are the story.
A day’s ride from Silsbee, I rode into the managed, semi-wild lands of the Sam Houston Wildlife Management Area near Shepherd, Texas. Tall, straight, well-spaced pines—intended for harvest rotation—dominated the ecosystem, and deeply rutted dirt access roads, light brown in color, wove between them.
I made my way to a designated wild camping area and built camp with what I carried and what others had irresponsibly left behind. A makeshift table and a repaired chair made dinner more comfortable than usual. Nearby, I took a quick, cold bath in a shallow puddle, all the while hoping no one would appear on the road—until Phillip Runge did, arriving on horseback. We talked about many things, including bears, and I was relieved to learn there were none in that section of Sam Houston. His presence reminded me that even in remote woods, community finds you.
Well after Phillip departed, a family—father, wife, and son—arrived in an overstocked car and set up camp nearby. Soon they invited me to join them for dinner—a delicious alternative, cooked over their fire. Their generosity was sincere: a warm meal, kind conversation, and momentary companionship. But the father wore a handgun on his hip, plainly visible, and at one point even double-checked the chamber. Though he meant no harm, the presence of that weapon was sobering. It forced a collision between values. I thought about the many lost to gun violence, the normalization of fear, and the strange duality of welcome in a world armed against itself.
Somehow, I slept soundly—either from the calm they’d offered or the fatigue of the road. By morning, they were gone.
From Sam Houston, the dark greens and browns of the forest gave way to a sun-bleached palette of rolling pastures and oak groves. The tall pines were behind me now, replaced by hills that rose and fell like ocean swells—terrain that would impress even seasoned captains crossing the Drake Passage. Ships vanish in troughs and reappear like towers on the crest; so too did I feel, small and lifted by the land. In one of those folds, I paused and found connection: new friends, a quiet welcome, and a moment to catch my breath.
Two days later—after a memorable rest day at an off-season, clothing-optional resort where I was invited as a guest—I met Greg in Caldwell. We hadn’t seen each other since the mid-1990s, when we were outdoor educator interns at Corkscrew Swamp Sanctuary in Florida, learning the rhythms of nature that still guide me today. We returned together to his home in Georgetown, where I was welcomed like family. What began as a short stop became a full Thanksgiving. I stayed a week, resting and reconnecting. The quiet domestic rhythm was a balm for body and spirit. Meals, laughter, and shared stories made the road feel far away. But it would call again, as it always does—and should. So much awaits beyond the walls of comfort, safety, and routine.
When I left, I headed southeast, avoiding the urban sprawl between Austin and San Antonio. I made my way toward Martindale and pitched my tent at Shady Grove Campground, above the San Marcos River. The wind picked up that night, and the sound of crickets returned. As I approached Shady Grove and beyond, I passed through the Texas Heartland—patchwork roads, golden light, rusted machines buried in green. I remember one scene in particular: a rusted-out sedan tucked beneath a canopy of trees, slowly surrendering to the forest. The land spoke in soft, steady tones.
South of San Antonio, things changed. Towns became sparse. Border patrol vehicles appeared more often. The distances grew longer. The horizon flattened. As I approached Freer, then Laredo, I felt an emotional shift—a quiet, rising sense that I was nearing something larger than myself.
The final days in Texas were dry, hot, and remote. I passed rattlesnake roadkill, collared peccary, and stretches of land where nothing moved but wind and pump jacks. In Laredo, the road brought me to Joe Vera at Border Town Bikes. I had shipped parts ahead weeks before, and Joe had everything ready: drivetrain, brakes, tires. He welcomed me with the care of someone who knew how far I'd come—and how far I still had to go. Through him, I met a border agent and local riders whose advice shaped the path ahead, including places like Real de Catorce.
On November 29, I crossed Bridge 1 into Mexico.
It wasn’t the bridge itself—it was what it represented. After thousands of miles and months of preparation, I was crossing a threshold that many had warned me against. Friends, family, even strangers had urged me to avoid Mexico—take a plane, skip the risk. But I chose the road, uncertain and unmapped. I stayed alert, reading the land, the people, and the towns as they came. I left the United States behind and entered the next chapter with an open heart, wheels in motion, and a quiet commitment to keep moving forward.
From the Sabine River, I rode west along Route 96 toward Silsbee, where the Southern Tier Bicycle Route picked up in earnest. It’s a route many cyclists know—though each rides it in their own way. I was excited to join it, but quickly disillusioned. Much of the routing seemed better suited to vehicles than bicycles—heavy traffic, high-speed corridors, and uncomfortable road noise. At times, it felt like an afterthought, as though the designers prioritized simplicity over safety. My experience with the Southern Tier reminded me that national routes don't always mean optimal ones. The route overwhelmed my senses so completely that I initially rode past the Red Cloud RV Park, as though exiting a highway off-ramp.
But what better way to appreciate the hospitality I discovered at Red Cloud? Carlos took me back to the local supermarket to retrieve a package of English muffins I’d bought knowing the park had a shared kitchen and a toaster. He welcomed me for dinner, and again for breakfast and coffee the next morning. Before that out-and-back trip with Carlos, the park manager had even offered to loan me her car. Carlos, like others along this ride, didn’t lose track of me. He called and messaged long after I’d reached Ushuaia. The following morning, I visited the Bank Barber Shop, where Bubba gave me a pro-bono fresh trim and his son Jasper treated me with equivalent kindness and curiosity. It’s moments like those that remind me: the people you meet on a journey don’t just support the story—they are the story.
A day’s ride from Silsbee, I rode into the managed, semi-wild lands of the Sam Houston Wildlife Management Area near Shepherd, Texas. Tall, straight, well-spaced pines—intended for harvest rotation—dominated the ecosystem, and deeply rutted dirt access roads, light brown in color, wove between them.
I made my way to a designated wild camping area and built camp with what I carried and what others had irresponsibly left behind. A makeshift table and a repaired chair made dinner more comfortable than usual. Nearby, I took a quick, cold bath in a shallow puddle, all the while hoping no one would appear on the road—until Phillip Runge did, arriving on horseback. We talked about many things, including bears, and I was relieved to learn there were none in that section of Sam Houston. His presence reminded me that even in remote woods, community finds you.
Well after Phillip departed, a family—father, wife, and son—arrived in an overstocked car and set up camp nearby. Soon they invited me to join them for dinner—a delicious alternative, cooked over their fire. Their generosity was sincere: a warm meal, kind conversation, and momentary companionship. But the father wore a handgun on his hip, plainly visible, and at one point even double-checked the chamber. Though he meant no harm, the presence of that weapon was sobering. It forced a collision between values. I thought about the many lost to gun violence, the normalization of fear, and the strange duality of welcome in a world armed against itself.
Somehow, I slept soundly—either from the calm they’d offered or the fatigue of the road. By morning, they were gone.
From Sam Houston, the dark greens and browns of the forest gave way to a sun-bleached palette of rolling pastures and oak groves. The tall pines were behind me now, replaced by hills that rose and fell like ocean swells—terrain that would impress even seasoned captains crossing the Drake Passage. Ships vanish in troughs and reappear like towers on the crest; so too did I feel, small and lifted by the land. In one of those folds, I paused and found connection: new friends, a quiet welcome, and a moment to catch my breath.
Two days later—after a memorable rest day at an off-season, clothing-optional resort where I was invited as a guest—I met Greg in Caldwell. We hadn’t seen each other since the mid-1990s, when we were outdoor educator interns at Corkscrew Swamp Sanctuary in Florida, learning the rhythms of nature that still guide me today. We returned together to his home in Georgetown, where I was welcomed like family. What began as a short stop became a full Thanksgiving. I stayed a week, resting and reconnecting. The quiet domestic rhythm was a balm for body and spirit. Meals, laughter, and shared stories made the road feel far away. But it would call again, as it always does—and should. So much awaits beyond the walls of comfort, safety, and routine.
When I left, I headed southeast, avoiding the urban sprawl between Austin and San Antonio. I made my way toward Martindale and pitched my tent at Shady Grove Campground, above the San Marcos River. The wind picked up that night, and the sound of crickets returned. As I approached Shady Grove and beyond, I passed through the Texas Heartland—patchwork roads, golden light, rusted machines buried in green. I remember one scene in particular: a rusted-out sedan tucked beneath a canopy of trees, slowly surrendering to the forest. The land spoke in soft, steady tones.
South of San Antonio, things changed. Towns became sparse. Border patrol vehicles appeared more often. The distances grew longer. The horizon flattened. As I approached Freer, then Laredo, I felt an emotional shift—a quiet, rising sense that I was nearing something larger than myself.
The final days in Texas were dry, hot, and remote. I passed rattlesnake roadkill, collared peccary, and stretches of land where nothing moved but wind and pump jacks. In Laredo, the road brought me to Joe Vera at Border Town Bikes. I had shipped parts ahead weeks before, and Joe had everything ready: drivetrain, brakes, tires. He welcomed me with the care of someone who knew how far I'd come—and how far I still had to go. Through him, I met a border agent and local riders whose advice shaped the path ahead, including places like Real de Catorce.
On November 29, I crossed Bridge 1 into Mexico.
It wasn’t the bridge itself—it was what it represented. After thousands of miles and months of preparation, I was crossing a threshold that many had warned me against. Friends, family, even strangers had urged me to avoid Mexico—take a plane, skip the risk. But I chose the road, uncertain and unmapped. I stayed alert, reading the land, the people, and the towns as they came. I left the United States behind and entered the next chapter with an open heart, wheels in motion, and a quiet commitment to keep moving forward.