There’s a pattern here and I can read it perfectly — Google’s picking cities that spit us out — which is why I know exactly where Google Fiber is headed after Provo: Portland, OR. Yep. The hipsters are gonna get Google Fiber before you. It’s either them or Salton City.

You heard it here first.

So what does the perfect day involve? Well, first you wake up early, before the campground construction workers get started (bad timing on our part). Eat breakfast, drink tea/coffee. Plan hike. Go on hike. Return and eat lunch. Nap. Plan next hike. Go on next hike. Return and eat dinner. Drink some wine, read book/magazine. Go to sleep. I could repeat this process over and over if Guadalupe had showers and if the weather was a bit more hospitable — it was maybe 10 degrees warmer than our last, snowy visit. The tops of the peaks remained shrouded in clouds for the majority of our visit, discouraging us from attempting any hikes involving peaks or views. The night sky is supposed to be amazing here, but we didn’t get a clear night over our two different visits. I guess the park is demanding we return.

If I were more badass, I’d take advantage of the network of backcountry trails and campgrounds that makes up the majority of the park. Given the lack of cars at each trailhead, I’d bet that there currently was no one else hiking in the backcountry. Imagine having acres and acres of wilderness, all to yourself? If backcountry hiking isn’t your thing, then what about being all alone in a field of gypsum sand dunes? These aren’t your kid’s sand dunes either — there’s real adventure here. You’ve got to pick up a key to the gate to the road to the dunes at the visitor’s center, drive there, get lost, then figure out how to get out of the dunes (according to the NPS): “Pay close attention to your route when leaving the dunes. Following the wrong road will lead you away from your vehicle and further into the desert.” You can find real adventures here. If you’re looking for true solitude and great hiking, then Guadalupe Mountains is the spot for you. Just bring layers.

Our first hike started out sunny and welcoming…

But it’s always just about to rain in Guadalupe.

The trails are very well done — the views will give you whiplash.

Flowers and cacti were blooming everywhere.

The part where the Devil’s Hall trail starts to get really cool.

Paul in the Devil’s Hall.

Says who?

Flowers in McKittrick Canyon.

The McKittrick Canyon hikes are spoiled a bit by the power lines running to Pratt Cabin, but hike past the Cabin and you’re in the wilderness.

Pratt Cabin — who would have thought of covering a roof with stone? A geologist, that’s who.

Agave close-up. Watch out, they’re sharp.

Our last day — the fog cleared and we finally got a view of El Capitan.

Is that a walking stick or a walking tree?

When you drive in Texas, you get the impression that Texas is ready for you to leave. Road signs proclaim “Drive Clean Across Texas,” “Don’t Mess With Texas,” and “Speed Limit: 80.” Texas is the only place I’ve been driving 75 mph on a side road — not a divided highway — and been passed by every car that came up behind me. There’s something about seeing a car, head on, racing towards you at 75 or 80 mph (while you’re going 75 or 80 mph too) that takes some getting used to.

But it’s not just the speed limits that are bigger in Texas. There’s the 72 oz “free” steak advertised on highway billboards anywhere within a 250 mile radius of Amarillo, the home of the Big Texan. There was a walking stick the size of my hand just chillin’ by the ladies’ room at a park outside Austin. There’s the state itself. Texas is BIG. Past Austin, it seems like they’ve run out of things to do and people to populate the land. The cities thin out and you can drive for miles without seeing any signs of human habitation other than the road and a fence or two strung along each side. This would be cool, if there were anything else to look at. It felt like Texas had had enough of us, and we’d had enough of Texas. We drove clean across the state from Austin to Guadalupe National Park in one grueling 9 hour shift, only to show up on the doorstep of New Mexico, our next contender for least favorite state.

I’ve got a bias against Texas. But everybody has told us we’ll love Austin. So we visit Austin. Austin is fine. It’s not, in any way, however, weird. It’s a polished, disinfected, sanitized, lobotomized, clean city. There’s a little riff-raff, but it’s hardly enough to make it a city slogan. Weird? Try Bisbee. Weird? Try New Orleans. Weird? No, Austin is not weird. Texas is weird for thinking it is.

Students that wear tie-dye are not weird. Homeless people who didn’t make it rich ranching or drilling aren’t weird. Artists avoiding corporate jobs are not weird. Go to any capital city and you’ll see homelessness. Go to any university town and you’ll see kids in Birkenstocks. Austin is only ‘weird’ if you’ve never been anywhere else, never left Texas. Austin is just like Madison, Wisconsin, but it doesn’t have Madison’s pleasant grime or confusing streets or youthful energy. The weirdos in Austin have nothing on the oddballs roaming the Ithaca Commons in New York or the freakshow that parades down Market Street in San Francisco.

The Woodlands, a development north of Houston is weird. In it, you can live alongside neighbors that also paid $750,000 for their homes or neighbors that paid $250,000 for their homes or neighbors that paid $400,000 for their homes. You’ll never have to see a person that didn’t pay the same price as you for his home. You can be surrounded by people making the exact same amount of money as you, envious of those in the neighborhood one over, thankful you’re not down the street where homes are a notch cheaper. It’s hideous. It’s a Disneyfied version of suburbia that’s absolutely ridiculous and soulless. It’s the weirdest town I’ve ever seen. It made me want to vomit.

But back to Austin. I’m sure it’s a fine place to live, but I don’t like how much effort seems to be injected into being labelled ‘weird’ and into being perceived as cool. Food trucks are cool? Well, Austin’s going to jam as many as possible onto its streets and into its parking lots. Neon signs are cool? Ok, every business will have to have one. We’re going to build the most food-truck-filled and neon-signed city the world has ever seen! Boy, won’t that be weird?! Sure. And see these? These are painters and they’re not grade-schoolers with finger paints or trophy wives in search of a hobby! Can you believe that? Austin is so weird! We’ve got artists!

Austin is a bit boring, like Savannah. Paula Deen could open a successful restaurant here. In the continuum between Cleveland and Charleston, Austin falls closer to Cleveland. It’s no Charleston, no New Orleans, nothing really special. It’s just Austin. Maybe it’s the best town in Texas. But is that really saying much?

Best thing in Austin: $1.50 margaritas during the Taco Cabana happy hour.

Food served from a TRUCK! So weird!!

"Places of Interest" on the tourist map = train station, YMCA, grocery store. Grocery store?

We ended up in the Sam Houston National Forest at Double Lake Campground. We read magazines (bought in Florida, 5 for $1). We drank a few beers. We watched the sun set across the water. We went to bed early. The next day we were headed to Austin.

A lizard enjoys the Coke machine in our campground.

Man, I really don’t like Texas all that much. I don’t know what it is. But before we bought our second motel room, before we were entirely broken, we had some crawfish. The best thing I can say about Texas so far is that the crawfish were pretty good. Lonestar beer? Meh. Focus on the crawfish, Paul. The crawfish were good at Floyd’s.

Lisa driving along the Gulf Coast of Louisiana.

Um, is that a minivan sinking into the salt marsh? Yes.

Houses on stilts.

No drive is complete without a ferry ride.

Crawfish: Good.

Five minutes ago, Paul emerged from the hotel office. I ask how it went. He said, “Well, the guy offered me a free hot dog, so that was cool. He said the church had just dropped them off a few minutes ago. I didn’t have one, though, I told him I had just eaten. He also had  cell phone chargers for sale and some bootleg DVDs. He had whole boxes of ‘em.”

An hour ago, we were sitting at Floyd’s Cajun Seafood and Texas Steakhouse in Beaumont, TX. Paul had been wanting crawfish, and we kept missing our opportunity in Louisiana. This seemed like a good omen. Fifteen minutes before, we had been standing in the lobby of the Red Roof Inn & Suites. Paul had found it on Priceline, $45/night. It was new and looked great. Our reservation hadn’t come through yet. We went next door to wait with a snack and a beer.

An hour later, our reservation still hadn’t come through. Paul checks his phone, and I notice that the reservation is for the Red CARPET Inn and Suites. I mention this and the receptionist at the Red Roof says, emphatically, “Nuh-UH! That’s on 11th Street, that’s a bad area. I tell you what you’re gonna do. You’re gonna cancel that reservation and check in here.” We say thanks, we’ll check on that, but we know we can’t cancel the reservation and get a refund. We decide to check out the Red Carpet Inn, just to see what it’s like.

The carpet at the Red Carpet Inn.

Two hours earlier, we were at the end of Texas Route 87 on the Gulf coast. Route 87 was wiped off the map by a series of hurricanes and was abandoned in the 90s. It used to go through to Galveston (with a short ferry ride) but now it ends at Sea Rim State Park. Sea Rim State Park was also wiped off the map, most recently by Hurricanes Rita in 2005 and Ike in 2008. When I looked at the official website, the park sounded amazing. It sounded like another Jalama Beach or St. Joseph Peninsula — camping on a picturesque, remote beach at the end of a dead-end road. Sure, it said that camping was primitive, but usually that means just a pit toilet, big deal.

The drive to Sea Rim was pretty wild. We cut through the marshes and swamps of southern Louisiana — miles and miles of low-lying salt marshes with limited human habitation. There was a short ferry over a river that cost a dollar to ride. We saw alligators as road kill — first just a baby, then a full-sized alligator. Houses and trailers are perched precariously on stilts. The closer you get to Texas, the more oil and gas plants you begin to see. If natural areas are marked on maps with shades of green, industrial areas should be shaded as well. Some places you want to go out of you way to see, some to avoid.

I knew that we were hemming ourselves in by heading to Sea Rim and that we wouldn’t have an easy plan B, something we usually try to avoid. There were no other campground or large towns nearby. If Sea Rim was full or didn’t work out, we’d have to head towards Houston or Beaumont, about an hour away.

Well, Sea Rim didn’t work out. I should have looked at Wikipedia for the true picture, notably: “currently there are no facilities of any kind in the park. Guests of the park are encouraged to be prepared.” Beach camping is permitted, but the beach has eroded away to a thin strip of sand. I wasn’t comfortable sleeping in a tent on a ten foot wide strip of land between the Gulf and the alligator infested salt marshes. The only toilet was an old porta-john about a mile hike through the alligator swamp.

We decided to head towards Claiborne West Park, the nearest public park, an hour away. We got there at 7:05. The park closed at 7, locked its gate. In Texas, the parks close early. They lock the gates and that’s it. Some places have late arrival camping, some don’t. This one didn’t. Then we checked Priceline and make that fateful Red Roof Inn (I mean, Red Carpet Inn) reservation.

Sitting in the Red Carpet Inn, I tell Paul that I can’t stay here. I’m going to sleep in the van. Sure, it’s a bargain at $45/night, but something more expensive is going to happen to us…we’re going to get bedbugs, or murdered, or some part of our van is going to get stolen (our dirty, slightly dented and four-year old Sienna is by far the nicest car in the parking lot and I’m paranoid about people stealing parts from it, after I heard that that actually happens). Paul agrees, and we do something unprecedented…we get a different hotel room. We can’t be mad at each other, because we both messed up today; we both failed to do our full due diligence. The EconoLodge in Beaumont feels like the ultimate in luxury at just $10 more/night than the Red Carpet Inn. But we both have troubling dreams of the Red Carpet Inn.

And that’s how one of our most expensive days of the trip (so far) went. Two failed attempts at camping, two motel rooms, and about 300 miles of driving. At least there were crawfish. And no murders.

Clean and sanitary toilet.

Shower drain. Beware of rats, probably.

Oh, good to know.

The range that makes up the Guadalupes was once a reef, buried and then lifted to a max of over 8,000 feet, then unburied. It holds the highest peak in Texas, the 8,700-ish foot Guadalupe Mountain. It’s a hiking paradise, relatively undeveloped with lots of backcountry camping. Reading about the trails, I got really excited about the Devil’s Hall trail, a day hike into a canyon that is ten feet wide and a hundred feet high at its awesomest. There are also multiple springs, and McKittrick Canyon, where unusual bird and plant life can be found. I couldn’t wait to get out there.

But the unexpected snow and the cold, which were expected to last the entire week, prevented us from attempting these or any other hikes. Instead we retreated underground at the nearby, constant-temperatured and wild Carlsbad Caverns. But our future west-return route has now been altered to include a swing back through Guadalupe.

When we arrived, the air was filled with dust and gusts. But it was 80, so I didn't really mind.

The remains of an old stagecoach stop.

Paul trying to hide from the wind gusts.

Good morning, snowstorm.

The lower end of the Guadalupes. The higher peaks and campground are to the left, under that snow cloud.

photo credit: sean_mcgee

photo credit: sean_mcgee

photo credit: AlphaTangoBravo / Adam Baker

photo credit: Tycho Moon