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Leaving Blythe River by Catherine Ryan Hyde also proved to be a surprisingly good read. Although a coming-of-age story, the novel doesn’t read like a young adult book.
I had the pleasure to live in Colorado for several years, and I still miss the wilderness. The novel seems to accurately portray the realities of a similar wilderness — both the beautiful and the harsh. The characters were also realistic and engaging, from the protagonist to the motley team helping him to his father.
A road dead-ended quietly into a drab yellow stone plaza. Several structures of the same dusty dingy yellow stone, hundreds of years old, surrounded the plaza. Footfalls raised stale puffs of dust with each step.
To the east in the gloom stood doors to an old frayed church huddled against its larger looming neighbor. It was also made of the stone, but the thick, tall doors rose in dark wood gleaming despite the dust in the growing dark.
The air around lay dry and still. No wind blew, no breeze teased the dust.
The entrance reached over their heads. At a glance, the dark doors were at least nine feet. A pediment of sorts crawled and curled and curved its way up and over the doors in a half-moon arc. Inside the pediment’s half-moon shined defiantly two quarters of stained glass, like slitted eyes of a baleful being staring out from the church.
It’s hard describe Independence Day in the heartland. Here, fireworks are allowed on the 3rd and 4th of July. Yes, our small city has a big fireworks show over a lake near downtown. Yes, other organizations will put on shows as well.
Rain fell in a heavy cascade onto the windshield, a veritable waterfall that wipers battled in a futile effort. She peered cautiously ahead. Even at this slow speed, the wind still buffeted the car and shook it constantly. Her hands gripped the steering wheel tightly as she jerked the wheel back and forth in small, tight motions in a fight to keep the car in a relatively straight line.
“Just a little rain,” she said out loud. “What an idiot!” Her sarcasm echoed oddly, competing against the sounds of the beating rain in the otherwise empty SUV. “The idiot formerly known as my manager,” she added.
Her manager had seemed a decent enough guy when she had hired on last month, but in the last few hours her respect for him had plunged.
A stronger gust slammed into the car, causing it to shudder. She winced and gripped the steering wheel tighter, thankful for the bigger mass of the SUV rental.
Her whitened knuckles were a testament not only to the fury of the storm but also her fear barely held at bay.
Departing hotel employees, the latest weather report, and a late burst of sanity had finally prompted her departure, but drunk co-workers celebrating the hurricane waylaid her in the lobby. It took precious minutes to extricate herself and drive away.
Now the storm was almost on top of them all.
The two cousins completed their cooldown and headed back to Peter’s car. She breathed in the crisp air, craning her head to look up at the vibrant autumn light shining through the leaves. Far overhead in the blue sky a V of ducks headed southwest, honking faintly in the distance.
She suddenly pitched forward. Peter grabbed her arm to steady her just in time. “Careful!” he chuckled. “That sidewalk crack just attacked your foot.”
She ducked her head and blushed beet-red as her phone rang.
“Hi, Mom!” In the next instant, she collapsed onto a nearby bench, her face now unnervingly pale.
Driving south of town, you watch the two-lane blacktop curve back and forth around slight slopes of evergreens. You catch glimpses of a rushing creek bed on your left. Then, a large and beautiful pond, clear and shining, appears, and you almost miss your right turn on to Spruce Road. The scent of pine needles wafts in your windows in the cool mountain breeze.
Take either the short ferry from Port A. and drive down Mustang Island, or cross the Intracoastal Waterway from Corpus. Take Park Road 22 south down Padre Island, passing by beachfront parks and condos and Bob Hall Pier. Keep going until buildings disappear and sandy flat vegetation stretches out on either side. Keep going as the road ribbons onward. Keep going to the entrance to a little known national park, Padre Island National Seashore.
2016 Poker Run at Bird Island Basin
Pay your entrance fee, and keep a sharp watch out for the first turn westward, away from the Gulf and the pounding surf. A short drive, a cluster of cars, then you see colorful sails dancing like butterflies across the water. The sailboard rigs fill the water as they skim, race, flutter, flip, and tip.
Welcome to one of the best windsurfing spots in the world: Bird Island Basin.
A waterfall of rain cascaded over the windshield, the wipers battling futilely. She peered ahead cautiously, driving slowly and rocking the steering wheel side-to-side in tight, white-knuckled motion as she fought the winds.
The tree stood as a large sentinel on the land jutting into the bay. It spread its large branches across higher ground slowly swelling from the flat land around, too gradual to be called a hill.
Sunlight shines on the bay waters of the Texas Gulf Coast in a unique way. I took the longer route down the coast whenever I could, eschewing the faster interstate for the smaller highways and roads, weaving my way south past nearby smaller towns like Lake Jackson, Bay City, Palacios, and Tivoli.