Welcome to Texas

Hey, welcome to Texas. Come on it, stay a while. Make yourself at home.

How to Land a Monster Fish

Okay, I know by looking at these images you will quickly realize my prowess as a master angler. These fish were HUGE, regardless of what the pictures look like. My hands are HUGE, did I mention that? Throws off the scale. Get it...scale????

Oh, and these wonderous snaps were made by another Milnor, this time sis checking in through the viewfinder. She might have been slow to process, scan and transmit, but they are finally here.

This little piece of water is a grand place, so peaceful, and nobody else around for miles.

All fish were returned to the glassine green to swim another day.

How I Met Paul Harvey

South Texas: 1980

One hour before sunrise.

I'm awakened by someone tugging on my arm. "Danno, let's go."

"Oh come on, it can't be that late already can it? I'm tired."

"Come on, let's go."

Too young for coffee, I grabbed my jeans, long-sleeve camo shirt, hat, and snake books, knee-high, slick plastic jobs that I had to uncurl to get around my legs, and headed for the door of the trailer.

Time to hunt.

Leaving the trailer before sunrise the air was already thick, muggy, and the sweat began the moment my body hit the outside world. Sweating was like breathing, just a natural part of the being alive in those parts.

I slowly slid my Ruger Red Label, over-under 12-gauge from my case and felt the oil on my hands. Pops always made sure I cleaned my gun before I put it away. He loved the smell of one particular gun oil, loved it, as much as anything revolving around the experience of a hunt.

It's funny how that works. For me, these hunts were about solitude, about the elements, about not only being alone on the Earth, but in my mind. For mom it was about the dogs, watching them hunt, watching them come alive the moment they saw us reach for the guns. When they knew the hunt was on they were uncontrollable, unleashed from their "normal" routine, unleashed into the vastness to do what their DNA told them to do. But for dad, it was that damn gun oil.

I dropped shells into the chambers and snapped the gun up, making sure the safety was on, my shell belt strapped to my waist.

And then we walked, through rough country, where most things that slithered or stung were known to be, but invisible in the darkness. As we walked in the black the world seemed smaller, compressing in on itself before it exploded and expanded the moment the sun broke the horizon line. As we walked, the brush screamed and tore at us, as if it say, "this is our land and we won't make it easy."

Approaching the edges of the tank, walking slowly, watching as the opal blue sky turned toward daylight and reflected back at me.

In position, we waited. Scattered about the area, each of us left alone.

The insects would cover us, buzzing, itching, biting, slapping, getting in our eyes, ears, and swimming in our sweat as it rolled about.

Moments before the sun breached there was light enough to see the air filled with dove, the prize for the day, and the ingredients for a racing heart and eyes focused just that bit more.

Soon I would smell the burn of powder, but I have no memory of sound, any sound at all, until I would reemerge into the world to the high whine of ringing in my ears.

Hours later, the air filled with trails from the smoker, the doves cooked and consumed, we would pack up and head back to our lives and routines.

On this day I rode in the front with dad and he turned on the radio, something he rarely did. Years of shooting, he couldn't hear much at all, so radio was an annoying sound he could never understand.

On this day the voice coming from the junky plastic speakers of the 4x4 was different, odd, and unlike any voice I had heard before. Dad made mention of it, of the source, and I made a mental note.

"And now you know the rest of the story." "Paul Harvey, good day."

That's all it took, just that once, and this man, his voice, his style, was forever a part of my being.

I don't know what the public opinion is of Paul Harvey, I never cared, because for me it doesn't matter. Harvey was unique, in an age of slow homogenization, where conformity is safe and perhaps marketable.

So on this day, in the bowels of the wooly, South Texas wilds, I met Paul Harvey.

I can't say I followed his career, or made a point to search for him, but the moment I would hear his voice, all of this would come back as if it was yesterday.

So at 90 he left us, but I'll bet that voice will remain in our minds and on our airways for time to come.

Western Land

Marfa, Texas.

Prior to this last trip, the last time I was in Marfa was when I was in school. I had driven west to explore Big Bend and had taken a quick pass through the small town, a town famous for it's petroleum past as well as it's dance with the Hollywood elite.

But, other than the occasional movie poster, there was little reference to the outside world. Marfa was, and still is, about the landscape, and what people do on that landscape, namely ranching. Unbeknownst to me, modern-art was also a part of this place.

With the arrival of Donald Judd, the face of Marfa was etched with new lines, those of world-class, minimal art, and the shock waves of the creative set began to emminate from this tiny, rural community.

Judd Foundation

The roots of Judd began to take hold, as did his footprint on the community. The landscape took on new objects, those beyond the cow and oil pumps, as the ferocious, West Texas wind now blew past enormous, outdoor art installations. Buildings once used as government offices and barracks were now massive warehouses for permanent Judd installations.

I'm not sure how the locals felt but I would imagine they were somewhat shocked by it all.

Being in Marfa today is a little different. Again, I had not been for many years, but it was somewhat odd to see ramshackle homes sitting next to brand new, contemporary art galleries. I wondered how the locals felt about the art world coming to town.

We arrived late on a Sunday and in Marfa's case, the art community is closed on Monday and Tuesday, as is much of the town.

Finding food can be difficult, unless you are like me and like nothing in this world more than a gas station delicacy of some sort.

Frankly, I found the energy in Marfa to be a little...offset shall we say. I wondered if the art world was tolerated due to the money they bring to the community or does it go beyond? Do the locals turn out for the openings? Is there truth to this merger , or has the town become just another "must see," on the hipster map of the United States?

I don't have any answers. As usual, I was on the move, only staying in town for a little more than a day, but I wonder just how things play out. I wonder why Marfa? And will this idea continue, or should it? There is a vastness to West Texas that just sucks you in, but a part of that vastness that is so important is the lack of humans.

You won't find two groups of people more different, ranchers and artists, but perhaps, in the end, that is what will save this place.