I’ve been doing more reading than writing lately. Everyone is on the trail and posting like crazy. I’m so proud of total strangers. It’s a feeling I’m not accustomed to, rooting for people I don’t know. Maybe I just hope they make it because it gives me hope that I can do it too when it’s my turn. I don’t know. What I do know is that I’m keeping up with my current attitude of being happy where I am for the time being. Where am I? Texas! What does Texas have? Well, turns out we have tons of wildflowers, state parks, old friends, and spur collections.
I took a break from reading 20 posts a day, threw my gear in the car, and headed off to Mother Neff State Park. Not exactly training for the AT at my cushy car camping site but I had ulterior motives. I got to drive through wildflower filled Chappell Hill and take a stroll through Washington-On-The-Brazos on my way there, I got to have a campfire dinner with an old friend and her husband who live about 20 minutes from Mother Neff, and I got to hit up the Mitchell Spur Exhibit at the Coryell Museum and Historical Center on my way home.
Although my pictures don’t do them justice, the wildflowers were amazing. The auto mode on my camera has issues with red apparently. I’ll have to set it manually next time but at least now I know. I’ve always liked wildflowers… the rebels of the gardening world. Nature doesn’t need us to make them pretty. They’re doing just fine on their own. There’s something magical about fields full of them. They lined almost every road I chose. It was one of those trips were getting there was just as much fun as the destination. The best ones I saw were through Navasota on my way home with a dead battery in my camera. Of course! I haven’t gone through all the pictures from the park and the museum so here are just the best of the flowers. Hope you like them as much as I did.
“Love is not a hot-house flower, but a wild plant, born of a wet night, born of an hour of sunshine; sprung from wild seed, blown along the road by a wild wind. A wild plant that, when it blooms by chance within the hedge of our gardens, we call a flower; and when it blooms outside we call a weed; but, flower or weed, whose scent and colour are always, wild!”
― John Galsworthy, The Forsyte Saga