Retracing the Butterfield Trail

I don't remember what turned on the light bulb in my head, or even when. Some time ago -months?- when riding a bike and traveling was something I used to do in a former lifetime (aka before broken ankle and surgery), visions of riding here, exploring there, anywhere a map would take me, filled my head. I missed riding; I missed traveling. I wondered what it was like one, even two hundred years ago, to travel. Where did they go? How did they get there? What did they encounter? Who were these people, anyway? And what was the land like back then?

A bulb lit up and an idea sprouted. Soon it grew. And now it's started. Retrace the Butterfield Trail through Texas.

Hours and hours have captured me pouring over resources: old maps, first and secondary accounts -passengers, drivers, ferrymen, sons and daughters of station masters, reports to the government, online archives, chronicles, whatever I can get my hands on. But my efforts are piddly next to some exceptional explorers, and I'm certainly not the first.

Putting the many pieces together can be overwhelming. One man's masters thesis was the result from three years of pouring over Texas land survey maps and minutes. The Conklings from El Paso wrote the most comprehensive text -three volumes- from their research and personally retracing the trail in the early 1930's. A.C. Greene and his wife retraced 900 miles of the trail in Texas and wrote a book in 1994. Two brothers rode most of the trail from Missouri to New Mexico on motorcycles (cruisers). Why am I doing it, too? Why do I do anything?

Because I want to.

I don't have the luxury of taking a week or two off from work to ride the trail from where it crossed the Red River to entering New Mexico west of El Paso. I wish I did, but I don't. So I'll have to retrace the trail in bits and pieces; it may even be disjointed. But from what I've experienced thus far, it could take me more than a year to fully explore it. Because unearthing exact locations is like hunting for the invisible snark. What I've found instead are 150 years of stories and history.

You can read about history in books and papers. But the only way one can experience history is to be there, talk to the people there about their families that have lived there for generations, listen to their stories, stand on those places in the stories and imagine.

No matter from whom you hear or from what you read the stories, they may differ slightly or greatly. Even first person accounts. No one now can know if it really happened this way or that, or if it was really here or there. But you learn enough, fit the pieces together as best as you can, and you can almost hear the clanking of the harnesses, the rolling of the wheels, smell the musty creeks and feel the coaches shudder as they roll across the prairies, over rocks, through the mud, feel the dust on your face in the desert, and the hunger and thirst when there is no water or food at the stations.

It becomes more real.

So this is what I have embarked upon. Using the Sherpa as my pony, traveling in between the past and modern times, searching for a ghostly trail that ran through Texas and history. Because I can.


Next: Lost crossing at Lost Creek

This will be interesting. Write/ride on.

Jacksboro: Lost crossing on Lost Creek

Resisting the urge to go back to sleep, I headed for the coffee maker like a zombie to a brain. My riding partner knocked at the door ready to roll and I was still grunting from lack of coffee. After a cuppa joe in me, I grabbed sandals and ‘the’ book to load on the pony.

Starting the naughty girl is like waking me up on a weekend morning; “I don’t wanna. Leave me alone!” Holding the choke wide open, pressing the magic button and muttering a little encouragement “Come on, baby”, the Sherpa will sputter and burst into a steady mechanical gurgle. I whisper, “Phew…”.

A thin fog put a warm perspective on the landscape and a welcomed damp coolness. Thanks to Ed’s pack mule, the KLR650, the rain liner and sandals found space in his panniers while my camera and sacred book settled into their home in the tail bag. Carrying capacity on the 250cc pony really needs an upgrade for extended trips, but the new tank bag helps for one-day jaunts. The morning’s fog didn’t guarantee rain, but it was best to be prepared.

Ready to roll out along the gravel driveway and private road, the engine sputtered like me needing more coffee. Coaxing the bike along in first gear for a bit seems to push the engine into “Lets go” mode and finally we can roll through the gears like Flicka on a cool morning. Sometimes she even bucks.

We rolled along the curvy tarmac for several miles and hit the highway. Oftentimes I feel like I’m in the starting gate on a racetrack with big thoroughbreds surrounding the little Pony-that-Could. Although the little bike has a big heart, she just can’t keep up with the big thoroughbreds and I often pull off on the shoulder to let them pass. But this little pony has been known to pull off the road, ride through ditches and gravel, turn itself around and sprint off in the opposite direction. All while I’m giggling inside my helmet.

Intending to arrive at the morning’s destination early, we rode one of the many FM roads, FM 199, that crisscross Texas like a drunken spider’s web. After dissecting Springtown, commercial places on the road gave way to old farmhouses and buildings with long stretches of pasture and oak scrub between them. Fog hung on the horizon and lingered on the road reluctant to leave which was fine with me. I welcomed the change from hot stark sunshine.

I slowed on the crest of a hill, pulled off the barely existing shoulder and onto the grass. I’ve passed this spot many times and noted the views to the area to the north and south, meaning to stop and photograph it and never do. I didn’t resist the urge this time.


Rolling hills thickly blanketed with oak, mesquite and pecans spread out in either direction. Distant hills blended into the fog and melted into the horizon. It was enchanting and I wondered what Ormsby saw from the open windows of his stagecoach as it rattled through the Texas Cross Timbers region.


Ormsby was the only through-fare passenger on the first Butterfield stagecoach in September of 1858. A newspaper reporter from New York, he boarded a Concord coach in St. Louis in which he lived for twenty-one days on it’s maiden trip across the southwest to San Francisco. His account of that trip was sent back in letters to New York when stopped at stations along the way. They were published in the New York Herald newspaper.

His first-person account is valuable because of the details provided on the route and from a perspective of an individual raised and living in an east coast city. His impressions are fresh and biased only from the perspective of someone molded by civilized and social life on the edge of a country experiencing growing pains. This was new and wild country to him.

Ormsby’s letters were collected and published in book format in 1942. It was reprinted in 2007 and a copy goes with me along with Greene’s book; when I remember. As I stood alongside the road that foggy morning, I wondered what Ormsby would think of the land and people today, just as I pondered on what it was like 150 years ago.

Looking south down the road we saw two motorcycles approaching and pull off the shoulder just beyond us. The man on the Gold Wing pulling a trailer chatted with us and explained he and his riding partner were support for two women on bicycles attempting a ‘century ride’, covering a hundred miles in one ride. The two men shouted encouragement as the women bicyclists passed us and rode north into the fog. I applauded their efforts; two wheels are two wheels, and a hundred-mile ride on leg power was commendable.


Today’s trip was a last minute decision. But isn’t that part of the fun? Friday afternoon I learned that two members of the Texas Apache tribe would be at Fort Richardson in Jacksboro. Driven by an interest in the conflict between Native Americans and the new Americans, I wanted to talk to them. The perspective of the ‘white man’ slants history books and popular culture; few references represent the Indians’ side of the story. This was my chance to hear their stories.

After checking into the main office at Fort Richardson State Park in Jacksboro, we parked our bikes in front of a building containing historical exhibits and an office for park staff. It is a replica of the original quarters for the soldiers that occupied the fort in the late 1800’s and contains duplicates of photographs and maps from that period on the Texas frontier.


Two white teepees were set up next to the building with two covered portable tables under an awning. The two Apache representatives wore clothing depicting what some tribe members wore in the late 1800’s and early 1900’s; a combination of new American styles made from manufactured textiles and their native hide footwear and embellishment. It was an example of Native Americans in transition.

Near the table I recognized one of the park staff whom I had met during a previous visit to the fort; I was hoping to see him again. Raymond is a walking resource and Sherlock Holmes on Texas forts and history. He researches archives and documents with a critical eye for detail and accuracy, considers local history and adeptly puts pieces together to offer a colorful and interesting puzzle. I wanted to tap into that resource again.

I introduced myself and successfully jogged his memory of our meeting in March by describing myself that day; “I was the person on a motorcycle.”

“Oh, yes! Now I remember you.”

I explained my current objective to retrace the Butterfield Stagecoach Trail and his eyes lit up. For the next several hours, Ed and I engaged three staff members on a hunt through history and time for the trail crossing on nearby Lost Creek. Little did I know that we would be exploring with a long-time resident of the area and entertained with stories handed down through generations. What we discovered was a connection between the five of us: a curiosity for history and the changes that occur over time in the land and its people.



To be continued.....

Part Two: The Lost Crossing

The ensuing discussion of the Butterfield Trail instilled excitement in five of us: three park staff and two intrepid riders. Raymond pulled out a map that was a gold mine: all the old trails and roads –Butterfield, stage stations, Chisholm, several military roads - marked historical events (Indian raids, Marlow boys shoot-outs, etc), prominent landmarks, old and forgotten towns, large mines, historic cemeteries, you name it. It was the best map I’ve seen yet depicting details for the northwest section of the Butterfield Trail.

With the one map between us, the only way for me to have a copy was to photograph the most important sections of it. It reminded me of being a spy and photographing secret documents.

One of the staff, a long-time resident of the Jacksboro area, was a treasure trove of detailed information on the trail and other local history. I sensed his reticence and I remembered a valuable lesson about some issues that probably permeate along this trail and with other historic sites: privacy.

You can’t move mountains if they don’t want to move. Rural people have their own sense of time and independence. They don’t like to be rushed or pushed. If they sense it, they’ll clam up. But if you gain their trust and confidence, they’ll move for you. Or share what their stories.

There’s an etiquette with rural folks; exchange pleasantries –weather, family, local happenings- then get down to business without pretense or fuss. But you don’t rush them. I can always tell who lives in the cities and who doesn’t when in rural areas. City people are impatient. Locals live local rural time; slower, richer, less stressed, and they usually live longer.

I sensed that he was uncomfortable in sharing what he knew with us. He had personal evidence and first-hand knowledge of the trail in that area. With honesty, I relayed my intentions hoping to reassure him: first, this is a passion of my own, for personal satisfaction and interest. Chronicling my pursuit of the trail through writing and photographs is secondary. Under no circumstances will I intrude upon anyone’s privacy, nor will I reveal any locations or information without expressed permission.

This is the dilemma of protecting and sharing history; preservation of remnants and evidence coupled with the fear that it will be destroyed, or their individual privacy invaded. It’s an uneasy position to be in, and I can understand why. We were told of individuals reporting archeological finds or historical ruins, even landmarks, only to be trampled, invaded, robbed, incessant phone calls or visits, and intruding publicity. Their privacy and their property were often rudely invaded. Sometimes the vary things they sought to protect were desecrated. People in that position are wary, and they can’t be blamed for that.

Eventually, realizing we shared a passion, his reticence melted with a warm confidence and we both shared information. Soon he piped up with, “Do you feel like going exploring?”

“I sure do!!”

He disappeared while the rest of us continued sorting pieces of the puzzle: where did the trail cross nearby Lost Creek? Raymond and Glenn related several stories they had been told. Although a state historical marker sits next to the highway south of town, they weren’t confident the location was accurate. When they told me the inscription, I laughed, “Yup. There’s at least a dozen markers from the Red River to El Paso with the same inscription.”

Soon our exploration partner rolled up to the back door with a mechanized cart. Although not a Kawasaki Mule, it was more than a golf cart. We headed out north of the fort and east on the state trailway that was once a railway bed. As we passed spots of significance along the creek, he and I pointed them out to Ed. Because I had extensively walked the park and fort during my previous visit, Ed had two tour guides.



Our personal staff guide related more history on the area and the town as we drove by: the modern bridge replaced an older one which was the main road from Fort Sill to Fort Worth (and ramparts of that bridge remain today), the town’s Sewell Park, the impending renovation of the old railway depot, encroaching seismic surveyors, loose cattle, and old railway beds.

Soon we headed right for Lost Creek rather than driving parallel to it. In front of us was an long-retired causeway that had been used for generations. It was the only other crossing of the creek other than the modern highway bridge.



On the other side of the creek was another graveled track forking off to each side and disappeared into the brush. Large rocks and boulders scattered across the creek with gravel presenting a rough surface. We were told that a low concrete bridge had replaced a washed out gravel slide decades ago when automobiles first arrived in the area. When the new highway and bridge were built directly south of town, this causeway was abandoned. Now it is maintained barely enough to provide a pathway for hiking and biking.

Examining the banks on each side I noticed a mixed sand and gravel slide like a ramp out of the creek. Thinking back on the maps and aerial photos I perused over, this seemed to be right on a county roadway that led from known locations of the trail east of the town. The information from the surveyors submitted to the courthouse only 18 years after the last stage rolled through Jacksboro agrees with this spot.



Between my comments and his knowledge, we agreed that this was the most likely candidate of where the trail crossed the creek.



When I mentioned that a station was on the north bank, his eyes lit up and he pointed to an old rock wall that had been the foundations for an old structure. He related his memories of growing up and fishing near this spot, stopping into a small store next to the rock wall, the people that lived there, and their history.

We were sure we found the trail crossing on Lost Creek, and the location of the old station, too.

Driving the cart up an overgrown fork ahead, we were stopped by a fence. On the other side was a gravel road; the county relinquished maintenance of it years ago. But there was no doubt that at one time, that gravel road wound down this bank south of the creek and crossed right at the old causeway.



Ormsby wrote his impressions as he approached the creek and the small town of Jacksboro (or, Jacksborough as it was spelled back then):

This town is in Jack County, and though but a year old contains a dozen houses and, I should judge, nearly two hundred inhabitants. It is on the edge of a large plain which, as we approached it, looked like a passive lake, so even and level was its surface; and one could easily imagine it to be a lake, with this town upon its borders.​

At the station after crossing the creek, fresh mules replaced those that had hauled the stage from the last station, sixteen miles to the northeast. And here we were in a small battery-powered cart possibly ambling on the same ground 150 years later. Like Butterfield’s wild mules, the cart bucked a few times and stopped dead in a rut on the causeway on the return jaunt.

Chatting as we slowly rolled crunching along on the gravel, the driver stopped the cart and asked, “You see that up ahead? Know what that is?”

Next: Rattles and Indians

A few years ago while crossing northern Utah headed for Promontory we found ourselves riding on a rather straight nicely graded dirt road . After coming to a creek crossing and seeing the remnents of the bridge pilings I realized we were riding on the road bed of the original trans continintal railroad abandoned in the 30's when the causway was built accross Tha Great Salt Lake . It sent chills up my back just thinking of the history and even more as we ride along and see two 1800's steam trains sitting in the desart at Promontory . I will be looking for the upcoming installments . SEYA

great stuff

Part Three: Rattles and Indians.


“You see that up ahead? Know what that is?”, he said pointing at what looked like a stick lying on the gravel in the pathway. Otherwise I didn’t see anything of significance.

“Um, no.”

“Watch this.”

Ed seemed to catch on; I heard exclamations behind me. Then I caught the word……’rattlesnake’. Holy crap. This was my first rattlesnake. Ten years I’ve lived in Texas and managed to avoid the infamous reptiles. Now here was a nice long specimen sunning itself on the gravel in front of us.

“I don’t have my snake stick with me, so I’ll try to dispatch it with a rock,” our park hunter claimed. I watched as he picked up a good-sized rock, hefting overhead and out. It missed the snake, but it sure got his attention. The nefarious rattle started and I was surprised at how loud it was. And long. As the snake slithered back into the dry brown grass, his color and markings put him in stealth mode: invisible. But his continued rattling made it known he was pissed at being disturbed.





Approaching the fort grounds again we continued to chat about the changes over the many years as it turned from fort to private cattle grazing, stockhands living in the ruins, grandmothers being born in the commander’s quarters, and finally passing into the nurturing care of the historical society. We thanked him profusely and bade our good byes. I hoped he drove away with a feeling of personal satisfaction as a guardian sharing something noteworthy.

The day beginning to feel warm and sticky, I was running out of steam and my foot was beginning to protest. I met and talked with Anita and Richard, members of the Texas band of Lipan Apaches, although they now live in California. Through great-grandmothers and great-grandfathers, they represented what the tribe was then and what it is now. Their mission to dispel the myths and present the truth about their tribe’s culture and history was commendable.

Active in tribe activities and festivities throughout California, Washington, Arizona, New Mexico and Texas, they strive to unite the Apache bands as one tribe, archive and share their history and culture so that others –native and non-native- may learn about what it was like, and is like, to be a Native American, an Apache, and what it is to be human.

In response to questioning I learned that her ancestor was a Lipan Apache chief with history dating back to the Spaniards and San Saba Mission on the river of the same name. This chief realized Europeans would inevitably be a part of the future on this land: changes were eminent.

Intelligent and a a sharp politician, he endeavored to maintain trade and peace with the Spaniards, who eventually entrusted him and gave him a Christian and Spanish surname, Castro. The chief’s band and other Lipans periodically lived around the San Saba mission and presidio, both of which I visited last April.

Castro’s band tried to warn the missionaries of a plot by the Comanche, Wichita and Kiowas to storm, rob and plunder the mission. Whether or not the Spanish believed the Lipans, the mission was stormed by over 200 Comanche and allies, killing all but a few at the mission as well as any Lipan Apache that were nearby. Because the Lipan and Comanche were longtime antagonists*, most of the nearby Apaches slipped into and out through the darkness, away from the hostilities. Both the Apache and missionaries were outnumbered and outclassed.

The Lipans aided in the fight against the Spanish for the New Republic of Texas and served as scouts against the their enemy the Comanche. After Texas joined the union, the Comanche and the armies of the new state and nation drove most of the Lipan Apache south of the border. Commonly, the armies of Mexico and the new Union retaliated on any Indian tribe nearby for atrocities often committed by the Comanche and other renegade bands. The Apaches were an easy target by both their enemies, and labeled rebellious and renegades when they tried to defend themselves.

As Lipans were scattered, many by forced emigration to Forts Griffin and Belknap, small groups settled in the Rio Grande valley. When President Grant ordered increased campaigns against the Apache and Comanche, Col. McKenzie and his troops crossed into Mexico in 1873 and raided an Apache village in Remolino. McKenzie knew that the Apache men were away on a hunt, so he expected little if any resistance.

His troops burned the entire village, killing women, children and old, taking captives later deposited on reservations in New Mexico and Oklahoma. A few villagers escaped and hid amongst the local Mexicans, outwardly adopted their lifestyles, language and culture, blending in enough to survive.

Yet a few retained their own Apache culture, language and stories, whispered between parents, sometimes unshared with their children to protect them, but much dissolved into time. Anita’s great-grandmother was eight years old at the time of the raid, hiding in bushes as cavalryman killed her mother and 18-month brother.

Anita’s grandparents and parents were raised as Mexicans to retain anonymity as a matter of survival. Anita and Richard, also a descendant of that village, travel and visit various places to present their side of history. If you read the historical markers and plaques, they all relate how the West was won from the marauding Indians. Yet they don’t relate the Indians side of the stories; their histories.

Several members of the Apache tribe formed together to construct a historical monument representing their side of the events. A reproduction was on display at their table on the lawn of the fort.

The Native Americans are not romantic legends and exempt of committing atrocities; they did. But so did the increasing number of Euro-Americans as they forced them off their ancestral lands. History texts, stories and even historical markers present an imbalanced perspective of how this country, and Mexico, evolved and changed hands. It’s time the stories of the first residents of this land gave their perspectives and accounts of past events.

It’s time for us to listen.

Anita showed me how to peel a prickly pear cactus leaf and eat it. It wasn't bad; I liked it better than rhubarb! I can see why it was part of the diet of desert Indians; a source of vitamins and water. She also gave me a cut mequite bean to taste. It was surprisingly sweet with a hint of ginger or nutmeg. This also was a dietary regular, grinding the beans into a flour for flat bread and feeding to horses and cattle.

I hope to see Anita again. She reminded me of a good friend and mentor, Marta of the Penobscot tribe. When Marta was not teaching at the university in Boston, she was the medicine woman on the reservation near Old Town, Maine, where I was at college. Both she and Anita are warm caring individuals, as true and honest to the bone as a person can be.



Now hunger was pinching me in the stomach, reminding me that it was very empty. On recommendation from Glenn, Ed and I headed into the town of Jacksboro to find food.

Next: Jacksborough (formerly known as Mesquiteville), now known as Jacksboro

Part Four: Jack, what?

Per directions, we found Case Grande on the north side of the courthouse square. Immediately I saw parking spaces in the middle of the street. I’ve never seen this before I discovered it in front of Ranchman’s Steakhouse in Ponder.

“Whatta you mean, park in the middle of the street? You can do that here?”

I always feel like a rebellious teenager in a jalopy stopping in the middle of a city street, getting out and walking around with a ‘Neener, neener!’ Must be a Texas thang.

So we parked in the middle of the street, headed for the door and walked inside to see only a few tables occupied. The tables and chairs were oak-stained Mexican style furniture. It was pleasant not to see veneer and laminated plastic. The big windows and big overhead fans gave the place a comfortable and relaxing environment.



The special was frijitas with beef and marinated shrimp with onions on a hot skillet, real guacamole, lettuce, cheese, sour cream, beans, and rice. "Yummmmmmmmmmy....." It was a lot of food so we split it and both of us were full. It was an enjoyable meal and I’d recommend it to anyone visiting the town.

Walking back outside, hunger quenched, I looked around the square. Jacksboro may be the county seat but its seat probably had seen better days. Many of the storefronts were closed and dusty. The courthouse was so dull, dismal and unimaginative that I thought it was an abandoned building.

What caught my eye were several buildings on south side of the square: familiar cut stone from nearby quarries and an architecture style that harkened way back more than a century. Sure enough, a faded 1887 was chiseled into a façade stone on one building. Although many details on the tops of these buildings were deteriorating, and the stone work was dark and dingy, their pride and glory remained as if they still wore their grace from days of old.



An outstanding feature was the series of murals painted on the boarded store fronts on the southwest corner of the square. The bright reds, yellows and blues pulled in the eye and added sunshine and rainbow to the otherwise street of dark stone. The painter(s) did an excellent job on the mural. I hope such motivation continues to renovate the older stone buildings on down the street. (a panoramic view is in the first post of this thread)





As we left Jacksboro, a sadness overwhelmed me. The town square was rife with history, yet neglected. Whereas on the perimeter of town were modern stores, business, and fast food places: superficial and no character. It was like an explosion outward leaving the center dead with bits of charred commercialism scattered in the blast zone. I felt a pang of sadness that because the square was old, it was forgotten and tossed away rather than cared for. Seems like many historical remnants follow that path. Ignore the past and carry on, sometimes repeating our mistakes.

The ride home was pleasant until reaching Springtown, which is usually congested with traffic. A sprinkling of rain cooled us off some, but it was still sticky in town. We spun off on a road that follows the valleys and hills out of town. It’s like walking through the closet door and entering Narnia with rolling pastures, quiescent cattle, horses with necks bent to the ground, tractors munching vegetation, bikes passing in and out of thick twisty oaks as they line the creek bottoms.

I love riding in rural and wild America. It reminds me of what it is to be human, whereas the cities always make me question who and what we are and where are we going? Will we really like it when we get there? Why do the cities remind me of anthills? Because they are.

I live to ride out in the open and go back and forth in time and space. To remember what we are, why we are here, and who I am. And sometimes to forget it all.

Next: Three bridges in Bridgetown

We interrupt this thread to bring you an announcement. The poster (or is that, poser? ) will take a hiatus for 4-5 days as she disappears out into the air on her wild and crazy green pony. No phones, no watches, no names, no numbers ("I'm not a numbah!!" Nice Spot; you can't come along.). Who knows, maybe she'll have more Butterfield news upon her return.

Over and out.

For all of the oil revenue that has pumped through Jack County, I find the secondary streets to be abysmal.
The colorful panorama that you photographed is covering what used to be a great pharmacy and soda fountain.
There are a lot of things in Jacksboro that have vanished and I miss them.
It seems like they had several opportunities and wasted them all.............

I'm not even certain that Hurd's is still open. When I first ate there, it was a wee little structure east of the courthouse about a block on US59.
Some years ago they moved north of the square on US281 into an older house on the left that set back from the main road.
The burgers were always great. I should head to Jacksboro.

donroger1 said:

For all of the oil revenue that has pumped through Jack County, I find the secondary streets to be abysmal.
The colorful panorama that you photographed is covering what used to be a great pharmacy and soda fountain.
There are a lot of things in Jacksboro that have vanished and I miss them.
It seems like they had several opportunities and wasted them all.............

Click to expand...

Apparently, Jacksboro and several communities very close by had much larger population in the late 1800's - early 1900's. Especially west of the town square. I've always wondered about the train of oil revenue; where it goes. Obviously not into the communities, although they used to fund the state's schools (not sure if they still do).

I intend to visit with the historical society one of these Saturdays. It would be interesting to learn more about the town. The fort/state park is a wonderful place to pass a day or weekend. Oddly enough, I feel more connection with Jacksboro than the town I live in.

The park is having a historical event (cavalry, etc) last weekend in September. I'm going to bike camp down in the hollow; be a fun close getaway for the weekend. Anyone's welcome to join in.

I'm not even certain that Hurd's is still open. When I first ate there, it was a wee little structure east of the courthouse about a block on US59.
Some years ago they moved north of the square on US281 into an older house on the left that set back from the main road.
The burgers were always great. I should head to Jacksboro.

Click to expand...

If you do find Hurd's, let me know! My graduate student related many a time he and his family drove through and stopped in Jacksboro on the way north for horse camping/riding trips. He mentioned Hurd's and the Green Frog as places to find the best hamburgers in Texas. I didn't see either when I was there, but I wasn't looking for them either. Nor did he know if they were still in existence. If they are there, I see a bike lunch in the near future

I really like those old stone buildings on the square. I hope they preserve them. I think one is a historical museum? It had old cameras on ancient tripods in the store front. Everything but the restaurant and the tiny hardware store were closed or vacant. I watched two local cops wearing latex gloves hauling boxes out of a building. Now if that doesn't look suspicious......

Another funny event: just as we walked in to eat, two young tall country boys (you know, the tight Wranglers, T-shirt covering long lanky limbs, Justin Ropers, ball cap, a wad of chew, honking big ATV's in the beds of big honkin' newish pickup trucks) parked next to the bikes (in the middle of the street) and ate inside. Young boys looking like cool young men.

They left shortly before we did, but were still at their trucks when we came back from exploring the town square. They looked sheepish. As I walked by and looked to see what was going on, I noticed a locksmith trying to open the cab door on one of the two trucks. One of the boys locked his keys inside. They looked a bit less confident. ("Dude, how the h@#^& did you lock your keys inside???")

Reminded me of living out in the country myself. With all the challenging hard work and stuff you do out on the ranches and farms and you lock your stupid keys in the truck in town..... (um, don't ask me how I empathize so well)

Have a nice ride.

Great read Elzi......always good to know what's practically outside our backdoor.

TexasShadow said:

.........One of the boys locked his keys inside. They looked a bit less confident. ("Dude, how the h@#^& did you lock your keys inside???")......

Click to expand...

I too have always "liked" Jacksboro.

35 years ago, I would marvel that the vehicles were all unlocked with keys in the ignition and woman's purses in the front seats with windows down.

I have a confession. Trying to portray the Butterfield Stage Trail of 1858 pieces at a time -out of geographical order- is like trying to piece together a mountain blown to smithereens by a volcano. It can't be done.

Thus far, I've visited a few locations where the stage route ran and stopped -Jacksboro, Bridgeport, Forts Richardson and Belknap, and some inconspicuous places in between, with large important gaps yet to be explored. A zig zagged journey.

Each place I go, the more I learn, the more each builds on top of the prior and expanded by the next. To write up each one disjointedly would be an injustice.

What I'm learning most is that to retrace the trail one hundred and fifty years later is nearly impossible. Very few traces remain. I'm grabbing pieces of stories from residents, recollections from books, tidbits from historical society staff, vague trailings on maps, geocaching historical markers, and with a vivid but controlled imagination trying to follow a trail of history in not only this state but this country.

No one can endeavor a pursuit of one piece of history in isolation. History doesn't exist in isolation; not in one point of time and space. History is like time; it flows. Events flow. Not linearly, but dynamically.

Immersed in reading first, second and third accounts of life before, during and after 1858-1861 is like trying to live more than a hundred lives and lifetimes. Then to visit these places is akin to watching everything transpire underneath and in front of you, like watching a movie on the very ground you stand on. You can almost hear them, see them, and feel what they were feeling. It's like seeing ghosts.

Then you find yourself in a diner with modern cars and trucks, modern people, eating fat hamburgers and french fries smothered with ketchup, listening to Elvis or Cold Play on the speakers, and you wonder how different it is now from then. On a journey back in time like this you do know. And you know what happened between then and now.

It amazes me sometimes how far we've come, and wonder how far we will go. What will it be like in one hundred and fifty years from now?

The other most apparent lesson in all this is that probably 99% of the trail is on private property. Back then, most of the communities in western Texas didn't exist (or were fledglings). Even a decade later (~1868), many communities grew up and died. There were more people living in and just outside Jacksboro in the late 1800's than there are now.

South and west of Fort Belknap, Texas was wild country. Many areas were not owned by anyone, although many claim they did or wanted to. Butterfield drivers didn't have to stop and open and close gates, ask permission to travel on the land, didn't even have to step over or duck under fencing. It was wide open country.

Now nearly every inch is plowed, cemented, tarmaced, drowned, trodden, dumped on, flooded, driven on, blown up, dug up, drilled in, or pooped upon. What really hits home is what happens when population escalates. And we erase all that has come before us.

That's okay. I'm still finding pieces.
And having a ball on my little wild green pony doing it.

In a few weekends I'll be where it started in Texas: Colbert's Ferry Crossing on the Red River. The journey on the trail from the Red River to Jacksboro will be completed that weekend. The next weekend I'll fill in the blanks (and some pretty tall important ones) in between Jacksboro and Newcastle. More than anywhere thus far, history was boiling over in Jack, Palo Pinto and Young counties during those years. By 1861, all you-know-what was breaking loose; the trail had to change course to by-pass some of molten mess (Gainesville), down through Bridgeport. I'm following the original route to begin with, plugging in the two route changes later (one in the north, the other south near the Rio Grande).

I hope to continue south on the trail from Fort Phantom Hill next month.

So, the thread will resume in a few weeks.

(p.s. Fort Richardson is having a muster the last weekend in September if anyone is interested. I'm camping out there for the weekend. We could make it a group campsite if anyone's interested.)

Later......

Except for about 20 miles of backroads between Forestburg and Jacksboro, I've traced the Butterfield Trail from Colbert's Ferry crossing on the Red River to Jacksboro. Also explored the Trail from Fort Belknap west 3/4 of the way to Fort Griffin. As soon as I cover the last 20 miles to Jacksboro, I'll write it up.

This weekend was fantastic. We were able to visit Colbert's Ferry Crossing on the Texas side along with Bob Montgomery, who speaks at various functions and events on the history of the Trail and leads tours, the superintendent of Eisenhower State Park, and Casey from Wells Fargo in California. Casey is tracing the trail in its entirety from Missouri to San Fransisco in a van and uploading posts to his blog site (Guided By History) as well as short videos on YouTube. He and his associate interviewed the park superintendent on video because it was the park's 50th anniversary and they hosted a Butterfield Trail Day.

I tried to obtain access to the location of Colbert's Ferry crossing on the Oklahoma side of the Red River by contacting the OK Historical Society. Despite the efforts of a kind woman who went beyond the call of duty to contact and try to arrange access, the current owner of the property was unaware of the historical significance of their property (despite the remains on it) and unwilling to allow any access to the location. By anybody.

Luckily, someone at the park office knew the owner of the property on the Texas side. Arrangements were made for several of us attending Bob's talk in the park to visit the place where ferry passengers forded the banks of the Red River on the Texas side. It was an exciting opportunity for many of us. I also enjoyed the conversations with Bob and Casey about a common passion and pursuit. We also shared notes on locations of the trail in Texas along with tidbits of history.

After that, it was on the trail again. I have to admit this was one of the most fun three days yet I've had on this endeavor. I've met so many wonderful people and seen parts and personalities of Texas I haven't before. I traversed small sleepy towns that were once thriving and bustling communities of commerce, others that faded away into nothing more than an old community center and unkempt cemetery; towns that still retain bricked streets and ancient grain mills, quaint quiet communities where nothing is open on Sundays, rolling green cattle ranches with narrow roads that alternate between gravel and old tarmac, and well traveled roads and communities many feet under water never to be seen and heard from again, only by boats and fish.

It's amazing how we've transformed a country from navigating only on rivers and rolling wheels on prairies to iron horse belching smoke or fumes, to roads chocked with trucks, cars and SUVs. But one can still find narrow roads full of solitude, only the munching of grazing cows and laundry strung on clothes lines flapping in the breeze. And the sweet smell of fresh-cut hay.

Riding through all this on a dualsport bike is almost like riding a pony through time. From the city to the towns to the horse and cattle ranches where pastures dwarf the modest houses, crossing rivers, chasing engines and freight cars, waving at folks sitting on porches, and ranchers in their trucks and cowboy hats.

This is where the real meat of our country lies. Not in the cities, but in these small towns and rural ranches. These are the real people. It's ironic that I started tracing the Butterfield Trail and now find I'm finding the real people of this state.

I'm loving every minute of it.

Photos and stories to come. Now it's time to sleep.

The Stagecoach

A teaser:

Meet Casey and his van across the country retracing the Trail:



This is a Concord stagecoach, much like the one used on part of the Butterfield Trail. This is a refurbished original, bought on e-bay and originally from Bangor, Maine!





A view from inside and out the window of the coach.


More about the stagecoaches.

Celerity wagons, often called 'mud wagons', were used on most of the trail in Texas and New Mexico. Although the Concords got all the attention, I'd like to see a celerity wagon. I learned where one is and I'll be visiting it this December

After seeing the chuck wagon up close, and learning about how the iron rim width was used as a gauge of the tonnage capacity of a wagon I was captured by the complexity of the simple wooden wagon wheel. Next I was able to compare that wagon's wheels to the stage, and a buckboard yesterday.

I resolved to learn more about the parts and pieces, and to try to make one myself. I found some information including a set of plans for a simple 14" cart wheel. It is light duty, and made up of 26 separate wooden parts, one steel tire, and a copper pipe to use as a bushing inside the hub.

This afternoon I used a bit of pine, and some basic hand tools to form up one spoke as a practice part. The pine is too soft, and the tools are not all quite right... using a hunting knife as a spokeshave..... but it was a good way to spend part of an afternoon.

Here is the spoke..





And the not quite right hand tools that formed it... without loss of skin or blood.

Good job Ed. That is cool.

Elzi and Don
If looking for a burger in Jacksboro don't look for Hurd's... the burger family is Herd, and can be found 2 or 3 blocks north of the square on 281 across from the Methodist church. The Hurd family in Jacksboro is in the oilfield service business on 281 on the south end of town.
Claude Herd recently retired after 40 or 50 years of serving burgers and turned it over to his son. The last time we ate there the son was cooking and the burgers were as good as ever. This makes at least three generations of Herds to serve up burgers in Jacksboro. A Herdburger run is always a good excuse to and !!

A person can read history books, watch documentaries and movies, listen to the regurgitation of historical facts and dates from their chair or couch. But you can't really know history unless you are there. The very ground, creek or river water, rocks, sand, mountain or fertile valley..... what ever you stand on or near. Perhaps that is why history repeats itself; we don't really know what happened and why.

"No matter where you go, there you are." Where you stand or sit imparts a sense of place: people, animals, flora, fauna; birth, life, death. All of it was there before you, are there with you now, and will be long after you leave. Natural and man-made events are a movie on constant play and reruns. And we're all together actors on this stage of time.

If you put down your book, turn off your television or radio, or walk out of the classroom, place yourself in any location and you can experience a piece of that history. Whether it was hundreds or tens of years ago or in the making, being receptive will impart knowledge and a sense of what transpired before, during and perhaps what the future may bring. It all flows along into a narrative full of life: emotions, dreams and dashed hopes, joy and pain, merriment and anger, success and strife.

History is the documentary of our humanity.

By plane, car, van, boat, horse, bicycle or hiking staff you, too, can visit history. I choose to do so on two-wheels: a motorcycle. When I was very young, I dreamt of crossing the country on my horse. Well, I am in a sense; many horses inside an engine.

In Lessons of History, Will Durant wrote, "Civilization exists by geological consent, subject to change without notice. " Considering the recent events of Hurricane Ike, and how modern and primitive man flexed and bent around the climate and geology of the southern United States (and northern old Mexico) to eke out livelihoods, it amazes me how rapid our culture has grown. Many call this progress, but some aspects of our past are worth salvaging, retaining them in our current society. Lest we forget, it was to those who came before us, and those who were already here, that we owe much of our prosperity. They blazed the trails for us, losing family, friends, and neighbors along the way. We can learn from them.

Regardless, tracing history and the stories of this country over the last 150-175 years is a lesson in how flexible we really are, and how far we've come. One can't help but wonder how far we will go.

"At any moment a comet may come too close to the earth and set our little globe turning topsy-turvy in a hectic course, or choke its men and fleas with fumes or heat; or a fragment of the smiling sun may slip off tangentially -- as some think our planet did a few astronomic moments ago--and fall upon us in a wild embrace ending all grief and pain. We accept these possibilities in our stride, and retort to the cosmos in the words of Pascal: 'When the universe has crushed him man will still be nobler than that which kills him, because he knows that he is dying, and of its victory the universe knows nothing.'"
- Will Durant

So I embarked upon not only tracing the Butterfield Overland Trail but many, many trails, paths and traces crisscrossing through the land and history. No book can be as rich and rewarding as traveling, experiencing history then and now, like watching a movie unfold before you, at times fast forwarded. And what better way than on a motorcycle.

st driver said:

Claude Herd recently retired after 40 or 50 years of serving burgers and turned it over to his son. The last time we ate there the son was cooking and the burgers were as good as ever. This makes at least three generations of Herds to serve up burgers in Jacksboro. A Herdburger run is always a good excuse to and !!

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I'll be there either this weekend or next. Got a location for those famous burgers?

st driver said:

Elzi and Don
If looking for a burger in Jacksboro don't look for Hurd's... the burger family is Herd, and can be found 2 or 3 blocks north of the square on 281 across from the Methodist church. The Hurd family in Jacksboro is in the oilfield service business on 281 on the south end of town.
Claude Herd recently retired after 40 or 50 years of serving burgers and turned it over to his son. The last time we ate there the son was cooking and the burgers were as good as ever. This makes at least three generations of Herds to serve up burgers in Jacksboro. A Herdburger run is always a good excuse to and !!

Click to expand...

Thanks! I was running from memory. I know where they are but google resolution doesn't allow me the normal accuracy in mapping.

TexasShadow said:

I'll be there either this weekend or next. Got a location for those famous burgers?

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North on 281 from the courthouse, there is a good sized service station / convenience store on the left. Three houses later on the left is Herd's. The house is set back from the road to allow parking. A little farther north on the east side of the road is "The Green Frog" restaurant. It was always good for a hearty breakfast before heading out on a ride.

This is Herd's Burgers on the west side of 281

donroger1 said:

North on 281 from the courthouse, there is a good sized service station / convenience store on the left. Three houses later on the left is Herd's. The house is set back from the road to allow parking. A little farther north on the east side of the road is "The Green Frog" restaurant. It was always good for a hearty breakfast before heading out on a ride.

Click to expand...

Looks like you went on a scouting run
Thanks for doing that and relaying the locations. I won't be up there as planned this weekend, but will the weekend after, doing my own scouting. I suspect I'll hit both that weekend