7:33 a.m. - 2023-09-15
Ranch Rd 337
Started working in a new shop last week. It's an hour away and I leave the house just before dawn.
That hour finds me wending (winding, too) through a remote part the of the Hill Country. The terrain is beautiful and empty; two attributes I tend to encounter in conjunction. Be it on rugged stretches of the California coast, in the vast isolation of the Utah desert or the wooded heart of the Appalachians; land remains pristine because it lacks commercial viability, and hence resists development.
There's no danger of that on this commute; development. Not along this fifty mile stretch of wild and useless terrain. Useless do in part to our stony soil, but owing primarily to the region's eponymous hills. Unlike their gently sloping sisters to the north and east (towards Austin and San Antonio respectively) these ranges resist encroachment, both through the rugged chaos of their topography and the impractical limitations imposed by their isolation...this is a rough-cut parcel of the state, set squarely between nowhere and nowhere-else. I drink it in.
There's a bit of open vale between Medina and Vanderpool with a sweeping view of the hills as they elevate to flank the road, where one's eye is drawn to the sheer limestone cliffs that punctuate these cedar-choked rises...instinctively perhaps? Searching for the prehistoric intrigue and comfort of a cave-mouth? Having grown up on long road trips in a family of historians and raconteurs, it's impossible for me to look up at these towering plateaus without imagining a cadre of Comanche warriors on horseback; returning my gaze from their lofty vantage, frowning in judgment as my 2006 Chrysler mini-van makes its way through their valley...
Once you ascend into said hills, they demand your attention; via switchbacks, hairpin turns and blind curves, via radical climbs and elevation drops. There's a scenic novelty to it all, a “wow factor” and appreciation of the engineering that made such a road possible...but considering that the last “roller coaster” leg of my journey is sixteen miles long, it can be a bit much, commute-wise. So much so that, three days into the gig, I rifled through my travel-suitcase in search of my dive-trip Dramamine before setting out, because I was tired of showing up carsick to the job. It also makes this length of highway a mecca for bikers...a right of passage I'm told, and apparently it's thick w/them on holiday weekends. This compelled the Highway Department to post a sign at either end of the road, a sign that's featured a running, motorcycle-specific body-count since its erection in 2006. This toll stands now at twenty-two and, as a former cyclist, I can see how; if you take one of these turns too wide and fast you'll find yourself and your bike cut-loose from the mountain and plummeting towards your probable demise, and if you veer too hard inside you risk colliding with unseeable oncoming traffic...although the chances of the latter happening on a weekday morning in September would involve a spectacular bit of bad luck. Because on my first day driving down, when it occurred to me to count, I passed four cars.
Four cars; that's what rush hour looks like on the one hour commute between nowhere and nowhere else. Four cars and my thoughts and some beautiful scenery...oh, and the sunrise of course. Big fan of the sunrise, me. Which isn't to disparage sunsets (you don't live in L.A. for twenty something years without developing a deep appreciation) but there's something wantonly public about a sunset; a brazen backdrop for a barbeque or poolside cocktail after work, a knowingly brilliant canopy under which traffic creeps on the highway beyond. There's an intimacy to the sunrise, though...like a lover's whispered secret, like the sleepy affirmation of morning sex; it feels more personal. Yesterday's came amidst a bit of weather, a teaser of rain that tinted the dawn a deep rose, and a dewpoint that found the cypress and pecan around the riverbeds skirted in seasonal fog. This cumulus coincidence occasioned a sunrise rainbow as well, something that impressed me as more strange than beautiful...
~ ~ ~
So why, Ernst, are you driving fifty miles to someone else's shop, to work for a paltry helper's wage when you have a backlog of your own clients in town? Well...there's something to be said for the discipline, for packing a lunch and having a timetable, for putting your head down and applying yourself. I tend to work “harder” for someone else, just as I work harder when I have a helper of my own, and there's a degree of professional fitness that I pride myself in maintaining now, at my age. There's also the fact that it's someone else's job, which, as a contractor, is an absolute luxury...my brain is blissfully empty on the commute down and back (aside from those Comanche warriors of course, and my compulsive nicknaming of geographic features, e.g. Tittybump Mountain, Little Tittybump Mountain...Big 'Ol Titty Mountain, etc). The main reason though, is that the “boss” is a talented cat w/a nice shop, resources I may take advantage of in the future.Because he builds bars and restaurants. That was my bread-and-butter for a few years in L.A. (before the real-estate boom hijacked all available hammers for that easy, dirty, house-flipping money). This dude made his bones in Houston, building or renovating well over fifty spots, apparently. Earning him the dosh to buy a log cabin in the hill country, w/land enough to erect a sweet shop...but his high paying gigs are still back in Houston. Which is where I'll probably be headed for this build-out. I respect his chops though and, judging from the work we've done so far w/reclaimed cypress and vintage Mexican beer signs, look forward to the finished space.
It's also a great work environment. The shop is well equipped, w/roll-up doors that funnel in a much appreciated cross-breeze, some big machines I myself lack the space to accommodate, and an enviable welding set-up. His longtime helper is out here from Houston and, as we're all well-competent, there's no fussin' about. Tasks are divvied up and attended to with quiet efficiency...as quiet as a shop can be anyway. With the saws and jointers and grinders howling, with the drum sander or the lathe chattering away, and with the music. Oh yes, the music...
The soundtrack options on construction sites in the American Southwest tend to be limited to three genres: Heavy Metal, Country, or Tejano. Given that my old carpentry partner was a Dancehall/Dub-Reggae DJ though, our tunes were different (as were his smoke breaks...). Nowadays, when the wi-fi chooses to cooperate, I stream a college channel in my shop, or listen to AM sports-talk radio (it's like news, for people who can't handle reality). So it was a pleasant surprise to roll up on this shop in the middle of nowhere and hear a playlist of chill-out jazz, ambient electronica, smooth funk and trip-hop. Because not only does that put you in a good head-space, work-wise; but when you're sweating your ass off in triple-digit heat, Tracy Thorne's voice can drop your core body-temperature five degrees.
There are other playlists, I would learn. Tuesday was surf/rockabilly (two thumbs up) and oh yeah Fridays. Fridays we listen to My Life with the Thrill Kill Kult. All day. Loud. An unexpected choice that gave me insight into the “boss”. Into the big redneck who I met at my shit-kicker local when he offered me some of his (excellent) homemade venison dry-ring sausage, into that dude with the cut-off camouflage hunting pants, sawdust in his very-long beard, and beat-up work truck...it seems that dude used to be an ecstasy poppin' Houston club-kid. Because, you know, Texas.
