In response to some recent new traffic to my social media platforms, I thought I’d take the time to keep you (and anyone new) in the loop of what’s been going on here.

No, this website isn’t “dead”, it’s just hibernating.

I’m getting ready to end my sophomore year at college. It’s hard to believe that I started this project in sixth grade and that we’re coming up on nine years since I first visited the old Dallas County Courthouse, but time flies. It really, really does.

In my misguided attempts to make this site and this project as perfect as it possibly could have ever been, I think I lost myself in the details. And in the enormity of professionalizing and perfecting 254 distinct courthouse pages, I blinked. I stood down. I retreated. I went silent.

I’ve never wanted to give up. And I haven’t. I did finish my courthouse travels (we’re coming up on there years since I set foot in my last county (Lubbock County)), but this site is far from complete.

Please now, I still want to make it complete and someday I intend to realize that goal. I have high hopes to make some progress in any down-time this academic summer.

In the meantime, if you’re new here, please enjoy the content that is available. There’s more to come (eventually).

Humbly,

Carson

If you’ll recall, I made it sort of a personal commitment to get this site together after all these years. I guess it was a New Years Resolution, if you want to call it that, but more importantly for me, I’m on the downhill slope of my senior year in high school: and it was time I do this place some justice.

The problem that presented itself to me when I began this effort last month was that I was, on many fronts, starting from scratch. Up to that point, I’d created maybe one hundred odd courthouse pages in my time. All of them were created at different times in my life, and in separate years of this project. As such, there was absolutely no degree of uniformity to be found in each page’s aesthetics nor in the way they present information. Basically, the site was all over the place.

This is all without mentioning the fact that I had well over half of my courthouse pages void of any information whatsoever. I still have a great deal barren.

So, I decided I wold hit it head-on: go through the ranks from the bottom up and finish this sucker.

And I’ve been doing that for the better part of two months now: getting there…slowly…but…surely. Oh, it’s tedious in places. I’ve reached a part where no longer am I making and filling courthouse pages, but I’m going back through the ninety or more pages I already made many moons ago: changing aesthetic details and technical things. But every page must be checked. Every courthouse must be represented as fully as I can with the information and materials provided to me.

To date, I’ve crafted pages from Hale County (252) to San Patricio County (207), a conglomerate of courthouse pages that had, for the most part, been blank since 2015. That’s over now. They are finally full, and I’m pleased to say that. I’ve now entered a secondary stage in the project: Refugio County (206) to Austin County (128). This is a huge chunk of pages that I’d already made, but now I’m just editing. And it’s taking a while. But I’m getting there. Still…getting…there.

I look forward to working on the first half of my courthouse list soon (most of which was comprised of those original ‘redos’). As a result, there’s a huge number left blank. So, I have filling them to look forward to. But I have to finish editing those older pages first.

That’s where I am. So if you’re new here and wondering why a huge number of pages on this site are still blank…well, that’s why. I promise you I’m getting to it.

I want this site to be done right. And right takes time.

Best,
Carson

This website is a labor of love, but it has been willfully neglected for some time (far too long). I’ve been busy, and life is always replete with tasks to complete prior to this one at hand.

Truth been told I’ve just put this off. Prior to the efforts I started earlier this month, this website had sat dormant for well over a year with a backlog of county pages to complete (over 100) that had only accumulated mass with my final two trips last summer (2016).

I’ve been putting off the inevitable: a long, often arduous process of painstakingly making sure everything is up to standard and each county is represented as fairly and equally as I can ensure. This includes writing about my trips, which I have been putting off as well. The danger there is that the longer I wait to write, the more I will inevitably forget. However, my pictures help to spur my memory on a great deal. I’ve already written about the first day of my final trip (last August), and have the first day written of my July trip to East Texas as well (just not published yet).

I have plenty more to write to transcribe both of those trips, and a second day of my Hill Country trip (July 2015) to do as well. There’s much to do, and as part of my senior year of high school resolutions, I intend to finish this website. Of course, that doesn’t mean I’ll be done with this place once every county has a page. I have plenty more ideas, things I want to write and show from travels within Texas that go farther than just each county’s courthouse, and even travels from beyond Texas.

There’s much to talk about, and much to get done. I’m on my way.

Starting with Hale County (252), I’ve begun the process of moving upward through my ranks of each county, editing and adding as I go. At the time of writing this, I’ve just finished 227 (Llano County), and am finally getting around to making pages for my West Texas trip of 2015.

If you’re new to this site, I recommend you start with Hale County, and work your way backwards to enjoy the county pages the most. I’ve made many more of course than just those twenty-five or so, but my changing level of standards has prompted me to execute this final “run through” of every county, one by one, and bring them up to speed.

I’ll save Lubbock County and Hood County (253 and 254) for last.

The rest, however, are on their way.

Thanks for sticking with me here, and thanks for visiting if you’re new. I am certainly trying to get this work done.

Best,

Carson

I woke up early that morning to get ready, as I had a bit of a drive before we could get started. I was in Fort Worth, my grandfather in Granbury, and as our path lied to the west, it made more sense for me to come to him than the other way around. So, I cruised down Highway 377 and found my way there after the same forty-minute drive I’ve made my entire life.

We left not long after I arrived at his house, and around 9:30 we were rounding the downtown bypass loop north of town, and peeling off for Lipan in northwestern Hood County. I reflected as we passed the towering heights of the Hood County courthouse on the Granbury square, that in three days’ time I would be poised, at last, to photograph it, my final courthouse.

Through Highway 4 to Lipan, we entered Palo Pinto County and intersected 281 (Stephenville-Mineral Wells), choosing instead to keep west. Highway 4 curves northward not long beyond crossing the busier highway, and eventually merges with the Interstate in southern Palo Pinto County. Merging onto I-20 was the next step of our route, and so we joined with the great traffic stream trekking west from Fort Worth and Dallas.

Gordon. Ranger. Eastland. Cisco. Baird. Clyde. These were the communities we just barely entered as we navigated their rural outskirts along the Interstate. In roughly a good hour and a half, we’d found our way through Palo Pinto, Eastland, and Callahan Counties to enter Taylor County. All of these, of course, have been visited to date. Unfortunately, “backtracking” to familiar places in this project is extremely common, especially since all of these counties’ seats lie on, or just off of, one of the busiest thoroughfares in the state.

Having no business in Abilene (the Taylor County seat), we continued the drive by peeling off to the north and heading out to Jones County.

There, their county government is centered in the city of Anson. We remarked later that Anson was most likely, out of every city I’d seen to date, the one we traveled through most in this project. I can recall passing through the heart of its downtown district more times than any other city’s, except perhaps Hamilton, Meridian or Glen Rose.

As it always is, the Jones County courthouse was a welcome sight.

Anson’s one of those places that I’ve never been to more than just a handful of times, but somehow it still seems so familiar. I can count six times to date I’ve been through it, two from this trip alone. We came home through the city as well. This was the only trip that we’ve ever done both, coming and going.

Outside of this low plains town, the city rapidly drops away and yields itself to fields and fields of money makers: cotton plants. This region’s soil is extremely popular for the cash crop, and you can be sure farmers take every advantage of it.

All the hills of the I-20 corridor from Abilene eastward fall steeply away here. Around Anson is a world of nothing but flat, unrelenting prairie, dominated by the emerald green leaves of cotton. The only trees are those planted by farmers around their homes. Far more plentiful are the barren, thin, tree trunks that we use as telephone poles.

It was nearing the twelve o’clock hour now, and we were still in familiar territory. However, that region didn’t end in Jones County. With a nearly cloudless sky, we kept on. Hamlin was next, in the same county. What we found odd enough was that on a peak summer day like this, the temperature had remained fairly constantly in the 80s. That’s odd enough in Texas, but made even more odd by August in Texas, and even stranger yet because of the region we were in. By noon, I’d expected to be contending with the high 90s, but the highest the thermometer got the entire day was 93 degrees. It was a well appreciated cold front. (And yes, a high of 93 is a cold front in a Texas August).

In Aspermont, the Stonewall County courthouse greeted us from the left side of the road, but it’s nothing impressive, and since I’ve already been by it (three times), I didn’t feel any need to capture another shot of it. North of Aspermont, we bore left off of Highway 83 to 380. It was around 12:30, and we still had yet to gain any ground. It was some kind of record, I thought, about how far we’d had to travel before getting any new courthouses.

The terrain beyond Aspermont turns rough and rugged again. Mesquite trees hog nearly everything in sight but the highway itself, and the flatness we found outside of Anson had retreated back to a variety of hills and gulches.

But in the likes of thirty minutes, we had traced our steps west of Stonewall County, back to Kent County, for the first time in three years.

My original trip here was part of a large haul I’d made returning from Colorado and New Mexico in the Summer of 2013. At the time I’d just barely cleared ninety counties, and Kent made 91. We pulled our RV into the county seat of Jayton, and as I did, I took a few measly photographs with my iPhone camera (none of which did much to actually capture the courthouse properly). Three years had gone by since I’d last been there of course, so the only thing I could accurately remember was the stillness of the little city. It’s a stretch I’d say to call it even a little farming town. Kent County wasn’t made for farming, not at least from the terrain I saw.

Jayton is just an isolated little spot on the rugged plains, but one that has a surprisingly modern courthouse.

Wyatt C. Hedrick was the architect of this building. It was constructed in 1957, and is the second and most recent structure to serve as the center of county justice.

At this point (August 15, 2016), I was still reeling from my trip the previous month to East Texas. You’ll remember my chance encounters with some wily characters in Tyler and Angelina Counties involving taking photographs of their respective courthouses. At the time (July 12), only five days had passed since the tragic shooting of five officers in Dallas on July 7. The first incident in Woodville I let roll off my shoulder as an unfortunate reaction to the previous week’s attack on law enforcement. The county employees were (rightfully, I guess) nervous about someone walking around their courthouse, snapping pictures. But the harassment I got in Lufkin was a bit different. I left that city feeling more than just a little assaulted, as the encounter I’d had was neither justified nor polite. Regrettably, I was feeling disillusioned about this project of mine.

I kept that in mind as I began photographing the catalog of this final trip. Only eleven courthouses remained, other than any I revisited like Kent County’s this trip, and I began counting them down with each stop. I was hoping that I wouldn’t have to feel the brunt of any other hyped-up, jumpy security guard whose demonstrated personality gave the impression that he lacked anything close to the temperament the job demands.

So, when I opened the Kent County courthouse door and stepped inside, I was mindful that I might get questions. I’d had some cards printed up for that very purpose, spelling out my name and what I was doing. I kept a small stash in my pocket nearly the whole trip. But as I peered into the county offices, and took a few shots of the first floor, I was surprised to find myself alone.

The courthouse was dead. The lights were on, the doors were unlocked, but I was the only one there. With that in mind, I had full reign. I didn’t sneak a peak into the county judge’s private office or anything, but I took my time in the darkened courtroom and felt the liberty to turn the lights on to get some better shots. There was no one there to protest me (a welcome relief since the last trip).

Here’s a few shots from the district courtroom. A sampling of past judges is what you see on the left side of the room, back wall. Aside from the dropped ceiling and updated furniture, the sleek brown walls look like they have largely remained the same since their origins in the fifties.

As far as the outside of the courthouse was concerned, I began on the side of the main entrance, facing west at a perpendicular position with Main Street. In less than half a mile from the courthouse doors, Main curves away (and out of Jayton completely), turning into FM 1083 and winding its way south to Highway 380.

I followed the courthouse north next, and worked clockwise in a circle. One county employee arrived at that point, and she and I kept a mutually wary distance until she entered the building.

On the backside, the courthouse’s rural location becomes even more evident.

This façade bears a good resemblance to the front, except for the fact that the air conditioning units have surely been added since ’57. It’s not as picturesque as it may have once been.

My overall opinion of this courthouse? For a modern structure, it’s pleasing enough to the eye. I can say that about most all of Wyatt Hedrick’s works. He was a fine architect, and while the Moderne style doesn’t rank among my favorites, he worked with what was popular in his day, and he did it well. What I just find particularly odd about this one is how it looks like something you’d find in a bigger city environment. Something like this I think I could see right at home in a metropolitan suburb, not little Jayton near the Caprock.

The Panhandle is almost completely covered with rural communities with their own modern courthouses, but this is the one which, upon my first look, just completely looks out of step with the tiny community it serves. To me, sitting there just off a country highway, it looks almost out of place. But Jayton and Kent County got lucky. This court building looks much nicer than most all of the rest of its modern field.

Nowhere else will you find charming ornamental detail like those three stone warriors. Such designs were uniquely Hedrick. Jayton happens to be as far north as he ever went. I’m glad I got the chance to go back and do this one justice. In 2013 I was just too inexperienced to get the right photos.

Inexperienced and fairly ignorant towards county history. Later that summer, I’d encounter my first retired courthouse in Irion County. Before then, of course, I hadn’t really confronted the prospect that the courthouse on each city square may not have been the only one in each county. As a result, I discovered later that there were a few select communities I’d passed through with retired county courthouses that I had just simply missed.

As I’ve said before, the courthouses no one uses anymore are the ones I find the most interesting. Often times they’re nearly abandoned, and their hallowed, empty walls hold the best stories. Sometime after July 28, 2013 (when I first drove through Kent County), I discovered that the 1957 courthouse in Jayton was the second county building. The first, constructed in 1895 (three years after the county was organized), was built in the little town of Clairemont. It still stands.

Clairemont is roughly fourteen miles southwest of Jayton and has been a ghost town for nearly its entire existence. As of 2015, Kent County is the fifth-least populated county in the state (approximately 700 people). Its numbers have never been much higher than that. In the fifties, Clairemont reached a peak population of about three hundred people. But as these things go on the rough, unrelenting plains, the town didn’t have enough water to sustain that population. After an election in 1954, Jayton was adopted as the new county seat.

And today, Clairemont’s official population is approximately fifteen people. I didn’t see any of them while I was there.

So, we headed southwest from Jayton and made for the original county seat, with the goal of stopping by the tiny retired courthouse the community still boasts.

I don’t know about other states, but in Texas, you can tell a town is small when the highway sign advertising you’ve arrived doesn’t bear a population count. This was the case for Clairemont. Ahead, you can see the town’s single, blinking light.

Above is the view one has pulling up into Clairemont from Jayton. This is the totality of the town, except for a sparse number of tucked away homes and the old county jail.

This building, the only one of any remarkable characteristic, was the old county courthouse. Originally an Italianate structure, its appearance today is a far departure from that of the late 1800s. If you looked at a photograph of the original design, and then my picture from 2016, you might not recognize the same building.

(Photo Courtesy: TXDoT) This image is from 1939.

On April 12, 1955, not a year since losing its county seat status, Clairemont’s courthouse burned. Fortunately, this occurred only shortly after all county records had been moved up the road to Jayton. The roof, tower, and second floor were completely destroyed in the blaze, but the county was able to salvage what remained of the ground floor. Today, this single-floor, red brick, isolated edifice is all that exists to remind us of what Clairemont once was.

I’ve read that today it’s utilized as a community center. I’d believe that, if only there was an actual community to serve. There’s a few people left in town, but by the building’s condition, I can tell you it’s not used at all. In the years immediately following 1955, Clairemont might have had good use for it. But the little town went on to experience more pain. At some point following, the Kent County school system was consolidated, and Clairemont’s education was moved to a school in Jayton. The post office finally had no choice but to shut down by 1970. The last business closed its doors in the nineties.

It’s a heartbreaking tale that’s only too common. For someone like me, traveling to these places for the first time in the 2010s, I can only use my imagination to think about how they thrived sixty or seventy years prior. Sometimes, there’s aged reminders still barely sprouting from the faded plains (like the old courthouse), but most times there’s nothing left but stories to read.

I found one pretty sad snippet from an online forum about the little town. It might offer you some insight into how the years tore the town down and shoved it back into the rugged earth from whence it came:

“In the early ’60′s, my Grandpa was living in the Sun Oil Camp in Clairemont, Texas, and we would go to visit. The camp was located just down a dirt road from Brady’s store, and had five houses together for the pumpers to live in with their families. Each house had a small central yard that was free of grass burrs so that we little kids could run around, and a huge outer yard that was kept mowed, but was really just short weeds. Each house had a cattle guard in front and an elevated trash burning barrel in back. Grandma would often forget and burn a hairspray can, which would explode as high as 10 feet into the air. It was fun, but being West Texas, you had to watch for turtles, snakes and wasps. In 2003, I drove out to where I believed the camp was located. There was nothing left except for a single pump jack, but I knew that was where the camp had been… I remembered sleeping to the putt putt putt sound. Its all gone… the camp… Brady’s Store…Grandpa… I miss them all.“ - Jim Scott Smith, Odessa, Texas, November 06, 2006

It’s a story that tugs at your heartstrings, or at least, it did mine. I consider myself lucky to have all of those things this poor man lost. Memories of childhood are still youthful in my mind, and my cherished home of memories still stands. I feel for this man who had to painfully return to Clairemont and see what’s become of it.

Above is the view across the highway from the courthouse. Infrequent cars zoom down this road from Post to Jayton, or from Jayton to Post at speeds so fast they probably don’t even register the blinking yellow light telling them to slow down. No one’s got any time to spend in Clairemont. What really is there to attract anyone except the lone photographer like me?

It’s more than difficult to imagine that this courthouse was once the center of all traffic and activity in the county. I found an image on display in the current courthouse that offers a bit of perspective into how life in Clairemont looked in the early twentieth century. 

The man in the top right corner is sitting on the roof of the Clairemont Hotel, a small caption read. It was apparently located just northeast of the courthouse. I can tell you that no such building exists today. Life in the little town has certainly changed.

These two shots go along with the above historic image.

The first is a rough equivalent of the same angle of the courthouse in the old picture. They’re not exactly the same, but the corner and sides seen of the building are the same in both images. The second photo is a look at what lies northeast of the courthouse today, and where a hotel might once have stood.

As I walked around the courthouse taking photos, of course I was reminded of the retired Irion County courthouse in Sherwood. In all my time of visiting older courthouses, this one bore the greatest connection through memories to the hallmark of Texas’ retired collection there in Sherwood. There is something significant in how they are both almost forgotten treasures lying just off the highway (Sherwood is off the highway by about two miles or so, but still…), large prairie tombstones standing in remembrance of lives that once were. Communities have come and gone on the Texas plains, but those that leave behind buildings like this are really something, in my opinion. Old stores, old post offices, old schools, old homes…you see them all the time in these little ghost towns. But how often do you see an old courthouse, still left to rot away among the plains?

What the Clairemont courthouse does is something no historical marker could ever manage to do. It remains behind to tell the story of a city all but forgotten, a story I can’t tell. I didn’t live it. This little courthouse saw everything Clairemont was or would ever be, from the archways of its doors and the eaves of its windows. From 1895 to 2016, it has seen it all.

I walked around to its backside, facing north towards Dickens County, and approached the doorway.

The first thing I noticed was that the years have worn away the back steps so badly that they’ve actually detached from the building. 

I climbed the steps gingerly, making sure to be alert in case they fell out from underneath me. But, I guess they’re dug into the side of the wall pretty hard, since they held in place well enough for me to step on the little landing you see there.

Here’s the view from the backdoor.

Just for the sake of trying, I decided to try the doorknob, and to my complete surprise, the old wooden door swung open. Surprisingly enough, it’s not locked. That’s probably because there’s nothing inside worth stealing. And as it is listed as a community center, I didn’t consider it trespassing.

Here’s the view upon entering the back door. I did a quick tour of the aging courthouse, and then hastily made a retreat. There really was no one in Clairemont to protest me being there, but I didn’t want to take any chance on anyone pulling up and asking questions.

Everything this was once is long gone. It’s just a shame.

I exited the courthouse then, and proceeded around to the west side. What you see below is the remainder of Clairemont from the courthouse’s southwest corner.

Notice the shattered windshield.

The white building on the left is the only home I saw in the entire town.

Half of this is certainly true. However, unfortunately, I’m not sure “not forgotten” is appropriate.

The original Kent County jail, one of the oldest historic county jails remaining in the state, is just a catty-corner northeast of the courthouse. If nothing else is forgotten, it’s this.

Since it was constructed in 1895 (the same year as the courthouse), it has virtually retained its complete, original appearance. This is the definition of a wild west jailhouse. Could you imagine being locked up in this thing?

The door was hanging open when we arrived, which made us think someone was working inside. Come to find out, it’s just rusted open that way, and has been for years and years. Inside, the walls are littered with decades worth of graffiti. The jail has been out of use since at least 1954, but I have a reckoning that its period of disuse goes back farther than that. The door has been open and free reign of the jail has been possible since at least 1986.

Inside the rock walls is one large, metal complex of cells. One online writer who has also been to Clairemont theorized that the jail itself may have been built around such a piece of machinery, rather than the other way around. The door to the cell block has been welded shut.

Along the western side of the “cage”, is a rusted panel with a single lever. Since it was built in the mid-1890s, it is assumed that this jail may have been one of the very first in the country to employ such a lever system that jailers could use to single-handedly lock and unlock various cells at once.

It doesn’t seem too scary right now, but back in the day, being locked up in something like that would have been enough for me not to become a highwayman. The plains around Clairemont were most likely rough and wild as far as crime was concerned, but I have a feeling justice was swift in the county seat.

I had my photo taken in front of the jail, and then we drove back over to the courthouse for one there too. With that crossed off, we turned north at the blinking light and said our goodbyes to Clairemont. It was an interesting stop; one of the more interesting ones I can remember in recent memory.

We were now speeding along State Highway 208, trekking north across more of those rugged plains towards Dickens County (the first new county of the day). By now, it was about 1:40, and we still hadn’t been anywhere we hadn’t been before. Even though I hadn’t realized it back in the day, I’d driven right through Clairemont for Jayton. So by any technical account, I had been there.

Dickens County, on the other hand, was something completely new. In no more than five minutes, we’d found ourselves excused from the ruggedness of Kent County, and faded back into some farmland. We were getting farther north now, and the switch to farmland wasn’t something too surprising. However, most of Dickens County lies below the flat mesa lands of the Llano Estacado. Flat farms lands come and go, but I suppose most of the rest of the area must look more like the rough edges around Clairemont.

A little over halfway to Dickens (the county seat), we dead ended into State Highway 70, and turned left. The image above was when we were nearing the community of Spur.

Spur is the largest city in Dickens County, but didn’t make the cut for county seat for one reason or another. Today, it remains the central shipping point in the county for cattle, wheat, and cotton. It has a small downtown district that by first glance, does look to still be thriving. We did a quick drive through it before continuing on to Dickens.

Just off of the highway (and main thoroughfare through town) we spotted a memorial.

This was built to commemorate Spur’s centennial in 2009, and it has a fitting home in Spur’s Dyess Park. That arrow on the left is the first of many we’d see this trip. Not until later would I realize what they stood for. They’re art sculptures constructed along the “Quanah Parker Trail”, marking important historic locations to the Comanche band led by Parker. However, I’m not sure of the significance of Spur or the area around the town in Comanche history, as I didn’t get out of the car to read the plaque.

Only stopping quickly to get a shot of the large spur, I got back in the car and we made north again. Here was our view leaving Spur for Dickens.

As we neared Dickens, the distance once again adopted rugged hills. The time now was 2:15.

In a matter of moments, we’d arrived in this little city on the high plains. If you’re heading onward north to Matador, or west to Crosbyton, you can hang a left or head straight forward once you arrive in Dickens (without realizing that’s where you are). The intersection of the Matador-Spur road and the Crosbyton-Guthrie road is a mile or so beyond the downtown district of Dickens. We turned right towards the courthouse square before reaching this crossroads however, and navigated through some residential neighborhoods. When we emerged, we’d found our way to the first new county courthouse of the day. It was 2:19. We’d started the day around 9:30. Nearly five hours had gone by without achieving any new ground. It was a new record.

At long last, I’d reached the Dickens County courthouse. And to my surprise, and slight disappointment, I discovered that it was under renovation. However, you can’t really tell from this image. The front façade, or really any of the four, wasn’t particularly obstructed. In that sense, I was lucky.

Over the course of this project, I’ve been fortunate when it comes to renovations. Most of the time I’ve either arrived just after the scaffolding’s been put away or just before the local contractors put it together. Only twice have I really been limited due to restoration projects: my first trip to Edwards County (where the entire courthouse was obscured), and Karnes County (same thing). Eventually, I made a return to Rocksprings to take post-restoration photos of its courthouse, but I don’t imagine I’ll ever go back to Karnes City. If you’re a follower of this blog, you might remember that the Karnes County courthouse was under renovation when I first arrived in 2012, and was still drowning in scaffolding when I came back in 2015. Ugh.

I digress.

As I said, I was lucky here in Dickens. The most extensive of their restoration efforts was (at least for the time) in the interior of the building. There was a handful of contractors periodically walking in and out of it, and I could hear the sounds of power saws cutting through new beams as I made my way around the courthouse lawn.

They were in the thick of it though. The interior of the courthouse was clogged with repair work. There’s no way they were holding any kind of court there at the time.

I took this photo while looking into the front doors. My grandfather suggested we ask the workers if we could look around the building, but I said no. First off, I didn’t want any more problems with any more courthouse-related people after the experiences I’d had a month earlier. Secondly, we’d already been inside a mid-restoration courthouse two years back. There’s not a whole lot to see.

I was more concerned with just being told “no”, when I wasn’t even hedging on seeing the interior. I just didn’t need to get involved. The Dickens County courthouse is certainly historic, but I don’t expect it had anything close to resembling the original courtroom form 1890. Hopefully, after this restoration it will, but I’ll have to be passing back through Dickens someday to take advantage of that. Regrettably, I don’t imagine that’s going to happen any time soon.

On the southern side of the building were the collective efforts of such a restoration project. Unlike other communities I’ve been to, where reflective, orange partitioning has to be put up to keep people off the work zone, Dickens required none. This square doesn’t see as much action as some of its contemporaries farther to the metropolitan south.

No, the piles of debris were there for any one to approach. You don’t think they’d miss one little rock, do you?

Ah, I soon discovered that it was (as expected) the Texas Historical Commission behind this restoration project. You might know I have mixed feelings about them. Another time…

But the photo here is what the courthouse originally looked like. Hopefully, there will be some effort to get the roof looking like it once did (and maybe that courtroom I missed will look more like its 1890 version).

Worn rocks, boarded up entrances, plastic sheets and air conditioning hanging from windows, and a literal cement slab for a roof. It’s my sincerest hope that the Dickens County Courthouse’s best days are ahead.

In the meantime, I had more things to see.

Dickens County was the first (and last) stop on this trip not on the Llano Estacado. Which, after some post-trip thought, I realized was my final county to ever visit not on the massive plateau. The twelve other counties on this trip lie several hundred feet higher than Dickens does. If one was able to move a city like Crosbyton and Dickens next to one another, Crosbyton and all of its buildings and streets would be approximately 476 feet higher.

I just find the whole notion of elevation fascinating. You don’t realize it while you’re there, but in some cities you can be thousands of feet higher than others. Entire cities basically in the sky above others. In Dickens, with an average elevation of 2,546 feet, you’re 2,549 feet higher than the city of Galveston (minus the height of its buildings). Dickens is 1,263 feet higher than the Empire State Building. If the two were put side by side, the little Dickens County Courthouse would still be higher in the sky than the might of New York’s most famous skyscraper.

I just find that interesting. Ah, but I’m digressing yet again.

You’ll have to forgive me on this blog post. There’s a lot to be said. It’s my last trip after all.

Soon, we headed west on Highway 82 and made our way to the beginnings of that famous plateau. This was our view not long after leaving Dickens, and you can see the faintest traces of the Llano Estacado on the horizon.

I want to demonstrate exactly what it is I’m talking about. For locals of this area, I’m sure the Llano is no big deal. But for me, it’s nearly mind boggling to think about the wild, rugged terrain of this part of West Texas suddenly falling away. It’s true. Once you trek up to the top of the plateau, everything behind you just fades away, and you wade into a very ethereal land of flat farmland. It’s as if you’re surrounded by harsh noise in the valley below, but once you make it to the top, there’s immediately complete silence. At least, that’s how I see it.

(Photo Courtesy: Google Maps)

This is a satellite image I nabbed from Google. On the left, you can see Crosbyton, and on the right  Dickens. The rugged looking gray color starting in the top left and winding down to the bottom and middle is the cliffs of the plateau, where they merge with the rest of Texas. As you can see, Dickens is down “in the valley”. Crosbyton, meanwhile, is that “shining city on a hill”.

This is the view as we began the journey up the Llano Estacado (this was far more smooth a transition than the one I saw between Borden and Dawson Counties the summer before).

And suddenly, here we were. That’s a farm on my right, and even a forest of wind turbines out there in the distance. The change is swift and remarkable.

Maybe you can tell it from the Google Maps photo above, but Highway 82 to Crosbyton rises up from the valley onto the plateau, and then falls down again before rejoining it a few miles later.

But once we made it back up, we arrived promptly in Crosbyton (which lies fairly close to the edge).

Aside from spotting another one of the Quanah Parker Trail arrows (still didn’t see what it was marking), our journey into downtown Crosbyton wasn’t entirely eventful. Soon, we had arrived at the courthouse.

Fort Worth architect M.H. Waller did this one in 1914. It was the third courthouse for Crosby County, but the first in Crosbyton. The original county seat, Estacado (properly named) was founded by a group of Quakers in 1879. The first courthouse served that community. Then, in 1890, the county seat moved to Emma (nine miles west of Crosbyton). A second courthouse operated there for twenty years. When at last county government relocated to Crosbyton in 1910, the land for this courthouse was donated by a town founder named Julian Bassett. Court was held in a schoolhouse for four years until this building could be constructed.

1914-2014. Two years before I got to the courthouse, it celebrated its 100th birthday.

Apparently, part of the festivities included reenacting a locally significant shooting that occurred on the courthouse’s front steps in 1923. I found that interesting.

Smile! You’re on camera.

And here I was thinking I might just be able to avoid any confrontation on this trip. No one came and talked to me, but after seeing these cameras, I was wary. As I continued photographing both the exterior and interior of the courthouse, I kept my eyes open for anyone. I got a couple of a looks from courthouse patrons as they pulled away from the parking lot, and passed by a local police officer as well. He said nothing, but I tried to be as nonchalant as possible.

Of course, I was fully within my rights to photograph any public building I wanted. I’ve known that this entire project, but I can tell you it’s just not fun to have encounters with people who think they can bully someone just because they can. I’m looking at you ***—- well, I can’t type the word I’d like to. I try to keep this a family website. Instead I’ll say: “looking at you, gentleman from Angelina County.”

The good people of the Panhandle afforded me no issues, not in Crosby County anyway.

And so we were off. The road west of Crosbyton finds its way to Lubbock, and while that city was on our list, we weren’t headed there just yet. Our route took us north, to Floyd County.

There is a route connecting Crosbyton and the Floyd County seat, but it’s two or three small county roads. Highway 62 down from Floydada, instead, intersects in Ralls (about nine miles west of Crosbyton). I wonder if that’s where Emma was (or if Emma became Ralls). I’ll do some research.

For some reason or another, I didn’t take any photos in Ralls. All I can tell you about it is that I know country singer Billy Walker was born there. However, from what I saw in Ralls, there doesn’t seem to be any widespread public knowledge of that fact (no roads/parks/etc. named or anything).

At Ralls, we turned north on Highway 62 towards Floydada.In a matter of minutes, we’d come to Floyd County.

I have to admit, this region’s county/county seat pairings aren’t too diverse in name. Dickens County/Dickens, Crosby County/Crosbyton, Floyd County/Floydada, Lubbock County/Lubbock. I really don’t know what that’s about.

There’s a brief interruption in the Llano Estacado between Ralls and Floydada, which you can see here. It lasts very quickly, though, before you’re back on the plateau and heading along your merry way.

Once in Floydada, it took us a minute or two to find the courthouse. It’s back to the east from where the road from Ralls emerges into the city. Getting there gave us a little time to explore the city.

Now I’m going to take a little liberty in suggesting that Floydada probably isn’t a particularly tourist-heavy environment (especially in contrast to nearby Lubbock), which is why this find was a bit peculiar to me:

Yes, a museum devoted to the famous Floydada Terrier. I mean—Boston Terrier. So what’s this doing in Floydada, Texas of all places on Earth? I was seriously confused until I looked into it a bit. Turns out that a local man named Bob Hambright (who has been collecting Boston Terrier-related toys and tchotchkes since 1991) eventually decided to put his collection on display in 2007.

From the Boston Terrier Network (a real site, by the way):  “There are over 3,000 items in all. There are statues, of course, in both porcelain and bronze. You will find pipes, pipe holders and ashtrays, shot glasses and cork screws, inkwells, toys and banks, clocks (the dog’s eyes follow the minutes), advertising signs, hooked rugs, paperweights, canes, buggy blankets, a carousel (with Bostons instead of horses), over 50 salt and pepper shakers, over 100 doorstops, a 1903 Boston trophy and much, much more.”

Apparently, this building was actually a hospital until 1960. After that point, it became a pharmacy and then a video rental store. After the advent of Netflix and the virtual demolition of that industry, it sat empty for about six years. Now, it’s Floydada’s own Boston Terrier Museum. Who knew?

That’s the part of Texas I really love.

Meanwhile, we were arriving at the Floydada square.

The Floyd County Courthouse comes to us from the year 1950 and was designed by architect Martin Stiles. It took the place of a large 1911 design that shared rank with Franklin, Mason, and Jeff Davis Counties. An unfortunate loss, to be sure, but this courthouse if far from hard to look at. Still, it’s got that same old modern courthouse smell to its interior, and it exudes the same feeling one gets when entering a building of that era.

The county’s manicured lawn and well maintained exterior were very nice to observe. It sits in a region where other constructions of the same time period have simply festered over the years, with what appears to be no real care shown towards them.

Upon arrival here, I discovered that (previously unbeknownst to me) Floyd County is a major area of pumpkin production. Boston Terriers and pumpkins…oh, and Don Williams too. What a place Floydada is.

The courthouse literally sits on Pumpkin Capital Lane.

I promise it wasn’t October when I visited the courthouse. Even in the heat of August, Floyd County keeps its signature crop on display.

And the courthouse wasn’t the only place in town giving a nod to the area’s heritage of pumpkin growers. This body shop, on the square, had half a pumpkin “growing” from its wall.

The “Punkin Patch Restaurant” is here too, though it looks like it hasn’t been visited in a while.

Instead, we ate at the local Dairy Queen. By this point in the day I was starving (I’d had a protein shake to tide me over for the morning, but by now it was around 4:00). It was time to eat, and admittedly, Floydada didn’t have too many selections that we could find. If there’s some fine place to eat there that we missed, I’m regretful.

However, I have to say, that Dairy Queen was probably the best one I’ve ever had.

Maybe it was the hunger talking, but it really was the best meal I’d ever had at one of their establishments. It was the third time we’d resorted to the “Texas Stop Sign” during one of these trips. It was dinner in New Boston two years ago and lunch in Crane last year. This was the best of the three stops.

We ate after finishing up with the courthouse, and business at the Floydada branch was fairly slow this time of day. The young window worker had a bit of a hard time getting the order correct, but her supervisor eventually came over and sent us on our way. We ate in the car, because there was a fair bit of ground left to be covered before the sun came down.

The road took us north even still, bound through a stretch of land dominated by wind turbines for Briscoe County.

There’s Silverton in the distance.

The courthouse is just off Highway 86, which we hooked a right on once inside the city. In little towns like this, most of the courthouses are just off the road to the point where one side of the “square” is actually the highway. I’ve found that makes things in these sleepy cities seem even sleepier. Where I’m concerned, that’s a term of endearment, by the way.

At least when I arrived, there wasn’t a whole lot of traffic down the highway. Not many people were out and about, and the silence of Silverton (except when punctuated by the occasional car) was just typical Texas. It’s that signature sound of a small, Panhandle town: silence. Some part of my soul really loves it.

And when there’s no cars zooming by, there’s the soft hoots of lonesome doves. That’s the sound of the open plains, where freedom and independence meet in far North Texas. To me, there’s no other place like it.

The courthouse was built in 1922 by architects Smith & Townes in the Classical Revival style. You can tell that by the Doric columns boosting up both main façades. Those classic elements date back to the Ancient Greek tradition. I have to admit, after all these years of this project, I only recently had the realization at why “Classical Revival” was called Classical Revival. Revival of the architecture of the classics. It’s not hard to grasp. I’m not sure why it took me so long to figure that one out.

On the square, there was a policeman waiting in his car. I don’t think he was watching us, but my grandfather went over and talked with him all the same. Again, I wasn’t looking for trouble.

Any trouble caused back in the day and I would have landed here: the Briscoe County Jail. It dates from 1892, and I understand that it is the oldest building in the entire county. I would have hated to have been locked up in this thing, but a part of me thinks that the Kent County Jail would have been ten times worse.

The Briscoe County Attorney is said to be the normal keeper-of-the-keys, but the courthouse had just closed when I arrived in Silverton. Regardless, the front door of the jail was open. Today, it serves as a museum. Naturally, I had a look around.

This was a historic photo on display, taken sometime after 1922. It’s truly an amazing shot, especially considering there probably weren’t too many airplanes buzzing around Silverton back then.

There was a small, rickety staircase that led to the second floor, where the old cells were. I briefly took a couple photos of them, but I’ll leave those for the Briscoe County page.

After maybe fifteen more minutes, when I’d finished photographing the courthouse and its grounds, we got back in the car and set off down the road.

A surreal shot on Highway 86, westbound for Tulia

Just beyond Silverton we entered the thick of the Staked Plain (Llano Estacado, in Spanish), immersed once more by a boundless, flat expanse of farmland. We encountered, like in the photo above, our fair share of cattle.

But not far at all from the outskirts of town, I spied something that didn’t look exactly like cows. We had to turn the car around to get a better look.

It’s a small herd of buffalo, and what looks like a Comanche hunter alongside them.

Some local rancher seemed to have had the idea to put up these statues, demonstrating what these plains looked like no more than 150 years ago. I’ve always been fascinated by Native American history, and it really was captivating to imagine, through this statue series, what it could have looked like to see massive buffalo herds roaming through these prairies, relentlessly pursued by Comanches. This was the heart of both species’ territory, after all. To sit and realize that this area was once covered in buffalo herds, thousands deep…

It really makes you think.

Not long after the buffalo we crossed the line into Swisher County. The land south of the highway is flatter (as you can see from the buffalo photos), where wind turbines still sprout up in the distance towards Floydada, but to the north of the highway things begin to look a bit more rugged. That’s likely because this land borders the work of the Prairie Dog Town Fork of the Red River: Caprock Canyons. This series of gulches and valleys is located primarily in Briscoe County (where the third largest state park in the state is), but it continues winding its way north beyond the county line, widening until it reaches Randall County and forms Palo Duro Canyon of Comanche fame.

I’ll get to that in a minute.

For now, we were arriving in Tulia.

“The City With a Future” it calls itself. With a valuable location along the I-27 corridor, I suppose that’s feasible enough a name.

The land the city sits on was originally part of the Tule Ranch division of the area’s JA Ranch. In 1887, a post office was established at a dugout nine miles west of modern Tulia and named Tule after a local creek. But as these things go, some post clerk made a fateful mistake. The town became Tulia instead. I’d love to know just how many cities in Texas were named due to a local postman’s abilities to spell…or lack thereof. I know Tulia isn’t the only one.

When we arrived, it was edging on 6:00, and the square was “dead”, so to speak. There wasn’t much activity aside from the highway that forms the southern side of the square. Across the highway is a local Lowe’s Market, and that had some patrons, but other than that things were still.

The courthouse was developed in 1962 by architects Rittenberry & Rittenberry. Their designs were novel, but they didn’t build this courthouse from scratch. It comes from the original courthouse of 1909, a towering construction of Elmer G. Withers. Withers, you might recall, was the same architect of the impressive Jones County courthouse I’d seen earlier that day.

Of course, I didn’t know this at the time. I discovered this portion of Tulia history only after returning home. What the county did in 1962 was, following an internal fire, elect to demolish the elaborate details of their courthouse and “modernize” it by encasing it in a starkly unrecognizable shell of cement and brick. Today, this is what we have.

I’ve seen better, but oh, have I seen worse. I mean no offense to the people of Swisher County.

The Swisher County jail is just next to the courthouse, at its northeastern corner. I could swear that when I walked near it for a photo, I got whistled at by someone behind those bars. I made out of there quickly, I can tell you that.

As we left Tulia, and set our sights north towards Amarillo, the sun had begun its gradual descent. After a full day on the road, dusk was finally setting. On peak summer days like this, I’ve always found that there’s more time for photography than any other period of the year. The sun is on your side more here than in any other season. I’ll admit though, there’s plenty times of day (the morning) and (sundown) when it’s also an enemy.

Swisher County was the final courthouse stop of the day. We elected to spend the night in Canyon, where Randall County’s courthouse was next, but I’d deal with that one in the morning.

After traveling the distance on I-27, we reached the eastern outskirts of Canyon. A turn left, and we’d be taken downtown. We decided to turn right, on TX-217, a lonely state highway stretching off into the eastern plains of Randall County.

Because eventually, the road dead-ends into one of Texas’ most impressive natural wonders:

Palo Duro Canyon is the second largest canyon in the United States, only surpassed by the obvious. It is approximately seventy miles long, and has an average width of six miles. However, there are portions that can widen to as far as twenty miles. The approximate depth is 820 feet, but similarly to the width, some parts can greatly exceed that number (to around 1,000 feet).

Dubbed the “Grand Canyon of Texas” (for good reason), it has become known for its multicolored rock layers and steep mesa walls (which makes the canyon bear some significant resemblance to that other one out in Arizona). Today, as part of Palo Duro Canyon State Park, it has become well known for its caves and notable hoodoo rock formations. The most famous of these is called “The Lighthouse” and is only accessible by foot.

We parked the car in a small lot adjacent to an observation area at the top, and I was able to take some pictures. It is truly a phenomenal sight to behold.

A helpful guide points out some of the noteworthy formations.

After hanging out at the top for a little bit, we decided we’d try our luck and see what there was to find in the valley itself. Unlike the Grand Canyon, this one is descendable by a small park road. At its basin, you can find a variety of camping locations, trails, and even a visitor’s center.

By the time we reached the canyon floor, the animals had started to come out for the night.

About halfway through the park we found the turnoff for “The Lighthouse”. I’d heard of this formation before, and was eager to check it out.

However, I’d had my suspicions that there was no road to it (as there was none labeled on the map the park warden had given us upon arrival), and now my fears were confirmed. I suppose in an effort to maintain the natural integrity of the formation and its side of the park, no road was ever built. Instead, the adventurous can hike six miles roundtrip out to see it. There are explicit warnings at the entrance to the trail about taking the proper precautions under the mid August sun.

I’ll have to come back.

A lone roadrunner was the only one willing to head out to the Lighthouse that evening.

I understand that this formation in the distance is not the Lighthouse, but it’s close enough.

(Photo Courtesy: Wikipedia)

I really wish I could take credit for this wonderful photograph, but it’s not mine. This is a view of what this Lighthouse looks like, so you can get an idea of what I missed.

So we moved on from the entrance to the Lighthouse Trail and found our way to a little creek at roughly the halfway point of the park’s main loop. There, we stopped and looked for arrowheads for a minute or two. I didn’t expect to find any, but it didn’t hurt to try. We assumed there was a chance since this canyon was once an area of importance to the Comanche tribes that roamed this region.

In fact, this was the site of one of the most pivotal moments in Texas History. 

Among these hills and mesas, the Comanches made their last stand against Colonel Ranald S. Mackenzie and the US Army. They were the final group of Native Americans to be relegated to reservations in the 1860s and early 1870s, and had evaded the Army for the full extent of the Red River War (Texas’ theater of the Indian Wars). Their luck ran out on September 28, 1874, nearly three months to the day after the Battle of Adobe Walls.

In the upper canyon, not far from where the state park now exists, a large village of Comanche, Kiowa, and Cheyenne natives had been constructed to house their winter food supply and many of their horses. There, they naturally felt secure by the steep canyon walls enclosing them from attack. That’s why they were taken by surprise on the morning of September 28, when Mackenzie and his troops attacked down the side of one of the mesas, invading the village and giving the Indians no time to gather their supplies before retreating.

This was the largest Army victory in the Red River War not because of lives taken (only four natives died), but rather because they burned 450 lodges, took 1,400 horses, and destroyed unfathomable pounds of buffalo meat used for nourishment. This band of Indians had found itself retreating on foot, a condition nearly unheard of among the equine-cultured Comanches, and without any food. There was, essentially, no choice but to surrender to a reservation.

Nine months later, the final sizable band of the final rogue tribe surrendered to the United States. These were the Quahadi Comanches, led by the legendary Quanah Parker. In June 1875, Parker was finally forced to abandon his efforts to evade surrender, and he turned himself over to US officials at the Fort Sill Reservation in what is now Oklahoma. With the largest band of the area’s roaming Indians now out of the way, and the virtually complete extermination of local buffalo populations by the Army, the Panhandle was at last open to permanent settlement.

Thus began the chapter of Texas History when counties were charted, plotted, named, and organized, tiny ranching communities became county seats, and courthouses were built where only decades before buffalo herds and Comanche tribes had roamed.

I wanted to see if there was some kind of memorial at the battleground of this conflict, and so while we nearly turned around and left the park midway through, we pushed onward to the end of the loop. There, my map maintained there was some sort of marker.

Sure enough, there was, but it was just a single Texas Historical Marker detailing the battle. I was expecting a kind of monument or a sign indicating that this was where the village was. A little something to the effect of the site at Adobe Walls would go a long way, if you ask me.

This is the area directly adjacent to the marker. Whether correct or not, this is where I imagine the battle could have taken place. Also, this is where the park road ends. The rest of Palo Duro Canyon winds its way back south towards Caprock Canyons and Briscoe County (and is not open to the public).

So we got back in the car, and found our way back down the long park road to the hill we entered the canyon on. By the time we resurfaced, the sun had just eclipsed the horizon.

With a hearty goodbye to Palo Duro, our road took us west again, back to the city named after this amazing canyon.

We checked into a local Holiday Inn and had dinner at the adjacent restaurant “Buffalo’s”. Let’s just say that Dairy Queen was my favorite meal of the day. Afterwards, we went back to the room and went to bed. This day had surely been full, but there was much to see tomorrow too.

That’s a wrap.

From San Angelo, our route took us north on Highway 208 for Robert Lee. As we headed up Andrews Street (208), preparing to leave the city, a bakery caught our eye.

As if it wasn’t already obvious, “Los Gallos” means “the chickens” in Spanish. I sampled their cinnamon roll, and it was pretty darn good.

Enjoying our pastries, we set the course through the rugged landscape of northern Tom Green and southern Coke Counties, passing through some beautiful scenery.

This hilly pass looks right at home among the Hill Country, or perhaps somewhere in the Brackettville-Rocksprings area of southwestern Texas. I’ve never heard of anyone acclaiming this part of the state, but views like this one are very pretty to me.

Now other portions of the road were lined with forests of dead mesquite trees. Those, of course, weren’t as picturesque, but “the Playground of West Texas” is still a nice place to visit.

We’d passed through nearly the entire town of Robert Lee before we found the courthouse. As the city began to fade away, we realized we’d gone too far and turned around to find the downtown district. There seemed to be a few businesses left, but shopper traffic appeared pretty “still” when I visited. Whether that was because it was Sunday, or whether the town is truly “dried up”, I don’t know.

The courthouse is from the 1950s, and that’s feasible as soon as one enters the square. The solar screens are a key characteristic of this one, a feature very similar to the previous Zavala County courthouse that dates from the same era. The design came from Wyatt C. Hedrick, a popular modern architect from that time.

There’s not much to see in terms of the courthouse itself, but the grounds are nice. A historic cornerstone and a public memorial garden aid the appeal. I also took a liking to an LED welcome sign, a few hundred feet from the lawn.

The concrete base says that it was installed on August 1, 2013.

The “VP” was confusing to me. As I moved around the memorial garden, I tried to rack my brain for what it could possibly stand for. “RL” would be the initials for the town, “C” for the county, etc.

I discovered a black and white cat crouched near a small handicap-accessible bridge to the park. He/she wasn’t too keen on sticking around to let me get close.

Crossing the bridge into the memorial garden/park, I came across this:

VP! What does that mean?

Only after spying the letters for a third time (on a bench in the garden), did I go back and photograph it in the other two locations. Even after finishing with my pictures, I couldn’t figure out its significance.

But, when I went to climb back into our car (parked next to City Hall), lo and behold:

“Vision with a Purpose“: the mantra of Robert Lee citizens in assisting their city with its beautification and restoration. It’s nice to see the people of a town come together this way and take pride in their community. Too many times have I seen otherwise.

We were headed west again now, moving closer and closer back to the Midland/Odessa Petroplex. But between this area and the outskirts of the Permian Basin lies Wind Country, the hotspot of all wind energy in Texas. Stretching south to the tip of Upton County (McCamey), and coming north all the way to the Snyder area, this area is populated with wind turbines on nearly every horizon.

Between Coke and Sterling Counties, we encountered a variety of turbines, some with different shaped control boxes, some in working condition, some with physical damage. Here and there stood one whose blades weren’t turning, and in one case, we even saw a crane working to repair one.

Then there was this, obviously the victim of a lightning storm:

Landscapes like these remained constant all the way to Sterling City.

 Entering Sterling City

Plucked straight from the Great Depression era, this 1938 model is most definitely the work of David S. Castle. Unlike his creations in Winkler and Reagan Counties, this one has a great deal of Art-Deco ornamental elements, typical of the time.

There’s a lot to see on the lawn here, including a historic jail, a welcome sign built around an old wheel, a windmill, and a large Texas-shaped rock garden.

It’s a fine courthouse, but wouldn’t win any special awards in my book.

So we moved on, trekking one more county to the west.

 Looks like someone’s been using this for target practice.

The switch back into the pump jack scene indicated we were getting close to the Permian Basin yet again, one of the most desolate parts of the state. That’s why the name of Glasscock County’s seat is so confusing. It’s called Garden City, and though you’d expect to find fertile plains of sunflowers, all you’ll see is mesquite for miles.

While here I learned that the town used to be named Gardener City. When that became too hard to say, they shortened it to Garden City, though there’s nothing close to a lush landscape of wildflowers to be found anywhere nearby.

A man in a red shirt was the first person I glimpsed while taking my pictures. He was busy walking to and fro, from the courthouse to a wooden shed on the lawn’s corner, carrying books and other items. My first thought was: the courthouse is open? It was Sunday, after all.

I noticed at one point while taking my pictures, that he was crossing over to where we’d parked the car, preparing to step up and ask my grandfather “y’all are taking pictures?”

They talked the entire time I was photographing the building, and about the time I finished, they called me over. Alan Dierschke is Glasscock County’s treasurer, and an expert on all things relating to the history of this courthouse. He was kind enough to invite us in for a tour of the building, built in 1910.

But before we stepped through the courthouse doors, he took us to the historic county jail, on one of the lawn’s corners. According to Mr. Dierschke, this jail was the county’s first courthouse, constructed in 1894. Sixteen years later, its role switched when the county built the much larger, much more impressive building. Today it still has historic jail cells, but they use it for storage, not incarceration.

As some disturbing graffiti would attest, this facility was still in use as late as the 1970s.

Next came the current courthouse, which was remodeled in typical 1970s fashion. Dropped ceilings, wooden paneling along the walls, carpet flooring…the list goes on.

The courtroom was haphazardly strewn about with chairs, boxes, books, and papers. Starting this Friday (I am writing this on Thursday, July 9, 2015…so tomorrow) every county official had to be moved out of the courthouse, as treatment for asbestos was set to begin. This is the first step in the impending county-funded courthouse restoration. The citizens of Glasscock County are financing it themselves, without state aid from the THC.

The THC’s program is a God-send to many Texas counties. I myself have seen the wonders they’ve been able to work. See Wharton County for confirmation of that. However, they like things a certain way. During their restoration of my home courthouse in Hood County, a big debate erupted when they vied to paint our clocktower red (over the grey), or else they’d pull their funding. Eventually, tempers subsided, and Hood County got to keep its gray. Thankfully. I just could never have seen it red.

That being said, I understand any wish not to work with the THC, and I have infinite respect and admiration for the people of Garden City and Glasscock County who are willing to pull together and give their courthouse the facelift it deserves.

Mr. Dierschke mentioned how they’d pull the wooden paneling away and take up the carpet in the courtroom, restoring a hard wood floor. Other renovations would occur that included (I’m sure) the removal of the modern-looking chairs and the cleanup of the courthouse exterior in places like the pediments.

 The judge’s bench is the only original feature to this courtroom.

He showed us some interesting features within the building as well, such as an original fireplace in one of the offices, and a “get away” staircase behind a door near the judge’s bench. I was reminded of Shelby County at that.

When our tour had ended, we thanked him and said our goodbyes. I’m sure he quickly resumed his process of clearing out his office in preparation for the asbestos treatment.

Rather than continuing west for Midland, we turned north for Howard County (#224).

I was surprised, upon entering the seat Big Spring, just how large the town is.

Population-wise, it stands as the ninth-largest city in West Texas behind El Paso, Lubbock, Amarillo, Midland, Abilene, Odessa, San Angelo, and Socorro. Still, for this trip, it was of the largest cities I visited outside any metropolitan area.

The largest building to catch my eye, entering from the south, is the large and expansive Veterans’ Hospital of West Texas.

It, along with my next find, are the two most interesting buildings in Big Spring.

The is the historic, fifteen-story Hotel Settles (which opened in 1930, and was abandoned in the 80s). In 2013, the building entered the National Registry of Historic Places after re-opening its doors to the public four months earlier. Today, the bottoms floors are used for retail purposes.

It’s a very pleasant hotel, and is striking to the Big Spring skyline.

The courthouse, meanwhile, is just “another face in the crowd” of West Texas modern architecture. I have nothing to say about it.

It was from Big Spring that we turned east, and began our slow journey home. Joining I-20, our path took us into neighboring Mitchell County.

Though the headwaters of Texas’ Colorado River are found southwest of Gail in Borden County, the settlement of Colorado City was named for the river, and is semi-close to them.

Taking the business exit from the Interstate, the courthouse and downtown district quickly became visible.

This building comes to us from the year 1924, another work courtesy of David S. Castle. You wouldn’t know that right off the bat, as the courthouse bears some distinct differences from his other works out this way. I suspect that’s because it was one of the earlier ones, erected a few years before the Art-Deco and Moderne styles of the Great Depression settled in among Texas architecture.

Since its creation, the windows of the main façade were smashed and filled in with concrete. As to why that was done, I’ve got no idea…yet. Seems like a lot more money could have been saved by just investing in blinds, if it was the sun they were worried about.

It wouldn’t be a courthouse trip if I didn’t see some inmates. Seems like every trip I run across at least one county where prisoners are out working on the landscaping. Though most of the time, it’s been orange jumpsuits I’ve seen…

If you’re wondering where Waldo is, I’d check Colorado City.

The town’s got a fascinating downtown area that we explored after the courthouse.

Like Big Spring, it has a historic hotel too (just not as tall as the Settles), but it’s not been opened back to the public. Just like the hotel in Mineral Wells (of the same name), this Baker Hotel has been abandoned for some time.

More wind turbines appeared out our window as we chugged down I-20 over farmland between Mitchell and Nolan Counties. We figured there was a possibility that those that we saw far in the distance to the south, could have been those that we’d seen far in the distance to the north earlier (while crossing from Robert Lee to Sterling City).

The next courthouse stop was in Sweetwater. Nolan County’s courthouse would make #226, the final new one for this trip. 28 to go! It was less a month ago when that number was 54. This project was completing itself before my very eyes.

I’d remembered reading that this one had undergone a serious restoration for a long time, and was braced to find it still underneath a shell of scaffolding. Thankfully, that process had finished. Though it’s a modern building, the renovation gave life to a “classically-enriched” style that now covers the courthouse. I understand that it used to look like this:

 (Photo Courtesy: Wikipedia)

Now, we have yet another building that’s taking part in the new architectural trend of paying homage to the classic courthouse style.

A new era of courthouse construction and design has begun, and thankfully, some counties are choosing to take pride in their court buildings, and transcend the modern values of the 50s-80s. I love seeing this.

I peeked through several doors (locked, as it was Sunday) while walking around the courthouse. The lights were turned off and it looked pretty empty inside, so imagine my surprise when peeking through the western door I saw a lady staring back at me.

She opened the door and asked if I needed inside, and I told her no. I was curious, though, why she’d be there on a Sunday. I’m not sure whether or not she was a patron or a county employee, but she told me that she was there because it was inmate visitation day. Hmmm. Good thing I didn’t go inside. Thanking her, I moved on.

So that was that. 226 courthouses down!

Before leaving Sweetwater, we took a minute or two to drive through the downtown area. The Municipal Building (ca. 1926) was the coolest find, in my opinion.

Next, we found our way back to the Interstate and left Nolan County behind, headed for familiar territory.

The next county to the east is Taylor (#140). You may’ve heard of the country seat: Abilene. I snagged that courthouse on Thanksgiving Day 2013, when visiting some friends out this way.

On the Taylor County page I made a claim that I had no intention of every returning to revisit the courthouse there (given that I took the pictures with the iPhone). It’s understandable why I wouldn’t want to. As it was completed in 1972, it doesn’t take much to realize this one’s not a looker.

No, I probably won’t ever come back to the ’72 model, but that’s not the only courthouse in Taylor County. The very first one, constructed nearly one hundred years earlier in 1879, is still standing in Buffalo Gap. It’s a small town in the center of the county between some large, rolling, beautiful hills.

It’s in this region that said hills begin steadily getting larger and larger, eventually finding their way to Upton County. North of here the landscape is pretty flat, and stays that way until the Canadian River watershed zones, Palo Duro Canyon, and the Caprock Escarpment. 

Buffalo Gap boasts a destination restaurant that brings out-of-towners to the tiny community. It’s called Perini Ranch. At my grandparents’ insisting (who’d been there many times before), we stopped and had a late lunch there.

The burger I had was billed as “Today Show Award Winning” and I could see why! Lunch was delicious.

“Barbadilla” greats visitors as they drive in.

He’s certainly one of the largest metal armadillos I’ve seen, but he doesn’t have the world record. That title belongs to “Killer” in my home town, Acton. I ought to know. My family owns him.

We arrived at the 1879 courthouse only to find it behind a fence. Turns out it’s not accessible to the public for free, but rather for $4.00. These days, it’s been turned into an attraction at the “Buffalo Gap Historical Village” and serves as a museum on early Taylor County. When we pulled up, they were closing for the day.

Thanks to a very nice museum worker (whose name I didn’t catch), he let us “sneak in” past 5:00 and catch a few pictures of the courthouse…and he didn’t charge! I’m very thankful.

There’s some other neat displays scattered around this “historical village”, but we didn’t have the time to stay and investigate them. We didn’t want to push our luck.

So we said farewell to Buffalo Gap, and headed northeast to Abilene, to rejoin the Interstate once more. At that point, I put up my camera once and for all, as the trip had drawn to a close.

About forty minutes later, when we were passing through the city of Cisco, I realized that I could make one more stop. We were now in Eastland County, which has been on my redo list for some time. I thought…why not knock it out?

That’s what we did. Unfortunately, I discovered when we entered the square, that a Fourth of July celebration stood in my way. Keep in mind, this was on July 5. A day after Independence Day. What?!

I had to work with it, though I was a little bitter.

To make matter worse, my camera battery died when I was halfway across the square from the car, and had to march back and change it. Fortunately, I was kept in a good enough mood because the courthouse here is truly striking. Combining both Art-Deco and Moderne design, this 1928 building was one of the first to appear in the twentieth century that followed this style.

It’s a nice courthouse; the large, ornamental eagles on the top corners are handsome features.

The most curious thing here, hands down, is Old Rip.

In 1897, Eastland County constructed their third courthouse. To commemorate the opening of the new building, a celebration was held on the city square that included the laying of the cornerstone. The mayor and other town fathers filled this with everyday items from the period, as part of a time capsule to be opened sometime in the 1900s. When the question was posed to the crowd if they had anything to add, one “smart” guy decided to place in a horned toad…live. I’m not sure what he was hoping to achieve.

By 1928, the county had outgrown the previous courthouse and down it went. In a similar celebration to commemorate the demolition, the time capsule was opened and the items procured.

The legend goes that when the horned toad was removed, it twitched to life. Over night, Eastland gained national fame for being the home of “Old Rip”, the horned toad that survived 31 years without food or water in a stone box.

They took the thing on a country-wide tour that even included a meeting with President Calvin Coolidge in Washington D.C. Can you imagine?

Whether or not you believe he survived all those years inside the cornerstone, it’s fact that pneumonia brought the little critter down in January 1929. In mourning, Eastland County had the toad stuffed by a taxidermist (who supposedly did the work for free) and put him on display in the window of the courthouse. I’ve put a picture of him here, so if that sort of thing makes you squeamish…don’t click.

Just like Old Rip’s did in ’29, our story had drawn to a close.

We departed Eastland on I-20, and found our way back home to Granbury in another hour or so.

The beautiful Hood County courthouse greeted us upon our return.

It won’t be long before I’m finishing this ride at its steps. Stick around.

Our day began with a journey towards Winkler County, the region that hugs New Mexico’s southeast corner. This is the thick of the Permian Basin, and the area is naturally marked by the pump jacks you’d expect. We found wind turbines here as well, especially around the point where the highway descends south off of the Llano into the petroleum businesses’ own personal prairie.

These brush plains of mesquite and sun dried grass, pockmarked by gas and oil operations, begin in Winkler County and sweep west over the minimally inhabited Loving County next door.

The rapid change from Odessa cityscape to the described countryside is a site to behold.

The terrain here is barren enough to influence the name of one of the tiny settlements we passed through.

The county seat Kermit is relatively isolated, being some forty-five miles west of the Petroplex and over thirty miles to the east of Mentone (which is itself barely a town). The only nearby, “major” settlements are Jal, New Mexico to the north and Wink to the south. Wink is the hometown of one of my favorite singers, Roy Orbison. After realizing this, I later found myself singing “Blue Bayou” under my breath as I walked around the Winkler County courthouse to get my pictures.

It’s a late 1920s building of the Texas Renaissance style. After oil was discovered here in 1926, the populations of Kermit, Wink, and the surrounding area boomed. As a result, the previous courthouse (which was only sixteen years old at the time), was replaced by this design of David S. Castle, who had a fair amount of work stretching from this region to the San Angelo area.

This building is fairly shaded around its main façade, which is the same annoying problem found at Castle’s other work in Reagan County. It’s hard to get a comprehensive shot featuring both the front door and the top that reads: WINKLER COUNTY COURTHOUSE. While here, I really enjoyed the decorative stone flowers installed on the entrances. In my opinion, they’re the most interesting feature of the building.

“Heritage Park” is across the street from the rear of the courthouse, and offered a series of five murals to my photography. They detail the history of Winkler County, from its pre-history when Native Americans roamed these plains, to its humble beginnings as a small cattle center, its establishing in 1910, its days as an oil capital, and finally to the Winkler County of today.

The middle mural in this set even happened to have a painting of what the 1910 courthouse would have looked like.

Unless you’re from West Texas, the name “Kermit” is sure to ring a different kind of bell than the one ringing for the Winkler County seat. We’re prone most to associate that name with the star of the Muppets, Kermit the Frog. It just so happens that in 2005, the king of the Muppets went on a world tour to celebrate his 50th birthday. He kicked it off in Kermit. Rightfully so.

According to an article of the Associated Press I found, the people of Kermit painted their water tower with the frog’s face, renamed a street Kermit the Frog Boulevard, and dedicated a park to him. The local Dairy Queen was even said to have served green fries and ice cream for a time. I was eager to see these things when I arrived in Winkler County, but to my disappointment, in ten years’ time the people of Kermit have forgotten their amphibious friend.

Kermit only has two water towers, and neither had a large frog painted on. They’ve coated them both with yellow jackets, the town mascot.

We also searched to find Kermit the Frog Boulevard, but it had disappeared from both the map and the city. It was nowhere to be found. I didn’t try the park or the Dairy Queen, but I’d be willing to bet the only green food left in the latter would be the kind not to pass a health inspection.

It was no matter. We had a long day ahead of us, and as the sun began rising towards its apex, we took off west of Kermit into the oil-filled countryside. Most all of the traffic that trucks along this section of Highway 302 is gas trucks and big semis working for the area’s energy companies. They’ve all staked their claims wherever they could find empty land. The region is thick with mesquite and pump jacks, gas wells and telephone poles that stop and pick up again miles down the road. This area is the least-populated in the entire state. That’s not an assumption; that’s fact.

So why were we heading out here?

In August 2013, I’d visited the area briefly to claim #107 on my list: Loving County. My pictures had been fine, but they were regrettable…as was common on that West Texas trip. This was the first time I’d begun going inside the courthouses, and most of my pictures came from the interior rather than the exterior. Those that were of the exterior were close ups, and just not good at all. Plus, I used that pesky iPhone. So are these redos?

No. I got 27 courthouses on that trip. Even if I decided they were worth redoing, I wouldn’t want to. When one spends a total of four/five hours round-trip getting from Van Horn to El Paso and back again, one doesn’t feel like redoing Culberson, Hudspeth, and El Paso Counties. Now, I’ll return to Jeff Davis, Presidio, and Brewster Counties some day, sure. And while I’m there, I’ll probably take some more pictures. After all, I didn’t get to see the courtroom in Marfa because it was being used while I was there. But, no, they are not redos. I’ve already made sufficient pages for most of that trip on this website.

However, I couldn’t pass up the opportunity, given that I was this close to Loving County, to pass it up. Plus, the minuscule county seat Mentone really intrigued me last time, and I wanted to see it again. I think you’ll see why.

Billed by the Texas Historical Commission as the smallest county seat in Texas (though Lipscomb and Gail are sure competitors, in my book), the tiny town of Mentone was established in 1925 after a nearby oil discovery, and called Ramsey. The postal service rejected this name, so those that laid out the community chose the name Mentone. This was named after a previous settlement in northern Loving County that went by the same name, but was abandoned in 1896. The story goes that the original Mentone was named by a French surveyor, longing for his home of Menton, on the French Riviera.

Check this out from the Texas State Historical Association:

“By July 1931 Mentone had five cafes, five gasoline stations, two hotels, two drugstores, two recreation halls, two barbershops, a dance hall, a machine shop, and a dry cleaner. From March 1932 to September 1935 a weekly newspaper, the Mentone Monitor, was published. By October 27, 1933, Mentone reported a population of 600.”

In its hey day, Mentone was quite the place to be. But come 1940, the population began dropping…fast. In 1946, only three businesses were left. It’s reported that from 1972 to 1984, no businesses were started, and the majority of all work (aside from a job in the gas station/cafe/post office), came from working for the county or for one’s pick of the oil service companies that dominate the area. In 2000, the population was 15. In 2010, that number jumped back up to 19. Though, in 2015, that number has dropped to 5. 

Loving County is the least populated county in the entire United States.

Their courthouse dates from 1935, and it’s as plain as the countryside outside of Mentone.

Yet, out of all the buildings in Mentone, this is one of the best in shape. Others are fit to fall apart. The large Hopper Annex (named after county sheriff Billy Hopper) is also in good condition, and is just behind the courthouse.

There’s a lot of interesting features I came across while in Mentone. Check ‘em out.

This church is the oldest building in Loving County. It was originally built in Porterville (abandoned after a 1930s Pecos River flood), and eventually moved to Mentone. It’s now used for non-demoninational worship. I had to hop the fence and scratch up my leg in the process to get some closer pictures of the structure, but I’d say it was worth it.

I particularly enjoyed the gas station, which is a self-serve unit. It was locked up when I visited, but I stuck the camera up to the window to see inside. There, I found some older-looking Dr. Pepper and Coke refrigerators. Mentone is just about stuck in time.

Keep in mind that this community doesn’t have any of the following, as listed by a historical marker:

• Water System
• Bank
• Practicing Doctor
• Hospital
• Newspaper
• Lawyer
• Civic Club
• Cemetery
• School (students are bussed to Wink, thirty miles away)

But, like all towns big and large: it does have a post office. Being both a Saturday and the Fourth of July when I arrived in Mentone, there was no one working there, but the door was unlocked for self-service.

The current office is directly adjacent to the original one, which is now abandoned. We laughed because there’s a padlock on its door, but the windows are busted.

Trucking west towards the Pecos River and Reeves County, we left Mentone behind. Though it’s small and in “another world” so to speak, it’s got a certain charm to it. Though I don’t imagine I’ll ever be back. This isn’t exactly the center of all tourism to West Texas.

That’d be more the Marfa-Fort Davis-Alpine-Big Bend region, which we were now heading towards.  As desperately as I wanted to return to this area (one of my favorites in Texas), I knew we’d be turning east once we reached I-20 at Pecos.

But, as long as we were in Reeves County (#106), I wanted to “stop back by” the courthouse.

Completed in 1937, this definitely has the feel of the Moderne works of the age, though its brick color and red abode tile roof point heavily towards influences of a certain Mediterranean style.

Perhaps in its prime it looked better than it does today, but a huge influx of grackles and other birds have warped the building to their will. Large bird nets detract the eye from appreciating the structure.

The courthouse isn’t in fine shape otherwise. There are definitely portions that seem to cry for renovation, and to my knowledge, the THC has yet to reach Reeves County.

I found myself fighting the birds while I took my pictures. They’re everywhere, flying back and forth from tree to tree. Twice one swooped down towards me, and given my irrational fear of birds, it jarred me for sure.

Before leaving Pecos, we drove by the “West of the Pecos Museum”, which features an original train depot on site, as well as a model of the Jersey Lilly, the saloon-turned-law office of Judge Roy Bean. You may remember the story of Bean becoming the “Law West of the Pecos” and setting up camp in Langtry on the Rio Grande, in what is today Val Verde County.

On the same trip that I visited Pecos originally, I briefly drove through Langtry (where the original Jersey Lilly is on display). However, I wasn’t able to see it as the local museum was closed. I intend to revisit Langtry some day, but for now, this model satiated my interest in the history of outlaw justice.

Given the high levels of potassium and salt in the Reeves County soil, Pecos has become a hot spot for the growing and selling of watermelons and cantaloupes in West Texas. We looked for some, but all the fruit stands up and down Cedar Street were either closed or out of melons until a shipment later that day. We didn’t have time to wait, and so one local market owner recommended we try Pyote, a small town between Pecos and Monahans.

Arriving there, we quickly surmised that that man didn’t have a clue what he was talking about. My grandfather got a strange look when he asked a gas station clerk where to find the “Pecos Melons” in Pyote. With no such luck, we headed east on I-20 for the Ward County seat.

Pulling in to the courthouse square, we found things in full swing. A huge Fourth of July celebration was underway. Music. Food. Games. Heat. It was the perfect combination, and the Monahans citizens had come from far and wide it seemed, to party in Hill Park. This park just so happens to be located directly across from the Ward County courthouse. At first, I was concerned that the celebration would get in my way, but I quickly discovered that it wouldn’t be a problem. After completing my pictures here, I even took a stroll through the park and briefly enjoyed the festivities.

It was getting close to lunchtime now, and we looked for a spot to eat in Monahans, but found that every restaurant we passed was closed! That made sense, because the whole town was down at Hill Park enjoying the party. A quick stop at the local Lowe’s also proved to be unsuccessful. No Pecos Melons here, either.

We turned south next, towards Grandfalls. About a quarter of the way there, our path turned east to navigate the county roads of Ward County. We were making our way to the next courthouse stop, Crane. For some time, I’d wanted to visit Monahans to see the Sand Hills state park where there are actual sand dunes that cover the ground, as opposed to the mesquite and brown/green grass that one usually finds. It’s east of town on I-20, so as we headed towards Crane, I unfortunately realized we wouldn’t be passing through it.

But, to my surprise:

There they are!

These are similar to dunes in the park, but they’re just not roped off by the Texas State Parks and Wildlife Department. I was very surprised to find them on this county road. We figured that a large series of them must run north-south all the way from here to I-20.

However, a quick search on Google Maps’ satellite view would prove otherwise.

(Photo Courtesy: Google Maps) 

It’s easy to see where the sand dunes south of town are, near the bottom right corner of the picture. That’s the patch we crossed through, but they don’t seem to stretch all the way to I-20. I’m lucky to have passed through this “mini-desert”. Someday, I’ll go back and visit the state park.

The sun was high in the sky when we showed up in Crane, and I was mighty hungry. Most restaurants here, like in Monahans, were closed. Only two were open: Jazzy’s Yogurt and Dairy Queen. Always trying to stray away from chains on trips like this, things we “could just get at home”, we tried Jazzy’s. They advertised as offering a variety of food besides yogurt, but one look at the inside of the building and you knew what food they were geared towards serving.

Not sure about yogurt bar pizza, we left and went to Dairy Queen instead. At least there, we knew what we were getting. After a “fast” lunch came the Crane County courthouse at #220.

It’s a modern building, but a refreshing one for its bursts of color. Blue, red, and orange walls and features alleviate what would normally be just another one of West Texas’ painful gray and white 1970s creations.

Literally across the street from Crane Elementary, this courthouse happens to look more like an ISD admin building or middle school than the seat of county justice. We joked that it was designed to look like that because Crane County is named for William Carey Crane, president of Baylor University from 1863 to 1885. He was a leading figure in Texas education and a major force in the development of the college, being particularly instrumental in its move from Independence, Texas to Waco.

Before leaving the city, I found a crane of my own:

We took off east now, sliding back down off the Llano Estacado to the windswept and brush covered plains of the western Edwards Plateau. The oil industry is still prevalent here, and there are plenty of pump jacks to be seen, but the highway stretching from Crane into Upton County traces the beginnings of wind country. It’s through the canyons and prairies of this region that a transition begins, replacing the pump jack majority with a wind turbine takeover. Mountainous rises and bluffs here form both the end of the Llano, and the subtle hills of the Edwards Plateau. This plateau is a geographic formation that stretches from here all the way to my home of Hood County, just west of Fort Worth.

The county seat of Upton County (#104), is Rankin, a “pass through” city (called such with much respect) on Highway 67 between San Angelo and Fort Stockton. It straddles the side of one large hill and overlooks the mesquite-covered prairies below. Excellent views of the countryside are provided by the courthouse’s location near the summit.

The original cover photo of my Rankin County page was a shot I captured on Main Street. It’s a favorite picture of mine, but when I originally visited Rankin, I took it with that darned iPhone!

When we entered Rankin, I of course had a yearning to return to the Upton County courthouse, but I also made sure to get that shot again.

Here’s the courthouse:

On the second day of that 2013 trip, we had lunch here in Rankin at the Basin Cafe. I recall that the fried pork chops were especially good. Had I not checked online to see if it was open or not for the Fourth (which it wasn’t), we would have skipped the Dairy Queen in Crane and driven on down to Rankin, but it’s a good thing we didn’t.

Some time in the last two years, the Basin Cafe was transformed into the Basin Bar. Good things never last. I have learned that throughout this project many times…and often the hard way.

 Mind that glare.

Back on Highway 67 now, we began retracing our steps from our first trip through this area. From #104, we passed into #103 (Reagan County), where the seat is Big Lake. After returning home from my first visit to Big Lake, I learned that its status as county seat was not always existent. At the time of the county’s organization, a community closer to the center of the county called Stiles served in that position. To my dismay, I learned that up in what remains of Stiles is an abandoned courthouse. I completely missed this in 2013!

Now was finally my chance to right that wrong. Before reaching Big Lake, we turned left and set out on a small farm-to-market road (however there aren’t any farms here). The terrain through what was once a town called Best, is another stretch of road bordered on both sides by natural gas and oil operations. The only traffic that trucks down this path belongs to either.

We took this road to deposit us on Highway 137, about twenty-two miles north of Big Lake. We turned south here, and a mile of two more carried us into Stiles.

Of all places, a small RV park has been set up two hundred feet or so from the courthouse. The residents/patrons of this establishment are the only residents to remain in this ghost town, aside from the desert lizards I found scurrying around the courthouse property (and of course the rattlesnakes that we knew had to be there).

Constructed in 1911 for a thriving community, this courthouse served Reagan County for fourteen years. As these things go, the railroad eventually passed through the southern portion of the county on its way to Fort Stockton, and Big Lake took over as seat in 1925. Stiles’ population dwindled, and the courthouse was eventually abandoned. The exact same fate happened to Upton County. The previous seat of Upland was vacated in favor of the railroad hub Rankin and a courthouse there was abandoned. Like this one, it still stands. I would’ve gone to see it too, if it wasn’t located on private property.

I figured my visit to Stiles to be the equivalent of a journey through Frio Town, if only I had been able to access the private land that it sits on. The abandoned Frio County courthouse must have looked something like these ruins I was now walking through, though Frio County’s had been empty for far longer than Reagan’s.

The county treasurer in Glasscock County (who I’d meet the next day), told us that the Stiles courthouse didn’t look like it did now because it had been long abandoned. Instead, he said that its current condition was thanks to an arsonist’s work in 1999. Thankfully, the culprit was apprehended for his crime, but the Stiles courthouse has been a pile of debris ever since.

The courthouse property is now locked by chain-link fence, hopefully in an effort to deter any more vandals. 

You can bet I spent my fair share of time photographing this courthouse, relishing the opportunity to explore a token of history that the plains had nearly claimed for their own. The abandoned/retired courthouses are always the most fun to visit. They tell the best stories, if you ask me.

When I’d finished with Stiles, we followed the highway south again for Big Lake. There, I intended to swing back by #103, a David C. Castle design vaguely similar to the one in Winkler County.

I discovered while here that a dissertation of sorts had been taped to the front door of the Reagan County courthouse, protesting the Supreme Court’s (at the time of this writing) recent ruling on the legality of same-sex marriage. Including this as part of my blog is in no way trying to push an agenda, or renouncing one. I keep things like political opinions far away from my work here.

I include this tidbit as it made me remember how central of a part the courthouse plays in a community. This is the place where citizens feel like they can take a political stance, as this is the center of all law in each county. It’s just a curious thing to remember the purpose of these courthouses for someone who’s only appreciated them for their architecture and history.

It was about five o’clock when we left Big Lake, heading east once more to Irion County (#101). We didn’t retrace our steps to Crockett County (#102) (even though I’d like to), because it’s highly out of the way and we didn’t have enough time in the day to drop down to Ozona, and come all the way back up. If we weren’t concerned about sunlight being optimal in Irion County, it probably could have been a reality, but there were better things to be seen.

The first of such things was a redo at the courthouse in Mertzon.

Entering Mertzon

Like Upton County’s courthouse, this too sits on a hill overlooking both the countryside and the town below.

The Irion County hills are a sight to behold and vastly underrated. This area is no Hill Country, but it’s not too far from the westernmost county considered as part of that region. Its rolling terrain is still a pretty place to visit. These plains though, are another one of the least populated places in Texas.

Davis S. Castle designed this one as well, but it’s a very different style than the Reagan and Winkler County versions.

Having been completed in 1937, it has obvious influences from the gripping Moderne phenomenon of the era. However, its shape and some of its features are only at home in West Texas, and separate from the Moderne works more familiarly seen in East and North Texas. This one’s in a category of its own.

The same can be said for the next courthouse we visited, one of my all-time favorites.

Irion County was formed from land taken from Tom Green County in 1889, and organized the same year with the city of Sherwood as its county seat. In the mid 1920s, the railroad bypassed Sherwood by only a mile or two, and a new community called Mertzon began to prosper. An election in 1927 to move the county seat to Mertzon won 286 to 231. However, a two-thirds majority was required to make a change, and Sherwood retained its status. That changed in 1936 when a second election occurred and Mertzon beat Sherwood 453 to 222.

The county seat changed, and that same year (’36) the David S. Castle courthouse was built on the hill. As a result, the community of Sherwood dried up, leaving behind a marker that has, since 1936, acted like a massive tombstone to a town that was once was.

The reigning jewel of Texas courthouses, in my opinion anyway, is the 1901 Irion County courthouse designed by Martin & Moodie of Comanche. Folks, it doesn’t get better than this.

For me, it’s a tough call between Hopkins, Tarrant, Harrison, Victoria, Ellis, and Fayette Counties (in terms of beauty), Hood and Somervell Counties (for nostalgic value), Hemphill, Donley, Archer, Shelby, and Presidio Counties (for uniqueness), and this one for my favorite courthouse. It is remarkable to visit in person.

For history buffs and architectural appreciators, and then those that enjoy both (like myself), this 104-year building will excite. Its haunting and enduring façades, aged tin roof and tower, and its isolation among the hard hills of Irion County make it the ultimate find. This is the king of the retired courthouses.

I first fell in love with the Sherwood courthouse when I visited it on that August 2013 trip. It’s been nearly two years since I was first the guest of Irion County, and ever since returning home, I’d kicked myself for not getting more pictures of this building (the one that had left the firmest imprint on my memory). Since then, I had planned on returning and on this Fourth of July day, I’d finally done it. A few local residents were shooting off fireworks when I arrived, as if they were celebrating my return to Sherwood. I certainly was.

The owls are my favorite part.

I suppose I like it so much because it’s a link to a nearly forgotten time, when this county was wild and rugged. This was a time fresh out of the nineteenth century, before WWI and II, and the rest of the turmoils of the 1900s. I’ve been to many courthouses built in the 1800s and the early twentieth century, but this one tells the best story. It’s a treat to walk the grounds here and just imagine what Sherwood might have looked like more than a hundred years ago.

1901. What a time that must have been.

My camera’s memory card got closer and closer to being full as I spent my time in Sherwood. I believe I came out of there with over two hundred shots. That’s far too many to put here, and probably too many to fill the Irion County page with. I believe I’ll make a separate page for this unique and historic building.

We observed many locals gathered outside their homes near the courthouse, enjoying Forth of July get togethers and other activities. It’s hard to believe they’re so used to seeing the courthouse, but to them, it’s just a community center. Nothing more.

Nowadays, they use it for a church. That’s happened since I last arrived. I was happy to see it’s actually getting utilized.

Too many times historical sites like this are left alone and never touched, and sadly, they fall apart and fade back into the ground from whence they came. Just look at Frio Town for confirmation. Luckily, the Irion County Courthouse seems as if it has a good many years left.

After spending a great deal of time here in Sherwood, we took off on Highway 67 for the night’s stop in San Angelo. A speeding ticket, a quick drive by the Tom Green County courthouse (#100) (four or five pictures in total), and a dinner at Henry’s (Mexican and American food) comprised our time here.

Try the guacamole!

Next came a hotel and a good night’s rest. It had been a long day, and tomorrow would only be more full of courthouse stops.

You know it’s hot when!

At 9:00 we said goodbye to Corpus Christi, and began the long and arduous trip home. Our first task? We had to visit Bee County.

Even after all I had accomplished the day before, there was still one new courthouse left in this area. Bee County would make #208.

From Corpus, we headed northwest for San Antonio on I-37, the same route we’d traveled to get to South Padre Island last summer. For Beeville (the county seat), we were to exit onto Highway 359 in Mathis. But, we missed that.

Instead, we had to take FM 352 near the tiny community of Argenta, and navigate a series of other farm to market roads before joining Highway 359, as was originally planned. The picture you see above is from our trek through the countryside of Live Oak and Bee Counties.

At Skidmore, we turned left on Highway 181, which took us straight into Beeville.

The courthouse is a brick Beaux-Arts creation, dating from 1912. It offers some interesting similarities to the Fort Bend County courthouse in Richmond, designed in the same style (but by different architects) and has some wonderful features. These include a beautiful dome, statue of the goddess of justice, a very unique clock, decorated pediments, and large Corinthian columns.

And then there’s this.

Presented by the US Navy (for a reason unknown to me), this jet sits on the northwest corner of the courthouse lawn. Its official name is a “Douglas A4 Skyhawk”, designed specifically to serve on aircraft carries. In fact:

It would seem this one served on the U.S.S. Lexington.

They’ve given it the name “Spirit of Beeville”.

As I photographed the main entrance, I spied this cool lamp through the nearest window. Turns out this is one of the county commissioners’ offices.

I’d like to get my hands on one of these, but I have no idea how to go about finding it for sale. I got lucky once, and found a model of the Bosque County courthouse in a Meridian antique store, but it’s the only such one I’d ever seen until coming to Bee County.

This is the northeast corner, home of the cornerstone.

It’s just nearly impossible to get to. There’s a dense garden of foliage and brush separating it from the sidewalk. Regrettably, I couldn’t get through.

I found this in the courthouse parking lot. It’s presumably a reference to softball, and not the historic architecture, but I took it to mean how I wanted it to mean. And in that case, I certainly agree!

#208 courthouses down!

But I wasn’t done for the day, yet. Our route had us passing through two of the redo towns from the March 2012 trip (the same one that included Cuero and Goliad). The first was Karnes City (seat of Karnes County), which I recalled was under restoration-related construction when I visited three years ago.

I was disappointed to find that three years later, it was STILL flanked by scaffolding. In fact, the scaffolding had spread considerably since 2012. It now stood on three sides, when last time, it had only covered one.

As my pictures (minimal though they were) would attest from my last trip, this side was the one being repaired in 2012. It looks pretty good now.

Two of these conical “turret-toppers” were sitting in the yard when I visited, just waiting to be installed.

It’s easy to discern where they’ll be placed when the time comes.

This building looks like it was in pretty bad shape. I’m glad that it’s getting its much-needed rehabilitation, but now the THC needs to keep going south on Highway 181 for Corpus Christi and restore the 1914 courthouse, too!

Though it was under construction, I took the pictures I needed and removed Karnes County from my redo list. I don’t plan on coming back to Karnes City ever again. If, in three years, they haven’t finished…who knows when they will?

With #49 on the original list complete, we set out to the northwest to redo #50 (Wilson County). The seat here is Floresville.

Wilson County is peanut country. The crop was first introduced to the area in 1916 after local farmer Joe T. Sheehy (the “Peanut King”) was successful with an experimental attempt at growing it. Today, he is remembered with this memorial on the courthouse lawn.

This court building, like the one in Karnes County, was also undergoing a renovation. Luckily for me, though, this only included the interior and didn’t disrupt any photos of the exterior.

Coming soon: a new and improved Wilson County courthouse

Well, that wrapped up all the courthouses I’d be getting in South Texas. As of the moment I finished rephotographing #50, I had successfully completed every county south of San Antonio. That’s big.

On that trip in March 2012 I had visited eight courthouses. After going back to Wilson County, I’d revisited seven. The only one that remains is Guadalupe County (county seat: Seguin), but I plan on returning there when I come back through the area to revisit Bexar, Comal, and Hays Counties. That will probably happen later this summer. Stay tuned.

The sun was high in the sky now, and that meant lunchtime. It’s sort of an unwritten tradition in my family that if we’re returning home from South Texas, and it’s possible, we like to eat barbecue in Lockhart. After all, the seat of Caldwell County, is the “Barbecue Capital of Texas”.

The last time we ate in Lockhart was July 2014, when we were heading south for South Padre Island. At that time, I figured I would revisit the courthouse (as it was on my list), but you may remember that the lens I’d brought with me was a zoom lens. That was a complete accident, and rendered my picture-ability nullified.

This time around, however, I had the right lens and was eager to check Caldwell County off as complete.

This is a landmark work of Alfred Giles, who designed a sister building to this one in Goliad County. In my opinion, this is one of the most beautiful courthouses in Texas.

Before I set about photographing, I had lunch at Smitty’s Market.

“The pit”

The sausage is the best.

After a delicious lunch, I went to take the pictures I needed.

A helpful security guard on the inside was very receptive to the project. Though, he wasn’t too certain why I’d want to see the second floor. His quote was: “you’re just going to see up there what you see down here.”

But with his permission, I gathered what I needed on both floors (not including the courtroom, as it was locked), and left.

And so that was that. A trip complete with 8 new courthouses, 1 retired courthouse, 5 redos, a battleship, an aquarium, a battleground, a presidio, a monumental gravesite, a statue of an explorer, a coastal ghost town, two restaurants that served delicious food, and a handful of port cities was over. Yet though this trip had ended, the 2015 Courthouse Season had just begun.

Previous Post: Southern Gulf Coast Day 3

As we headed towards downtown, the Nueces County courthouse (destined to be #201 on my list), came into view at the base of several other skyscrapers.

That’s it on the left, the cream-colored squatty one with several rows of windows.

Well, we headed around the north side of downtown to exit, but we missed our mark. It just so happened that the exit we were headed for, was the last one before the Harbor Bridge. We were stuck on the road all the way until the other side of the harbor.

Before crossing the bridge, we passed by the retired (and abandoned) 1914 courthouse. It rests just off the Interstate in a state of dilapidation and despair.

This would be our next stop after the much more modern 1977 version, but first we had to cross the bridge, turn around, and come back to downtown.

The U.S.S. Lexington, as seen from the Corpus Christi Harbor Bridge

So once going back over the bridge for a second time, we made sure to take the right exit into downtown. Though it’s tall, the courthouse is still dwarfed by the rest of the larger buildings. It took us a minute or two to find.

As I began photographing it, I walked towards what I could only assume was the front door, and was met by signs that read: Not A Public Entrance and KEEP OUT.

I’m not sure what this concrete pit was ever supposed to be. My best guest would be a fountain of some kind. Today, it’s bone dry, and looks more like a zoo paddock than anything.

So instead of accessing it through this way, I walked around the building, finding entrances on all other sides.

When I began walking back around to the parking lot and the side I had started on, I discovered that there was an entrance near that dried fountain after all. It’s a bit hidden, but the locals seemed to know where to find it.

Here’s a shot of the interior, seen from that entrance.

So after finishing with this courthouse, we headed back towards the highway, but instead of getting on it, we swung around to a lot adjacent, at the corner of Belden and Mesquite Streets.

The original Nueces County courthouse sits here, out of use since 1977. The sad thing is that it looks like it’s just waiting for a demolition crew to give it a sweet release.

This is one of the most depressing courthouses I’ve encountered on my journey, and for good reason. Today, visitors to Corpus Christi will find it surrounded by chain link fence topped with barbed wire, with its bricks crumbling off, windows shattered, eaves busted, walls cracked, and one of its sides overgrown with mossy weeds. To think that this was once the center of all justice in Nueces County is quite ironic, because how the country has treated this one is anything but just.

Loads of graffiti are evidence that no one gives signs like these any thought.

Interestingly enough, a bridge for walkers that crosses the highway terminates right at the edge of the courthouse property. However, a gap between the cracked sidewalk and the end of the bridge would attest to the fact that it’s not used often. I found it quite useful in getting some pictures.

Here’s a shot of the southern side, as seen from the top of the bridge. I read somewhere that part of this side was semi-recently restored. It’s easy to see which portion that might have been. But, I ask, why hasn’t the whole courthouse been “brought back to life”?

I’m not claiming to know all the facts. A bit of research should reveal why Nueces County is so trepidatious to restore it.

Yet, no matter what is preventing the county from “healing” it, you cannot disagree about what this courthouse truly is: a downright shame.

So, to brighten the mood, we set off across the Harbor Bridge again. But, this time we weren’t aiming to turn back.

North Beach

That bridge you see in the distance was our next destination. It’d be the one to carry us to our next county.

Aransas County boasts such signature beach communities as: Aransas Pass (partially), Fulton, and Rockport (the county seat). As the owner of the restaurant where we ate lunch put it, there’s only two things to do in a place like this: fish and relax.

There’s plenty of both going on, for sure. Everyone that lives up and down the coast has the relax part down.

In fact, the courthouse architects also seem to have embodied that philosophy, as the design they put together looks like it didn’t take much effort.

I can’t recall where I read it, but in one place I’ve heard the architectural style of the Aransas County courthouse referenced as the “motel style”. Honestly, I’ve seen Motel 6′s with more characteristic than this. But, there’s no intentional slandering to Aransas County meant by that.

You could probably just say I’m bitter that, in the 50s, they demolished one of the coolest courthouses to ever stand in our state.

It had influences from both Spanish colonial and Mission-styled buildings, and was complete with a teardrop dome on top (not to mention its design came from James Riely Gordon). How could they even think about getting rid of such a thing? Curse 1950s modernization!

We’ll all just have to settle for these “motel style” creations until an architectural revolution occurs sixty years or so from now. But by then, this one’ll be registered as a historic site by the THC and nobody will be able to touch it. Oh well.

According to the historical information presented outside the courthouse’s front door, the original building stood on this adjacent lot. At least they didn’t build an annex on top of it, or anything.

Driving parallel to the bay offered some nice pictures of fishermen and sea birds as we transitioned into the nearby community of Fulton.

In Fulton sits the Fulton Mansion, home of George W. Fulton, a land developer and entrepreneur. After moving to the Rockport area, Fulton developed a fortune from shipping cattle hides to New Orleans. To symbolize his success, he built his Oakhurst mansion. Today, it looks right out on to Aransas Bay and is a museum.

Unfortunately, it was under restoration at the time of my visit.

Up next was lunch, which was at Rusty’s Patio Bar. Luckily for us, the shrimp and the grouper were the latest catches. We had both.

Leaving Rockport behind, we passed over the strait between Copano and Aransas Bays, on our way to Calhoun County. As we traveled on the bridge, a reckless driver tried to pass us, and had my grandfather not slammed on the breaks, would have had a head-on collision with a car in the other lane. We very well could have been involved in that.

Fortunately, we made it out of that alive, and began the journey to Calhoun County. To get there from Aransas County, the highway first passes through Refugio County, where the countryside is flat and heavily cultivated. If I hadn’t known any better, I would have assumed that the terrain I was now traveling through belonged in the Panhandle, rather than South Texas.

In about an hour past Rockport, we arrived in Port Lavaca (population-wise the largest port between Corpus Christi and Freeport). It’s also the seat of Calhoun County.

The courthouse here, just like that in Aransas County, is nothing special.

Built in 1959, this modern creation was the work of the simply named firm “Rusty and Martin”. It replaced a 1911 version that was heavily influenced by the Greek Revival style.

Despite its relatively minimal attempts at aesthetic appeal on the exterior, I found the interior of the courthouse surprisingly pleasant.

Maybe it’s just me, but the shades of orange, brown, and red just look so much better than the drab grays and whites you’d find in other modern courthouses. The color scheme in this one tilts much more of a nod to older architecture than to the 1950s modernization phase of Texas courthouses. Thank goodness for that.

While I was busy photographing the inside, I heard my grandfather speaking with a courthouse patron, asking him about Indianola (our next stop). The man described it as a “small fishing town with a neat beach and a store”. He wasn’t wrong. That’s about all there is.

Indianola, located in southeastern Calhoun County, was on my to-see list because it was once a port of a size to rival Galveston. Historically, Indianola was one of Texas’ most important cities, yet successive hurricanes throughout the second half of the 19th Century destroyed the port, forced citizens to move inland, and blew enough dirt and mud into the bay to make it too shallow for major vessels to sail there. By 1900, Indianola had lost all of what it once had.

Southbound in Calhoun County, en route for Indianola

This is worth reading. It’s yet another intriguing and amazing story that came from Indianola.

Unfortunately, there just isn’t much here anymore, aside from beach homes. It’s been through many major changes in its time. After all, in its hey day, Indianola was the county seat. Yet after the hurricanes damaged the vitality of the bay city, Port Lavaca rose to replace it.

More than just the street’s dead end

Just like the man in the courthouse said, there was a store, albeit a small one. It was at the very end of the road. At the time of our arrival, those two men you see were loading up on their bait. The store seemed to have a good selection of it.

This little stretch of water here was all that stood between this house and the store. I figure whoever lives there can just boat on over whenever they need something.

As we drove out of Indianola we passed by what appeared to, at first glance, be a kind of historical marker. But after closer inspection, I realized it was a foundation piece of one of Calhoun County’s past courthouses. I of course had to take a picture.

It reads:

Calhoun County Courthouse

Edward Beaumont, Architect 1859

During the storms of 1878 and 1886, precious lives were saved within its walls of shell concrete and lime.

Abandoned 1886

Very neat!

Near the northern terminus of Indianola was an even more interesting historical find (in my opinion). In fact, this was one of the main reasons I wanted to come to see the town, anyway.

It’s a statue of Rene Robert Cavelier Sieur de La Salle, the first Frenchman to land in Texas. Seeking the Mississippi, La Salle landed on the shores of Matagorda Bay, and established his colony Ft. St. Louis on the banks of what is today Calhoun County. He began the French interest in the area (which would eventually lead to the developing of New Orleans) and is responsible for the French claim to Texas (remember that France is one of Texas’ six flags). Though he was murdered in a crew mutiny in 1687, he is best remembered for his contributions to the United States. It is because of his work that France took more of an interest in the New World and developed its territory called Louisiana. You’ll recall that in 1803, Napoleon sold the land to America under the Jefferson administration, and thus the U.S. doubled its size overnight. This is known to history as the Louisiana Purchase.

You can thank La Salle for that. They say Ft. St. Louis was founded only miles from Indianola, and as a result, his statue was erected here in 1938.

It’s truly an interesting find.

So we said goodbye to La Salle, Indianola, and the camels and took off back north on state-maintained road. Before heading on to our next destination, we first had to pass back through Port Lavaca.

I think the courthouse is an indication of the validity of this statement. No further comment.

Heading east on Highway 35, we took the causeway over Lavaca Bay, passing from Port Lavaca to the smaller community of Port Comfort. This area is dominated by the Formosa Plastics Corporation. You can see the various spires of its production plant in the picture below.

At Port Comfort, we turned left to head north on FM 1593, passing right by the Formosa plant. It is a huge operation.

Along this path, we navigated the backgrounds with Jackson County in mind for our next stop. Part of our route had us passing over the Palmetto Bend Dam on Lake Texana, a hotspot for recreational fishing in the area.

In only six more minutes or so, we’d arrived in the seat of Jackson County. And after stopping briefly at a gas station, we got acquainted with Edna, “Flag City”.

The courthouse, yet another modern creation, was up on the left. Though I was getting remotely bored by these buildings, Jackson County’s certainly had more “life” than any of the previous courthouses of the day.

I figure it’s the orange brick and pink flowers that do the trick for me.

I was surprised to find a very unique entry hall, as well.

You don’t find one of these every day.

To the immediate right of the main doors is a small picket fenced area, marking off a carriage. This was donated by Tom Babb of both Jackson and Victoria Counties, in 1970, to honor the memory of an Elizabeth Babb. The exact nature of their relationship is unknown to me. I’d like to know how old this is.

The carriage wasn’t the only cool find. Turns out the historic cornerstone of the previous courthouse (dating from 1906) is on display indoors. I’ve found during my project that the displaying of historic cornerstones follows a general trend of outdoor placement. To my knowledge, this is the only one inside its courthouse.

While photographing this courthouse, I ran into some landscapers in orange clothes. It wasn’t long before I realized they were inmates.

Now this isn’t the only time I’ve seen county inmates working on the courthouse grounds. This has also happened in Grimes, Childress, and Galveston Counties while I visited, just to name a few.

You can see the building just past him has a colorful marquee. I spotted the same and walked over to photograph what I assumed was a working corner theater.

But, it didn’t take long to realize that it hasn’t been used for some time. The shot below, taken through the doors, reveals a state of disrepair within the interior.

Instead of advertising films showing at this location, the marquee is now used to tell the people of Edna what’s playing over in Ganado, one town over. It’s sad to see such a nice building out of use. I hope Jackson County is planning on reopening the Edna Theater.

There was of course no time to stay and find out. Time was already getting ahead of us. It was about 3:35 when we left Edna, and there were four more stops to make (one of which would take nearly a whole hour).

We set out west now, beginning the slow journey back to Corpus Christi. In approximately thirty minutes, we’d arrived in the regionally large city of Victoria, Texas.

Before coming to Victoria, I hadn’t realized that the Caterpillar maintains a production facility here. At first glance, I thought this was the headquarters, but a little research revealed that the company is based in Peoria, Illinois. There are several more operating locations scattered across Texas, but this one in particular fabricates hydraulic excavators. Who knew?

Unfortunately, the trend of modern courthouses in the area wasn’t broken by Victoria. The current building, built in 1967, is as minimally pleasing as they come.

But! There’s good news. This current courthouse isn’t the only one to see.

I dare you to call this one modern.

Built throughout the entirety of 1892, the original design was courtesy of James Riely Gordon, of San Antonio (the master of Texas courthouse architecture). The contract he and his partner, D.E. Laub, had with Victoria County maintained that they would be present every day of construction. Yet, Riely, who had many pressing commitments throughout the 1890s, couldn’t live up to this. He was fired in May. The contractors, Martin, Byrne, and Johnston (another famous architectural firm) added their “own flare” to it before it was finished. Upon completion in December, the county brought in Eugene Heiner from Houston (another member of Texas courthouse royalty) to approve the final product. His support allowed the county to accept the courthouse on January 1, 1893.

In the 1960s, the county decided to move to a new building, but thanks to the efforts of a petitioning, local citizens’ group, the 1892 courthouse was saved from demolition. Today, the two stand side by side, and are connected with a tunnel that looks straight out of an aquarium.

I almost expected to see sharks, rays, and sea turtles as I passed through.

I first tried to enter the 1892 courthouse through its front door, but as I tried to step in, I found it locked. A cleaning lady on the inside pointed in the direction of the younger building and told me I first had to pass through security.

The security guards were nice enough, but you could tell they didn’t mess around. Still, they didn’t ask any questions about my right to photograph, as had been the case in Hansford and Webb Counties. I was grateful for that.

At the center of this courthouse is an atrium, like the one in Fayette County (also designed by Gordon, just a year earlier than this one), but Victoria County’s has an elevator.

The second-floor courtroom (which is still used) is quite impressive. It’s to my understanding that the courthouse underwent a renovation in 2001, which I’m sure can be held responsible for making this room one of the finest I’ve seen in any courthouse.

An interesting feature of this courtroom was a set of stairs, located behind the partition between the visitor’s sitting area and the judge’s/witness’/plaintiff’s/defense’s seats.

I couldn’t resist seeing where they went.

Turns out, I stumbled upon what I believe was the judge’s chambers and an emergency exit. Now, I figured I shouldn’t have been down here, so I began to make my way back up to the courtroom. That’s when I heard someone walking around above me. Sticking my head up ever so slightly, I spotted a woman walking towards the stairs. You can bet I quietly ran back down to the emergency door (located around the corner from the judge’s chambers) and waited a minute or two.

When I thought she was gone, I quickly and silently made my retreat.

From that point, I headed up to the third floor to try and take a picture of the courtroom from the balcony, but I found the doors locked. So, I thought I’d try out the elevator next, which was all glass on three of the four sides. 

After exploring this courthouse (on the outside and inside) for nearly an hour, I climbed back in the car and left Victoria, headed west on Highway 59 again.

In March of 2012, I’d first come through the area I was now passing through: Goliad County. That year I’d been in seventh grade (the first year I really got interested in Texas History, as it was part of the curriculum). During a Spring Break trip to San Antonio, my grandfather, dad, and I took a day trip to Gonzales & Goliad, major spots in the tale of Texas Independence. Of course, I also made a point to visit some courthouses that day as well. These included: Guadalupe, Gonzales, Lavaca, DeWitt, Goliad, Karnes, and Wilson Counties. All made the redo list.

Before we arrived in Goliad to redo #48, our route first passed through the tiny town of Fannin. It’s obviously named after Colonel James Fannin (who died at Goliad). Back in 2012, I had no idea that there was any history to be seen here, but it turns out that the Coleto Creek Battlefield (today called the Fannin Battlefield) has been marked off as a historic site since 1914. In the 60s, it transitioned under the care of the Texas Parks and Wildlife Department and sometime in the last few years, the THC took it over.

Now knowing this existed, how can you imagine I’d pass it by without stopping?

I’m not sure how I missed this in 2012.

We hung around the Fannin Battleground for about six minutes. It was technically closed, but the gates were still open, which allowed me to get a few pictures.

The following drive to nearby Goliad was not long.

A signature work of Alfred Giles, this courthouse was constructed in 1894 at a whopping cost of $67,885.95. The tower you see above was ripped from the structure in a 1942 storm. Not until 2003 did the THC’s Courthouse Preservation Program restore it.

This was an important redo. I never knew when I was going to get back down Goliad-way. Thankfully, the trip to Corpus cleared up that question in my mind. This, along with DeWitt County, were particularly out of the way. I’m fortunate to have been passing back through these areas.

I recalled this tree on the courthouse lawn from my trip three years ago. Its thick, sturdy, and long branches made it perfect for the exact activity you’d expect. This is Goliad County’s hanging tree.

Photographing this courthouse was a bit tricky. Not only did the muggy and humid late afternoon heat bring out some of the largest mosquitoes I’ve ever seen, but my right side began to ache. Every time I lifted my arms up to get a picture, pain seared through my ribcage. I haven’t hurt since, so I’ve equated it to have just been from my excessive photography throughout the day. I was in Goliad from around 5:15 – 5:50, and we’d be at this since 9:00. It had been a long one. And there were still stops to make!

The next one was just south of town, at El Presidio de Nuestra Señora de Loreto de la Bahía, or simply La Bahía (the bay), for short. It was here that the men captured by General Urrea’s forces at Coleto (Fannin Battleground) were put to death on March 27, 1836 at the orders of Antonio Lopez de Santa Anna. Santa Anna, you may remember, was the Mexican president and chief antagonist of the Battle of the Alamo.

Now I’d been here in 2012, but I sure wanted to come back and get some pictures with my camera. The museum of course was closed, but I got some shots of the outside.

It’s said that many of the men were housed in that chapel you see there, while they waited for death.

It’s a neat place to visit, though a depressing one.

Also to see in Goliad is the mass grave of Fannin and his men. After the Goliad Massacre, many of the bodies were stacked and burned by the Mexican army. Yet three months later in June, there was obviously still enough carnage left to catch the eye of Thomas Rusk, as he passed through Goliad to pursue the fleeing Mexican forces (who were retreating after Santa Anna’s defeat at San Jacinto in April). He and his men buried the remains with military honors.

According to one source I found, this gravesite was nearly lost to history. In 1858, a pile of rocks was placed by a local Goliad citizen where he assumed the grave was. In 1930, a Boy Scout troop made a macabre find when bones turned up while they explored the rocks. Sometime between 1930 and 1938, historians evaluated the authenticity of these remains, and when it was confirmed that they belonged to the victims of Goliad, a granite memorial was built over the grave.

After we paid our respects to the fallen of Goliad, we took off down Highway 77. There were still two more courthouses to see.

Refugio County was the next one. At about 6:20 we pulled up in front of the Refugio County courthouse, and though the sun had begun its descent, I still had ample time to photograph #206 on my list.

I mentioned that the mosquitoes down this way are massive. As my grandmother would put it, “you could put saddles on ‘em”. Humid weather, standing water, and mosquitoes are an explosive recipe in South Texas. West Nile Disease and the rest of the mosquito-carried sicknesses are all very real threats down this way.

That’s why, as we arrived at the Refugio County courthouse, a mosquito sprayer came rumbling down the street. I had to wait a minute or so for the chemicals to disperse before I could climb out of the car and take my pictures.

Even though the county had just sprayed, I still had to slap a mosquito or two off of me as I went about all sides of this building. I thought North Texas had them bad!

The courthouse is just sadly unimpressive. There’s just not a lot that I could do, picture-wise. I got what I needed, but that wasn’t much. I wish I’d been able to see the interior. I’m sure it was nicer than the exterior (and I would have had a reprieve from the mosquitoes!)

With 6 new courthouses, 1 redo, 2 historic sites, and a side-trip to Indianola down, we embarked on the final stretch of our journey with a fair amount of light left (though the clouds had gotten progressively darker). The last courthouse stop of the day was in San Patricio County.

Downtown Sinton

Upon entering the county seat of Sinton, we had a bit of a hard time finding the courthouse. What I first assumed was #207 turned out to really be an annex, located on the opposite side of town. You can imagine as we drove up to this building that I was disappointed. Another modern catastrophe…

But luckily, that’s not the courthouse. This is:

That statue there is called “Spirit of the American Doughboy”, and is a memorial to “Word War Veterans”. The term doughboy was heavily used in WWI, but according to the statue, it’s a veterans monument to soldiers from both I and II.

The cornerstone of this building was a little tricky to get to.

I had to photograph it from this spot below, in a now-closed (I climbed over the railing) handicap ramp. The lengths I go to…

The doughboy’s cheer was similar to my own as I completed the final courthouse of the day. Gosh, it was a long one. But it wasn’t over yet.

To get back to Corpus Christi, we booked it east on Highway 181 to the farming community of Taft. Surrounding Taft are fields and fields of wind turbines, just like those you’d find populating the High Plains and Panhandle.

In another twenty minutes or so, we had exited for Highway 35 southbound, in Portland (the path back to Corpus). Even before we crossed the bridge to North Beach, the city sprang up in the horizon.

You can tell here that it was getting darker. As we traveled, the lights of Corpus Christi began to flicker on, seemingly welcoming us home from our long day of courthousing.

Corpus Christi, as seen from the Harbor Bridge

The last stop of the day before retiring for the evening, was dinner, which we had at Harrison’s Landing (a small restaurant, right on the bay).

 A bay scene, captured just steps from our dinner table

The food was fine, I guess. Let’s just say that Rusty’s (lunch) was much better.

Today was one of the longest days I believe I have ever had during this project. You better believe it was worth it, though.

We made an important dent in that 54 I’d had left in August 2014. As I went to sleep, I realized my new count was 47. What a day!

Previous Post: Southern Gulf Coast Day 2

Next Post: Southern Gulf Coast Day 4

*Disclaimer: Before you read, know that I didn’t get to any courthouses on this day. This is just a description of my day exploring Corpus Christi for the first time. If you’re not interested, please move on to Day 3 of this trip.*

Our day began with navigating the highways of Corpus Christi. From our RV Park on the east side of Oso Bay, we headed west towards an intersection that would ultimately lead us downtown. Along Highway 358 lies the typical fare: fast food and chain hotels. Assumably because Corpus is the origin of the Whataburger franchise, we noticed that truly every time one disappeared behind us, another sprang up on the horizon. They’re as plentiful in this area of Texas as McDonald’s restaurants are in the rest of the country.

Pictured above is downtown Corpus Christi, as we entered it via Highway 286. The building you see, rising just above the road is the Nueces County courthouse.

On the north side of downtown is the massive Corpus Christi Harbor Bridge, which spans the gap between North Beach and the rest of the city.

When crossing the crest of the bridge, there’s just no way you can miss the city’s largest attraction, which spreads out in the bay below.

Commissioned in 1943, the U.S.S. Lexington is the world’s oldest surviving aircraft carrier. Construction on this vessel began in 1941 in Quincy, Massachusetts. At that time, US officials planned on calling it the “U.S.S. Cabot”, in honor of Henry Cabot Lodge (presumably). Yet before this ship saw completion in September 1942, the Battle of the Coral Sea waged between May 4 and May 8 of that year. In that five day period, the current U.S.S. Lexington aircraft carrier was sunk by the Japanese forces. To honor the fallen ship, shipyard workers petitioned the Secretary of the Navy to change the name from Cabot to Lexington. This was approved and the new name was applied on June 16. The fifth navy vessel to bear the name “Lexington”, she set sail on September 23, 1942 and was commissioned on February 17 the follow year.

It saw extensive battle during the Pacific War from 1943-1945, serving in such conflicts as the Battle of the Philippine Sea and the Battle of Leyte Gulf. After WWII ended, the ship was both modernized and, after its decommission following the war, recommissioned to serve in a variety of posts through the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans, the Mediterranean Sea, and along America’s east coast as a training vessel. With a final decommission in 1991, she was towed from Pensacola, Florida to Corpus Christi to sit forever as a floating museum to World War II and naval history.

 And, boy is she impressive!

Look at those guns!

This is a model of the U.S.S. South Dakota (which also served in WWII), on display within the museum. It was decommissioned in 1947 and sold for scrap in 1962.

Luckily, because they allow you to step out onto the deck and see one these large anti-aircraft guns, I was provided some nice views of the bay and of downtown Corpus (which I readily captured).

From the entry floor, exhibits line both the above and below decks. While some pay tribute to Pearl Harbor and other harrowing events from WWII history, others display how life for the sailors would have looked. From the mess hall, to the barber shop, to the isolation medical ward, to the barracks,  to the engine room, it’s quite an experience to walk through the ship and see it through the eyes of the service men and women of the last seventy years.

Mannequins are located all throughout the ship to add to the living history.

We saved the top for last. To the best of my knowledge, the flight deck is the only elevator-accessible site in the joint. If you ever feeling like visiting the U.S.S. Lexington, know that you’ve got some ladders to climb (and some are steeper than others).

The flight deck boasts a pretty impressive collection of military aircraft that, no matter if you’re interested in history, or planes, or neither, you’ll find intriguing.

After touring the flight deck, I climbed the next set of ladders up to the control deck.

A porthole view of the Texas State Aquarium and the harbor bridge beyond

Before I left the flight deck, I wanted to be sure to get one last picture of the city. This is it.

After leaving the ship, we headed back towards downtown to get lunch. As we passed over the harbor bridge, a glance out the right window brought the actual Corpus Christi harbor into view. It’s filled with muggy looking water, and crowded with oil tankers and cargo ships, while the horizon is dotted with natural gas refineries and other miscellaneous production plants.

“Protect the Environment” I found particularly ironic.

On our way to the restaurant, we passed by a building I would get acquainted with the next day.

That’s the 1977 Nueces County courthouse, which replaced a much older (and much more beautiful) 1914 design. The thing is, though, the 1914 courthouse still stands…but is heavily abandoned. I’d see it the next day, so if you want to know more on the subject, be sure to read Day 3 of this trip.

Lunch was at Water Street Oyster Bar on Water Street, just a block or two from the bay. A sign said that they recycle oyster shells here, and I could tell that they’ve put some to good use.

This art piece hangs above the reception desk, near the front door.

I discovered after eating that the “South Texas Music Walk of Fame” lines the street just outside of the restaurant. In truth, there weren’t many names I recognized. I’m a country fan, myself, and I didn’t see Kris Kristofferson (born in Brownsville), nor Freddy Fender (born in San Benito). They may have been there, but I didn’t travel the entire walk to see. There was one name that stood out, though.

Who hasn’t heard of George Strait?

To get back to North Beach, we first passed down Shoreline Boulevard, which runs parallel to Corpus Christi Bay.

One of the attractions along Shoreline is the Selena Memorial. Selena Quintanilla-Pérez, as you may know, was the resident queen of Tejano music in the 1990s. Her life came to an end in March of 1995 when her twisted fan club president Yolanda Saldivar shot her (in Corpus Christi). I happily noticed, as we drove by, that Selena’s music is playing for those who visit this monument. I myself am not familiar with her work, but I am somewhat familiar with her story. She, like so many other greats, met such a tragic end. I was glad to see this touching memorial to her memory.

After cruising back over the bridge, we arrived once more in North Beach.

Our destination this time was the Texas State Aquarium. As far as I know, there are only a handful more in the entire state, so I’m not quite sure how much of a “designation” the “state aquarium” title is. Correct me if I’m wrong, but the only other such facilities are the Dallas World Aquarium, the Aquarium Pyramid at Moody Gardens in Galveston, (SeaWorld, if you count that), the Fair park one, Houston, Grapevine, and Austin…ok…so there’s more than I thought.

Anyway, we went to check out this “revered” locale.

I began to realize, as I walked through the aquarium, how depressing one of these facilities is. Now, I’m no P.E.T.A. picketer, but I do have a soft spot in my heart for these animals. And, as I moved from exhibit to exhibit, I realized that I should have never even come to this place. The animals seemed happy enough, but how are we really to know? Their “tanks” are just not the size you’d think they’d need to be. Has anyone watched Blackfish?

I won’t say any more on the topic. I shouldn’t turn this site into my personal ranting platform. This is 254 Texas Courthouses, after all…not shutdownseaworld.net.

Anyhow, here are some photo selections.

He does look like he’s crying, doesn’t he?

I couldn’t bring myself to put a picture of the aquarium’s bald eagle (which is perhaps the saddest exhibit of all) on here. But, here’s a statue that they had of it.

All in all, I don’t recommend the Texas State Aquarium, or any aquarium for that matter. I don’t imagine I’ll be coming back.

To fill the rest of our day, we headed back to “our side of town” (all that lies to the east of Oso Bay and to the west of Padre Island). Having been to South Padre Island twice before, we wanted to check out what we called “North Padre Island”. This is known to everyone else as simply Padre Island or Mustang Island (that’s to my understanding, anyway).

The causeway to Padre Island was noticeably longer than the one to South Padre Island.

As you might remember, I found a similar wooden cross on the beach just south of High Island, at the “end of the road” on Bolivar Peninsula last summer. I realized after loading the pictures from this day (June 21, 2015), that I found this cross exactly one year after the previous one (June 21, 2014). Unplanned, but cool.

Next, we headed northeast from the community of Padre Island, through Mustang Island State Park, to the city of Port Aransas. I’d only heard about Port Aransas in songs, and had never actually been. The terrain between the two towns is as desolate and barren as that between Surfside Beach and Galveston Island.

So after briefly exploring Port Aransas, we double backed over that monotonous terrain to Padre Island and found dinner at a small restaurant situated right on the edge of Corpus Christi Bay.

The catch of the day was mahi-mahi, and it was so good.

Corpus Christi Bay and the causeway

After dinner, we made a quick stop at an ice cream bar (located right next door to Snoopy’s), which you could tell was having to recover from the Blue Bell shutdown. To satiate customers, they’ve been using a lesser known brand out of McKinney. It wasn’t bad, but it wasn’t Blue Bell.

So after crossing back over the causeway to Corpus Christi proper, we headed off to bed. Tomorrow’d be the day that visitors to this site really want to read about. Aside from that pesky Jefferson County (Beaumont) in far east Texas, tomorrow would be the day when I completed the Texas coast.

Previous Post: Southern Gulf Coast Day 1

Next Post: Southern Gulf Coast Day 3