Bandera, Texas

Such is the case with the hill country town of Bandera. Founded sometime around 1853, the town (self-described as the “Cowboy Capital of the World”) has been home to several dance-halls and dude ranches through the years for service men and women from San Antonio as well as tree starved city dwellers from all over the country. However, while the population is still advertised at a meager 972, the beauty of the area attracts thousands of tourists and “winter Texans” every year. The appeal of the region seems only to increase as time moves forward. It seems strangely natural that urban growth is matched, exponentially, by an increase in desire for what it has replaced. Many towns throughout the country, once rural enclaves, are changing to accommodate an ever swelling population. Bandera is a community that illustrates this juxtaposition perfectly, although the town teems annually with a transient populace. The town does keep one large boot solidly planted in its agrarian past but, the other is loping forward with enough enthusiasm to drag both into relative modernity.

On an unusually warm January morning, my wife and I left Austin and drove southwest. We were to meet my father, a semi-retired doctor of optometry who spent his adolescent years in Bandera after leaving Houston when he was twelve years old. He was to be our expert on things “Hill Country”. Although my father only lived in the community for eight years, he still recalls that time with ardent affection and continues to refer to the area as his home. In fact, when he chose to sell his office and the need for population was no longer too important a consideration, it was into Boerne, just 45 minutes from Bandera that he and his wife settled.

Driving west along highway 46, my wife commented on the beauty of the real hill country. Austin, our home, being just the edge of this unique geology, affords us only a tantalizing, tangent view of the best scenery this side of Big Bend. The views are magnificent and clearly, this expanse is one of the reasons why so many Texans are so endeared with their state.

Ever since I can remember, my father has frequently commented on the way the hill country has changed. When I was a teenager though, I thought these constant comments were the standard opining of the middle-aged. During the few times that we visited the region then, I could never quite make out what, if anything, had changed from any previous time. The relatives always had the same unhurried manner, the deer were always in the road or lurking just off it and we always had to allow for the fact that water wasn’t a seemingly inexhaustible resource but rather, a very finite commodity that was literally bubbling up from a well just outside. For an adolescent living in the Dallas metroplex, any environment that did not have restaurants and gas stations every few yards was considered “the country”. An unpaved road was an anomaly. Opinions, of course, like landscapes, are subject to change with time.

Several years ago, while on a scholarship in Greece, an archaeologist told the group I was in an old adage concerning archaeological sites-“If you raise a couple of columns, the tourists will come!” Obviously, the maxim holds true in Texas also. The shell of the old dance hall, a cypress enveloped temple, still rests on a hill overlooking some of the most gorgeous scenery anywhere in the state. In fact, the ruin stands, sentinel like, keeping watch over the whole of the town below. The building itself, roofless now, its white, stone walls tenaciously weathering the years, is an architectural wonder. I was immediately aware of why my father had wanted us to see this. It resembles a Vanderbilt mansion more than a dance hall and must have been exceedingly impressive when fully functioning. Not far removed though are a few rental cottages. While I’m sure that a stay in one of these would be a great experience, I was struck with the same uneasy feeling as when I heard of a rock band playing inside the Roman Coloseum-wouldn’t the traffic and vibration somehow damage the site? ( I understand that comparing the Coloseum with the Silver Spur Dance Hall is quite a stretch, even laughable, however, each culture creates its own antiquities and we are all responsible for the curation our own histories.) Nevertheless, the cottage’s website states that, at least, there is no smoking. Oh, and you can have your Yoga class there if you give enough notice of the intent.

As we left and went back down the road, my father told us how, as a young man, he had so often, “made this trip drunk, sober and even backed down it one night.” I asked him what condition he had been in while descending the hill backwards. He replied, “Frightened!”

Back in town, we decided that we needed lunch and my father, although no one in the car was or is disabled, pulled in to the first handicapped parking space that he could find. (It was the sole spot available on the main street for several blocks.) At first, I was shocked by his temerity and disregard of law-after a moment I realized his motivation. We were in Bandera on a Sunday afternoon, a day of the week when hundreds of other folks from all over central Texas had had the same idea. We were surrounded by dozens of shiny new trucks, expansive SUVs and belching Harley Davidsons, all of which seemed to be in search of that famous Texan hospitality rather than offering any of it up themselves. I assumed my father was behaving in accordance with the circumstance and, while not physically handicapped, I further assumed that he considered walking to lunch from blocks away disabling enough to justify his decision. In any event, we parked and began to push our way through the crowded, narrow sidewalks of the old town. Initially, we tried to enter the OST, or Old Spanish Trail restaurant (established 1921) but, customers were already leaking out onto the sidewalk at a little after noon. We eventually found a BBQ spot down the sidewalk and very nearly enjoyed a Styrofoam-plated lunch of ribs, ham and chopped beef. Where this restaurant had been only half full when we entered, when we left, there was not an open table. Several people were standing, drinks in hand, sending smaller family members out into the dining room for reconnaissance work. We had to squeeze through a small throng just to exit.

My wife and I returned to Austin after a long but interesting day. All the drive back was filled with talk of what we had just experienced and soon we were asking each other questions that could only be answered by a return trip. While we had seen the majority of the town (not a difficult accomplishment with a town under 1000 people) we felt we needed to walk the place a little more in order to get a better feel for it. Also, I was anxious to see the town’s personality during a weekday when other visitors were returned to their normal routines.

Two days after our initial visit we retraced our drive, arriving around the same time of day as before-lunchtime.

I had expected that a farm community, even a popular vacation spot, would be settled into its normal schedule during the work week, i.e. the fields on the area’s periphery would be hosting their few workers, the stores thinly populated by housewives and the retired, cars and trucks resting idly on the side streets waiting for someone to drive them home after the day’s work. As my son and wife could tell you, I’m frequently wrong and, at least, on that day, I stayed true to form. As we drove back into town, we noticed that the streets held the same amount of traffic as the weekend had. The sidewalks were still supporting the weight of both locals and many visitors. Parking spaces on the main road were still scarce. Luckily, we found a parking spot in front of the bank. The one item that I immediately noticed as different from the previous day was that a few of the businesses that had been open on Sunday were now, incredulously, closed.

We wandered the church grounds for several minutes, found the front door open, as it should be, and took a seat inside. The nave was empty but, still brightly lit. It smelled of burning candles. The interior is expansive, has pale-colored walls highlighted by reds and natural brown. The ceiling accents the rest of the interior with a pale blue hue- the heavens, of course, opened for the congregation. The walls are decorated not only with the omnipresent ‘Stations of the Cross’ but also hold many paintings, depicting various biblical and saint’s stories. Several of these paintings are created directly onto the walls, like frescoes, and reminded me of the Greek Orthodox churches I saw a few years ago.

Walking back to the town’s center was a delight. Not only was the weather still perfect but people had begun arriving home and waved to us as we passed their houses. My wife was pleased to see a number of roosters and chickens bouncing through some yards; she had raised a few as a child in Puerto Rico.

Our final stop that day was to ‘Polly’s Chapel’. This small sanctuary was built, by hand, by José Policarpo Rodriguez, a Mexican immigrant turned army scout turned Methodist preacher who determined, in 1882, that the town of Polly, Texas, then around 300 people, needed this church. Located off highway 16 about six miles east of town we had to double back since I missed the turn the first time. The road to the chapel is called “Privilege Creek” and runs off of a street named ‘Bear Creek Road’ according to the Bandera county map we acquired from the visitor’s bureau. If you come in from the east you will see a large white marker indicating the road and chapel. If you, like us, are leaving town, all you can make out is the blank, back of the sign. (That’s my excuse.)

If you’re making the journey (it should be described as nothing short of that) just remember that you are probably going the right direction and keep following the small, hand-made signs for a few miles. The one lane paved road crosses a couple of draws before it becomes dirt and rock and stays this way until you reach the church. As with so many Texas destinations, the chapel really is “just around the bend.”