I first saw the wind turbines on my last trip to Austin, when I came down off the caprock some distance southeast of Lubbock.
They seemed enigmatic, almost beautiful at first. Farther along the route, however— which took me through territory I hadn’t seen since I was 14 or 15—I came across them by the hundreds, maybe thousands. The impossibly huge structures, all perfectly identical, were spread across at least two counties like an alien invasion, and it didn’t take me long to hate them.
It was like driving through an endless movie set. This couldn’t be real. The landscape was shattered beyond comprehending, as jarring and unsettling an experience as I have ever had. This used to be “big sky” country, but now the horizon was broken and disconnected from the land. No one could possibly live here and not go insane, I thought. It wasn’t a question of “hell, the cattle don’t mind,” or getting used to it for the cause, but of spiritual theft. The turbines weren’t generating power primarily for West Texans, anyway, whether they benefitted or not, or helping them live lightly on the land. The energy was destined for cities and suburbs far away, so bankers and politicians could play the same old games and no one would ever have to conserve.
On the way back, I took the scenic route.
It had to have been a good 16 years since I’d driven from Austin to Llano, and much longer still since I’d ridden my candy-apple red Suzuki X-6 at speed along a beautiful, curving country road that is no more. My favorite professor had a house out that way, south of Lake Travis.
It was cleverly sited on a lonely hilltop with amazing views. You reached the place via a long gravel entry road winding back into the cedars. There was a roof deck with a telescope. From there, I could see one other house, quite far away. In the evening, it was as quiet as—well, as quiet as New Mexico… I had never been anywhere that close to Austin that felt so isolated. It was like being on another planet where only special people got to go.
Back then there was a nearby stretch of road along a ridgetop that was positively scary. You could see over both sides down steep rocky slopes and off into the distance. It was always a shock to come out of the curves and find myself in the “mountains,” as the rugged wooded hills appeared to me. Northwest from there on into the Hill Country was country, a glorious relief from the baking heat and thundering hordes. It was where we went to get away.
Even as late as ’94, the landscape didn’t seem to have changed that much. But this time, in some places I saw more rooftops than trees. There were clusters of condominiums, housing developments, mini-marts, traffic lights, cross-traffic, everything. For much too long, mile after mile of crap and unrelenting traffic. The hills were still there, but it wasn’t another planet any more—just like any other stupid beat-up place, only hotter!
(I get to say this because I was born in Texas, and I’m sure my fellow countrymen are no more intent on ravaging the land than fine, upstanding lunatics in any other place I’ve lived. Furthermore, there has to be plenty of real Texas left, because it’s so damn big. Still, these sights were something of a body blow.)
At least Austin is still Austin, in its heart. I could feel it in the diversity, the energy, the slightly crazy confidence (it’s quite contagious), the heat, the leafy creeks and little limestone bluffs that wind through older residential neighborhoods engulfed in live oak jungles. If I wanted to be in a city and could live within a mile or two of Barton Springs, I’d be there like a shot. If I wanted to be in a city…
The things I remember most vividly from my past are the things most assiduously destroyed. Elements of Nature, mostly. Water. Trees. Sky. But I have the experience. I didn’t imagine it. IT WAS THERE, even in Texas, before they ate it—and of course it hasn’t all completely gone away.
This is why I’ve kept on moving. This is what I’m always looking for.
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Eloquent. xo
Thanks. I told K. you said it was eloquent, and she said, “LONG!”
California may get obliterated by the Big One. New York may become terminably self-obsessed. The Midwest may grow ever more obscure. Washington may – well, need we say more. But Texas? There’ll always be a Texas.
It was, after all, an independent country for 10 years! Although what you refer to transcends jurisdiction…