OK I need to know two things: First ... the name of the mountain range farthest away in this picture. Secondly, as precisely as you can tell me, from where was the photo taken.
First person to correctly name both is a winner. Unfortunately, there aren't actually any prizes other than the satisfaction of knowing that others will be properly awed by your intellect.
Good luck ...
Jp
90 miles NE of Midland, you can escape for a weekend of total seclusion and relaxation at the Windmill Ranch Preserve
SCURRY COUNTY -- Eight miles west of the White Buffalo Statue on the square in downtown Snyder, turn north onto Farm Road 1606 and go for about a mile. After a left, take another half mile trek down an unimproved road, you're there.
You don't necessarily think you're anywhere special, but that's really what makes this patch of Texas ranchland so special. The Windmill Ranch Preserve, a privately run facility spread out over 1,000 acres is so remote, so tucked away from the hustle and bustle of all our every days, it is the ideal place to spread out, kick back, relax and do nothing. And it's worth every penny of the $129 a night price tag on either the small guest room or the ginormous tents large enough to accomodate four in two giant feather beds and still have room for lounge chairs and a bathroom.
Windmill Ranch would have been the ideal bed and breakfast option for cowboys who rode these lands a century ago. Proprietor Marianne Randals opened the getaway a little over a year ago on the land that has been in the fmaily since her father bought it piece by piece after World War II. It is also designated a prairie dog reserve, which might explain (but probably doesn't) the noises of critters that add to the outside aural ambience after the lights go out at night.
Karen and I were the only visitors this last weekend, and when the proprietor/chef to guest ratio is 2-to-2, that amounts to some mighty good service.
Which brings us to the food. The Windmill Ranch chef is Robert Dupuy, a Snyder resident who is also a house painter and chef elsewhere in town. His cooking has been described in Texas Highways magazine as equal to a five star hotel. Whether it's the scrambled egg-bacon-sausage-ham-hashed brown-toast treat for breakfast or the mouth watering crab cakes in lemon sauce with sweet potatoes and grilled asparagus tips in the evening, Robert most definitely knows his way around a kitchen.
Marianne and son Bill (as well as Robert) bring also bring a taste of the personal with the other amenities. The conversation in the facility's gathering room while waiting for meals will make you feel like you're a resident of not just the ranch but Snyder itself, a big part of what makes this place so down home and unique.
For Karen and I, though, the highlight of the weekend was Saturday night. Marianne and her grandson went in to town to see "Godspell," staged by the high school drama department, leaving Karen and I alone on the property. Out behind the complex of buildings at Windmill Ranch is a band stand and a stage, lighted by a strand of white light bulbs that criss cross in the middle. The stage also features a bale of hay in each corner. Marianne left the light on the dance floor on for us. And with a handy personal stereo along for the weekend, we plugged it in and danced under the stars to a little Michael Buble. Talk about scoring some major points.
My recommendation: Get away. Call Marianne. Have yourself a great, do nothing weekend.
Windmill Ranch Preserve. 1.325.573.3200. Or visit their website.
Now is probably as good a time as any to dote a little on my wife. For several weeks, she has been planning a mystery trip. The payoff weekend was this weekend. It was to be a time during which just she and I would escape to spend a little time together, just the two of us.
I have had zero clues the whole time. Nada. Nothin'. She'd told a few mutual friends, all of whom wouldn't even tell me even what county we were headed to, much less whether it was east west north or south of our permanent day to day environs in Midland. I had fewer clues than Britney has brains.
Being clueless, though, does not necessarily mean one is not without a few guesses and otherwise strong sneaking suspicions.
I even put together a fabulous little scenario, and how I figured it would all play out.
People's Exhibit 1: Karen had been to Seattle on a business trip a couple of months ago and therefore I figured she had amassed a few hundred frequent flyer miles and so wherever it was we were going must be by air.
People's Exhibit 2: Combine that solid piece of knowledge with the fact that our daughter had made a seemingly innocent remark -- "Get ready for your LOOOONG car trip, Dad" -- and that only added to the reality of an airplane trip in my future.
People's Exhibit 3: Karen had told me a couple of weeks ago that it was OK if I took my iPod with me but I could not take my Bose docking speakers. That of course meant it was because they wouldn't fit on an airplane.
People's Exhibit 4: To wrap everything all up in a neat and tidy package with zero mystery, Karen said late last week before we left,"We need cash."
It was quite obvious to me: We were going to Vegas. There was really no question about it. Frequent flyer miles. No Bose speakers. A "LOOOONG" drive, and cash. Where else COULD it be? Neither of us have ever been to Vegas and we had both talked about visiting someday, even though our gambling habits consist of, for me, fantasy sports and a 1-penny bet made in the fourth grade which I won but never received the pay out for. Karen's gambling history consists simply of marrying me.
You can imagine my surprise, then, when we headed north out of Midland, in the general opposite direction of the airport. Ten miles up the road. she sprung it one me. No Vegas, chump ... we're going to ...
OK, so it wasn't exactly here ... but it was very, very close to here.
Extra bonus points if you know where it is I am standing.
Where did we go? That's in our next installment ...
Thanks, to most of you, for talking amongst yourselves for a few days while I slipped away to a little slice of heaven. There's something about this place,
The Rocky Mountains, like Big Bend, is spiritual, mystical, and allows for a time of commune with your maker. You feel small here, small as a thimble on a huge swatch of nature's fabric.
It was one of those father-son trips that The Boy will hopefully remember and maybe even take his own son on 20 years from now.
I'd love to tell you about it, and will, but we're not home yet.
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