"YOU HAVE TO LIVE TO WRITE IT"

April 7, Del Rio past Bracketville, 47 miles
The morning started out cloudy having rained in the night so we prepared for rain by covering our panniers and anything exposed with black garbage bags and headed out. We rode through light rain and mist for about 1 1/2 hours. Rusty, as stoker, said he didn't feel the moisture unless he looked up. :) But the captain needed windshield wipers for her glasses and rain was dripping from her helmet.
We had a gradual uphill climb probably only about 1-2% grade but it kept going up. We had been out on that road the night before visiting Rusty's cousin Jeremy Allen and wife Mari-Anne and their kids at Laughlin AFB and we didn't notice the climb. (There again, don't ask a person who hasn't ridden the road on a bike what the grade is like. It seems flat to them. Big difference in perception)
Stopped in Bracketville for chocolate milk and our delicious PB&J gourmet lunch. Reviewed the map and decided to go on. We would have to camp along side the road, as is expected now and then when one is touring with no support vehicle. The next town was too far to make in one ride. We had at least ten more miles left in us so we headed out toward Campwood.
We found a spot under a tree right along side the road and started to set up our tent. We noticed that a sheriff car went by several times. After he'd passed about four times he pulled up to our spot. (Oh, oh, are we in trouble again?) He asked if we were planning to camp there and said it was okay BUT be sure to spray for ticks because they are really bad in that area AND watch for illegal aliens who use that area a lot to cross the road. He said some will have backpacks and will be smuggling drugs. If they approach us they'll take whatever they want. Not telling us that to scare us. Just to inform us. And the road is patrolled every 20 minutes 24/7. We thanked the officer and said our prayers. We've been sleeping with sleep masks and ear plugs when we camp but this night Rusty said he thought maybe he'd better be able to hear things. Later during the night about 9:00pm , after having been settled down since 7:30p, we were awakened by a truck pulling up along side our tent with flashing lights and soon a light shining in our eyes. It was the night sheriff patrolling the road who had not been radioed about the crazy bikers camping. He asked for ID and said "I've never seen anyone camping here before". He left us with the encouraging words "If I see a red flag waving from your tent, I'll stop." During the night if I would awaken I would gaze at the magnificent stars and utter another silent prayer and go back to sleep.
We awoke the next morning to find all of our belongings still in place. Particularly concerned about our water because again we were camping without "facilities" and our supply was limited. "Smugglers are people too" and they might have wanted our water more than our bike.
Later that day Georgia called her son John to chat and shared with him some of the previous night's experience. He said "My crazy mother". She told him it was going to make a great journal entry and he said "Yes, but you have to live to write it!"

A little side note: we had no cell phone service. Earlier Rusty had walked up to the hill and found service. "Wait Bad Guys! I'm going to run up that hill and call 911!"

Another note: That night while sitting on thr ground eating the canned chicken & dumplings we'd bought in Bracketville Georgia said "You know, there are a lot of people in the world who would be so grateful for this food." Rusty replied, "yes, I AM!"