If other countries in our trip so far have been full of contradictions, then the star of the south simply exceeded stereotypes. In a vast area, we were never alone. In a state so famous for its oil production, renewable energies were obviously being taken up. In a desert, we were surprised to find oases.
Oil, fittingly, framed our time in the Lone Star State, but remarkably only in the first day and then the final hours. We crossed into Texas from Louisiana, via Sabine Pass, and it was immediately obvious that the black gold was one of the key drivers of this economy. Sabine Pass, Port Arthur and Orange are oil towns, and they don't let you forget it. Massive refineries sit alongside massive oil tankers, which sit alongside nature reserves. Here the oil well is king, and the locals think nothing of the irony of drilling for oil in a wildlife refuge - and will even defend the method of mining as "low impact." A stink hangs in the air, heavy with petroleum fumes and a haze of distopia. It is easy to see this place as the terminus of humanity, where our civilisation will end once the oil runs out, and as a consequence what it will look like. It is hard to imagine how people live and work in this environment, but they do, and the area surrounding the refineries is staggeringly beautiful. Heart-achingly so. It is easy to weep here, for what once was and what, seemingly inevitably, will be.
Similarly the road out of Texas reminded us of how this state functions. Microscopic "towns" exists solely to extract that compressed remains of the last species to dominate this planet, process it and ship it. It is here that the solar-powered streetlamp stands guard against the oil well and burners - a lone soldier holding back the hordes that have come and, are now, going.
However Texas refuses to be defined by its borders. What lies between is something that confounds anyone who believes that they know this state.
Putting the petrochemical plants behind us, we march onwards into Austin, via Galveston and Houston. Galveston exists as the coastal playground of Houston, and the once vital port for commercial exports from the republic. Nowadays, it is something else. Rundown is not the right word, it is certainly preserved, but it feels like a town of sometime importance that has lost its means for existence. The giant civic building towers over single story homes and businesses that persevere for the sake of perseverance.
Houston exists, seemingly, for the traffic police desperately attempting to maintain order on the fly-overs and for NASA.
But Austin. Austin is an oasis of charm, liberalism and good-naturedness. A Democrat stronghold in deep Republican territory, a "young" city in an ageing state and somewhere to find good food, great bars and cool live music. It is a city like Melbourne, if Melbourne was ever pleasantly warm for longer than five minutes.
On the edge of town the McKinney Falls State Park is our home for the night, and the ranger on duty provides us with the best example of southern hospitality that we have experienced to date. A late entrant into the Civil War, Texas is nonetheless distinctively southern, and proudly so. But the people are also proudly Texan, citing the republic as their home, not the state. If that's confusing to anyone else, don't worry. We spent a full afternoon in the state museum unravelling the rich history of the Mexican province turned republic turned state and are still only slightly clearer on who a Texan wants to be. Begrudgingly part of the civil war, if only to maintain the employment status quo of her slave population, then begrudgingly part of the union, if only for protection against the rampaging Mexicans.
In Austin you can eat genuine Mexican food, not Tex-Mex, and sample Mescal from a genuine Mexican in a cool bar converted from a car yard while holding long conversations with people you met a few minutes ago, and now can't remember.
Austin is a liveable city.
Fort Stockton is not a liveable city. Our van breaks down ten miles from the town that claims to be a desert oasis, but is so only in name. Wholly evacuated at several points in its history, we spend the night there only to repair the van.
South of Fort Stockton, over the fantastically named Six Shooter Draw, lies Big Bend National Park. Hugging the border with Mexico, the Rio Grande, Big Bend becomes our second National Park. Acres of hectares amid the Chihuahuan desert surrounding the Chisos mountain range are far more appealing than they sound. Here it is hot, energy sapping heat beats upon you from all directions and it is all that you can do in the early afternoon to set up the camping chair and pull out a book.
But beyond the pages of The Twelve the park calls and trails that lead off into the desert remind you that this is a living and breathing park.
A walk to the canyons along the Rio Grande remind us that Mexico is a matter of metres away and, in this border paranoid nation, only a swim away. Here there is no turning back the boats, as there are no border patrol officers to do the turning back. It is a matter of trust, and the souvenirs placed along the trail by the Mexicans of Boquillas are evidence of the goodwill between the nations at this section of the border.
Big Bend is a park of relaxing hot springs following desert walks and cooling river swims following canyon trails. It is simply beautiful, remarkable in its existence and a place of simply, understated, wonder that defies that which defines it.
The same can be said for Texas as a whole.
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