Like most Texans, I live in a big, congested city that I frequently long to leave behind. The state’s wide-open spaces call to me constantly, and during the summer, as the temperature rises, what invariably beckons are the more than 350 miles of Texas coast, stretching from the final spit of sand at Boca Chica in the south to the waters of the Louisiana-bordering Sabine Lake in the north. Can there be anything more restorative than the shore’s wild splendor for as far as the eye can see?
Of course, splendor is probably not the first thing you think of. Because, let’s face it, Texas doesn’t rank among the supermodels of the world’s beachfronts. Its waters are not the bluest, its sands not the whitest. The flares from off-gassing petrochemical plants, the myriad cheek-by-jowl resorts, and the RV parks that cater to snowbirds in the winter months—not to mention disasters like the Deepwater Horizon spill three years ago—are a constant assault on the coast’s beauty.
But beauty remains, if you know where to look. I’ve fished, birded, kayaked, biked, hiked, and swum along our vast watery border for years—sometimes on my own, sometimes with a guide, sometimes with knowledgeable (and boat-owning) friends—and I’m here to tell you that there are stretches of unspoiled sand, wind-bent oak motts, wickedly weird bayous, and grassy marshlands that are still so stunning and so primitive you’ll feel like you’re seeing the same landscape that Spanish explorer Álvar Núñez Cabeza de Vaca did when he washed ashore on Galveston Island almost five centuries ago.
I recently explored the length of our coastline in search of the best places to go this summer to experience this unfettered, unspoiled world. The fifteen destinations you’ll find on the following pages, numbered according to the more-or-less south-to-north trajectory I took, are a mix of secret and not-so-secret sites, some more tame and some more rugged, but they all offer an exhilarating glimpse of our coast at its natural finest. Most important, they’ll revive your soul. I know because they revived mine.
Boca Chica
A sandy eight-mile beach on a narrow spit of arid land between the Rio Grande delta and the salt flats of the lower Laguna Madre, Boca Chica is the alpha and omega of Texas—the place where a once mighty river spills into the mightier Gulf, where the U.S. ends and Mexico begins, and where the high-rises of South Padre Island give way to an untamed, undeveloped coast. Protected by both state and federal authorities as part of the Lower Rio Grande Valley National Wildlife Refuge, this gloriously empty stretch of shore calls to anyone wanting to give civilization the slip.
That’s exactly what drew me as far east as I could go on Texas Highway 4. Just past the U.S. Border Patrol checkpoint, I was greeted by an old fuel tank with a spray-painted scrawl: “Boca Chica Village Welcomes You.” The depopulated village was as ghostly as the Civil War markers I’d seen along the road, and I continued driving past the windswept grasslands and tidal inlets until the pavement ended at a break in the dunes. Except for the brown pelicans skimming the breakers and the red knots hunting the tide line for a meal, the beach was desolate. I turned south onto the sand, following a multitude of tire tracks about three miles to the “small mouth” of the Rio Grande.
When I visited Boca Chica back in 2001, the river was a mere trickle. A few months later, it halted at a sandbar that had formed at its mouth and made national headlines. But lately things have improved. “In 2010 Falcon Dam was at capacity, and Mexico had major tropical storms,” said Bryan Winton, the manager at the Rio Grande Valley refuge. “With that dam release, we saw significant flooding. We have had no sizable rainfall since then, but we have farmers that need freshwater, so the river is still flowing.”
The mouth of the river makes a fine place for a short hike. I got out of my car and explored the shell-specked sand, relieved to see a thirty-foot-wide inlet, its dark green water flashing occasional whitecaps, that offered a glimpse upstream. Patches of prickly pear and yucca hunched behind the dunes, and across the way, a lighthouse stood sentinel over the sands of Matamoros. I caught sight of a juvenile green turtle lying dead in a mat of sargassum weed and was filled with dismay, but I reminded myself that the five species of sea turtle known to breed in Texas would soon begin nesting nearby. Another end, another beginning.
To get there: Boca Chica is always open. Drive 23 miles east on Texas Highway 4 from Brownsville; the road dead-ends at the beach. There are no services, so you’ll need to bring your own food, water, and surfboard. Camping is not allowed.
Redhead Ridge
As I scanned pretty Laguna de los Patos, or “Pond of the Ducks,” from the Redhead Ridge Overlook—a stop along the fifteen-mile Bayside Drive—I couldn’t argue with the name. Pintails, coots, green-winged teal, and the namesake redheads formed a kaleidoscope before my eyes, offering proof of why this 97,000-acre wildlife refuge has been designated a Globally Important Bird Area by the American Bird Conservancy. (And yes, I know coots aren’t true ducks.) Over four hundred avian species, more than any other national refuge, have been spotted amid Atascosa’s beaches, thorny thickets, and iconic clay mounds (known as lomas). The hiking and biking trails and seasonal kayak tours let you escape the crowds of birders even at the height of migration, which makes this a hidden paradise year-round.
But the wildlife’s the thing. As I watched, raptors on the wing, including a white-tailed hawk, unsettled the ducks, and I focused next on trying to find one of the refuge’s more seldom-seen residents: the ocelot. But timing is everything. Bayside Drive opens after sunrise and closes before sundown to protect the endangered and notoriously nocturnal wildcats, and despite the fact that ten to twenty ocelots (out of about fifty in Texas) live on the refuge, I struck out. As I left, I did spot a few bobwhite quail crossing the road. Dinner, I thought.
To get there: Laguna Atascosa NWR is open daily from sunrise to sunset. From Harlingen, drive about 25 miles east on Texas Highway 106, take a left at the T, and drive 3 miles to the visitors center (956-748-3607). Entrance fee is $3 per day.
Kenedy Ranch Shoreline
Baffin Bay, which bridges Kleberg and Kenedy counties, looks in aerial photos like the monstrous claw print of a fish eagle: from the heart of this one-hundred-or-so-square-mile expanse, the waters of Laguna Salada, Cayo del Grullo, and Alazan Bay extend out like talons. At sea level, Baffin Bay is even more striking, reaching across sea grass and mudflats to the far confines of the horizon. Its shores skirt private land, including the Kenedy and King ranches, which means that the coastline here is nearly untouched, making it an astonishing haven for wildlife, from endangered piping plovers and threatened reddish egrets to javelinas and coyotes.
Beneath the bay’s placid surface lie serpulid reefs (rock formations left behind by prehistoric worms), which can wreck your prop and leave you stranded, so it’s best to venture out with an expert. I found myself standing one hazy dawn on the prow of a custom Ibis shallow-water boat driven by Sally Black, one of the top hunting and fishing guides in South Texas. Captain Sally and her husband, Aubrey, run Baffin Bay Rod and Gun, and they spend more than two hundred days on these waters each year, steering clients to trophy trout, which grow to epic proportions here. The two call Baffin Bay “the last best place,” and as we cruised up the shores of Kenedy Ranch, the scene before us amounted to nothing less than a Texas safari: Rio Grande tom turkeys strutted about with fanned tail feathers, whitetail bucks shook their antlers in mock mating displays, and a few free-roaming nilgai browsed the coastal plain (these white-throated antelope were first imported as game on King Ranch and now number in the tens of thousands). Beyond the woody brush, on a low ridge, a forest of 260-foot windmills towered above the oaks and the mesquite, their blades churning in the breeze.
There’s no such thing as half a day on Baffin Bay; we covered at least eighty miles over eight hours, cruising past the Intracoastal Waterway and the floating cabins to the upper Laguna Madre, checking out the bay-side beaches of Padre Island. In addition to chasing trophy trout and sight-casting for redfish and black drum, the Blacks arrange duck-hunting expeditions and specialized cast-and-blast trips. Though I’d brought a rod with me, I wasn’t looking for blood sport that day and never boated a fish. Breathing the clean salt air was enough.
To get there: Kaufer-Hubert Memorial Park, 11 miles south of Kingsville on Interstate 77, near the village of riviera, has public boat ramps to access Baffin Bay; you can also reach the bay by launching at Bird Island Basin, on Padre Island National Seashore, and crossing the upper Laguna Madre. There are a few guides out of Corpus Christi, but the local Riviera guides offer the best rates, including Baffin Bay Rod and Gun (361-557-0090 or 361-205-0624), Cast ’n Stay (361-297-5636), and Baffin Bay Adventures (361-688-1750).
End of Kleberg County Road 1120
I didn’t know whether or not the Michael Troy was named for the Olympic swimmer who won gold in 1960, but finding the boat’s lifeless hull shore-bound on this remote lake did give me pause. Laguna Salada is a quiet, little-known backwater that connects Los Olmos Creek to Baffin Bay and is largely protected from the Coastal Bend’s persistent winds. Frequented by only a few hard-core fishermen, it is a truly lonely place; as I lowered my kayak, stepping gingerly into the soft mud, a startled blue heron croaked at my presence. I launched into the water in a reflective mood. Snowy egrets worked the tide pools. A clutch of white ibis flew overhead. Trying to decide whether to head inland to Los Olmos Creek or cross Baffin Bay and paddle the ambitious 25 miles to South Padre Island, I compromised, following the shoreline to the north, past Williamson Boat Works and its maritime cranes and boat ramp. I continued some 6 miles, rounding the bend to Cayo del Grullo, paddling until I spied the fishing pier and bright-white seashell beach of Kaufer-Hubert Memorial Park. When I returned to Laguna Salada, I felt at peace, lost to the scene’s tranquility, like the Michael Troy.
To get there: From Kingsville, drive 17 miles south on Interstate 77, then turn east onto FM 771. If you plan to kayak or try wade or bank fishing, take Kleberg CR 1120 to the access at road’s end (keep straight when the road bears left onto CR 1145). If you have a motorized skiff or don’t want to leave your vehicle unwatched, drive to the Williamson Boat Works, at the end of FM 1546, where there is a boat ramp and parking strip (though little else). Leave $2 in the mailbox at the ramp.
South Beach
If the general lack of 24-karat ocean beaches in Texas makes you despair, then Padre Island National Seashore will restore hope. Flanked by the Gulf to the east and Laguna Madre to the west, Padre Island is the longest undeveloped barrier island not only in Texas but in the whole world. And unlike South Padre Island just below it, with its glut of trinket shops, towering resorts, and shot bars, these sands offer a seclusion rivaled only by the backcountry in Big Bend.
But you have to know where to go. The North and Malaquite beaches are popular with shell-seekers, birders, and surf anglers, while Bird Island Basin, on the bay side, is one of the nation’s top windsurfing spots (you can rent windsurfing gear and kayaks and take lessons right on the beach at Worldwinds). To get away from it all, you can camp on the island’s empty southern beaches, as I did. But first, arriving at night, I stopped at the comfortable campground at Malaquite Beach. Named after a long-forgotten Coahuiltecan tribe, the beach is now famous for its sea turtle hatchling program; between June and August, hundreds of baby turtles are released to much fanfare in front of the Malaquite Visitor Center. The eggs were still being incubated during my visit, so after a restful night accompanied by the sound of the breakers, I broke camp and immediately steered south on the park’s only road, away from the people and the pavement.
I’d planned to drive the fifteen miles to Yarborough Pass, on the upper Laguna Madre, but most of Padre Island is accessible only by four-wheel-drive vehicle, and I didn’t have one. So I simply drove until I could see no sign of anyone—and then drove a mile farther. After I set up my tent on South Beach, about six miles from the end of the road, the night brought unexpectedly high winds. The advantage of these gusts was that the clouds cleared to reveal the stars. I gazed up at the seven sisters of the Pleiades and Orion unsheathing his sword. The disadvantage? Sand—not just around my tent but also inside it, forcing me to close the flaps.
The cool morning revealed a beach decorated with the translucent, sail-like bubbles of Portuguese man-of-wars that had washed ashore. Fantastic to look at, and often mistaken for jellyfish, a man-of-war is actually a colony of distinct organisms, and those that form the tentacles pack a nasty sting. I sipped my coffee and kept my hands to myself.
To get there: Padre Island National Seashore is always open. From Corpus Christi, take Texas Highway 358 across the JFK Causeway until it becomes Park Road 22. Continue about 10 miles to park headquarters (361-949-8068). Entrance fee is $10, good for 7 days; additional day-use fee for Bird Island Basin is $5. Camping at Malaquite Beach costs $8 a night; the sea turtle hatchling hotline is 361-949-7163. Primitive camping (free) is allowed on North Beach, Yarborough Pass, South Beach, and anywhere south of there. All sites have a 14-day limit.
Fish Pass
“How’s that song go?” asked the fisherman on the south jetty of Mustang Island’s Fish Pass. “The ocean is a desert with its life underground?” As we looked back over five miles of beachfront, however, I was impressed by the life I could see aboveground. With its white sands and no-vehicles-allowed swimming area, Mustang Island State Park attracts surfers, hikers, mountain bikers, campers, and, more notoriously, spring breakers. Despite the activity the park remains one of the prettiest, cleanest swaths of publicly owned land on the Gulf. And there are still spots to steal away to: head for the south jetty, as I did, where you’ll find peaceful tide pools full of minnows and the occasional sea urchin and anemone—you might also catch sight of crevalle jack, drum, and mackerel in the surf—or rent a kayak and set out across the dunes and Texas Highway 361 to a twenty-plus-mile network of paddling trails amid the cordgrass marshes. Spoil islands, made up of mud and shells dredged from area shipping channels, are an avian heaven, and as you wend your way to the blue-green waters of Corpus Christi Bay, it’ll be just you and the birds.
To get there: Mustang Island SP is open daily from 7 a.m. to 10 p.m. From Corpus Christi, take Texas Highway 358 across the JFK Causeway until it becomes Park Road 22, then turn left onto Texas Highway 361 and drive north for about 5 miles to park headquarters (361-749-5246). Entrance fee is $5 per day.
Dagger Point
The 115,931-acre wildlife refuge in Aransas is best known as a stronghold for the endangered whooping crane, the tallest bird native to North America, which frequents the area from late November to April and attracts charter boats full of gawking visitors out of Rockport and Port Aransas. But the sanctuary is an oasis for all sorts of other wildlife too—more than four hundred species of birds; a multitude of butterflies; mammals such as the badger, bobcat, and black-tailed jackrabbit; thirty-odd species of snake—and though access is restricted, you can escape into its dense woods and quiet swamps by taking a sixteen-mile self-guided drive and several short hikes.
So hike I did, setting out first on the mellow trail to Dagger Point, a rare hill that offers broad views of San Antonio Bay. As I climbed, bird songs filled the surrounding forest of evergreen red bay, mature live oak, and hearty blackjack oak. Sparrows, cardinals, and yellow-rumped warblers bopped through the underbrush. Soon I’d arrived at a natural terrace, a mere 25 feet above sea level, where the empty horizon—no buildings, no power lines, no drilling platforms—left me weak in the knees, with what I could only guess was a case of coastal vertigo. I didn’t see any cranes, but the vista made me want to whoop it up anyway.
Of course, I couldn’t leave without seeing the famous birds, so I hopped aboard Captain Tommy Moore’s Skimmer, a shallow-bottomed, 37-person cruiser that’s part of the Rockport Birding and Kayak Adventures fleet. (The Skimmer runs as often as twice a day during crane season; in the summer, Moore offers dolphin-watching and sunset cruises.) The crew cautioned us to lower our voices as we navigated the barrier islands along Blackjack Peninsula and the southwest end of Matagorda Island. Soon the cranes came into view, and as we got close, I marveled at their striking height (they can grow to be five feet tall), spectacular white plumage, and red crowns. We watched as pairs, and the occasional trio, hunted blue crab and other morsels in the brackish marshes, moving with the grace of ballerinas. Since receiving federal protection in 1967, the number of wild cranes has rebounded from less than twenty to nearly three hundred, a symbol of hope for conservationists.
“People complain that you can’t drive all over the refuge,” noted Jay Tarkington, our skipper on the Skimmer that day. “But this is one of the few places where the coast is still untouched. I remind them that this is a preserve for the wildlife. When you live in Texas, it’s easy to forget that these wide-open spaces are something not everyone has.” Amen.
To get there: The Aransas NWR is open daily from sunrise to sunset. Take FM 239 to Austwell, where the road turns into FM 774. On FM 774, take a right at the stop sign, drive to the end of the street, then turn right. Drive 0.5 miles to FM 2040, turn left, and go 6 miles to the visitors center (361-286-3559). Entrance fee is $3 to $5 daily. For boat tours, there’s the Skimmer (877-892-4737) or the Wharf Cat (800-605-5448), both of which leave primarily from Rockport Harbor. Tours last 3 to 4 hours; call ahead for a reservation.
The Big Tree
J. R. R. Tolkien’s towering Ents, the ancient, gnarled beings in The Lord of the Rings, have nothing on the Big Tree at Goose Island State Park. This gargantuan live oak was already more than five hundred years old when Cabeza de Vaca arrived on Texas shores; in the course of a thousand journeys around the sun, its trunk has grown to a circumference of some 35 feet, while the crown now spans almost 90 feet. Goose Island bridges the St. Charles and Aransas bays, and though merely 321 acres, it boasts forest, prairie, and wetland, as well as some excellent fishing. But the Big Tree, one of the oldest living organisms in Texas, is its jewel. Named the State Champion Coastal Live Oak, in 1969, it is believed to have withstood more than forty hurricanes. As I stood in the shade of its heavy, serpentine limbs, which reach to the edge of a protective fence, I wondered what stories the tree might tell if only it could talk.
To get there: The Big Tree is on a small parcel of public land just outside Goose Island SP, about 10 miles northeast of Rockport. The park is open daily from 8 a.m. to 10 p.m. Take Texas Highway 35 to Park Road 13, then follow the signs for a couple of miles to the tree and park headquarters (361-729-2858). Entrance fee is $5 per day.
La Salle Loop
As I launched my kayak into the water near the ruins of Indianola’s old city hall, I couldn’t escape the irony that the approximately three-mile “beginner loop” on Powderhorn Lake was named for Robert de La Salle, the French explorer who managed to navigate the Mississippi from the upper Midwest to the Gulf of Mexico, in 1682, but was then shipwrecked in Matagorda Bay two years later and killed shortly thereafter. I’d already noticed an art deco–style granite statue commemorating La Salle nearby, which seemed fitting since the once historic port—now a settlement of beach houses, fish camps, and a rustic marina—is known for having experienced disaster itself through a series of hurricanes, storms, fires, and floods.
But as I dipped my paddle, my anxieties about the past were swept away. A breeze stirred the spartina, and I saw a bottlenose dolphin surface close by. On warm-weather weekends, Indianola fills with crowds eager to fish and drink—and drink and fish—but on this day it was empty. Not that crowds would have mattered: the easy trail, it turned out, can be extended to almost a dozen miles without overwhelming even the novice paddler. After crossing a pair of shallow oyster reefs, I discovered a trove of potential fishing holes and a flock of snow geese. Indianola and La Salle may have faced their share of tragedy, but I’d consider washing ashore at Powderhorn Lake a happy accident.
To get there: Indianola is about 15 miles from Port Lavaca. Head south on Texas Highway 238 to Texas Highway 316, which turns into South Ocean Drive and takes you to the marina. The paddling kiosk with trail information is opposite the La Salle Monument, about a mile north of town.
Prairie Trail
Galveston Island has almost fully recovered from Hurricane Ike, which means that the fishing is again consistent, the bird-watching reliable, and the dune-backed beaches, despite some sporadic litter, still some of the prettiest in Texas. Because I live in nearby Houston, I go to the park with almost religious regularity. Hoping to uncover something new, I decided this time to see the coastal tract by mountain bike—and bring along my five-year-old. After I installed her on our new trail-a-bike (thank you, Craigslist), “off-roading” took on new meaning, and we bumped along the park paths in tandem. As we swung around a corner on the aptly named Prairie Trail, the thigh-high grasses whipping by, a hawk swooped up from a low snag and led the way. We huffed and puffed behind it until the hawk abruptly soared higher than our eyes could follow. Later, we headed for Jenkins Bayou, a deserted spot on the park’s western edge, where we caught sight of a bright roseate spoonbill. The bird did its distinctive head waggle, sifting mud for tiny crustaceans. “That’s so cool,” said my daughter. I couldn’t have agreed more.
To get there: Galveston Island SP is always open. From Interstate 45, exit onto 61st Street and travel south. Take a right onto Seawall Boulevard (FM 3005/Termini-San Luis Pass Road) and drive about 10 miles to park headquarters (409-737-1222). Entrance fee is $5 per day.
Matagorda Island Lighthouse
Built in 1852 out of cast iron, the now rusted Matagorda lighthouse stands on a ridge surrounded by grassy swales of seacoast bluestem, fields of wildflowers, and briar thickets. I began my approach to the solitary landmark aboard Captain Alan “Tink” Cartmell’s 24-foot Carolina skiff; after we’d crossed the waters of Espiritu Santo Bay, I continued on the island’s rough roads for three miles on my mountain bike. The lighthouse was a popular destination back when the Texas Parks and Wildlife Department offered daily ferry rides to the island, but a fire burned the state’s boat in 2003, and budgetary and other concerns led to TPWD’s rededicating the park as a wildlife management area. Today the public has access to the island’s entire east end, including the old TPWD campsite, but there are no services—just deer, alligator, 325 species of birds, and mangroves among which you can fish and kayak. “There’s a lot of history here,” said 71-year-old Cartmell, who first visited the skinny, 38-mile island in the fifties and has guided the area for seventeen years. “What’s amazing is that it’s as wild and primitive as when I was a kid.”
To get there: Matagorda Island is just south of Port O’Connor and accessible only by boat; check the online membership directory for the Port O’Connor Chamber of Commerce to find an outfitter who can take you the 11 miles to the old TPWD ferry dock and campground on the island (361-983-2898; prices start at $125). With a $12 limited public-use permit, available at most area bait and tackle shops, you can camp in designated areas.
North Jetty
Fish the Gulf enough and sooner or later you’ll have a Hemingway moment. Mine came on the shores of San Jose Island, popularly known as St. Jo, a 21-mile privately owned island across the ship canal from Port Aransas that is open to beachcombers, anglers, and campers. As the sun began its descent, terns dive-bombing bait fish along the boulders of the island’s jetty enticed me to take a chance. Casting a small lure, I felt a big bump and eagerly set the hook. My reel screamed as the behemoth headed out to sea. Not knowing whether it was a shark, a king mackerel, or what, I found my line unspooling at an alarming rate—and with it everything in my brain but the desire to land the fish. I lacked a suitable net, and my rod was going to snap like kindling if I hoisted the giant with it, so I stepped into the slippery wash and was summarily drenched by a wave. Finally, after much work, I was able to lift an enormous bull redfish—about four feet long and more than forty pounds—out of the water.
Heart pounding, alone, I realized this must be how people drown on jetties. With quivering arms, I cradled the fish to remove my hook, then released it in the surf, where it righted itself and swam away. Back on the secluded beach, I set up my tent and opened a beer I’d sequestered in my pack for just this moment. Perhaps I would sleep as deeply as the old man Santiago.
To get there: San Jose is just north of Port Aransas and accessible only by boat; a passenger ferry known as the Jetty Boat leaves hourly beginning at 7 a.m. from Fisherman’s Wharf in Port Aransas (361-749-5448). The ferry ride is $12. There are no services on the island.
Gambusia Nature Trail
Sea Rim State Park was racked by Hurricane Rita in 2005 and shellacked by Hurricane Ike in 2008, prompting the Legislature to dedicate $2 million to its recovery in 2009. Today construction is under way—a new visitors center, more parking lots, a series of elevated walkways—but I hope Texas Parks and Wildlife doesn’t overdo it, as Sea Rim counts as one of the state’s true rough diamonds. A quiet alternative to the beaches on Bolivar Peninsula, it features lovely, lonely sweeps of sand along the Gulf and copses of willows, freshwater ponds, and all manner of songbirds inland.
But that doesn’t mean I favor no development; indeed, the first place I headed after camping overnight in the dunes on the eastern edge of D. Roy Harrington Beach was a three-quarter-mile boardwalk known as the Gambusia Nature Trail. Named for the small Gambusia affinis, a voracious mosquito-larvae-eating fish, the trail crosses a nameless seasonal lagoon. Coffee in one hand, binoculars in the other, I strolled along, suspended just above the water, past cordgrass and cattail marshes. Feeling that I was being watched, I realized that a drifting log had miraculously sprouted eyes and a snout. A wave of adrenaline hit me, but the alligator sank into the mud without incident, and I returned to my tent to watch the waves.
My serenity was interrupted only by thirsty, hawk-size mosquitoes; the gambusia were clearly asleep on the job. I reminded myself that this windblown portion of the coast refuses to be tamed, thankfully, and started to walk toward the waves. A breeze picked up, and the bloodsuckers bugged off. I was on my own again.
To get there: Sea Rim SP is always open. From Port Arthur, drive 20 miles south on Texas Highway 87; park headquarters is 10 miles west of Sabine Pass (409-971-2559). Entrance fee is $3 per day.
Texas Highway 87
Most visitors to High Island head for the four wooded Houston Audubon Society bird sanctuaries that are virtually synonymous with this small community on the upper coast. But just as irresistible is the area’s deserted seashore, so I took a beach drive, following the sandy tracks that parallel what’s left of the twenty-mile stretch of Texas Highway 87 that once ran east of High Island. Hurricanes and erosion have transformed this length of once perfectly good road into a surreal line of asphalt boulders littering the hard-packed sand. After the first three miles, I was the only traffic. I’d heard that somewhere along this solitary path was one of Texas’s few nude beaches, but it was a blustery, cool day, and there were no so-called naturists in sight. After seven miles, I reached a barbed-wire fence that forced me to take a hard right onto the soft sand. If you have high-clearance four-wheel drive and the luck of the tides, you can go all the way to Sea Rim State Park, but I didn’t feel like tempting fate. I parked, got out, and walked the shore, discovering a bounty of green sea glass and whelk shells. Waves lapped the remnants of highway, and grasses grew triumphantly over the man-made gravel. It was rough and beautiful, a bracing reminder that nature bats last.
To get there: High Island is about 19 miles south of Winnie on Texas Highway 124. Start this drive beyond the yellow caution signs where Highway 124 meets Texas Highway 87. The tracks are manageable in a standard sedan or two-wheel drive for about 7 miles. There are no services.
Frozen Point
Covering 34,000 emerald acres of virtually intact coastal marsh, upland prairie, and forest, the Anahuac National Wildlife Refuge is our state’s answer to Florida’s fabled “river of grass,” the Everglades. Twelve miles of road trace a series of culverts that help control salinity and make the floodplains attractive to 279 varieties of birds (such as the mottled duck, an indicator species for ecological health), as well as otters, muskrats, bobcats, and, of course, alligators. “Anahuac is the Alligator Capital of Texas,” boomed the volunteer host when I visited the shack that serves as a temporary visitors center (a soon-to-open permanent facility will boast nature exhibits and viewing platforms). I didn’t see any of the famed reptiles that day, but at Frozen Point, a quiet panoramic fishing spot on the refuge’s southwest shore, I spotted a great blue heron. Celebrated for its lightning reflexes, the bird is one of the world’s best anglers, and I watched as this one speared a fish for lunch and did a victory dance. I settled in with the picnic I’d brought and plotted my own fishing trip, dance moves TBD.
To get there: Anahuac NWR is open daily from sunrise to sunset. From Interstate 10, drive south on either Texas Highway 61 or Texas Highway 124 until you reach FM 1985. Turn onto FM 1985 (left from Highway 61, right from Highway 124) and continue to the refuge’s main entrance; signs point the way (409-267-3337). Entrance is free.
