I’ve got a couple of stories to tell about climbing on Bee Rock Mountain which is located about three miles from downtown Meridian. Texas Highway 6, runs right between Bee Rock Mountain and the Bosque river. As a matter of fact, right across from Bee Rock on the Bosque river is a place called Table Rock. This is a huge flat rock that was formed over a long period of time and sits on the bank right next to the river. It’s my understanding that folks from Meridian would have family picnics on this big rock by the water, enjoying the lovely shade of the tall pecan trees surrounding it. This is a beautiful piece of road and looks like something out of a Norman Rockwell illustration.
As you drive by Bee Rock, it takes only a glance to see the rock cliffs and ledges that weave back and forth across the face of the mountain giving it a distinguished character. I wish I had more history about “the rock,” but I’m afraid it would be very difficult to come by. My grandmother Smith told me when she was a little girl and their family would ride by in a wagon, the bees would swarm all around them. Which also means there must have been an abundance of honey stored on “the rock.” The bees were long gone by the time I first visited Bee Rock. There are also “bee caves” at the nearby Meridian State Park. I’ve watched bees flying in and out of holes in the rock at “bee cave.”
If you go further back, I’m certain the Indians in the area climbed Bee Rock and possibly used it for a lookout point. According to Rebecca D. Radde, in her book, Bosque Primer, she mentions several Indian tribes who once inhabited the area. The Tonkawa, Wacos, Tawakoni and Comanche. While sitting on the rocky outcropping on top, I would frequently imagine an Indian Chief in all his regalia, standing there looking out over the country side. Believe it or not, he had a better view than {I did}. I understand when settlers first came to the area, there was hardly any cedar. It’s said the hills around Meridian were mostly covered with grass, sometime stirrup high.
Generations of Meridian’s young people have climbed and explored Bee Rock. I have some old photos of folks climbing on the mountain. The men wearing their fedoras and young ladies with their hair fixed in a bun on top of their heads. A popular look in the 1930’s. The photos were taken by one of Artie Dunlap’s kids. All I know for sure is Bee Rock gave me a lot of fun and wonderful memories. It was a very special time. To my knowledge, no one has ever actually researched Bee Rock for ancient artifacts and drawings. I’ve been all over that old rock and I’ve never found a single arrowhead or pottery shards… or anything else from early history. There are initials chiseled in the rock with dates that go back to the 1890’s, but that’s about it.
The single most popular feature on Bee Rock is the “elephant’s ear.” This is a stalactite formation that has been formed by centuries of dripping water. Doggone, if it doesn’t resemble an elephant’s ear. It’s very big and most people who climb the rock, want their picture taken standing next to the “elephant’s ear.” It can be very wet and slippery in that particular area of the ledge. It is also a good test of rock climbing skill to make the short, but steep climb up from the ledge below to the “elephant’s ear.” I’ve seen old photos where there is a wooden ladder leading from the bottom ledge up to the “ear.” It’s about a twenty foot climb, but at a tough angle and usually quite slippery. This spot on the Mountain is also one of the most accessible.
It can be reached from two ledges. The bottom ledge and the middle ledge. The Elephant ear formation actually sits on the second ledge. I believe at one time their was quite a bit of water that drained down from the top of the mountain into the peculiar formation that {was} so popular. I often wonder if Meridian’s young people still climb Bee Rock and explore its clefts and ledges. It would be a shame if it’s posted as private land. The only kind of stock you could possibly run on the mountain is goats and there’s no grass for them to eat.
I like to think of the three separate and distinct ledges that zigzag across the face of Bee Rock in degrees of difficulty to navigate. The third ledge is the first one at the bottom and it’s very easy to get around on. You can actually do a lot of running on this level if you like. I used to refer to this level as the “chicken run,“ because the girls preferred it. About the worst that could happen, if you stumbled and fell, would be a few skinned places and a roll in the brush. You probably have the best view of the Elephant’s ear from the bottom level.
The second level is by all means the most popular. There are quite a few thrills to be had on this ledge. There are spots which are fairly steep and you’ll encounter some areas that bring you to a dead stop. Yet it’s not terribly dangerous if you’re the least bit careful and use a little common sense. As you go on past the “elephant’s ear” you can get into some difficulty. The ledge has more of an angle and it’s very narrow in some places. There are several, what we used to call… chicken spots. These are the narrow ledges where you have to cram your butt against the mountain, heel held tight against the rock and lean over to slowly work your way around the ledge.
There is a pretty healthy drop off here of some fifty feet or more. If you’re going to traverse the narrow areas, you’d better have some contingency plans for getting stuck or having to bail out. I had a big “buck eye” tree spotted down below in case I started sliding and fell. My plans were to land in the top of that tree and grab the first limb I hit! Thank goodness it never came to that.
When I worked this ledge, I usually wanted to have someone with me, just in case the situation got iffy. There are certain spots where it’s just not possible to continue. I’ve sat there for thirty minutes just staring at the rough spot and trying to figure a way through it. It could be done with special equipment, but that’s not what ledge or ridge climbing is all about.
You can get some pretty good “tummy tingles” on this ledge. In one spot, you can climb about ten feet up to the very top of the hill by wedging your arms and feet into a narrow crevice that runs up the face of the rock. There aren’t too many who have made this particular climb. There used to be a small cedar tree growing in the crevice that you could hang onto and rest, if you wanted to. That’s a good climb. Not really dangerous if you’re careful, but when you look down, it’s a long way to the bottom.
I never used a rope or other mountain climbing gear. First, because I never thought about it and secondly I wouldn’t have known where to purchase such equipment or how to properly use it. The top line of ledges are by far the most difficult. As adventurous as I was, I tried not to do dumb things and take bad risks while exploring “the rock.” Having said that I can assure my reader that I never had one serious mishap while climbing all over that old rock. I’ve climbed up crevices and cracks, scooted my butt slowly along narrow ledges, with a long drop beneath, but always had good hand holds and sufficient body strength to handle my weight very nicely. I don’t know of a single incident where someone was seriously hurt while playing on “the rock.”
When climbing with a friend, I never dared them to do anything they didn’t want to do and never badgered them into taking unnecessary risks. I will admit to “encouraging” them a little every now and again.
I did lead a few people around some narrow “tummy tingling” ledges, but nothing in my opinion that was truly dangerous or of a high risk nature. I did pride myself somewhat in going where others dared not go, but with my particular group, I guess that wasn’t hard to do.
I would drive my green, 1940 Chevrolet, the one with the Sears house paint job, out to Bee Rock, park and climb quickly to the top. There are two ways to ascend the hill. One is a well worn “water” trail/drain up the front. It’s the hardest, longest and steepest. The easier way is up the back, through the cedar breaks. After reaching the top, one of the first things I enjoyed doing was standing, close to the edge and gaze over the country side. There was highway 6, the road to Clifton, immediately below. The Bosque river, threading it’s way through the surrounding farmlands. Green pastures and rolling hills covered with Juniper. Off in the distance, you could see Meridian, especially the courthouse. On a clear day and with the help of binoculars you can see way over to the far horizon, possibly even Morgan, Texas.
It was very exhilarating standing there on the edge with a blue sky up above, a cooling breeze blowing across and usually one, maybe two buzzards circling lazily overhead. Laugh, but standing there on the highest point of bare rock, I actually felt closer to God. My brother Billy, used to tell me if I didn’t quit standing so close to the edge and looking up, I was going to be with God. Billy wasn’t much of a climber. Therefore, he would soon become bored and want to go gallivanting on the Bosque river. Or go back home and shoot hoops.
I just never seemed to tire of running on the ledges of Bee Rock. Two or three times a week, from morning until later afternoon I would explore small caves and climb around on the face of that mountain. Some of the caves were plenty big enough for two or three people to crawl in. You couldn’t stand up in any of them. The floor of these small caves were always filled with a fine, powdery, white dirt that would cling to your clothes. A few of them were maybe ten feet deep or curved around and came out at another opening a few feet away. My hope was that some day I would discover a cave opening in the rock that would lead into a much larger cave, but that never happened.
In this photo, left to right. R.L Clark (on rock), Billy Walk, Jimmy Lomax and Sammy Walk.
From the pictures, you can see that we did have a little height, once we got to the top of Bee Rock. The view was breath taking and worth the climb to the top. I’m sure some folks who’ve lived all their lives in Meridian or there about, never climbed “the rock.” That’s hard to believe. They don’t know what they’re missing or what they missed.
Years later, my wife Kathy, climbed the rock with me. We were joined by my sister Betty and her husband Wayne Murphy. I got to show Kathy, some of the spots I’d told her about. I really don’t know if she was impressed or not. Other than my sister, Betty, Kathy was the only girl I’d ever climbed “the rock” with.
Personally, I don’t think there is a “thrill ride” in the country that could compare with “running down” the main trail at Bee Rock. Now, I don’t mean hurrying down, I’m talking about flat out running!
From the vicinity of the third ledge, you’d start running toward the bottom. The trail consisted of dirt, rocks of all sizes, piles of leaves, dead tree limbs, brush, twists and turns and lots of other surprises. You would run a little, stumble, run a little more, slide on your heels and butt, fall down a steep bank, run a little more, then jump over a limb and start running again. Fantastic! The faster you went, the more thrilling it got. It was always exciting to discover an unplanned short cut through the woods, thus eliminating one of the abrupt turns. Sometimes, these short cuts were forced on you by the momentum of your descent. I was not the champion of this event, I’ll give that honor to either Leon Strickland or Jimmy Lomax. Both of them were very good athletes… extremely nimble and quick on their feet and could be gluttons for punishment!
Being passed, while running down the trail was about the worst thing that could happen to a young adventurer. I know, thanks to Leon and Jimmy. But there were enough times when I finished first. Especially when I ran by myself. Running down the trail from the top of Bee Rock was true cross country racing at it’s best.
Before closing, here’s a couple of stories you might find entertaining. One day while driving by Bee Rock, I noticed a couple of cars that I didn’t recognize. I stopped and got out of my car and scanned the face of the mountain for signs of life. Suddenly a couple of missiles creased the air just above my head. It sounded like bees, but way too fast. A split second latter I heard the report of small caliber riffles being fired. I looked up over the top of my car and saw at least two people lying on the top of the rock. They fired a couple of more times and I heard the bullets pass over my head. That just wouldn’t do! Not on my mountain. I jumped back in my car and drove up the road a piece and parked. I went to the trunk of my car and retrieved my trusty old double barrel 12 gage shotgun.
I was at the back on the mountain. I loaded my shotgun, pocketed a few extra shells and started up the hill. With the stealth of an Indian, I slowly made my way up the incline and reached the top. Keep in mind, I knew that old rock like the back of my hand. I carefully and quietly made my way toward the face of the mountain. I could hear voices now, speaking quietly, not too far in front of where I was. Sneaking a little further, I peeked from between some cedar branches and saw two boys lying on their stomachs, looking over the side. Each of them had a .22 rifle. One of them said, “Do you see him.” The other one responded with, “No, but he’ll probably come up the trail, just lie still and be quiet.” Evidently, they were looking for me.
I eased the safety off on the shotgun and carefully aimed at the top of a cedar tree about ten feet back and six yards to the right of where they were. I squeezed off the first round. Boom! It sounded like a bomb had detonated. Completely obliterated by the number six birdshot, a fairly large limb in the top of the cedar tree broke and fell to the ground. The loud report of the shotgun reverberated back and forth across the valley. Both boys stiffened with fear and one of them cried out, “What in the hell was that!”
I squeezed the trigger on the second barrel. Boom! I quickly reloaded, while more branches fell from the tree! I heard one of them yell, “Don’t shoot, please don’t shoot!” I snapped the shotgun shut and walked toward them. I said, “Don’t either one of you guys move a muscle.” The nearness of my voice startled them. As I had suspected, I didn’t recognize either one of them. I told them, “Get up and turn around, real slow.” The two boys slowly got to their feet and turned around. Their rifles were on the ground right where they’d left them. They stood there with their eyes wide with fear and uncertainty as to what my next move would be. They looked to be about my age, seventeen years old or there about.
I asked, “Why’d ya shoot at me?” The smaller of the two answered, “We were just trying to scare you, man.” I barked, “Well, ya did… ya almost hit me. That’s a dangerous game.” Both of them were still very frightened. The huskier of the two exclaimed, “Man, I almost lost it when you shot that canon off behind us. One of us could have fallen over!” In my best John Wayne imitation, I responded, “Serves ya right. Now, Pick up ya rifles and git outta here …don’t come back, I’ll be watch’n for ya… yur not welcome here.” They picked up their rifles and quickly walked away mumbling about how they could have been hurt and that I must be some kind of nut!
I walked over to the edge, sat down and waited for them to reach the trail down below. In a few minutes I saw them start their descent to the bottom. They got in their car and quickly drove off. The last I saw of them was tail lights headed toward Clifton. I never saw them again.
At no time did I have any intention of harming either one of the boys. But their actions just couldn’t be tolerated or excused. I suppose you could say, I had taken the law into my own hands, but I thought of it more as a responsible citizen teaching a couple of miscreants a much needed lesson. Besides, by the time I had gone to town and reported them to the Sheriff, they’d be long gone and they might have seriously hurt someone in the meantime.
I have a suspicion that they might have been shooting at passing cars, before taking a pot shot at me. What they did was very irresponsible and extremely dangerous. It’s also possible they were shooting at a herd of livestock over on the Mayfield farm across the highway. Shooting at livestock, was just as bad as stealing. I had news for them, they’d rather deal with me than they had one of the local ranchers. The local folks took offence with anyone doing harm to their livestock.
One summer night, Billy and myself put a Bee Rock camping trip together. We invited R.L. Clark, Leon Strickland, Jimmy Lomax, and Jack Vick. Our plans included a lot of climbing, exploring and finally spending the night on top of the mountain. We carried food, for supper and breakfast, along with blankets, water and cooking utensils. We climbed around on the face of the mountain and also explored the less traveled back. On the back of Bee Rock you could stand on a rock outcropping and look out across a beautiful valley down below. On the back, we had to be very careful for rattlesnakes, while climbing and poking around the rocks.
Later we went back to the front of Bee Rock and organized a game of hide and seek. No one ever found me. I would go to the second ledge and climb up to one of the small caves, wiggle inside and lie there quietly. The truth of the matter is, I don’t think the others really looked that hard for me. All my friends knew I’d do whatever it took to hide so they couldn’t find me. There were a lot of places they weren’t willing to look.
Finally, we all gathered at the highest overlook on the face of the mountain and lazily sprawled on the rock and talked. One of the most inspiring and tranquil parts of the day was sundown. As the sun went down a little early behind the hills to the west, the breeze picked up and softly blew across our bodies, cooling us from our hard play a few minutes earlier.
Suddenly, our reverie was rudely interrupted by the loud, strident sound of flatulence. It sounded like an old mule who’d been chomping down clover for a couple of days. Strickland, sat up and hollered, “Who ain’t been reading their Emily Post book?” I won’t give a name, but amongst us that day was arguably the flatus champ of Bosque county. He could release at will and often did!
We held our noses and loudly complained at the total lack of social grace by one of our bunch. Favorite phrases for such a moment populated the air. “Who brought the goose?” “Someone get the toilet paper.” “Smells like you’ve been eating dead meat!” “Yes, mother.” “Gas!” My favorite was, “Oh, speak softly sweet lips that have never lied.” I’m not sure, but I believe that’s a Shakespearian quote of some sort. “Ahhh, man!” (Heavy emphasis on the word - man! Was another common utterance following a diabolical methane attack. Anyway, you get my point. Once again, the game was afoot!
We all jumped up and moved away isolating the perpetrator. R.L. said, “Hey, I’m hungry… Let’s find a camp site.” Darkness was gathering quickly, so we walked back into the cedar breaks and searched for a good flat spot to camp for the night. When I say, cedar breaks, I’m referring to clusters of Juniper trees that seldom reached over eight to ten feet tall, but could be quite thick. We found a large enough clearing for the group and commenced to set up camp. People had obviously been here before. They had outline a big circle with rocks and had smoothed out the ground to some extent. Everyone usually brought a bedroll which consisted of a couple of blankets. My brother Billy and me usually carried a couple of army blankets.
Most of the boys in Meridian, were very adept at camping out for the night. At one time or another we’d all been Boy Scouts and well indoctrinated in camping skills. Quite often we’d camp out on the river running trotlines all night for catfish. Another popular sport in the area was night hunting for raccoon and opossum. This was done with headlamps and our ever faithful .22 rifles.
There was other small varmints we liked to hunt along the river such as, skunks, opossum and rabbits. A little more rare, but still indigenous to the area is fox, bobcat, mountain cougar and coyote. However, I must admit that I’d never seen any of the last four running wild in the immediate area. I had experienced the frightful scream of the Mountain Lion, off in the distance several times and always made the hair on the nape of my neck stand at attention. My point being that any of the above could be in your general area and make their presence known at any moment. Predators in the sky were in abundance too. Consisting mainly of owls and hawks.
Everyone made up their sleeping area and began to settle down. Now, we were thinking food. Each boy would bring something to contribute to the general stockpile of food. Nothing elaborate. Spam (my favorite to this day), canned meats and vegetables of various sorts, bacon, eggs, and sandwiches (various kinds). We’d generally raid the food lauder at home and bring whatever we could find. When camping on the river it was “kill/catch, cook and eat.
Up on Bee Rock, we usually brought what we needed to eat. Anyway, it was at this critical point that we discovered no one had brought a skillet or cooking oil. Not good, at all! We sat there looking at each other like, “How could you forget something like that?” It was SOP (standard operational procedure) that we either had too many skillets or not a single one.
We groused and complained for a while and then wondered what we were going to do about it. It was night and we had pretty much settled in for the evening. Leon Strickland said, “I’ll go get one.” This meant he was going to walk along the Bosque river at night, back to his house, get a skillet and walk all the way back and climb Bee Rock in dark. We had cars at the foot of the mountain, but Leon was adamant.
The Bosque river in December 1951.
We sent Leon off, with a flashlight and our best wishes. The primary fear while tramping along the river at night was the dreaded “water moccasin snakes.” To our credit, I don’t know of anyone in school that had ever been bitten by a venomous snake. Although I‘m sure someone must have been bitten at one time or another.
Walking the river at night was akin to sending your buddy back for more ammo, in the heat of battle. I suppose if it had to be done, Leon, would have certainly been the one to volunteer for an ammo trip in wartime. He was that sort of guy. Off he went. The rest of the group fell to---preparing for supper. Which in itself wasn’t much of a problem. We ate what we brought. The bacon and eggs were stored in a small “camp bag” along with some ice. That was our breakfast fare, along with some coffee.
After supper, the rest of us settled down in our blankets to talk and tell stories. Let me set the stage for you. The smoldering camp fire was located in a hollowed out space in the ground, in the middle of the camp, surrounded by a small wall of rocks. The boys were lying in a circle with our feet toward the fire. We talked about girls for a while, who was going with whom and then smoothly wove our way into exchanging scary tales. I shared my ghost story about the xylophone in Uncle Artie’s house and a couple of the other guys regaled us with hand- me-down stories from their family ancestry. We were sitting around the fire, which was mainly glowing embers, barely able to see each other and listening to one scary tale after another.
Suddenly and without warning of any kind, there was a loud swooshing noise---like giant wings beating the air. The smoldering fire burst into a volcanic eruption of glowing goals and embers that covered the entire campsite. The geyser of fire, must have risen five feet in the air and exploded burning coals over the ground and our blankets. There was not a boy there that didn’t think we’d been attacked by some hideous supernatural scavenger from the other side! As one, we leapt to our feet and screamed like a bunch of girls at a rock concert! One voice, several decibels higher than the rest, shouted, “Oh, S---!” That pretty much summoned it up for the rest of us. There followed a frenzy of blanket shaking and stomping out of glowing embers. As no further attack seemed imminent, we found our flashlights and got ready to apply damage control. I remember thinking, so that’s what it must have been like in Hawaii, on December 7th, 1941.
A quick head count indicated that whatever it was, it had not been able to haul away any victims from our frightened group of campers. It was almost forty-five minutes before we all began to settle back down. Think for a minute, how long would it take anyone to recover from a sneak attack from the spirit world? After we got our wits about us, we commenced to surmise what it could have been that had just assaulted our rather peaceful campsite.
We weeded out the usual suspects. Angry ancestry, seeking revenge from the other world; a ghost of some teenager killed on the highway nearby; satan, testing our belief in God; Leon Strickland returning to scare us; and finally that one of us might have thrown something in the fire. We each took an oath on our very lives that it wasn’t any of us. After much discussion, we decided it must have been a huge owl diving down to capture what he thought was a small varmint, but was actually glowing coals in our dying fire. He’d probably mistaken the coals for eyes, glowing in the dark. I’m sure the owl must have been just as frightened by the whole thing as we were. Plus, he had to deal with all the screaming! I’m satisfied with that explanation to this very day.
Needless to say, that brought an end to the ghost stories. We finally settled down and went to sleep. Leon, and the skillet showed up around one in the morning. Okay, so there would be breakfast in the morning. Our man hadn’t failed us. We slept rather fitfully during the remainder of the night.
Whoever woke up first, gave the others pure hell! It was common to walk about the campsite, kicking feet and telling your mates, “Up and at ’um, there’s work to be done. Are you going to sleep all day.” Leon, produced the skillet and soon bacon was frying and coffee brewing. Life was good. After a breakfast of bacon, eggs and coffee, topped off by a sweet roll, we started {planning} the day’s events. We packed up our stuff and walked to the face of the mountain. We sat down and dangled our feet over the cliff and watch as the traffic began to increase on the highway below. Finally it was time to run down the trail.
It had definitely been a good outing. Lots of fun and companionship. That was the last time we ever camped out on the top of Bee Rock. I wouldn’t have missed it for, as they say, all the tea in china.
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