Dad's Stories: Human Mountain Goat

THE HUMAN MOUNTAIN GOAT (written Sun, 5 Sep 2004)

I have a couple of stories to tell about climbing on Bee Rock Mountain which is located about three miles from downtown Meridian. To me, “ridge running” was about the best “free” entertainment in town. Bee Rock is a prominent out crop located in the foot of the Hill Country of Texas. Highway 6 runs right between Bee Rock Mountain and the Bosque River. In fact, right across from Bee Rock on the Bosque River is a place called Table Rock. This popular site is a flat rock formation that 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 rode by in a wagon, the bees would swarm all around them. This 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. However, they’d been replaced by small birds called Cliff Swallows. These birds build their mud nests above the ledges. The first time I saw the cliff swallow nests, it threw me for a loop. They were quite different from a typical bird nest. The small swallows constantly flit in and out of the mud nests busy feeding their offspring.

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 Bosque county. Indian tribes known to have populated the Bee Rock area were Tonkawa, Wacos, Tawakoni and Comanche. While sitting on the rocky outcropping on top, I could easily imagine an Indian brave in all his regalia, standing there looking out over the countryside. I understand when settlers first came to the area there was hardly any cedar. Before the advent of farming and ranching, the hills around Meridian were covered with wild grass, often 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 women 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 many hours 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.

Bee Rock explorers. Probably in the 1907
The single most popular feature on Bee Rock is the “elephant’s ear.” This is a stalactite formation that 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 erosion and time carved the mountain into the unique formation that is so popular to this day. 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 were 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.

Meridian Girls on Bee Rock 1907 Climbers sitting by a formation
called the Elephant’s Ear!
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 or bottom ledge is the easiest of the three. You can actually do a lot of running on this level if you like. Some of the ledges have low ceilings. 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 this first level.
The second ledge is the most popular. There are quite a few thrills, and if you’re not careful, spills to be had on this ledge. I’ve also incorporated a few “head dings” running on this ledge. You get a good idea of what it means to go stooping, when you quickly traverse this particular piece of Bee Rock real estate. There are steep areas where the ledge narrows, and brings you to a dead end. 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 extremely narrow in some places. There are several, what we used to call… chicken spots. These are the narrow ledges where you have to lean over, cram your butt against the mountain while holding your heels tight against the rock, and slowly work your way along the ledge.
There is a rather frightening drop of some fifty feet or more. If you’re going to traverse the narrow areas, you’d better have some contingency plans in case you are stuck and have to bail out. I had a big “buck eye” tree spotted down below in case I started sliding and fell. My emergency escape route was landing in the top of the tree and grabbing onto 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. A climber could have continued with special climbing equipment, but that’s not what ledge or ridge climbing is all about.

Climbers on second ledge 1907
You can get some moderate “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. I’m only aware of a few who have made this particular climb and fewer still that have climbed down to the second ledge. 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 dangerous if you’re careful, but when you look down, it’s a long way to the bottom. At one point of the climb, your body is leaning out and there’s nothing below you, but a lot of space and a bad stop, if you slipped and fell.
While climbing on the second ledge one rather brisk February morning, I started run in order to stay warm. At a convenient spot near the Elephant’s ear, I stopped to catch my breath. To steady myself, I put my hand down on the rock and felt what I thought was wet moss. I looked down and there, under my fingers, was a small rattlesnake trying to wiggle away. I almost soil my jeans. Quickly yanking my hand back, I took a couple of steps away from the spot and carefully looked around for momma. Evidently, the cold weather had made the snake very sluggish. In its own way, the little serpent looked cute and I thought about putting it in something to carry home. Overwhelmed by an attack of common sense and dispatched the snake with a rock. I tossed it into the brush below. That was the only snake I’ve ever seen on Bee Rock. I have since heard that a bite from the smaller rattlesnakes can give you a lot of grief.
I considered using a rope or other mountain climbing gear on the mountain. First, because I never thought about it and secondly I wouldn’t have known where to purchase such equipment. Finally, if you’re not skilled in the technique of rappelling you can get hurt.
The top line of ledges right under the summit is 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 handholds 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 Dutch Boy enamel, 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/sluice 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 countryside. There was highway 6, the road to Clifton, immediately below. The Bosque River, threading its 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 caressing you and usually one, maybe two buzzards circling lazily overhead. Laugh, but standing there on the highest lookout, 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. Sometimes he just went back home and shot 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 big enough for two or three people to crawl into and exploring. You couldn’t stand up in any of them. The floor of these small caves was 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. (At right) The Bosque River in winter.

This is my childhood hero, my beloved brother, Billy. He was
fifteen months older than me. That’s me on the right.
From these 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 was able to show my wife, 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 just 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 many 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, and 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 worse thing that could happen to a young adventurer. I know, thanks to Leon and Jimmy. There were a few 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 its best.
Before closing, here are 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 to 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, drove up the road a short distance, 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 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 to 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. The rather large limb was completely obliterated by the number six birdshot and crashed 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 shoo... 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 you shoot at me?” The smaller of the two answered, “We were just trying to scare you, man.” I barked, “Well, you did… you 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 you right. Now, Pick up you rifles and get out of here here and don’t come back, I’ll be watch’n for you… your 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.
I did not intend to harm either one of the boys. However, 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 I put a Bee Rock camping trip together. We invited R.L. Clark, Leon Strickland, Jimmy Lomax, Jack Vick, Billy and I. 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 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 every 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. Please keep in mind, there were many 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 stomach gas irrupting from a wide-open mouth. It sounded like a King of the jungle calling to his mate. Strickland, sat up and exclaimed, “Who ain’t been reading their Emily Post book?” I won’t give a name, but among us, that day was arguably the belching champion of Bosque county. He could release a loud belch at will and often did!
We held our noses and loudly complained at the total lack of social grace by one of our chums. Favorite phrases for such a moment populated the air. “Who raised you, a pig?” “I thought air horns were illegal!” “Someone get him a bucket!” “I smell dead meat!” “Yes, mother.” 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. Anyway, you get my point. Once again, the game was afoot!
The loud detonation was like a call to action. It snapped our reverie and made us march like ants. R.L. said, “Hey, it’s going to be dark in a little bit, let’s find a camp site.” Darkness was gathering quickly, so we walked back into the cedar breaks to search for a relatively clear, 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 finally decided on a large enough clearing for the group and commenced to set up camp. People had obviously been here before. They had outlined 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 I 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 were others small varmints we like 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 from a valley behind Bee Rock. You don’t soon forget a sound as unique and frightening as a mountain cougar howling at night. 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 got busy setting up camp and settled down for the night. Now, we were thinking food. Each boy would bring something to contribute to the general stockpile of food. Spam (my favorite to this day), canned meats and beans, 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, but on Bee Rock, you brought what you ate.
Anyway, it was at this critical point that we discovered no one had brought a skillet. 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 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 back to the house and 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 going back home in a car, broke all the camping rules.
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 remember anyone in school that had ever been bitten by a venomous snake. All though I‘m sure someone must have been bitten at one time or another.
Walking the river at night for a skillet was akin to sending your friend back for more ammo, in 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, too. He was that sort of person. 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 campfire 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 sitting in a circle with our feet toward the fire, which was mainly glowing embers. 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 favorite hand-me-down ghost stories from their family ancestry.
I decided to tell the story of the haunted Hornbuckle house. Way back in the 1930’s a young boy, who wasn’t quite right in the head, had shot his mother and daddy to death. Since then, whoever lived in the Hornbuckle house seen to encounter a mysterious and tragic death. The last family to live there was the McCormack’s; they died in a terrible car accident. The mother, daddy and oldest son were killed not far from the house when their car was hit by a big truck loaded with pipe. In the wreck, their oldest son’s head had been severed from his body and was discovered sitting on the hood.
Suddenly and without any warning, there was a loud swooshing noise---like giant wings rapidly beating the air. The smoldering fire burst into a volcanic eruption of glowing goals and embers that covered the entire campsite. The geyser of hot coals must have risen five feet in the air and mushroomed into a 4th of July fireworks display. Burning coals covered 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! Possibly, the McCormack boy.
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, dear God, help us!” We all stood around with eyes as big as door knobs, holding our smoldering blankets. We couldn’t just run around willy nilly, we might run off the mountain! There followed a frenzy of blanket shaking and stomping out of fiery embers. As no further attack seemed imminent, we found our flashlights and got ready to apply damage control. I remember thinking, now I know what the guys at Pearl Harbor felt like!
A quick head count indicated that whatever it was, it had not been able to carry 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, it’s not every day you are attacked by an evil spirit sent from the dark side! After we got our wits about us, we commenced to surmise what heinous thing had just attacked our 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, the consensus of opinion was that 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. In addition, 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. It was safer to talk baseball and football. 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, you’re late for school!” It’s already noon, we over slept!” Leon produced the skillet and soon bacon was frying and coffee brewing. Nothing like the smell of breakfast cooking on a beautiful morning in the hill country. Life was good. After a breakfast of bacon, eggs and coffee, topped off by a sweet rolls, we felt like satiated ticks. The consensus of opinion among our group of adventurers was that the events of the night before were more than just a little strange. Was it really an owl or some giant ethereal hand that had reached down and thumped our campfire into a mini volcano? 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.