A Different Drummer: You’ll eventually meet Kirby

Welcome to episode four of Old People on a Southern Road Trip — me, lovely, tolerant Susan, Gino the carpenter and Patricia the Waldorf teacher. Gino was driving his truck full of tools home to Philadelphia. Sue and I came as far as Memphis.
We pick up still in New Mexico headed toward Austin, in a Days Inn outside of Carlsbad.
Eager to see the high desert and Carlsbad Caverns, we chose to drive U.S. Route 82 , a windy, twisty, narrow, upward-climbing road from Alamogordo east through Cloudcroft and south to Carlsbad.
The stretch of U.S. Route 82 between Alamogordo and Cloudcroft is designated as a Safety Corridor. That means it has an above-state-average of fatal and injury crashes. Warning signs showed big rocks falling onto cars. Beautiful, airy Cloudcroft at 8,668 feet with its sprawling resorts and vast recreation options is one of the highest communities in America. Fodor’s in 2002 rated Cloudcroft Number 3 “Most Overlooked and Underrated Destination Spot.”
We missed it all. Hanging out with cousin Tommy earlier that day took a whole lot longer than expected.
For the second time we drove a scenic New Mexican highway in the dark. We drove 146 miles seeing glimpses of cliffs and villas in the blackness up to 9,000 feet and down again. We popped out in Carlsbad at a Days Inn, just miles from Carlsbad Caverns. It was too late to see them. In the morning we had to drive 500 miles to reach Austin. We moved the Caverns to our “Next time” list.
That night, we cracked open much needed wine in our motel room and got into a hearty discussion about whatever came up. We lost track of time until a knock on the door silenced us. It was a young guy from next door. He and his buddy needed to get some sleep. They had work in the morning. Could we please keep it down?
“That’s great,” laughed Gino from behind me. “The old people are partying and keeping the kids awake.”
The guy grinned and shrugged. We agreed to tone it down.
Out of Carlsbad, we entered Texas at last. We slipped onto I-10 toward Austin and drove about 20 miles before Gino got pulled over by the Texas State Police for speeding in an 80-mph zone. As he was pulling over, all I could say was, “Really?”
Young Officer Anderson seemed mostly interested in seeing our faces. Once he saw how decrepitly old and non-swarthy we were, he let Gino off with a warning.
Once back on the highway, I said, “All right. That was good fortune. Now it’s time to experience some authentic Texas barbecue.”
Everyone agreed heartily. We drove into tiny Ozona with our phones out, and the stars led us to the Wagon Wheel BBQ.
We drove past it the first time, expecting some bigtime operation based on the glowing reviews. It turned out to be a small snack shack with a low-hanging sign. Inside seating was limited to a few small tables, some counter space, and one large center table that would fit us. One other customer sat by the door. His head was hung over his plate as he ate a fat sandwich. He finished and left while we silently waited.
The room was quiet. Mom and daughter behind the counter prepared our plates. Tall, lanky dad on the side quietly chopped brisket and separated ribs, his head down behind his wide-brimmed tan cowboy hat. He wore a blue work shirt with white pearl buttons.
Our brisket and chicken sandwiches arrived. They were moist, mouth-watering, flavorful and juicy. We ate with quiet concentration.
I finally broke the silence. Facing the old man, I asked, “So who’s the pit master around here?”
Dad looked up with a grin under a moustache at the base of a long, strong nose, and happy eyes nestled in wrinkled nests. “That would be me,” he said.
“So, where’s your smoker? Out back?” I asked. He was relieved to open up.
“Yep. Finish your meal and I’ll show you my operation.”
We ate, and Gino and I took the tour with Kirby, the owner. Our first stop was his meat counter. Two full briskets and two racks of St Louis ribs sat covered in dry rub. He patted them affectionately. “Before you ask what my secret rub is, I’ll tell you that in Texas it’s no secret. Salt, pepper, and garlic.”
Out back was a small grass yard. A rusted tractor covered in morning glories adorned the middle. A small child playing with chalk saw us and joined her grandpa’s side. He lifted the lid on his main smoker where he was slowly building a fire. The chamber was wide, with oak chunks burning down only on the right side, the hot side.
“This is where the magic happens. I have to build a fire that can cook a brisket for fourteen hours without me disturbing it much.”
“So, where are your thermometers?”
“I don’t use thermometers. I know what the temperature is by looking at my wood. I know when my meat is done by looking at it the same way. It comes with time. And I don’t use timers, either.”
He showed us his chest smoker for chickens and sausages. “I’ve cooked for three hundred in this box.” Kirby welds all his own smokers. He and his small family live in a trailer beside the diner.
Before leaving, I asked Kirby for words of wisdom between smokers. He looked seriously at me and said, “Put faith in a dying fire.”