Those signs by the side of the road never fail to pique your interest:
“World’s Largest Killer Bee Ahead” boasts one, “See the Gun That Killed Billy
the Kid!” blares another. Barring the philosophical discussion over whether
guns kill people or people do, curiosity takes the fore as each billboard
informs you how much closer you are to the eighth great wonder of the world.
Unfortunately, the golden age of the roadside attraction has faded with the
advent of cable TV and video games. What can some run-down tent full of
oddities offer to someone who can sit at home and destroy universes at the
press of a joystick?
The last time I had deigned to visit any of these highway timekillers, I had
found them in sorry shape indeed. A tour through Natural Bridge Caverns a
couple years ago had been a source of discomfort as the guide pointed to
various vandalized areas and bemoaned their marring. A “living” stone formation
had been killed by greasy tourists’ hands here, teenagers had snuck in at night
and carved their initials in the wall there, and over here had been a prize
fossil “proto-horse” specimen which had been loaned to a university “and now
they won’t give it back!” The legendary Snake Farm was even worse, a rundown
shack full of lethargic reptiles and sickly looking primates whose plight
managed to depress my companion for most of the rest of the day. The highlight
of the visit had been a deceased two-headed monkey in a jar.
But still, every time I’d pass those signs, on my way to visit my parents in
San Antonio or to go tubing in New Braunfels, they beckoned. I had to give them
one more chance. So last Sunday, myself and sometime Chronicle
receptionist Laura Chee hopped into the truck, bound and determined to be
overwhelmed by the world of caves, monkeys, and swimming pigs, even if we had
to take in every roadside attraction between here and S.A. in one afternoon.
Which is what we did, almost.
High noon saw us pulling into
the parking lot of our first destination, Wonder World. Negotiating the many
twists and turns past the churches and gun shops of San Marcos, you get the
idea that the place is named for the fact that you wonder if you’re ever gonna
get there. Sure enough, though, the plentiful signs (“Just Three More Blocks!”)
led us right to the door. Unlike many roadside attractions (Santa Claus Land,
for instance, or the Home of the First Hamburger), the name doesn’t immediately
tell what’s in store for the curious tourist. Well, mostly it’s a cave. A hole
in the ground. That said, it’s a pretty damn entertaining one. With an
interesting past (the original discoverer ran a gambling den in it and had the
choice of selling it for peanuts and leaving town or being hanged (he chose the
former), a good educational “hook” (the cave was formed by the Balcones fault
and you can look right up and see the faultline), and, at least at this point
in the season, young guides who haven’t gone completely numb from repeating the
same stories over and over to endless groups, it’s about as good as a hole can
get. The gift shop/waiting area is awash in Stuckey’s memories, with garish
plastic spears and tom-toms that are still made by “real Indians” as opposed to
Native Americans, and coin-robbing “Love Tester” machines that light up and
tell you how sensual you are based on no discernible reasoning whatsoever. Lest
you forget what decade you’re in, there’s a Mortal Kombat game two machines
down. The ceiling is covered in personalized dollar bills that have been
decorated with marijuana leaves and fraternity letters by guides who survived
various years’ tourist seasons intact. “That guy was kind of `out there,'” says
our guide of a bill where Washington has been replaced by a hooded KKKer. Since
the cave is all “dead” (meaning that, unlike a cavern, stalagmites and
stalactites are no longer forming), you can touch anything you want without
being ejected and, just as importantly, it doesn’t have to be kept at a
clothing-soaking humidity level. Besides the cave, Wonder World consists of the
world’s lamest “anti-gravity house,” a construct with a tilted floor designed
to give the visitor a touch of vertigo and make water appear to run uphill.
Anyone who in the Seventies visited the creme de la creme of anti-grav
houses – Six Flags’ Wacky Shack – can only cry foul at this pale imitation.
Then there’s a train ride through a nature park, which we skipped. It was time
to move on.
Arrival at Aquarena Springs did nothing to raise the afternoon’s excitement
level. If as a child you fantasized about visiting an abandoned amusement park,
this is your dream come true. There’s no music playing, and nothing in
particular happening. A sky-ride takes you to the far end of the park, where
you find out that the near end was much more exciting. One sign mocks you with
the legend “On This Spot in 1863, During the Civil War – Nothing Happened,”
while another by the alligator pit (grand total: three gators) is more
apologetic; “By Nature We Don’t Move Much.” After a while you realize that
there is absolutely nothing going on at this place.
Except. The New Roadside America, a respected compendium of
information
on tourist traps across the country, rates Aquarena Springs as one of its Seven
Wonders, for one reason and one reason only: the Submarine Theatre show,
featuring Ralph, the Swimming Pig. This, bar none, is one of the most
mind-numbing experiences on the planet Earth. Southwest Texas State University
students, dressed as mermaids and lovesick natives with names like She Blushes
and He Smells, act out an inane melodrama about a young man’s search for his
lost love. The show starts on land, with the heartsick lad encouraging the
audience to call out for She Blushes in hopes she will appear. What he gets
instead is an appearance by the paddling pork chop Ralph, whose entire role in
the performance these days consists of a quick lap across the pool to get a
snack. I have never encountered a drug capable of addling one’s mind the way
this exhibition does. Concerning the eternal debate about what happens to the
show’s retired Ralphs, by the way: The ticket-taker assured us that a local
woman takes them in and cares for them and they are never slaughtered and
eaten. (She did admit, however, that one was once struck and killed by
lightning.)
The day was slipping by fast now, so we hightailed further down I-35, stopping only at a couple of New
Braunfels’ kick-ass antique/collectible shops (purchased: Berke Breathed’s
Academia Waltz book, a set of Pee-Wee Herman View-master reels, and Al
Capp’s 1956 Bald Iggle comics album) before trepidatiously approaching
the Snake Farm. Wonder of wonders (boy, that word just keeps popping up!), the
place had been bought and fixed up by John and Sue Mellyn, an entrepreneurial
couple who have added a reptile-purchasing shop and dream of restoring the Farm
to its former glory. The monkeys look happier (the Mellyns are members of the
International Primate Protection League, a group that provides habitats for,
well, lost and discarded apes), and Mr. Mellyn says he has plans to really pep
up the place by the time tourist season hits full swing. He’s a bit foggy on
the history of the place, but he is familiar with the legend that the Farm once
fronted a house of ill repute and points to where there once were cottages
“where they ran that. Of course, I really couldn’t tell you who `they’ would
have been…” The two-headed monkey went with the previous owners to Louisiana,
but coming soon, Mellyn hopes, is a giraffe “that you can see from the
highway.” Mellyn says they’re no more difficult to care for than a horse,
except you need “a really tall cage.”
With time running out, we blazed across the highway to Carl Van Roekel’s
Alamo
Classic Car Museum and Showcase, where the current kitsch highlight would have
to be the Charlie’s Angels van, complete with cotton candy-pink, fluffy
interior and bar. Don’t show up here if you’ve got stick-shift envy; there’s
150 vintage autos on the premises, all from Van Roekel’s private collection.
Basically, the guy needed a place to store ’em all, so why not charge
admission? They’re all in pristine shape, and most are available – for a price.
By now the sun was getting
low. A call to Natural Bridge Caverns confirmed our worst fears; we were too
late for the last tour of the day, so we turned tail and headed back towards
home and the nice, warm television with the knowledge that two afternoons would
have been required to get it all in. Still, the sights and sounds of the day
did continue to run through our heads – the rattlesnake pits, the dream
convertibles, the collegiate mermaids and their paramours blowing underwater
“wedding rings.” In spite of the archaic, otherworldly nature of the old
roadside attractions, or perhaps because of it, there must be something in the
nature of man that will always doom us to visit them. Through the lure of
curiosity, beacons like the Toilet Rock (City of Rocks, New Mexico) and the Dan
Blocker Memorial Head (O’Donnell, Texas) may still light up lives for
generations to come. In fact, I suppose I’ll have to head back out to Natural
Bridge Caverns this weekend. I just can’t help but wonder if they ever got
their dead horse back….
This article appears in May 19 • 1995 and May 19 • 1995 (Cover).