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Let’s go to the boondocks!

I grew up in Kingsville, Texas, with my wise old grandmother. Even though Kingsville is the headquarters for the King Ranch, one of the largest ranches in the world with 825,000 acres, the population is only 26,000. It was 25,000 when I was growing up in the 1960s. It got as high as 29,900 in the 1980 census.

People from Corpus Christi, current population of 305,000, considered Kingsville to be out in the boondocks. And we were.

As I was exploring south-central San Diego County yesterday, I realized that people of the boondocks here, and today, are different from people of the boondocks in Kingsville, and yesterday. I could tell I was near, or in, the boondocks when things started making little to no sense to me, such as these two signs on the last two buildings at the end of the paved road:

I thought that the overly rich who can afford RV’s and boats would have enough land to keep their RV on, and could keep the boat at one of the many marinas we have here in San Diego. People in the boondocks certainly should have enough land. And indoor storage? I was puzzled.

And copart? I was thinking cop art, but I really don’t have a clue.

I found a Border Patrol inspection facility:

I don’t know what a “Vail’s Gate” is but I am 100% absolutely certain that there are no rhinos running wild out in the boondocks. They all are at the San Diego Zoo and the Safari Park.

There were three wild dogs playing in a field. When I stopped my car, two of them went to hide in the rocks, but the third one stood his ground, giving me a look that I understood well. I took a picture and left.

I found a cat abandoned in the boondocks. Still had its nametag on. I felt sorry for it but decided not to take it home.

There were signs about every half mile on the fence informing you that you were, indeed, in the USA.

I found some city slickers who were out doing the same thing I was doing, exploring the boondocks. I stopped to talk with them, volunteering to take a group photo for their posterity. These city slickers were from La Jolla, about as city-slicking as you can get here in San Diego.

I drove by one guy taking a break from working out in the field. He didn’t seem to be all there, though.

I found one paved road that kept going and going and going, finally ending here:

The East Mesa Detention Facility (prison for the big boys) was also out there, but by the time I got there I was being followed by a Sheriff in a marked car and someone else in an unmarked car. They were keeping a close eye on me, and eventually two separate Sheriffs in marked cars stopped me to inquire about my business out there. They told me not to “linger.”

It was obvious that trash pickup out in the boondocks is somewhat irregular.