2018 HOUSTON LIVESTOCK AND RODEO SHOW
Korean War veteran’s ashes are scattered during his beloved trek down state highway
Riders from the Texas Independence Trail Ride make their way into Memorial Park on Friday. The annual spectacle of riders from all over the region converging on Houston, snarling traffic behind a caravan of horses, heralds the start of the Houston Livestock Show and Rodeo.
Scattered on the side of a southeast Texas road are the ashes of Dario Romero.
He was born in Galveston. But he lived for that stretch of Texas 6; for the winding country roads he traversed to Houston, flanked by friends, horses and family.
On Friday, the remaining bit of Romero’s ashes arrived at Memorial Park, carried by a procession of sun-weathered riders ready to lay the last of their friend to rest.
With that, Romero’s Trail Ride ended. He’d finished the journey, one last time.
For many Texans, the annual Trail Ride has become a symbol that rodeo season has begun. The groups make their way from across the region to Memorial Park, officially kicking off the Houston Livestock and Rodeo Show.
But to those who for decades have planned their calendars around this 100 mile or so trek, the rodeo is an afterthought.
Ask them about their ride, and they’ll tell you about sunburns, flat tires or rain.
But ask them why they ride, and they’ll tell you about love, friends and camaraderie. They’ll tell you about discipline; about “getting away from it all” and growing wise on dirt roads. They’ll tell you about brain tumors and heart attacks; about watching sons become fathers, and making nachos for great-grandkids they never thought they’d meet.
“The ride doesn’t change,” said Betty Hevia, 65. “It’s the people that do. But it’s a beautiful thing.”
For 53 years, the Salt Grass Trail Ride has been Welcome Wilson’s refuge. The 89-yearold Houston businessman has no shortage of stories or awards from his time with the Desperados, which he founded to avoid sharing wagons with a group that “used the F-word as a noun, pronoun and adjective,” he said.
He estimates he’s been to at least six weddings because of the Desperados — including his sister’s — and has a fake hip that reminds him daily of the trail, courtesy of a startled, galloping horse off which Wilson had to roll four decades ago.
The road has changed since his first ride. There’s less whiskey now, he said, and many more of the trailers and campers that when he first started would have been taunted by fellow riders —“candyass,” if he had to guess the insult.
What hasn’t changed is the stars at night. Or the time away from his job, responsibilities or the judging eyes of peering strangers.
“The Trail Ride is a lifechanging experience,” he said. “It takes your mind off every issue.”
He was accompanied by his daughter, Cindi Ray, who remembers being a teenager on the trail and flirting with boys when her father couldn’t see. “Everybody is like a brother out here,” she said.“You have people from all walks of life. Nobody cares what you drive or what your job is.”
Not long before the Desperados arrived in Memorial Park, Mary Mayfield prepared to make nachos to feed four generations.
There were far fewer mouths to feed when she first started riding the trail some-60 years ago, she said. But now her son is 57, with grandkids of his own.
And back then, it was easier to get the whole family together. Many still live in the Houston area, Mayfield said, but it can still be difficult to find time.
But no one misses the trail ride.
“It’s like a family reunion. It brings us closer together,” Mayfield said. “It just gives us time.”
That, more than anything, is what matters to her now. A few years ago, she was diagnosed with brain cancer and told she’d likely not live much longer.
The tumor is now gone, she said. But it made her appreciate her family even more than before.
“It’s wonderful, because I never thought I’d live to see all of this again,” she said.
Not far away, a toddler steered a miniature, motorized truck in circles while his father watched over him.
For a moment, Mayfield scanned the two — her son and great-grandson — and paused for a second.
“All of it feels so good,” she said. “It’s a blessing to be here.”
One hoof at a time
For one week a year, each of Betty Hevia’s days starts the same.
She and the other Lee Road Trail Riders gather around sunrise and pray. She packs her Chihuahua into the back of her wagon. And then they move, one hoof at a time, from Brazoria County to Houston.
In the hours between, Hevia imparts the tips, rules and wisdoms learned through 22 years on the trail. Among her rules for younger riders: Don’t use the Fword. No drinking. No texting while riding horses.
And those who stray from the rules will quickly find out. Hevia has known most of the younger riders since they were children, and is no stranger to correcting their ways.
“I used to spank him,” she said, laughing as she pointed toward 17-year-old Luis Shaw.
“There are kids around here that are men now,” she said. “We raised them on this ride.”
Other lessons are more serious: “You must respect life. You must respect your elders. And you must respect animals, because they are God’s living creatures.”
Losses, absences felt
Since Hevia first started riding in 1996, the Lee Road group has grown to five families with about 50 members. But even at that size, the losses still reverberate.
Dario Romero was among the most vibrant of them. He won a Purple Heart in the Korean War, and at 88 was still known for his love of parties, music and, of course, Fireball whiskey.
He died from cancer on Jan. 11, only a few weeks from what would have been his 22nd trail ride.
“He lived a good life,” said Franca Cox, 59.
Still, she said, his absence was felt in Memorial Park on Friday. But she also remembered what Romero had told her.
“His last wishes were for us not to be sad,” Cox said. “He told us to party.”
And so that’s what they chose to do when, days earlier, they held a roadside funeral for him just outside of Galveston.
After his ashes were dispersed, a woman from their trail ride sang “Amazing Grace” while Cox “cried like a baby,” she said.
A bottle of whiskey was passed around — Fireball, obviously — and hundreds of trail riders briefly danced in his honor.
“We played ‘We Are Family’ because that was his favorite song,” Hevia said. “It was perfect, because that’s what we are — that’s what all this is — we are one, big family.”