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Upon making the decision to explore Goliad, Texas, an area rich with history from the time of the Texas revolution, some research online reveals a one-of-a-kind destination just south of Goliad: the Presidio la Bahia. Built in 1749, it is the oldest surviving Spanish mission and presidio (fort) in North America. The fully restored presidio is owned by the Diocese of Victoria, which still holds mass in the chapel. And if you don’t mind bunking with the 322 ghosts of Fannin’s men—the Presidio la Bahia is said to be the most haunted place in Texas—you can spend the night in the former officers’ quarters and have the entire complex to yourself.

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Not ones to burn daylight, we had fired up the Harleys and rolled early, throttles and dawn cracking simultaneously. Determined to stay off of any road with more than two lanes, I had mapped our route to the presidio with care to take only back roads. Texas has the finest system of two-lane blacktop in the country. I have found that every road—even in the middle of nowhere—leads to something interesting. Though the Presidio la Bahia at Goliad is our destination, we choose a roundabout route, and plan to stop at each historical marker along the way. This is what elevates motorcycling above driving in four-wheeled conveyances: the experience of being there, not merely whizzing through, oblivious to the sights, sounds, smells, and sense of each special little place. We pass through Eagle Lake (the goose-hunting capital of the world), Shiner (home of the Spoetzle Brewery, the maker of Shiner Bock), Cuero (an antique hunter’s treasure trove), and more. Our route follows no straight lines and frequently proceeds 90 degrees off the most-direct route until intersecting with another road—or four—that brings us, eventually, to the next settlement on the way to Goliad.

The wonderful Texas farm-to-market roads provide scenic, winding, rolling, delightful paths for our journey back in time. (Click image to enlarge)

Seldom do 10 miles pass without a historical marker. They keep us well-informed and immersed in the time travel of this road trip. We discover the Stage Coach Inn, an 1850’s version of a biker bar, in an area settled primarily by Lithuanians during the same decade. We find the starting point for a prong of the famed Chisholm Trail. Along this route, Texas cowboys drove more than 10 million cattle north to railheads in Missouri, the largest movement of animals under human control in all history. We read of Texans who went to war, ordinary men who fought in the Texas Revolution, the Mexican War, the Indian Wars, and the War Between the States—even a few who fought in all of them. We discover that many Texans, particularly those of German descent, who did not agree with Texas’ decision to join the Confederacy fought for the Union, returning to Texas only at war’s end.

The wonderful Texas FM (farm-to-market) roads provide scenic, winding, rolling, delightful paths for our journey back in time. The famed Texas wildflowers—bluebonnets, Indian paintbrush, black-eyed Susans, poppies, primrose, and countless other varieties—color the roadside. Rivers, creeks, and lakes provide scenic photo ops. As we easily cross water, markers of the old ferry crossings remind us of the difficulty of 19th-century travel. By late afternoon, we roll into Goliad, having almost doubled the mileage a turn-and-burn route would have required.

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We ride the short distance from Goliad to the prairie near Coleto Creek. Fannin’s Texas troops, making their belated escape from the area and hoping to rendezvous with Sam Houston, were caught here in the wide open prairie by Mexican troops. We park the bikes and walk the grassy flats where Texans made their stand and—though fully exposed without cover or water—held off the Mexican army for a full day before inevitable surrender. Believing they would be treated fairly as prisoners of war and repatriated to the United States, the Texans marched back to the Presidio at Goliad, where they were held captive for a week before their massacre.

Real or imaginary, the ghosts of the past permeate this special place. (Click image to enlarge)

When we arrive at the Presidio la Bahia, the last tourists are leaving, and we see it waving the nine flags that have flown over the presidio since its founding in 1749: those of Spain, France, Mexico, the Republic of Texas, the Confederate States of America, the United States of America, and three Texas revolutionary flags. At our check-in we receive the key, everyone else leaves, and we lock ourselves in and the rest of the world out. The 250-year-old Spanish mission and fort are ours for the next 14 hours. Perched on the highest ground, the fort’s three acres include a parade ground, the mission chapel, and the several buildings that form the presidio complex. Our rooms, formerly officers’ quarters, have tile floors, thick hewn rock walls, wooden beams, and slat ceilings, which lend an air of authentic age and history. Only discreet electrical fixtures and air conditioning remind us that we are in the 21st century. Through a thick oak door we exit directly into the courtyard where the drama of Fannin’s execution had taken place. At a corner turret, we mount the walls, and, in the lingering light of sunset, imagine the enemy camped outside, and the tense and frantic activity within to resist a siege.

Real or imaginary, the ghosts of the past permeate this special place. We walk the halls and the parade ground; view the outside world through the gunports, and make a wish in the old well. We set up folding camp chairs and a table for a wine-and-cheese spread on the gun heights alongside one of the cannon. The Tulocay Cabernet is perfect with the Cambozola cheeses. We enjoy the changing light of the sunset, toasting to the fallen who had defended these walls. I light up a Cuban Cohiba Esplendido and savor its lush aroma as I fancy myself a military commander standing at this very post, surveying his troops and those of his enemy camped outside, contemplating the battle sure to begin at sunrise. I share his dark reverie. As full night sets in, the stars sparkle and lightning from distant thunderheads illuminates the sky. We take it all in and wait for the ghosts to become more than imagination.



They never materialize for us, although there is one spot where I get a chill each time I pass, and, in the quarters, a rocking chair gently moves back and forth on its own; each has a logical explanation, but both make me wonder. Unfortunately, nothing approaches the dragging chains and wails in the night or the misty figures floating across the parade ground that I secretly hope will appear. We do, however, connect with history in a meaningful way, and all it took was a weekend—and a road. Your time machine is in the garage.