A Night in Kerrville: Laughter, Kindness, and the River That Stayed With Me

When Laura and I rolled into Kerrville, Texas on our overland journey back in 2013 we weren’t looking for much, just a place to stop. A place to rest travel weary bodies and clear the road haze from our minds after another long day on our overland journey from St. Catharine’s to Mexico. The road had been kind to us so far—long stretches of southern highways, strange gas station snacks, the occasional offbeat attraction—but Texas had a dryness to it that clung to everything. The heat, the dust, the air itself.

Memories - Our then Facebook Page “Frolic in Freedom” posts from Laura on our arrival at Kerrville KOA.

We’d pulled off I-10 on instinct, no great plan, just two women in Laura’s trusty ford focus wagon that we had affectionally named ‘Faith’.  The back loaded with everything we thought that we would need for life on the road for the next 6-12 months and an idealised dream of travelling through central America and hopeful that we might make it into south America. Google had pointed us to the Kerrville KOA, and it felt like good enough direction for one more night. We hadn’t expected much. Maybe a spot under a tree, somewhere to pitch our little tent and curl up for the night.

But that campground ground—well, it told another story.

We stepped out of the car and kicked at the earth. It was like concrete disguised as dust. Dry, cracked, and sun-hardened—terrain that scoffed at tent pegs and made even the idea of hammering them in feel laughable.

After checking us in, I pointed Laura toward our assigned tent site, hoping it might somehow be softer. It wasn’t. Her face said it all. Laura wasn’t exactly a camping enthusiast at the best of times, but she’d always been a good sport—especially when it came to stretching our travel dollars. She crouched down, tapped the ground, and gave me a look that said, you’ve got to be kidding. Then came the giggle.

“We’re expected to sleep on this?” she said with a laugh. Her second Facebook post that night was just a photo of the cracked dirt, captioned only: “Mmmmmm hmmmm.”

Back to reception I went, figuring I’d ask if they had any cabins available for the night or perhaps even some tips for pitching a tent on a rock masquerading as soil. But before I could even speak, the same man who had checked us in just moments earlier looked up and said, “You girls want a cabin instead? I’ll give it to you for the same price as the tent site.”

And just like that, a little magic arrived.

We’d been preparing ourselves for a night on thin yoga mats (and not the fancy kind—these were dollar-store mats with dreams of being useful), when this quiet act of kindness changed everything. Maybe he’d seen the resignation in my posture or overheard our laughter echoing from the site. Either way, that simple offer felt like gold.

The cabin wasn’t fancy—just a small wooden room with two elevated beds, no bathroom, no frills—but it had four walls, a roof, and mattresses thick enough to feel like luxury. The moment we opened the door, sleep, real sleep, suddenly felt possible.

We nearly hugged him on the spot.

That little KOA cabin in Kerrville remains one of my favorite overnights of the entire journey. Sometimes it’s not about how glamorous a stay is, but how perfectly timed the kindness is. And that night, kindness came in the form of four walls, a mattress, and a deep sleep that wrapped around us like a blanket.

We didn’t cook that night either. Instead, Laura found a recommendation online and drove us to a local restaurant perched high above the Guadalupe River. I wish I could remember the name, but what I do remember—what I’ll never forget—is the meal.

Everything in Texas really is bigger. My plate arrived like it was trying to make a statement, loaded with a golden, crisp chicken-fried steak that practically fell over the sides. The gravy, the baked potato, the overload of vegetables and the soft rolls—every part of it was indulgent and perfect. I can’t say I’ve had many meals like this, but it was just what I needed. Crunchy outside, tender inside, and seasoned with whatever magic lives in the Texas air. Even now, over 13 years on I have to admit it was one of the best meals I’ve had while travelling.

Our Kerrville meals - Top: Chicken Fried Steak. Bottom: Roast Beef

We sat there, full and grateful, watching the sun melt into the river below. The sky turned to gold, then amber, then dusky purple as the light slipped behind the cliffs. The Guadalupe shimmered beneath us, lazy and calm, as if to say, “All is well here.”

And it was. That night was one of those quiet travel moments that nestles into your memory. No fanfare. Just the feeling of being taken care of. Of good food, good company, and a place to lay your head.

The next morning, we packed up without ceremony. Tossed our bags back into the wagon and hit the road again. Kerrville faded into the rearview as we set our sights further west. At the time, it didn’t feel like a place that would follow me. But yesterday, it came rushing back.

The news of the devastating floods in Texas—of the crisis unfolding at Mystic Camp—stopped me in my tracks. I found myself searching for a map, curious about how close our route had come to the heart of it. And there it was. That KOA. In Kerrville. Right there near the Guadalupe River.

The same river that glittered under a soft orange sunset while I sat too full from chicken-fried steak and thought, “This is just what we needed.”

That beautiful river, now swollen with stormwater and tragedy. That calm bend in the earth now ripping through communities and stories.

And that’s the strange thing about travel, isn’t it? You pass through a place in a blink—maybe a night, maybe a meal—and it becomes a pin on your personal map. You think it’s gone. You think it’s just one of many. But it’s not. Sometimes it stays with you quietly. Sometimes it calls back to you years later. And sometimes, it reaches out from a headline and says, “Remember me.”

Kerrville, I do.

I remember the laughter. The kindness of a stranger. The unexpected comfort of a wooden cabin. The best chicken-fried steak I’ve ever had. And I remember that river—how still it seemed. How beautiful.

Today, I hold Kerrville a little closer. Not just as a waypoint on a road trip, but as a place that matters. A place that welcomed two dusty travellers and gave them more than they asked for. A place that now needs the kind of kindness it once gave so freely.

Sunset on the Guadalupe River at Kerrville - May 9, 2013