Casa Nuevo was a sweet two room adobe bungalow, simply furnished but stylishly designed with great art on the walls and the ubiquitous bleached skull above the bed. The front windows gazed upon the distant Chisos Mountains, two chairs and a fire pit adorned the patio for late night stargazing. But the best part was a rock wall-enclosed outdoor shower and bathtub, complete with bubble bath and rubber duckies. Our first night was somewhat marred by the parade of creepy crawly spiders found hanging out on our sheets as we prepared for bed. When the lights were out and we were drifting off, Mark’s shout that a spider just crawled into his mouth had me freaked out and thinking we picked the wrong place. The problem resolved when we decided we’d turn on no lights after dark, we used our headlamps only and that seemed to do the trick. This was to be a perfect base camp for our Big Bend hikes.
Arrival at 3pm had us craving the a/c inside, we hadn’t counted on 102 degree temps and we figured we’d tour the park and get a feel for the landscape at dusk when the temps cooled. Our first glimpse of Big Bend National Park came as we rounded a corner and the Chisos Mountains loomed ahead, shaded and contoured by the setting sun behind us. A quick stop at the ranger station and we had a game plan. In no uncertain terms, we were advised to be off the trails well before noon and carry plenty of water. We decided then to get up at dawn and be on the trails by sunrise. Late afternoon hikes could begin around 5pm. We’d spend the intervening hours touring the huge park in our car, grabbing lunch and hanging out in the cool air of our airbnb in the heat of the day. I spent some of those afternoons reading the classic literature of the National Parks: Death in Big Bend. I horrified myself with tragic tales of 1000 ft falls and heat stroke, drowning, even murder. Lesson learned: Bring plenty of water and stay away from cliff edges. Also, don’t camp on a precipice while ingesting alcohol and don’t go down a remote unpaved road in a crappy truck with a cooler of diet coke and vodka. Most deaths are caused by human stupidity, use your head people!
Having hiked over a dozen National Parks, I was excited to check out Big Bend. There were a few starred trails I wanted to tackle. 7am, the air is cool streaming in through my open window, the horizon is just beginning to lighten and we are driving through the grayish dawn marveling at the landscape, quiet and empty. For thirty-seven miles, we don’t see another soul. We pull into the tiny parking area for Lost Mine Trail, one of the most popular in the park. We are the first ones there. Laden down with water and trail snacks we begin the climb. Gray-breasted jays aggressively swoop by, their incessant raucous caws reminding us who claims this land. A series of switchbacks a mile in lead to magnificent views across fields of pinyon pine and juniper. We crest the ridge as the sun comes into full view. Views extend south to Mexico and over Juniper Canyon. The rustle of the wind and the friendly chirping of the tufted titmouse is all that accompanies our thoughts as we sit quietly, munching on fig bars and breathing in the pine scented air. Twenty minutes later, we are joined by a steady stream of early morning hikers. We slowly make our way down, this time stopping to take photos of the colorful cactus blossoms blooming after the Spring rains.
On another morning, we find our way to The Window Trail, a day hike starting from the Basin Campground. These mountain hikes are rich in plant diversity and offer spectacular bird sighting opportunities. The trail traverses the Basin, an eroded bowl laying 2500ft below the surrounding ancestral Chisos mountain peaks. As we descend, we leave the wide open basin entering a narrow slickrock canyon formed by the adjacent Oak Creek. The last quarter mile feels like a fantastical boulder playground. Sections of bare rock sport carved out steps. Small streams and mini waterfalls tumble alongside. The trail ends at the Window, a cut-out in the mountain rim created by rain and snowmelt draining from the basin. Rushing water has created a narrow defile that plummets 220 ft into the desert below. It also frames a view that is so perfect in its composition it seems painted on the horizon.
We saved Santa Elena Canyon for last. The trailhead is remote and requires a good hour drive from the entrance to the park. It’s a short but spectacular hike into one of the three major canyons of the Rio Grande. As we approached, the sheer magnitude of the 1500 ft walls rising up before us reminded me of Game of Thrones. The trail gets very hot but shade can be found as you make your way into the canyon, passing through thick stands of mesquite, cane and tamarisk. Several side trails lead to sandy patches at the waters edge where views down the canyon make you appreciate the power of water to shape and carve rock.
Many of the Big Bend trails are geared towards overnight backpacking. There are plenty of opportunities to roundtrip hike 12 to 25 miles. I imagine as desolate as we found the trails in April, backpacking would afford an entirely different level of seclusion and adventure.
There are many places in Big Bend where you can hike to the shore of the Rio Grande, the watery border between the US and Mexico. On several occasions, I waved to Mexican locals riding horses on the other side, small children playing in tall grasses. The river was so narrow and shallow at some points, I could easily cross on foot. There is an official border crossing at Boquillos and American tourists make their way across the small bridge to shop and eat lunch in the adjacent Mexican town. The subject of the border came up often in conversation with locals. There was not a single person who thought a wall was a good idea. In fact, opinion leaned towards the idea being ridiculous and nonsensical. The people who live and work here know their Mexican counterparts across the Rio Grande, they have shared experiences and broken bread together. It didn’t matter what side of the political spectrum you were on, people agreed that at the very least, a wall would be an ugly stain on the landscape. Even so, while we were here, a raft with a mother and her 2 small children overturned on the Rio Grande a few miles to the east. They all died trying to make their way to American soil.
We spent our evenings hanging out with the locals in Terlingua Ghost Town. Right off the main road, down a dirt road and past an atmospheric old cemetery, lies a tiny cluster of buildings. A surprisingly well-stocked General Store(mini bookstore, gorgeous Native American jewelry, cold beer) with a shaded covered porch facing a view many would pay good money to see. Here’s where the locals gather nightly to escape the heat, play guitar, drink and converse. The Starlite Theatre is the best place in town for a drink, an excellent meal, and a chance to hear some good music. The dusty haphazard parking lot gets crowded with motorcycles and travel trailers, so we learned early to hit it at 5pm, earlybirds catching an early meal. This way, the after dinner hours could be spent hanging out on the benches in front of the General Store with the locals, watching the sunset on the craggy mountain range.
A word about that cemetery. A most unusual yet sacred place it was. This place of the dead was every bit as colorful as the cast of characters on the porch of the General Store. Gravestones etched and painted, talismans and totems marked the lives of legends and loved ones. Some were adorned with the detritus of a life well lived, others with moving reminders of the space the dead one left behind. The cemetery felt like a living thing to me, odd though that sounds. I could tell it was a well-visited place of gathering, some objects were old and sun-bleached, others brand new. The tending felt careful and intentional. I was glad I had stopped and said my own passing hello and a prayer for these obviously valued souls.
On our last night in Big Bend, after several tequilas and an intense conversation with Ed, a retired engineer who came to Terlingua once many years ago and never left, I realized that the magic of the place was working on me. The old guy with toenails painted purple, drunk but erudite in his lofty opinions; the porch dog, rheumy with age but happy to have an audience and a friendly scratch, content to gnawing on a plastic red cup; the dreadlocked and the tattooed, the musicians and the artists, the dreamers and the just plain tired. It was a little world of its own making on that dusky porch, the heat rising in shimmers as the light rippled its changing hue on the far off mountains and I thought once or twice, I could do this. I could be happy here. We bid our farewells to the friendly folks and while the a/c in our place felt like a cool cocoon I wanted more of the outside, I wanted nothing between me and the dark milky way and the balm of sweet desert air so I filled the bathtub with precious water and poured in capfuls of bubbly and tossed in all fifteen rubber duckies. I eased my pale skin down into the coolness and for a minute I thought about snakes and scorpions but then I looked up and felt that old familiar feeling. The one where I am suddenly made to feel small and insignificant, the one where the chatter in my head goes silent and its all I can do not to weep at the spectacle of nature before me. I lay my head back, the absurdity of the rubber duckies bumping against the pristine ceramic of the tub making me laugh. I felt an ineffable joy as I watched faraway planets turn on their spark. There’s no better thing.
In all my travels, I have found an interesting commonality at particular geographical places. Whenever I have traveled to the end of the road(say Key West) or to the edge of something, a forest, a desert, a border, I find a fascinating synergy in the people that reside there, in community. The edges of things seem to attract a certain quality of person that is drawn to the remote, the isolated, sometimes inhospitable. These people form communities where an easy coexistence is welcomed, disparate backgrounds and philosophies live together. I’m personally fascinated by the energy in these places. There is a lack of judgement, a live and let live element. I’m drawn to the acceptance of all, the communal aspect of living, the deliberate decision to step outside the constructs of workaday society to embrace a different way of living. One where expectations can face an almighty ‘fuck you’. I was excited to discover in a conversation with my nephew studying plant biology that in natural ecosystems, the edges of places, forests to plains, ocean to landform, desert to river, are the most biologically diverse areas. In other words, nature thrives in the edges. I believe that the cultivation of human spirit does as well.
