She’s Gone Around the (Big) Bend

Big Bend has been on my list of places to visit for quite a while. I’ve lived three quarters of my life in the Lone Star State but time and money and motivation didn’t fall into sync until just recently. As luck would have it, I was hired to do floral design for a wedding in Lajitas, a mere thirty minutes away from the west entrance to Big Bend National Park. Fortunately I wasn’t needed at work right after the wedding so I blocked off another four days and dusted off my camp stove. And then proceeded to buy the hiking boots I’d been drooling over for entirely too long. And a tent because mine was old, and a sleeping bag because mine was cold (neither of which arrived before I left, but that’s what friends are for). Three million dollars later I was good to go.

I’d been to Alpine, Marfa, and Fort Davis, so I felt I had a vague idea of what to expect. I’d seen pictures of the park, consulted TripAdvisor and the rest of the Interwebs, and I’d read a guidebook or two. Friends have gone before me and they all gave me their two cents.

Y’all. There’s not a damn thing that could have truly prepared me for this experience. And quite frankly, I hesitate to even write about it. Because there are simply no words grand enough, no pictures beautiful or expansive enough. But you know me, and I like to share. So, grab some snacks and your favorite beverage, ’cause I got seriously snap-happy.

The wedding in Lajitas was all wrapped up around noon Sunday. My agenda for the day was to get into and then all the way across the park to the Boquillas Border Crossing. A few things to note. The crossing was easily 1.5 hours away from Lajitas, if I did not stop for pictures. Please, take a moment to laugh. The crossing closes at 5:00. Meaning, if I didn’t make it back from Mexico I’d be looking for a hotel room. For three nights. The crossing is closed on Monday and Tuesday so my next chance back wouldn’t be until Wednesday. Now, I had no idea if one could cross into Mexico, have a look see, enjoy a meal and a cerveza or two, and make it back in the span of a few hours. But I was damn sure gonna try. Nor was I convinced it was safe for a woman to attempt such a thing alone. I did, however, ask quite a few folks and all of them assured me I’d be fine. Fingers crossed I set my course and left civilization and cell service behind.

In my haste to get all the way to Boquillas Crossing in time, I decided a pic of someone else at the entrance was good enough.

My first real view of the Chisos Mountains. By now I was already completely awe-struck and had been moved to tears half a dozen times. When I first imagined going to Big Bend I assumed I’d be going with someone. More recently I hoped it’d be my partner in carne. Oddly enough, the Native Texan nature boy that he is, he had never been either. When this trip became a reality I was a bit sad that I’d be experiencing it without him. That all changed the moment I drove into the park. Immediately I felt the utter solitude, the mind-blowing vastness of the landscape and knew without a doubt that I did not want to share this with anyone. It was truly a spiritual experience, made even more powerful by the fact that I was there alone.

Oh, yeah. I forgot to mention I’d driven through a snow storm on the way to Lajitas three days before. Which really put a wrench in the works for the wedding, but my god did it ever make this place even more magical.

Um, that’s Mexico in the distance!

Not your average border crossing. I’d made it there by 2:00. Tick, tock…

Looks official enough. And, well it is. And they take themselves quite seriously in there. I was warned not to bring back certain items, including any unvarnished walking sticks. Apparently deviant bugs have been known to stow away in such things in their quest to cross the border for greener pastures. Because flying the thirty feet across the river would never happen…

And then I strolled alone along a dirt path right into another country.

And that, folks, is the great Rio Grande, our international border with Mexico. Anyone who thinks we need a wall needs to come sit on the banks for a spell and ponder what really matters in the grand scheme of things. It’s just a river, and that’s just more land over there, and the people on the other side want the same dang things we do.

On a lighter note, roughly two months ago I was on a road trip with my man-friend in Colorado. We drove to the headwaters of the Rio Grande. Don’t judge me, but for fun I peed in it. Standing there I momentarily wondered if it had made its way down here yet…

I asked some other travellers returning from Mexico to snap a photo. It’s worth noting I was the only one going to Mexico at this time on a Sunday…

Yes, this is the official border crossing. $5, round trip. Hard to believe something so wonderfully simple still exists.

The welcome committee. Once across, it’s a mile to the village. You can choose to walk, ride in the back of a truck ($5), ride a donkey ($5), or ride a horse ($8). A guide is extra, to be tipped at your discretion. I knew without a doubt I was riding a horse or donkey, but I really didn’t think I needed a guide to make it into the tiny little village and back.

Apparently my horse had other plans. He flat out wasn’t going anywhere without assistance. Meet Felix. I’m pretty sure they were in cahoots, but as it turns out I was quite grateful for the guidance.

Mind you, if things had gotten outta hand I suppose I could have lassoed someone.

Boquillas parking lot.

After a simple trip into the portable white trailer where customs is housed (I would not have had a clue where this was without Felix), I had a fresh new stamp in my passport and it was time for comida. Trip Advisor and various other sites online had recommended Jose Falcon’s for lunch. That’s the one across the street. Felix, however, steered me towards the “good restaurant,” where I proceeded to have the best damn tacos I’ve ever eaten. Halfway through my cabrito tacos I realized I was quite possibly going to pay dearly for my indiscretion. Here I was in Mexico eating shredded lettuce and fresh tomatoes with reckless abandon. A huge No-No. But at that point there was no turning back. Hell, I might as well chug a glass of water. Instead, I said a silent prayer to the universe and shoveled the rest in. Washed down with two Carta Blancas, my whole meal was $11, plus tip. Later that night, bundled up in my inferior sleeping bag, I felt a curious twinge in my stomach and thought, “Oh hell, here it comes…” Moments later I recognized the sensation as hunger pangs and rolled back over. Hallelujah.

This remote little town has an interesting history you can read about here: Bouquillas del Carmen. After having been shut off from their one and only source of income when the border closed in 2001, you can imagine the last thing these people want is a flipping wall.

With a full belly and a warm heart, and with Felix’s help, I reluctantly made my way back towards the ol’ USA. During our short mile-long journey he told me the kids there needed clothes and other essentials. He got me to the river in plenty of time. I shook his hand, gave him $20 for his companionship, promised him I’d be back and I would not come empty handed.

Welcome sign back at the border station. I had not truly appreciated it until just now. The men and the trucks and the music, the row boat, burros, and horses. I’m smiling inside. So perfect!!

Home Sweet Home for the night: Rio Grande Campground. Tent pitched (thanks for the loaner, Thia!), time to take a sunset hike.

View East into the park. Mexico on the left, Texas on the right. Can life possibly get any better than this??

Sierra del Carmens, Mexico. Just above the shadow on the left side you can ever-so-slightly make out some buildings. That’s Boquillas del Carmen.

Not the best sunset, but here in the mountains, it’s quite often more about what’s behind you…

Bam! Yeah, I could certainly use a better camera, but maybe just maybe you get the idea.

Day Two. After a not-so-restful (read: freezing cold) evening, some hot coffee and a couple hard boiled eggs, there were hikes to be hiked and canyons to be explored. Destination: Boquillas Canyon.

Official trailhead.

Mortars, or metates, created over the course of generations by the Native Americans as they ground seeds, roots, and mesquite beans into a flour-like substance.

The Rio Grande making its way towards the canyon.

In case you forgot your passport, the locals from Boquillas have made it easy to pick up a few souvenirs. These little shops are set up along the trail, unmanned, total honor system. Now, it does appear that those sticks aren’t properly varnished, so bear in mind you might be harboring illegal bugs…

Speaking of bugs, how can this not make you smile?

The mouth of the canyon.

Around yet another bend, entrepreneurship at its finest!

Without a machete and then a boat, this was the end of the trail.

Every so often my sappy side comes out. Albeit covered in thorns…

Next stop: Hot Springs. Yes, I most definitely questioned the ruggedness of my SOUL at this point in time…

Hot Springs Historic Complex, “Nothing down there but rattlesnakes and bandit Mexicans. And it’s too far away—that damned country promises more and gives less than any place I ever saw.” Granted I haven’t been here in the summer, nor did I try to raise a family here in the early 1900s, but I beg to differ. Take a moment to click on the link and read the fascinating history.

I wasn’t entirely sure how far away the springs were, and it was cold as f**k, so I chose not to don my bathing suit, thinking I could walk back to the car if the mood struck me.

A quarter to a half mile down the dirt path, voila. A hundred-plus year old hot spring all to myself. Why I didn’t rush back to the car and change into my suit is completely beyond me, but nevertheless I kicked off my boots, rolled up my pants, and began to soak.

A sublime kind of peace, sans bandits.

Interrupted by a fellow traveller: Cynthia. The only other solo female I encountered, she was quite a hoot. Somewhere between 60-65 by my calculations, she was living the life. Retired from the rat race, she was roaming from park to park in her Scamp, working when necessary, but more or less free as the wind and loving every second of it. And happy to take my pic before she stripped down to her suit and got in up to her neck. Yeah, I have regrets. But more importantly, new goals!

Next up: across the park again, back to the west side and Santa Elena Canyon, by way of the absolutely stunning Ross Maxwell Scenic Drive. Holy freaking moly.

This entire road had me totally geeking out on geology. It was a completely different landscape than the rest of the park and I fell 100% in love.

Throw in some stunning Santa Rita Prickly Pear, and I was swooning!

Hello Mordor, I mean Mule’s Ears. The guidebooks list this an an excellent hike, and I had every intention of exploring it the following day, but alas, it is now on the to-do list for the next trip.

In case you’re curious, that’s ancient volcano ash. Wrap your head around that one.

I’m 94% sure I heard a rattlesnake in the bushes, but I am willing to admit it was a a faint ghost-like echo of what it’s like here in the summer. As much as I hate the cold, there’s no way in hell I’m setting foot on this gorgeous desolate terrain once the thermometer reaches 90°…

See that gap in the wall beyond? I couldn’t be sure just then, but I was willing to bet that was my destination.

Indeed it was. Pardon my fun with sepia… The walls were totally backlit so I had to enlist my extremely amateur photo editing skills.

From one canyon to another in a day. First where the Rio Grande returns to the cliffs, and now, where it emerges from them.

There is simply no way to appreciate the height and immense magnitude of these walls through a photo.

They are so dang towering and good grief, I could have stared at them all day. Except it kinda gave me vertigo…

Remember those new boots I bought? Yeah, these are them. And holy cow, they are badass. Two days in the park with no breaking in, and my feet were as happy as can be. Danner, you rock!

View of the walls looking up. It’s getting pretty tight in here!

Again, no boat, no further. The echoes in here were magical. I found myself wishing my man-friend was there with his mandolin. Next time.

Out in time for the sunset on Castellon Peak.

An occotillo bloom just days after a snowstorm.

Day Three: Sunrise on the ocotillo, 30°F.

Finally a good view of “the wall.” Trust me, we don’t need an artificial one. This one is 1500 ft tall, pretty much impenetrable, insanely gorgeous, and not going anywhere. Think Game of Thrones.

Me, pretending I love being up early at the freezing crack of dawn.

This was a curious find at my campsite in Cottonwood.

See it there behind my tent? Evidently I camped in Mexico last night…

And yep, that’s frost on my tent. And no time to let it, or myself, thaw and dry. That sucker got rolled up frozen and stashed in a trash bag. The Chisos Basin was calling my name.

Adios Santa Elena, until we meet again.

Five days prior this road was closed and covered in 5.5″ of snow. Lucky for me it was cleared, and lucky for me there were still remnants. Right about here my jaw permanently dropped and I became flat out speechless as I entered a whole other world.

Noted…

SOUL trippin’ for sure.

Just wow.

I think by this point I was simply shaking my head, uttering something like, “sick, this is just sick.” As in, ^%#*@!& stunning!

It was Tuesday. I didn’t really have to be back at work until Friday. Which meant I had all day Tuesday and Wednesday, and potentially part of Thursday, to explore the Chisos. I’m not usually one to throw in the towel. But y’all, a few things came into play. I was cold. Real dang cold, and waking up to a frozen tent again, more importantly, having to crawl out of a frozen tent again was sounding nothing short of dreadful. And this place, my God it was huge, and overwhelming, and I pretty much had a small freak out and felt way outta my league. Those were legit mountains. And they were still very much covered in snow. The hikes I wanted to do were long and potentially dangerous. And I was alone. And I basically chickened out. Oh, and I knew my man-friend was five short hours away (towards home) in a warm hotel room. So, I compromised with myself. I hiked the short Chisos Basin Loop Trail to get a taste of the terrain and made a vow to come back for the rest. The Chisos are not to be rushed nor taken lightly.

But before I left I hiked the Window Trail. I’d been looking forward to this one from the start. It seemed far safer than the higher elevation hikes and there was plenty of time.

View from the valley back towards Casa Grande.

Geology lesson continued. I found it fascinating to see erosion at work. Down on the river’s edge the rocks are worn smooth and round. Up here they still have their hard angles but the softening has begun.

Yep, humor me, ok. I love the panorama feature.

Most of my pics along the trail leading up to the window were pretty much crap. And while these aren’t great by any means, maybe you can get a tiny sense of what it felt like to be in this narrow, winding, crevice that suddenly poured over and opened up to the rest of the world. I tell you what, even a hint of rain and I’d be climbing those dang walls! Their glassy smoothness speaks undeniably to the power of the water that has flowed through them.

Requisite selfie at the mouth of the Window. I could have sat in this spot for hours.

Then along came a trio of folks behind me. They’d been on my tail since the beginning. And I’d been listening to them babble incessantly the whole flipping way down the trail. I can’t even explain how disruptive to the whole experience it was. They weren’t even talking about the scenery. Just nonstop chatter. I more or less ran the length of the trail to get a decent lead on them, but well, I take a lot of pics so that slows me down. I did manage to get to the Window a few minutes ahead of them and thankfully had a moment of peace before they arrived. At which point I considered asking them to STFU, but decided instead to ask for a pic.

Being there alone I became acutely aware of how much people talk. At the campgrounds, on the trails, everywhere. In the words of Park Ranger Bob Smith in The Paisano, the park is “a place of solitude, where people can recapture a part of themselves that in many cases has been suppressed by careers, distance, time, or anything that keeps them from being in nature. Solitude and darkness is a component of wildness, wildness as a space for reflection. Solitude…can be a place to soothe the soul and the very reason the national parks were created.” Amen. So, please, next time you go to such a place, or hey, try it out in your everyday life: Stop. Listen. Absorb. And shut up.

A quick reward for making a 3-4 hour hike in just over 2 hours (had to stay ahead of those damn talkers), and I reluctantly loaded back into the SOUL.

Marathon somewhere in the distance.

Adios, Big Bend. You rocked my world. Pun intended.