Last winter I made my first ever trek into Big Bend. It was, without a doubt, a life altering experience. In fact, it was nothing short of spiritual. The breath-taking landscape drew me in like a lost love, and when it came time to leave my heart actually ached, but I vowed to return. That trip was solo, just me and a vast expanse of rock, horizon, and sky. I can’t possibly convey how powerful it was to be there alone, and while I foresee many more unaccompanied excursions, this latest journey was in the company of my youngest son, Ian. He and I both had time on our hands and a mutual desire to hit the road. Seeing as how it’s summer in Texas, our first thoughts were of cooler climates and higher altitudes. Colorado and Utah came to mind, but given the recent fires out west, we decided to stay closer to home. Big Bend was chosen, and within two days the car was packed (including the fancy new Yeti my man-friend won after eating at ALL Top 50 BBQ joints in Texas!) and we hit the road.
Now, I seem to recall making a certain statement back in December, something to the tune of:
“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°…”
Ahem. Never say never, right? Kinda makes me want to play a little game, you know tempt the universe. Let’s see… You’ll never catch me on a stunning tropical island in Indonesia. There’s no freaking way I’m ever going to New Zealand again. Iceland, why would I want to go to Iceland? Yeah right, I’ll never get paid to travel and write. Ok, ok, I digress… Anywho, after eating a little crow, we were well on our way to that gorgeous desolate terrain where the thermometer most definitely surpassed 90º months ago. That said, Mother Nature had just blessed Texas with a touch of rain and slightly lower than average temps resulting in forecast highs in the upper 80s and low 90s for the Chisos Basin. Sure, the desert was going to be face-melting hot, but as long as the mountains were cooler, we were game.
Let me back up a bit and introduce Ian. He’s damn near seventeen. He doesn’t have his driver’s license yet, and in fact, has only had his permit for a hot minute. I don’t know about y’all, but I was in line at the DMV the very day I turned sixteen. Truth be told, I drove myself to driver’s ed. There are plenty of strange things about teenagers these days, but this lackadaisical attitude toward driving is utterly perplexing to me. Granted, as the mother of said teenager, the longer he’s off the road, the better, but still, I cannot wrap my head around the lack of enthusiasm for the freedom of driving. But here we were, with seven hours of highway time ahead and I knew sooner or later he needed some practice. Mind you, this is more or less what the first five hours looked like:
However, once we made the turn south onto 385, safely away from I-10, it was time for him to take the wheel. And I am happy to report he took it quite seriously. Turns out, this was the perfect road trip for getting some drive time under his belt. Long straight-a-ways, very little traffic, and far fewer deer than what we encounter in the Hill Country, all made for many hours of relatively stress-free training. If memory serves me correctly I only recall one instance that resulted in a rather panicked gasp from yours truly in the passenger seat.
Home sweet home. At the risk of boasting, I gotta say, I’m a helluva badass car-camper, and yeah, that tent could have fit two other families and their extended relatives, but I figured teenagers need their space. Notice the hammock’s already occupied.
Base camp established, it was time for sight-seeing. One of the risks in sharing a place that is so supremely special in your heart, is the possibility that the person you are sharing it with might not be quite so enamored. It’s no secret that I tend to get excited about things. I exude enthusiasm. It’s all I can do not to spoil a movie for someone. Assuming I actually remember the plot, which given the state of my memory lately, is becoming less and less of an issue. Anyway, I am a gusher, and it was nearly impossible to contain myself as we drove through the park. Nevertheless, I knew this was all brand new for Ian and I tried my best to keep my mouth shut and my opinions to myself. It was his turn to take it all in, and off we went. We drove down out of the Chisos and headed west to Ross Maxwell Drive and Santa Elena Canyon. First up, Sotol Vista. Maybe a professional camera (and/or a skilled photographer) would do it justice, but I doubt it. While my pics may not capture the enormity of this incredible view, I think you can tell from my giddy grin that it was a hit. He was pretty dang blown away.
Terlingua Creek feeds into the Rio Grande from the west and in order to hike into the canyon you have to cross it. The depth and difficulty vary with the season, and back in December I lucked out and barely got my boots wet. We weren’t so lucky this time. It was passable, for sure. The water wasn’t dangerously high by any means. But maybe you recall the scene in Lonesome Dove, you know, when the last horse was crossing the river and a few hundred snakes attacked the poor Irish kid. Well, two swam by and that was enough to convince me to stay high and dry. Until next time.
Day Two. As desperately as I wanted to hike up to Emory Peak, or the day-long hike to the South Rim (neither of which I attempted last time due to the snow), I figured we’d be smart to get some smaller, less strenuous hikes under our belts beforehand. Lost Mine Trail was a short drive from our campground; it’s listed as one of the more popular moderate hikes, and with the less than ideal late start we got, this trail would be perfect since we’d be up and back before the scorching, midday heat.
Less than thirty minutes in, Lost Mine Trail had this very out of shape forty-something thinking I had Lost My Mind. Fit-as-a-fiddle-Ian patiently waited for me every few switch backs and eventually my protesting lungs and legs acquiesced to their task at hand and we trudged our way to the top. The oh-so-very-gorgeous top. Where we were verbally imprisoned by a passionate extremist, hell-bent to share his unsolicited opinions, using Lost Mine summit as his soapbox. Our current disaster of a President was his primary target, but the rant ranged from his own personal guilt, having been an oil prospector in his younger years, to his complete, no-excuses insistence on solar powered cars. I actually share many of his perspectives, but I promise you, the peace and solitude of a mountaintop is the last place I want to hear a tirade about anything, whether I agree or not. Nevertheless he was determined to detain us and being the entirely too kind person that I am, after being subjected to a solid twenty-minute monologue, I finally resorted to pointing out that I was frying in the sun and needed to get a move on. Come on, dude. Time and place.
Once the Acopon beer was delivered to Tony at High Sierra Bar & Grill, Ian and I set out to explore this mysteriously enchanting ghost town. There’s the Store, the Porch, the Starlight Theatre, and a smattering of other bizarre and somewhat inexplicable ramshackle buildings, all of which somehow combine to make Terlingua, well Terlingua. It’s definitely not gonna be everybody’s bowl of chili per se, but I gotta admit, it sure has me enamored. Last time I drove thru I managed to get my car stuck on the side of the road where I was promptly rescued by three of the local folk. Since then I’ve met two more residents and heard of at least three friends who’ve moved there. I figure I know about half the population now, and far-fetched though it may seem, I wouldn’t be remotely surprised to call Terlingua home one day. Check it out for yourself, and be sure to have a cold one with Tony and Katy while you’re there!
With many more entirely-too-hot-for-hiking-hours to kill we decided to head on towards the border to Lajitas where Ian got to pet the Mayor. Yes, pet. His name is Clay Henry and although there’s some confusion as to which incarnation this particular politician is, his lineage and legacy is no doubt entertaining. Regrettably, we did not share a beer.
Hobnobbing over for the day, we made it back to the basin just in time to set out for our evening hike to The Window, one of the most iconic and widely photographed attractions of Big Bend. The trail head was right around the corner from our campsite, and we had just enough time to hike in and out before dark.
Remember that sign at the entrance to the Chisos? The one about bears and mountain lions that Ian so nonchalantly posed next to? Well, there’s a fine line between the thrill of the idea of seeing a bear, and the alarming reality of actually seeing a bear. For sure, Ian and I were both hoping to catch a glimpse of one on this trip. But you know, from somewhat afar. Not like next to our tent or say, on the trail in front of us. Whelp, no more than ten minutes into our evening stroll and we stumbled upon this rather large pile of poop. Clearly the work of a rather large mammal. Suffice it to say, for the entire two hours of our hike we made complete idiots of ourselves: clapping, whistling, singing, raking sticks along the rocks, you name it. Because the very real thought of coming face to face with whatever left that steaming present was nothing short of terrifying.
Fortunately we made it to the window without incident and had plenty of time to take in the sunset and the stunning views before our return trip back towards the pile and whatever laid it. Tensions were high to say the least, but I’m happy to report the only living things we encountered were birds, insects, and a random reptile or two.
With next to no sleep, dreams of doing the big hike would have to be shelved, yet again. However, in addition to the exhaustion, I was super sore. After nine miles of hiking, I knew I’d be feeling it, but I was shocked at how much everything hurt. Fortunately Big Bend has something for every skill level and speed, so we dialed it down a few notches for the day.
The southern border of the park is of course the Rio Grande, beginning where it emerges from Santa Elena Canyon on the west, and ending where it enters Boquillas Canyon on the east. We’d already been to the west end; now it was time to see the east end. A few years ago I read an article about Boquillas, and the main thing that stuck with me was the story of the singing Jesus. The author told romantic tales of Jesus serenading tourists from across the river. When I crossed over to Boquillas back in December I was disappointed to find that Jesus had apparently been replaced by a slew of pick-up trucks blaring Tejano music. I chalked it up to so-called progress and changing times. Well, lucky for all of us, I was mistaken. Jesus’ post is not at the crossing, but at the canyon, and he must have been taking a siesta when I was there previously, because he was most certainly there in all his glory this time. He hollered at us from Mexico and asked if we wanted a song. ¡Sí, señor! And as he sang to us he hiked up his tattered jeans and waded his way across the Rio Grande onto US soil.
Once ashore he opened up his bag of handmade trinkets and we enthusiastically stocked up on souvenirs. After we settled our bill he asked if we had any snacks he could buy from us. I happily offered him a granola bar and asked for a photo as payment. I have no doubt Ian was as elated about the whole illegal exchange as I was. Muchas gracias, Jesus.
Keeping with my need for minimal exertion we spent the next few hours exploring some of the other easily accessible exhibits in the park. However, as the day went on, instead of loosening up, my pain continued to get worse. Gradually I realized it was not a normal muscle ache. It was primarily focused on my left side, right about waistline. And the oddest thing was my skin hurt. It hurt when my clothes touched me. Burned actually. I chewed on this all day, wondering what could be causing such strange pain. About midday a light bulb went off. It seemed impossible, yet it was the only thing that made sense and fit the symptoms: shingles. I didn’t have a rash yet (and actually never got one), but everything else seemed to add up. Often triggered by high stress levels, shingles can flare up in anyone who has previously had chicken pox.
It’s not a stretch for me to pinpoint the cause of the anxiety. A few weeks prior to this trip I decided to act on a long held desire. In less than a month’s time, I took a motorcycle safety class (with absolutely ZERO experience being in command of anything on two wheels other than a bicycle), passed it, got my moto license, bought a bike (Honda Shadow Phantom 750), and began riding it. Very, very slowly, in my friend’s kiddy-park equivalent of a neighborhood. During those first few weeks, I ran the gamut of extreme emotions from overwhelming joy to sheer terror. It was the single most thrilling thing I have ever done, and I have no regrets, but in the process my body dumped a lifetime worth of adrenaline, and my anxiety spiraled completely out of control. I guaran-damn-tee you that’s what triggered that shitty little dormant virus to rear its ugly head and voila, guess what, shingles isn’t just for your grandparents.
When Ian and I set out on this adventure we knew we had at least a week to play with before either of us had to be back. We’d only been there two nights at this point, but with my condition deteriorating we knew we were going to have to pull the plug prematurely. We made the call to stay one more night. It was a Thursday, and in the summer the border crossing is only open Friday thru Monday. We weren’t about to leave without taking a rowboat boat across the Rio Grande and riding horses into Mexico. But until then, my aching body desperately needed a soak in the healing hot springs. Fortunately the road was passable, even for my Kia Soul, and the hike to the springs is less than a quarter mile from the “parking lot.”
Temporarily rejuvenated we made our way back across the park to our campsite as the sun set over the Chisos and simultaneously lit up the Sierra del Carmen behind us. It should come as no surprise that the desert comes alive at night. Aside from birds, there’s not a whole lot of wildlife to be seen during the daylight hours as they are generally hidden well away, protected from the intense heat. However, as dusk descended upon us we found ourselves in a particularly challenging game of Dodge the Jackrabbit. For a solid five-mile stretch of road they came out of nowhere, hundreds of them, all in a comical mad dash to get to the other side. Miraculously we missed them all, but we both had no doubt that the night would certainly bring casualties.
It was full on pitch dark as we made our way up the winding road into the Chisos. With no jackrabbits to dodge I caught myself thinking of other things that might cross the road at night. And within seconds of that thought entering my consciousness, we rounded a switchback, and holy shitballs y’all, WE SAW A BEAR!!!!! It was headed into the trees on our left. I screeched to a halt and immediately began to roll down the window so I could get a photo (because that’s what you do when you see your first bear!), a decision Ian promptly and loudly vetoed. I agreed he had a point and we both admired the beautiful creature as it disappeared into the woods. And yeah, it didn’t give a flying flip about us. Later as we settled into our tent we agreed that aside from crossing the border, the trip was now complete. We’d seen a real live bear. That night we slept peacefully and without incident.
Morning found us rested and more or less refreshed. I still had pain, but thankfully it had not progressed. Nevertheless, we reluctantly packed up camp, consoled by the certainty we’d absolutely be back. And then we made one last stop: Boquillas Crossing.
Five bucks gets you a round trip boat ride to Mexico and back. Once across, in order to get to the town of Boquillas (a mile away) you have your choice of transportation: your own two feet (free), a ride in the back of a pick up ($5, Tejano music included), the back of a donkey ($5), or a horse ($8). Guide service is extra and at your discretion. I recommend it for the first time, and hadn’t planned on using one since this wasn’t my first rodeo, but honestly I wasn’t real sure about tying up my beast of burden once we got to town, and wondered if I’d even know which one was mine when it came time to return. So, with that in mind, we saddled up and rode into town with our trusty guide at our side.
After a quick stop in the customs trailer, priority numero uno was food and drink: cabrito tacos for both, cerveza for me, and for Ian, his first margarita. ¡Salud!
