Seminole Canyon State Park

While this post should have some pics, I'm specifically not going to post any as they could potentially be submitted as evidence in a court of law. Oh no, you might be thinking, what's this rascal gone and done now? Not much admittedly, but there were signs saying to do otherwise, thus the picture ban.

Raisin and I showed up at Seminole Canyon State Park after hours. I had wanted to stock up on food, read a few interesting displays, get to know the park. Not this visit. So we hung out while I read a book and contemplated our next move.

As the sun approached seven o'clock, I decided to go into the canyon. Raisin was game. But the signs prohibit such action. "Canyon Open to Guided Tours Only." That's pretty clear to me. So I asked Raisin if I could guide her down, never mind that she's a puppy, and she said 'woof.' Done.

We went down the stairs to the bottom of the canyon and paused. It was pure magic.

The beauty was astounding. Pools of water, a wide canyon perfect for walking, trees, cool air. We went back several miles toward the Rio Grande. It was like walking through a wonderland, where every step provides a new picture perfect view.

We checked out the wall paintings, the reason the canyon is off limits, but the natural beauty of the place quite frankly put them to shame. We swam, played around, and as it got quiet and dark, found a nice overhang to camp in. The night was crisp, mosquitoless, and perfect.

I love this place.

Until next time...

A Hostel in Marathon: La Loma del Chivo

Raisin and I walked into Marathon, Texas, population roughly 450. Having seen and experienced dozens of small towns about this size, there was no reason to expect anything out of the ordinary. However, West Texas has a few tricks up its old dusty sleeves, but we didn't know that. Not yet.

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After walking into town and sharing a few treats at the Burnt Biscuit, we headed for the library. I got some work done while Raisin took a nap outside (Just for the record, she hates libraries for the simple reason that she must wait outside.). From there, we hit the grocery store, The French Grocer, and while choosing cans of beans and bars of Snickers, our fates would become intertwined with the Hill of the Goat.

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A man named Daniel Eaton noticed I was traveling (with a huge backpack, it's hard not to.). He was nice enough and recommended I check out a hostel a few blocks away, even offered to drive me. He told me its name fast, then repeated it slowly: "La Loma. Del Chivo." I declined the drive but made it out there anyway.

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This is what I saw:

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The fairyland quality of this place is the first thing that hits you. I could see the bright colors from several blocks away. We didn't find anyone at first, and because I'd had a short conversation with Ali on the phone, Raisin and I made ourselves comfortable in the above abode.

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There's a lot of construction going on. I have taken a couple of shots of places that are pretty much done, but many more cool buildings are on the way.

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The owner and manager do not call it a commune, but as far as definitions go, it basically is. Three people live and work there, 20 hours a week, in exchange for a monthly stipend and all rent and utilities paid. Their job ranges from welcoming clients, answering the phone, working in a garden, managing building projects, and general clean-up.

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The above building is a bathroom. Just an FYI. If you want to put on a princess dress before entering, that's up to you.
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This is Mike. Give him a good look over. He's probably the smiliest, laughiest person of the three, and for good reason: he lost much of what he had spent his life earning in the economic crunch and has made a home here at La Loma. He has three dogs, his own place, and contributes by doing lots of stone and building projects.
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This is Ali. She greeted me on the phone and made me feel at home before I even got there. She's not actually sitting in La Loma in the picture (she's in another wonderful place in town, a B&B called Eve's Garden), but she is an animal lover. (Her dog Piper runs all over La Loma and played a sort of Big Brother-Big Sister role for Raisin.) Ali is a total sweetheart and loves the quiet of West Texas, a stark contrast from her native Houston. She's figuring life out from the safety and security of a small town, and even invited her best friend Brian from Houston to experience some of the same.
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This is Jerot. I'm not even sure I'm spelling his name right, but I know it ends in a 't.' He too is figuring out what comes next in life, but for the moment, he's doing great. His dad and brother came out to visit him and after his dad left, Jerot was charged with taking care of Logan. Logan turned 16 while he was there and thoroughly enjoyed his visit.
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This is Billy, La Loma's new mascot. It makes sense, obviously, to have a goat, but it makes even better financial sense. I think it's a ride-off.

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I had a great week and already miss it. I shall return, hopefully to some of the same faces, in the future.
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Until next time...

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Faces of Texas

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"After the Beatles, everything changed. And the war."

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- Lorenzo, pictured with his grandson, on life in the United States in the 60s. I met Lorenzo in Clint, and while his grandson played in the parking lot, we chatted. He recalled the sort of cultural revolution that occurred in the states, led, he believed, by the popular music quartet. Later, Lorenzo was drafted, like many others, and did a tour in Vietnam. When he came back, he recalled the looks that people gave him in uniform, like he was a baby-killer, scum of the earth, and he shriveled inside. Lorenzo got quiet for a moment, remembering those stares of hatred, shaking his head. The memories still burned.

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Clint, Texas

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"Does the border look secure to you?"

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- Mary Miller, seated next to husband Craige, on the security of the region. The couple gave me a night's stay at their place in Fort Hancock, and we talked for an hour before going to bed. A huge hole in the border used to exist directly behind their land, a mere stone's throw away. Illegal migrants used to cross right by their home at all times of the day. They would call the border patrol who often came too late to apprehend the crossers, long gone in a vehicle.

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A fence has since been erected south of Fort Hancock, but it is not continuous. A gaping hole now exists several miles to the west, forcing the same problems on those closest to the gap.

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Fort Hancock, Texas

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"I couldn't destroy something beautiful to accommodate mediocrity."

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- Former teacher Carmen Ganser on her teaching curriculum. A six-year LA veteran, Carmen developed a multi-media course to engage an apathetic classroom. When new requirements adopted by the district became mandatory, she elected to get out. It was too much to redesign her class, to throw out everything she had worked years to create. She went on what she calls "a working vacation," joined her father in Terlingua, and though he went back north for the summer, has lived in Terlingua ever since.

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Terlingua, Texas

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"Life. Ain't it beautiful?"
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- Jean, an Appalachian Trail thru-hiker, on our serendipitous encounter. I was sitting at the Study Butte grocery store, waiting for the heat to die down before going into Big Bend National Park, when Jean pulled up. I wouldn't have seen the Appalachian Trail decals on the back his vehicle, but he parked backwards and went in. When he came out, I asked him if he had hiked or worked on the A.T. He said one word: "Ballpahk." I stood up, mouth gaping.
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I met Jean in 2003 when he gave me a ride to Trail Days, an Appalachian Trail festival for hikers. He had hiked the A.T. in 2002 under the trailname "Ballpahk" (he's a baseball fan from Boston, MA). Jean later picked me up in Maine and treated me to a meal and conversation.
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After he said his trailname, I said mine: "Rubberband Man." Smiles all around. We gave each other a big hug and caught up on our lives.
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Study Butte, Texas
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"I didn't urinate for three days."
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- Brennan Black, a Big Bend seasonal employee, on the aftermath of his first case of heat exhaustion. Brennan, who is approaching his last semester of college at Ohio State University, wanted a break from all the people, so he opted to live and work in Big Bend National Park, one of the most remote places in the lower forty-eight.
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A serious runner, he never ran with more than a liter back in Ohio, one of the coldest, snowiest places in the USA. After moving to West Texas, he hadn't considered changing the practice and took off for an 8-mile run with his usual liter. The run went by without a hitch, but shortly after getting into his car and driving off, he started halucinating and shaking. Brennan saw the world change shape, spoke with friends and family that he knew weren't there, and started losing muscle control in his arms and hands. He pulled over to the side of the road, tried to take in more liquids, vomited, then ripped out an emergency IV (he had previously received EMT training), and hooked himself up (he missed his artery the first two times because of the shaking and involuntary muscle movements). For the next eight hours, he would stay in his car by the side of the road, waiting for the symptoms to subside.
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As you can see, Brennan's made a full recovery.
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Pather Junction, Big Bend National Park, Texas
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Books on the Edge

Don't be surprised here by the number of books. One's a comic book, another is really short, and I'm not yet done with the last one (but I'm getting there). There is a wide variety of genre and subject matter represented, and I like it that way. Enjoy.

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That Old Ace in the Hole by Annie Proulx was, to be brutally honest, a letdown. Her story takes us into the heart of the Texas Panhandle, a region that I thoroughly enjoyed on my trip, but doesn't quite touch the real beauty of the place. I recognized several names from the Acknowledgments, and that was exciting. But it was all pretty much downhill from there.

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Bob Dollar is paid to investigate potential sites for hogfarms, on behalf of a big corporation, in the panhandle of Texas. It doesn't sound like much of a plot (and it's not), but that's not the problem. Bob is unbelievable, a paper thin shell of a character, who never really makes the reader gave a darn about what happens to him.

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The novel is propelled primarily by speech, and I smiled more than once at the way people talked. If Proulx did one thing right, it was in imitating the cadence and word choice of people in the region, but this skill does not and cannot hold the book up. Lovers of the panhandle might find some comfort in her talent, but they will have to dig much deeper to enjoy other aspects of the story.

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Enough. The panhandle deserves a great book about its hardy population. This book is not it.

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The Tortilla Curtain by T. Coraghessan Boyle is a fast-paced and enjoyable look at illegal immigration through the eyes of an upper-middle class family in California and a dirt-poor Mexican couple who just illegally immigrated to the same area.

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There is no plot, per se. Events keep happening to each family which both directly and indirectly combine their fates. A California man accidentally hits the Mexican man with his car. Thus starts a whirlwind of related events, both understandable and tragic, distinct yet interconnected. Each man negotiates the ups and downs of his individual life, grappling with prejudice against the other and the injustices of life.

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Boyle tears into the American family with sarcastic and searing remarks, and while it made me laugh, it also seemed a little unfair. He treats the Mexican family much gentler, tries hard to make them seem normal and hardworking, which they are. But the presence of judgment against the California residents and the absence of judgment against the illegal migrant workers is highly noticeable. There are a few nasty Mexican characters, yes, but it isn't judgment. Boyle mocks his white characters and their hardships while seeming to protect his Hispanic characters from the same narrative injustice.

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I'd definitely recommend this book. Sure, a plotline was left unfinished, the ending is more poetic than final, but the story reads like a thriller. I couldn't put it down (not that I had a table) and laughed out loud many, many times. The author's prose is crystal clear, his pacing enjoyable, and as per the discrepancy between how he treats his characters, well, that's his choice.

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Tales from the Terlingua Porch by Blair Pittman is a collection of stories, maybe a lot of hot air, from the many, many characters who visit the Terlingua Porch season after season. I read this book in an afternoon and was charmed by some of its informal tales. Pittman isn't J. Frank Dobie (who is?), but you get the feel for what people talk about in Terlingua Ghost Town. You might even learn a thing or two about life. There's a Part II, as well, if you can't get enough.

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Night of the Grasshopper Mouse! by Chris Ruggia is a short, interesting comic about an aberration of nature, the cruel and unusual grasshopper mouse. Unbeknownst to me, a very small portion of mice turn into meat-eaters and attack their own kin. The comic details one such tale. This little story doesn't really target adults, but I think older elementary kids would like it.

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Coyotes by Ted Conover is a first-person account of the trials of Mexican migrants crossing the border and finding work in the United States. Conover's tales are not information heavy, but they are fascinating nonetheless. He travels to Mexico and crosses multiple times as one of the millions who do so illegally every year, using coyotes and later experimenting with the coyote lifestyle himself (briefly, I might add). He makes friends, slaves away in orchards, crosses the USA in the worst kind of vehicles, and documents all the little details along the way. He was very sympathetic to his Mexican friends back in the 80s when he wrote this book and still seems very much on the side of the men and women who just want to make a living, even if that means breaking the law. Like Boyle does in fiction, Conover puts a human face on these individuals, which to me far outweighs any bias he may have imposed on the telling of his tales. A good read.

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(Notice the cover, by the way. This book got completely soaked in Big Bend.)

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Desert Solitaire by Edward Abbey chronicles his six-month stay in Arches National Monument. I'm not actually done with this book, but I've read enough to comment a bit. Abbey is a hardnose environmentalist who admires nature and all its harshness and glory and relates more to the past than to the realities of today. It's a wonderful read (that is, full of wonder). What I like about Abbey is what Republicans liked about George W. Bush: he makes a statement or opinion and then defends it until the end of his life. (The Democrats could stand to learn a thing or two from this kind of hardlined perspective.) Abbey rips into the National Park Service, the condition of the modern Native American and cattleman, and even into his own capacity for hard work. If you want to read a book by someone who fiercely loves life and nature, who doesn't cower when he has to give a difficult-to-hear opinion, who represents much of the aggression that the rest of us lack, then pick up Desert Solitaire.

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(Notice this cover, too. On one particularly feisty night, Raisin got her teeth into this one.)

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Enjoy! Until next time...

The Marathon Border Checkpoint

For those of you not accustomed to traveling through the bottom part of the United States near Mexico, allow me to be the first to tell you that there are checkpoints. What I mean is that if you are entering the US from Mexico, there is one checkpoint directly on the border and an additional checkpoint some 30-50 miles up the road.
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Every route has a second checkpoint. There is no avoiding it if you want to visit the rest of the US. The second checkpoints operate in a similar capacity as the first checkpoint: looking for illegal crossers, scouting out drugs, weapons, and other contraband, trying to detect anything illegal.
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I have now crossed four checkpoints. One going into El Paso, one exiting El Paso, one between Marfa and Presidio, and this last one near Marathon. This story comes from the last one which I crossed twice.
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How can someone traveling on foot pass a checkpoint twice? Simple: Catch a ride with a friend who wants to make sure you get a good lunch, restock your food bag, and refill your water; then get dropped off where you stopped hiking. It seems in some ways like a bit of a cheat, but when people tell you they thru-hiked the Appalachian Trail or Pacific Crest Trail, I assure you they took full advantage of similar situations.
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So a new Terlingua friend agreed to meet me on Sunday and do all of the above. Unfortunately for us, she had contraband on her in the form of 1/4 oz of pot. Legal in California where she was a few months ago but illegal in Texas, she has yet to conform to the region.
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Claire found me on the road and took me to Marathon. Only we didn't make it. The good folks at the checkpoint had a dog who "gave indications" that there might be contraband material in the car. I got out, hoping she didn't have any, and sat on the station seats. Though I wasn't around to hear, the agents asked her if she had any drugs and she told them the truth, that she did. Some agents escorted her indoors, past my seat, and that would be the last time we each other for five hours.
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All the agents were exceptionally professional, courteous, and for the most part, pretty darn friendly. I struck up conversations with several, not really knowing what was going on (but figuring it couldn't be good), and found out some interesting things.
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None of the agents are allowed to share any opinions, personal or political. As a former Peace Corps volunteer, this seems pretty standard, but it was good to hear it. That said, one agent vaguely shared that he understood the point of view of the illegal migrant much better now that he was a border patrol agent. He didn't say anything else, but I got the feeling that a comprehensive view of the border issues would lead one away from a hardline position.
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I joked around with all the agents. It was pretty hard to get them to break their reserved demeanor, though. I had no idea that at this time they were reading Claire her rights. Shortly thereafter, one agent came out to me and told me that while they weren't charging me with anything I was still being detained. "So what you're saying is," I started slowly, "I'm a detainee?" I was really excited. "Where's my white hoody?" I added. I didn't add anything about doberman munching on my privates because, quite frankly, that would be the end of my fun.
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I tweeted a lot, read my Desert Solitaire book (I'm sure Abbey would have LOVED that.), and just waited. The wait, while exorbitant for US standards, was nothing out of the ordinary for someone who's lived in Africa. I once waited three days for a cab ride that only went 70 miles (I could've walked that in the same time.). However, five hours can kill a day, and that's just what it did.
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A deputy sheriff showed up, a real good 'ol boy who had a really jubilant attitude. When he saw my knife (a standard camping tool), he asked if the rust on it was blood. He didn't wait for an answer. "Boys," he said to the agents in the room, "we got the Rest Area Killer here!" Fun and games in Brewster County.
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The deputy sheriff then explained that he was considering giving me the same citation that he was giving Claire. Um, what? He gave the following example: "I didn't rob the bank, but I was driving the vehicle." Um, huh? I reminded him that I got picked up 15 minutes prior and that I wasn't aware of any contraband in the vehicle at that time. He reconsidered.
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Ultimately, Claire got a $300 dollar fine and a Class C Misdemeanor for possession of marijuana. I got nothing but a five-hour wait and a bad name (A day later, another deputy sheriff asked me, "Are you the one the sheriff picked up a day ago?" Great. I've run into half a dozen law enforcement officials in one day, none of them having communicated to the others that I was walking around the outline of Texas. But I get detained with someone who gets a citation, and now everyone knows about me.).
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We followed the deputy to Marathon and went to the judge's house to finish the business. The judge, operating out of one of the messiest home offices I've ever seen, was a kindly looking older woman. She signed the fifty plus pages of paperwork required to charge Claire (1/4 oz of pot, I remind you) and then gave her a receipt for payment.
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The deputy sheriff walked us to our vehicle, happy as ever. "You'd just as soon laugh as cry," he said, trying to make up for the lost day. I can't fault him for attitude. He was a gentleman until the end.
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Until next time...

Big Bend National Park

Big Bend. The name refers to the bend of the Rio Grande, but it has come to connote mountains, desert, beauty, ruggedness. I came here during my junior or senior year in college for spring break, but I made one mistake: my traveling companion wasn't really a hiker. We drove 500 miles in 10 hours and didn't hike but half a dozen miles. This time around, I didn't intend to make the same mistake.

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I hiked over 100 miles of Big Bend National Park, about 50 of those with Raisin, canoed Santa Elena Canyon, visited the Rio Grande hot springs (via car), and visited Mariscal Canyon. I drank from mud puddles, hiked through 30-40 mph winds, startled a rattlesnake, spied two bears, and climbed a vertical mile in a single 30-mile day. I washed my face with water from the Rio Grande and night-hiked up a canyon trail while shining my light into the trees looking for lions. In almost every way, I tried to do the opposite of my first trip to Big Bend, and I do believe I succeeded.

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South Rim Vista, BBNP, Day 301

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There's a lot more to say, but I'd prefer to hang on to some of it for an article. I want to add a few scattered notes, though: 1) The No-Pet-on-the-Trail Rule. Not my favorite rule, but it makes sense. Between Terlingua Ghost Town and Terlingua, I stayed up half the night thinking Raisin was being hunted by local fauna. At one point, I heard a semi-circle of coyote yelps around us, and they were close. So not allowing pets into the hot zone of Big Bend protects both the pet owner from loss and the indigenous predator population from depending on imported meat. It put me in a big bind, of course, but with a little luck, it worked out. (Thanks, Patricia and Jim of Castolon!) 2) The Desert and Water. I packed out 11 liters of water yet found myself needing more along the way. The big storm I mentioned outside of Castolon filled various spots in the desert with fresh rain water. I stumbled upon three decent water holes (clayish earth which acted as a natural cachement) in the first 20 miles. I skipped the first two but thankfully thought better of it at the third and filled up. I treated my water with Grapefruit Seed Extract (better known as GSE) which is an unofficial water purifier. It makes the water really bitter, but after seven years of using it, it's not so bad to me anymore. The desert really took it out of me, slowing some of my walking to a snail's pace, but I was able to bounce back with the water. I was most proud of finding a little water hole at the start of Mariscal Canyon Trail (I was looking). I needed it, and there it was. 3) Solitude. I didn't see anyone for 72 hours. It was during this time that I saw some of my most amazing views, drank mud water to get by, and saw two bears. It was an altogether splendid stretch.

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Chisos Basin Vista, BBNP, Day 301

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Even casual views of Big Bend are like this one: vast, beautiful, perfect. This shot was taken from a paved road and was shared by all that day. However you feel about the road network (I'm currently reading Edward Abbey who has some choice things to saw about the roads of the national parks.), the natural beauty of the place will get your attention and keep it. It is a wonderland.

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Panther Junction R&R, BBNP, Day 302

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Like all trips, you need time to recuperate. Ours is no different. Even though Raisin spent most of the time eating, sleeping, and enjoying A/C, even she needed to recharge after her first few miles back. We rested and then at 5 o'clock got back up and headed north toward Persimmon Gap and the park exit.

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And we're still going.

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Until next time...

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In the News...

After that monster post, it's a small pleasure to just link to things. Below you'll find a couple of news items and links to a couple of articles. Enjoy.

I passed through Marfa briefly but made time for the Big Bend Sentinel. I had a great conversation with their staff before continuing along my way south to Presidio. Raisin was a hit too, though she was mistaken for a he. Oops! Click here for the article.

In Presidio, I found Bob Phillips and his Texas Country Reporter crew. They put up a short teaser picture on their Facebook page with a few lines. Click here to see, then scroll down.

Rewind just a bit to my trek down the southern panhandle. You can read a few more observations from my article in the Corpus Christi Caller-Times. Click here for the article.

Continue west to El Paso and Fort Hancock and my first real taste of the border. I wrote about them here in my self-syndicated column, this time in the Lone Star Iconoclast. Click here for the article.

And that's all the news that's fit to link.

Until next time, clickers...