[Editor’s Note]: In January 2003, Frank took a trip with his school buddies to Big Bend National Park in West Texas. Portions of the journal had been destroyed by either fire or chemical burn (unexplained cause) but the minimally legible remainder has been organized slightly. As usual, any names may have been changed to protect local identities.
January 20, 2003
San Antonio, Texas
After twelve early hours of work, it’s home to change, pack, repack, and drink beer. “Mike” arrives at six; we load up and go get his crap. Waiting for “Paul,” “Tom,” and “Susan;” a twilight round of drunken hackysack was surprisingly poor. Finally, departure; the open road.
On through Hondo, D’Hanis, Sabinal, Del Rio, Comstock, US Border Patrol Illegal Alien Checkpoint, Dryden, Langtry, Sanderson, Marathon, another US Border Patrol Illegal Alien Checkpoint, then the entrance to Big Bend National Park. Ten more beers and riding shotgun kicked my low-grade narcolepsy into a tailspin, so I dozed on and off through the six-and-a-half hour drive.
Through Persimmon Gap, the Chisos Mountains were visible as purple hulks, many jagged peaks and smooth crests. We blow by the ranger station at 85 mph, no time to say hi. On to Glenn Springs Road. Half an hour of bumping, sliding, creeping over rocky, ill-graded track by first-quarter moonlight, all the way to Juniper Canyon.
“Tom” turns off to Pine Canyon. They’re not behind us. Pissed, “Mike” drives back to Pine Canyon. An hour later, we find “Tom,” “Paul,” and “Susan” at a campsite setting up tents. “Mike” and I unload, unpack, and get out the cooler. Rum and cokes all around, picosos hot peanuts; turn off the damn flashlights!
A hundred billion stars, planets, meteorites, satellites, and UFOs stare back at us; every now and then, some space junk enters the atmosphere with varying degrees of spectacularity. Two moons visible around Jupiter, couldn’t find the international space station. Orion, the dippers, Corona Borealis, Cygnus the Swan, the Pleiades, Capricorn? Toll Mountain, Hayes Ridge, Casa Grande, Emory Peak. Unfortunately the Sierra del Carmen is slightly hazy.
We are under a covert attack by a platoon of Steven’s Kangaroo Rats (so say the biologists). “Paul” reaches for peanuts, yelps. We find a cute, furry, big-eared, tufted-tailed, fievel-looking, rat-mouse sitting upright on its powerful back legs inside the can of peanuts. Rat-bastard is munching down on our snacks.
The mouse-burglar sees us, grabs something like 22 whole peanuts, stuffs them into his cheeks and bolts. How cute, one distracts us while others look for another way in. I hope we don’t all wake up immobilized by hundreds of tiny yucca ropes and the entire tribe of kangaroo rats encircling us, taunting us with lechugilla spears and ocotillo clubs.
Everyone sleeps in tents, snoring. “Susan” the buzzsaw, “Paul” the congested, and “Tom” the emphysema-gonna-die super snore/mouth fart. “Mike” is sawing wood somewhere behind us. I sleep in the hammock-bivy and dream of covert kangaroo-rat counterintelligence ops. Sunrise comes on quickly and forcefully, it is clear and cool. By 8:30 it’s 80 degrees in the desert; (is it January?) wonderful. Breakfast of bagels, apples, cheese, coffee; car camping food, very tasty.
“Paul” chooses beer as an after-breakfast snack, we follow. “Can’t drink all day if you don’t start in the morning,” indeed. Leisurely we pack up, drive to the ranger station, check in for free (poorly counterfeit USGS credentials) and get backcountry permits, maps, toothbrushes.
Finally to Juniper Canyon, we get the sweet campsite next to the trailhead. A warm afternoon of drunken desert disc golf, drunken desert hackyscack, magic cookies, more beer, picture taking. “Susan” says, “These cookies are good. They taste kinda funny.”
The Sierra del Carmen are looking good in the late afternoon. Looking up at the South Rim, our destination. Tomorrow. Sunset is amazing, slow as it wants, innumerable shades of yellow, orange, pink, red, blue, purple, black.
I finally convince them all not to set up tents and we meadow crash on “Paul’s” tarp. More shooting stars and UFOs. The night is cool but only about 50 degrees. At 2:45 am the wind rips off the mountains at 35 mph. Yes, blow the pollution back to Mexico.
Sleep through sunrise, get up pack, eat breakfast, repack, drink water. Embark on Juniper Canyon Trail to South Rim. Each of us has individually-packed gear for two days; about 40-60 pounds each. Ouch. I carry two gallons of water for some stupid reason, (oh yeah, survival).
Early afternoon is warm, these heavy packs causing us to sweat profusely. Drink water. Walk more. Eat dried fruit. Drink water. Piss. Walk more. Up the riverbed through gravel, creosote bush, grass, sotol, lechugilla, cholla cactus. Up the hill into junipers and pines.
Six hours and six miles later, exhausted, dazed, we waddle into camp. We gained 4000 feet in elevation, “Paul” is dehydrated and hypothermic. “Tom” hasn’t been seen in three hours. We rest, make food, hydrate “Paul”. He’s in zombie mode for sure. Fat, tame mule deer wander about. Sun going down. Getting cold.
Where’s “Tom?” “Mike” looks for “Tom.” Both come back. “Tom” is slurring his speech. Bad sign. Make more food, get the hypo-thermics into sleeping bags. Sleep. The wind kicks up at 2:45 am.
Sunrise is blocked by the mountains, still cold. Eat oatmeal, pancakes, discuss today’s hike. Everyone is down to about one liter of water, maybe Boot Spring is flowing. We talk “Tom” into going with us to the South Rim, no packs. Hiking again in the Chingasos Mountains.
“Mike” pumps a liter out of “Boot Spring.” The water stinks and tastes like its namesake. We move on. Probably less funky water upstream. Still stinks. When we reach the South Rim, the self-inflicted torture of backpacking is all worth it. One could see for 100 miles in every direction on a clear day in 1900. Today we see about 20 miles through the smog and haze. Sierra del Carmen, Dominguez Mountain, Santa Elena Canyon, Boquillas. Breathtaking views. Take some pictures, including: “Full Moons Over the Desert, with Nuts.”
We decide to send “Paul,” “Tom,” and “Susan” down the Pinnacles trail to the Basin, a three mile, 2000-foot-elevation-loss switchbacked trail, much easier. “Mike” and I bomb down the JC trail at five mph. If it weren’t for the hour and a half drive to the Basin, we would have beaten them there.
“Tom” looks dead, “Paul” is halfway there, “Susan” is off primping. We leave the park for Terlingua ghost town; Viva Terlingua! Eat at the Starlight Theater restaurant-bar, full of locals. Still on a personal quest to wipe cows off the planet, I order filet mignon. We have chips and salsa and a bottle of Australian chardonnay, while waiting for entrees.
Locals next to us tell us about some a-hole turning Lajitas into an exclusive golf community, $100,000 members only. That sucks. Food is magnificent; the dichotomy of civilization plays out in my head. Old rancher next to us has an elk-tooth pocket-watch dangle. “The whistlin’ tooth, only ivory in the lower 48;” we all have after-dinner cocktails then drive to Marfa.
Cold as hell out here, next to the highway and train tracks at the “Marfa Mystery Lights Official Viewing Area.” They are soon to add an adobe visitor center with bathrooms. The lights are unimpressive tonight. Every 30 seconds an 18-wheeler belches by, with alternating trains every 30 minutes. People come and go from the rest stop.
Locals from Alpine “Country Ed” and “Lindsay” talk about visiting Santa Elena and Boquillas. Santa Elena is a dry town in Mexico, I didn’t think they existed. “Paul” makes a hobo fire out of a broken pallet—and commences singing:
“Just livin’ my hobo life,
Stabbin’ kind folks with my hobo knife,
But not you all, tonight
I’m a singin’ hobo, not a stabbin’ hobo”
Cold Sleep at Marfa, “Tom” sleeps in the truck. Water bottles frozen when we wake up.
Back to civilization again, go to Alpine and have huevos rancheros, huevos divorciados, huevos mineros, café de olla. Excellent. In the vehicles for some high-speed travel back to SA, watching Full Metal Jacket on the laptop DVD player. Blessed, wretched technology.
Finally the Batteries are recharged,
François (Frank) Dillinger
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