Big Bend National Park: Chapter 1

My friend, British Andy, and I spent a week in April gallivanting around West Texas, including stop-overs in Marathon, Terlingua and Marfa, an overnight in the Chisos Mountains and two days canoeing the mighty Rio Grande river.

Below is the first installment of dispatches from our trip:

1) "We Are Those Idiots"

Our first day in the park, Andy and I pitched a tent at the Chisos Basin campground, then set off on foot to explore the much-hyped "Window" formation.  The Window trail  descends 800 elevated feet from camp, is flanked by the rugged Chisos peaks and is just shy of five miles roundtrip.

Andy and I consider ourselves experienced outdoorsmen and dismissed warnings from a Park Ranger earlier that morning ("watch for bears, mountain lions, rattle snakes"; "don't leave food in the tent"; "always bring enough water with you") as elementary instruction for the rookie camper.

A modest hour's hike and we'd reached our destination.  The photo to the right depicts the view from The Window, a narrow crevice splitting the canyon wall atop a two-hundred-foot drop-off   We paused here awhile, took in the rugged landscape, drank water and snacked (that's Andy in the photo offering me sausage).  Had we returned then to camp, the hike would have concluded without incident.

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It was Andy who spotted the Oak Spring Trail sign just up from the Window.  Our efforts to that point had passed simply enough.  The Chisos peaks provided ample shade through the canyon.  Inspired by our surroundings and eager for adventure, we decided to investigate the Spring, another four miles roundtrip.

The first quarter mile of the Spring hike is a steep climb up the mountain side, and well worth the effort as the panoramic view from atop the peak is impressive.  I recalled the Park Ranger informing us that Apache Indians once inhabited this area.  Their watchful scouts likely chose such a spot to sight enemy intruders. 

From this vantage point we glimpsed the Spring below us, nearly two miles in the distance, marked by a cluster of lush trees and foliage.  The trail zigzagged down the mountainside, at times hugging a narrow edge.  I pictured what the next hour would bring, a slow trudge downward over sharp, loose rock with no reprieve from the afternoon sun.  Still, there lay the Spring off in the distance, an Oasis in the wilderness.  I envisioned cool, shaded waters and grassy shoreline. We marched onward down the mountainside.

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"This can't be it," Andy muttered upon arrival.  "Perhaps, we missed it," I added.

Before us lay a trickle of water small enough to step over, a foul odor rising from the stagnant pools nearby.  We wet our heads to fend off the heat and searched for the Spring but found only a rusted sign that noted additional trail heads and this oddly-shaped tree (see photo left) growing horizontally along the ground.

I later discovered an interesting fact about this tree.  Appears the natives would mark a good campsite by tying down a sapling.  With maturity, the tree naturally assumed a horizontal or bowed posture. This is one such "marker tree".

In our confusion over the Spring location, we traversed a utility road for an additional mile before realizing our mistake and returning to the tree.  I drank the last of my water, wiped the sweat from my face and suggested we return to camp.  Andy, however, was determined not to be let down this day and lobbied for the Cattail Falls Trail noted on the sign, an additional two miles round-trip.

"Just think, a lovely waterfall?  We'll take a swim and refresh ourselves for the return."

I was reluctant, already calculating 4.5 miles back up the mountain.  Adding additional miles to what would likely amount to further disappointment seemed unwarranted.  Out of water and out of food, a cold beer and a campfire sounded more appealing. On the other hand, if there was a waterfall, a cold swim would be glorious.

As we discussed the Falls hike, I happened to spot three walking sticks resting against a covered segment of the marker tree.  Andy and I hadn't encountered another human in hours and quickly surmised the sticks were abandoned.  Perhaps it is a sign, I thought, that the gods were shining favorably upon us.  Andy agreed to share his remaining water.  We each selected a  walking stick and set off for Cattail Falls.

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On route to the Falls, there was no shade to offer reprieve.  The temperature topped 100 degrees.  I experienced signs of pending heat exhaustion:  the slight onset of a headache and edema (finger swelling) such that I couldn't make a fist.  Andy was in a similar state, sweating profusely, face flush as a tomato.

"What shall we name our walking sticks, then?" I asked.  "Travel companions such as these should have proper names. Hey, what's the name of your friend in New York, the tough, hard-drinking gal?"

"Lee Hunt."

"That's it!  A fantastic name.  Rugged.  Sounds like an action hero . . . Hence forth, you shall be called 'Lee Hunt'!"

Andy stuck with the action-figure theme and dubbed his 'Lightning Storm'.  A few jabs later over who authored the superior name – and whose stick would destroy the other in action-figure combat – and we had reached the base of the falls.

The sound of rushing water brought welcome relief.  Andy dropped his bag and marched straight into the pool collecting beneath the falls (look closely for him in the photo, right).  He shouted as his body met the cold, spring water, sounding an impressive echo through the canyon.  We announced our travel companions, "Lee Hunt" and "Lightning Storm", to the local wild life.  They were unimpressed.

I followed suit into the water and enjoyed several minutes of bliss as my body temperature normalized.  Somewhere high above us was The Window formation, our original half-way point.  If only there was an elevator, I thought.

The water tasted metallic, and I was uncertain if that should be a warning sign.  I chose not to fill my bottle and later reconsidered the wisdom of that decision.  In fact, I learned we were not supposed to be swimming at all in the pool as it supplied the area with drinkable water . . . Andy and I rested awhile in the shade of the cliffs, then agreed we should return to camp before nightfall.

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"Humans are most likely to encounter wild animals just before sunset."  

I recalled the Park Ranger's words as we traversed the rocky path back up the mountain.  It was slow going over the loose rock.  Few words were spoke between us.  All of our energies were required to navigate the heat and the climb.  We paused often for a breather and to ration the remaining drops of Andy's water supply.

When the water ran out, the edema and headache returned.  I spotted mountain lion tracks along the trail and occupied my mind by imagining an encounter with a hungry mother and her cubs.  At each bend in the trail I envisioned her steely gaze upon us, approaching stealthily, sensing our weakened condition.

Andy, no doubt, would scream for his mommy, then collapse into a submissive position, leaving me and "Lee Hunt" to confront the beast.  I would manage to scare her off with an intimidating display of force, but not before a fierce exchange of blows left us both battered and bloody.

Apache scouts, high above on horseback, would sit in wonderment, impressed by the bravery of this formidable white man.

Andy would thank me for saving his life.  "All in a day's work", I'd say, helping him to his feet.  "Now wipe your tears."

Our journey back to the campsite was grueling.  People claim the trip home always seems shorter.  I find the opposite to be true.  Perhaps it is the anticipation of pursuing a destination that suspends time, but I am far more aware of its passing on the return.

At times, I thought we may have to stop for the night, exhausted and unable to push on.  Still, we made it back by dusk, both of us collapsing in a heap beneath the shade of the cedar trees.  I lay motionless on the ground, soaking my skull in a wet towel as the West Texas sun dipped below the crest of the Chisos mountains.

Andy stirred an hour later to prepare a meal of warm meat and vegetables.  We regained enough strength to pass the whiskey bottle and drown ourselves in cold beer, then passed out in a state of delirium, leaving the tent flap open (I later discovered) in the event a bear wished to investigate our supplies.

Later that night, Andy and I awoke in a startled and dazed condition, overcome by a ravenous water craving.  I fumbled in the dark for our jug and we took turns gulping down the magic liquid.

"I've a terrible headache," Andy proclaimed.

Jesus, I thought, we are those idiots the Park Ranger had in mind.

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(Lee Hunt and me:  Lion defense posture)