July da 5th!
I woke up feeling a little weak but better than yesterday. The morning sun had that hot sting to it and I could tell today was gonna be hot and miserable. Still, the view from my motel doorway made life better.
Breaking tradition terribly, I headed for the Ghost Town Cafe for breakfast rather than fabulous Kathy’s Kosmic. It turned out to be a blessing in disguise.
When I sat down at the table, I noticed a slightly grizzled character across the way, eating breakfast with his huge glass of ice tea. As I studied him, the face looked somehow familiar. I got up and approached the table, introducing myself and asking if he was a photographer by any chance. It turns out he was Blair Pittman, a National Geographic photographer I'd met in Big Bend way back in 1981 on my first trip to the region. I was on a college photography trip and Blair had been the guest speaker and guide to the area. Blair was an expert in the Big Bend area, doing books and articles on the region.
We chatted a little and caught up on 36 years of history, though of course he wouldn’t have remembered me. Turns out he was heading to the barbecue and dance in Marathon a little later and I told him we might bump heads again if I headed that way.
National Geographic photog and Big Bend expert Blair Pittman
I headed up to "the porch" in the Ghost Town after breakfast, to find a couple of locals already following tradition... Lone Star beer and coolers, enjoying the shade and watching little of nothing wander past. I sat on the bench to upload my ride report with the free wifi before heading into the park for a late morning ride…
Three hours later, I was still engrossed in the hilarious conversations and gossip on the porch. Of course I felt like a dweeb in all my riding gear with a laptop while the locals drank beer in shorts and t-shirts. It didn't go unnoticed and I got my share of ribbing. The sheriff showed up with a dog he'd found on the road, delivering to its owner who was quite happy - the dog had run off during all the fireworks the previous night.
The sheriff sat down next to me and we all talked for an hour or two. Topics ranged from oppressive government to high fuel prices to the sexual persuasion of the "artists" in Marfa... whom they call "Marfadites"... Pretty much everything else was covered in the conversations.
Terlingua had an outlaw radio station in the old derelict mansion run by host "Uh Clem", who wandered up and sat with ubiquitous "Doug" on the porch. He and Doug explained to me that broadcasting had been interrupted because the antenna at the top of the radio tower needed fixing. They tried to get me to climb the wooden radio tower and install something. I told them no, since I knew they only wanted to see a stupid tourist fall to his death. Then Clem upped the ante by telling me if I did climb the tower and fix the antenna, I could take over his role as radio DJ since he was having to deal with glaucoma now and things were far more difficult for him. The thought intrigued me briefly, keeping the locals entertained and informed with my wit and wisdom between songs from George Jones and Led Zeppelin, but somehow "Wolfman Joe" just didn't fit, nor the idea of climbing a rickety tower so I politely declined.
Having passed Uh Clem and Doug’s initiation test, Doug told me I was now officially on the Terlingua SWAT team, then handed me a flyswatter and told me to do my part.
As always, I enjoyed the banter and bs of the folks who choose life in Terlingua - so much more fun than the shallow plastic cookie cutter people I live around.
By now it was dead hot and I was getting sleepy in the cool breeze on the porch. If I didn't leave for the park soon, I'd never leave. I got on the bike to well wishes from my porch friends - except for one who told me to “take chances, ride dangerously and do foolish things.” I laughed and headed out.
The first foolish thing I did was passing “Passing Wind” and sure enough Jimmy had finished his submarine. My last trip out, Jimmy the owner had been talking about adding a submarine to his naval fleet, but hadn’t yet started it. Jimmy was a retired Navy sailor from Brooklyn, who fell in love with Terlingua, moved there and began building a fleet of ships in the desert. There was a pirate ship, whom the telephone company had helped build by installing telephone poles as masts and other nautical things which I can’t remember at the moment, not to mention a statue of liberty. He’d also built a flaming volcano, powered by propane with propane powered flaming lava flowing down the side and a tiki bar to complete the south seas feel of "Passing Wind". Somehow I had expected more than just a conning tower for the submarine, but at the same time I really didn't expect much either, so all was fine. I felt warm and fuzzy and patriotic knowing our Navy was protecting Big Bend.
After leaving the Ghost Town I didn’t make it far, the first dangerous and wild thing was a stop at the Study Butte store for a root beer to cool off before entering the park. The second foolish thing I did was sit down by a wild and dangerous dog. I was lucky to survive.
Happy to live through the dangerous canine encounter, I hit the road for Big Bend National Park.
The park was absolutely spectacular. The rains had cleared the air and greened up the place. I was feeling greatly better than the day before, likely from the lack of allergens in the desert. I just rode slowly, taking in the colors and aromas. The clouds were gorgeous and made every direction a photo op.
Needless to say, there were very few visitors and no motorcycles. Of course most intelligent people would avoid the desert heat of mid-summer on a motorcycle, but there are plenty of spots to cool off.
I headed on up to the Chisos Mountains Basin, enjoying the cooler air and slow, winding road up to 4 or 5,000 feet. In the gift shop at the lodge and campground, I bumped into an 80 year old man who'd been sitting on the porch earlier when I was there. He and I gabbed while his 40 year old girlfriend bought out the place. He shared a few stories and advice on a couple of roads to take. Figured I'd avoid marriage advice from him though, but come to think of it maybe I should have listened? I bet his advice would be to get rich to find true love at half your age.
Heading back down from the basin, I was engaged by the scale of the valley ahead. That's one thing I love about the Big Bend region is the massive scale. It reminds of a little of Wyoming or Utah hidden away near the border.
Rio Grande Village on the far eastern side of the park called my name and I headed that direction from the basin, watching the gigantic valley ahead. Traveling west to east across the park is roughly 60 miles, with the basin entrance closer to the western side, with Panther Junction Ranger Station being roughly half way across the park. The heat grew more intense as I dropped into lower elevations on the eastern side and I sucked my Camelbak dry in short order. The temperature difference from the east side to the west side was stark. The west side was certainly hot, a few showers keeping the temps a little cooler, but the eastern side was significantly hotter. For sections it was so intense I felt I couldn’t get my breath and wondered if I’d pass out and run off the road. It was stifling.
Heading for the eastern valley of Big Bend National Park
I finally made the campground and general store at Rio Grande Village and ate a snack about 4 pm, then gassed up the Beemer.
The attendant told me the old river crossing at nearby Boquillas was no longer accessible since the 911 terror ban, which was a shame since it was fun to float over into Mexico on the 55 gallon drum boats. One could walk or ride a donkey up to the village of Boquillas for Mexican tacos and a cerveza. Oh well, at least I have the memories.
I headed on towards Boquillas Canyon and the old crossing anyway to make the farthest point and to see what it was like now. The heat kept its hands around my throat.
At the river overlook, I could see the old Mexican town of Boquillas del Carmen and a good view of the river. Which might be why they call it a river overlook.
Across the Rio, I spotted a suspicious cow in the edge of the water, suspecting it was indeed two men in a costume who would surreptitiously graze their way over to the U.S. side then trot north for a large metropolitan city.
However, next to my bike and taped to a rock was a hand written sign with "Walking sticks for sale. Scorpions $5" and a little jar of money on the ground beside the rock. The sign also mentioned donations for the school children or something. I desperately wanted to buy a scorpion since I have no pets and waited but there was no one around. Despite my calls of “Hey scorpion man” no one appeared and as there were no scorpions to be found I assumed they’d sold out for the day and instead rode on.
By now it was really hot and I was having paranoid delusions induced by the heat and lack of root beer in my system. My plan was to ride to Marathon from the park and spend the night, attending the "Post Dance" this evening.
Realizing I still had to go all the way through the park and then up to Marathon, I raced out at the mind-numbing park speed of 45 mph. It was now so frickin hot I thought I was gonna die.
It seemed like hours before I finally got out of the park, heading north and into somewhat cooler temps. Woohoo!
I’d forgotten the Feds were waiting a couple of miles south of Marathon at the border checkpoint. The officer began asking me questions but I couldn't hear with my ear plugs in so I shouted "Wait, I gotta take my ear plugs out" and started trying to undo my helmet, finally getting one plug out of my ear. The officer said "Take it easy, I just need to ask a few questions."
Maybe it was my sunburned face, maybe it was me talking louder than normal since I had earplugs in, but I have no idea why he thought I was NOT taking it easy... anyway, he asked me if I had come from the "Legion"? ... frantic thoughts raced through my head "The French Foreign Legion?", the demon Jesus talked to named "legion"?
I had no idea what he was talking about and said "What are you talking about?" Then he said something about the Legion meeting down south. I said "No, I didn't know anything about that. I was in Terlingua and just rode through the park." I didn't mention the scorpion set-up and was glad I hadn’t bought an illegal Mexican scorpion after all, knowing I would have easily broken under questioning. He looked at me for a bit and then said "Ok, be safe" and waved me through.
The last coupla’ miles to Marathon were nice, but it was getting late and I had a feeling I’d have trouble finding a room. My fears were confirmed when I saw all the cars on the street outside the historic Gage Hotel. I rode down to the Marathon Motel and the attendant was kind enough to call the few lodgings for me, but said nothing was available. She said aside from the Post Dance which brought in ranch families from all over the region, somebody had died the day before so the whole town was full.
I figured going to the dance wasn’t in the cards and I was very drained from the day in the heat, so I grudgingly decided to head east for Sanderson and spend the night there, making the next day a shorter ride back to Kerrville. On a whim and despite the cars, I pulled in at the Gage just to check. They’d just had a cancellation and had a room upstairs in the old hotel. They have newer and more modern villas and rooms built adjacent, but I was happy for anything.
The hotel is pricey and a little upscale, or rather the guests and restaurant are. I felt awkward in my smelly shirt and disgusting helmet hairdo. Lots of guests were all duded up for the dance and unfortunately I’d left my tux in Kerrville.
Lobby of the Gage
I carried my stuff upstairs to the tiny room and would have taken a photo but it was so small I couldn't raise my arms to do so. All for $106 bucks as well. What I always forget about historic hotels is the tiny beds and tiny rooms, but at least they’d have quail's tongue brazed in kitten's milk on the swanky menu.
Took a quick shower and changed into my least smelly clothes - the ones from the previous day - then wandered around the hotel. It was a very cool place. I flopped in a chair to work on the blog on my laptop, across the lobby from the most realistic stuffed mountain lion I’ve ever seen. It actually made me nervous.
About dusk I hopped on the Gehlland Strasse and took the road to "the Post". The air was actually quite cool and chilly in my t-shirt. About 100 yards from the park entrance, the local pickups had begun lining the side of the road. I pulled on in to the actul parking lot and swung the kickstand down next to a Harley just as I heard the band singing the National Anthem in the distance. I paused with the crowd and put my hand over my heart, surrounded by cowboys and country boys, proud of our flag.
Upon further reading, I discovered that the "Post" was an original U.S. Cavalry post built at the local spring to fight the Commanche raiding parties that came through on the way to Mexico. The large spring had been used by the Indians for ages and the cavalry post was established to block their access to the life-necessary water. Robert E. Lee was stationed as commander there for a while.
The local ranchers and others were dressed up for the dance in pressed Wranglers and starched western shirts, cowboy hats centered perfectly. The folks were bringing chairs and coolers in a constant stream of arrival. There were probably about 150 there already and by dark I guessed the number was close to 500.
The band was already playing and the dance had begun.
As the western music played and the darkness fell, the boot scootin’ grew on the sand covered concrete pad.
I wandered around the little park as the crowd grew and the crescent moon rose over the hills. It was fascinating watching the ranch families and folks enjoying themselves, me an oddly dressed outsider like an astronaut floating through.
Watching the dance beneath the tall trees fed by the spring, a cool night breeze blowing and 4th of July fireworks exploding overhead, I was swept back many years to a time in America's past. The families, the cowboys and their wives and girlfriends, the young teen boys dressed up hopefully. It all came rushing in and for a second I got choked up and felt a tear in my eye. It is good to know America still exists in hidden places.
More tomorrow my friends...