Deep, down in southwest Texas lies an area of land full of challenges; almost from the moment I entered its borders I was tested; emotionally, physically and mentally. This place, which appears to be just a small blip on maps of Texas, feels incredibly vast and intimidating when one is there. A swathe of desert plains surround mountains in the same vain as Saturn is encompassed by its rings. A land of extremes in both temperature and climate, Thermometers can easily read over 100 degrees as early as spring. It’s a dry heat, not an ounce of moisture in the air while the sun relentlessly leers down at you. The entire park is contained within the Chihuahuan Desert, the largest desert in North America. The Chihuahuan truly feels boundless. That is, until the southern most mountain range in the contiguous U.S. leaps out of the horizon, the Chisos mountains. This land, that borders two countries and lies at a crossroads of mountains and desert, was a place that would test me. A land that would leave me in awe of its beauty and respectful (and paranoid) of its dangers. This land was Big Bend National Park, a place that would serve as a sort of turning point on my journey. A prologue to what the rest of my journey would become as I moved on, between two oceans, across states and ever changing landscapes. As I made my way through these chapters in the great expedition we like to call life.
The majority of the journey from El Paso to Big Bend was full of unpleasantly and surprisingly long roads which would be eventually turn my previously placid stomach into a tar pit bubbling with anxiety and panic.
I had been playing it fast and loose with refueling Bucket on the drive. I was reluctant to commit as I watched the gas prices rise at each consecutive town that dotted the byway down the southern plains of Texas. Logic would dictate that when you notice gas prices increasing all the way to your destination you would stop and fill up, settling for a lesser evil. However, if you have been following along with these writings, you should be well aware logic is rarely a factor in my actions. At one point I did balk and added a few gallons of gas to Bucket, figuring that would be plenty, the park being only forty miles or so away at that point. While reluctantly spritzing inadequate quantities of petrol into Buck I either ignored or completed overlooked the fact that there may be driving to be done inside the park. The same goes with the fact that we would have to drive these same forty miles again upon departure.
My stomach churned hot, my dread increasing upon arriving to my destination which was merely the entrance to the park. The miles I had been counting down only led to the outer crust of Big Bend, from there it was over thirty more miles to the visitor center and another 20 twenty miles to my campsite after that. I could have gone back for gas, but the thought of doubling back down the long barren road that led to the park’s gate was too much. I decided to roll the dice and press on hoping that there would be minimal driving to be done within the park, a notion that, looking back, was laughably miscalculated.
The same road, hemmed in by flat, desert lands led past the gate, where a chipper park ranger told me that some campsites were already full. I hadn’t made any reservations online. Plan A was to camp out in the park. Plan B was nonexistent. It was hot inside Bucket and we made our way towards the visitor center, but the heat was not the only reason I was sweating. The prospect of running out of gas was stressful enough, add to that the idea that I might not have a campsite and would have to scramble to find a spot for the night, and my stomach, where I keep all my emotions, apparently, was now smoking and churning, doing its finest impression of Mount Vesuvius. The thought of leaving via that endless park road sleeping in a (hopefully safe) spot only to drive that forsaken road yet again the following day caused tummy rumblings that could have been measure on a Richter scale. I arrived at the visitor center and filled up on water, which would be a recurring theme in this desert environment. The ranger at the entrance had told me the Rio Grande campground (the same Rio Grande that I had met up with in northern New Mexico.) was the largest camping area and that I would have to go there to grab a site. My strife had eased some as I noted a small gas station down the road from the visitor center, upon entering the visitor center I would be further relieved to learn there was another station by the campground. Despite the stations fully embracing the idea of ‘price gouging’ I was just happy I wouldn’t be stranded in the desert with only coyotes and the odd Baylor University student on spring break for company, the student arguably being the scarier of the two. My many water bottles and containers full, I climbed into Bucket and began to reverse out of the parking lot…only for his engine to stall and quietly die in the same manner it had before the trip to the Chattanoogan repair shop. Hot pokers stabbed into my stomach and anxiety pushed sweat out of my cheeks in droves (most of my sweat is concentrated on my upper cheeks, I am truly blessed in the regard). I quickly attempted the tried and true technique of fixing something by turning it off and on again and found myself in luck as Bucket managed to rattle to life and rumble out of the visitor center parking lot.
From there it was another twenty miles to the campsite, where I closed my eyes and filled up on gas at a second egregiously priced gas station. I found a campsite and claimed my spot, leaving a tent and a small receipt to mark my territory and took the opportunity to breathe for what felt like the first time in half a day. Noting I still had a few hours until sunset I decided why not knock out one of the hikes I had researched.
I made my way back over to the visitor center and another twenty or so miles past that to reach the parking area for the Lost Mine Trail. On the way I passed by an ominous sign that cautioned passersby they were entering bear and mountain lion country. Not just one, but two blood thirsty apex predators! Technically we, as humans, are all apex predators as well. I don’t know about you, but while I’ll happily accept this moniker because it sounds badass, I hardly feel like I’m at the apex of anything let alone at preying on other animals. Passing by that sign depicting two large animals who could promptly rearrange my innards with lazy swipe of a razor studded paw, definitely put me back on edge. My stomach, which had quieted after obtaining gas and a campsite and snapping a few photos, now began to turn turbulent again.
It’s worth noting here that while I was very much on edge about mountain lions and tigers and bears, even sightings of these creatures are not overly common let alone encounters. As with many things in life using common sense and applied research (in this case backing away slowly while making yourself appear big seems to be the recommended action with black bears and cougars) can, quite literally, save your neck.
Bucket purred weakly as we crested the lofty road that led further into the Chisos mountains. I parked and grabbed my hiking bag and hat; also taking a small pocket knife in a futile effort of self-defense from the monstrous wildlife in the area. I imagine there was a great likely-hood of a bear or cougar being overcome with laughter than being scared off by the sight of me trying to be ferocious while brandishing what would look to these massive predators like a single pointy toe nail. The knife resided in my pocket for all of five minutes until I stopped to read a sign at the beginning of the trail. It gave precautionary tips about hiking in bear and mountain lion country. Advice about not hiking around sunset, or alone and keeping children close to adults. I was blatantly doing two of these at the time. My worries were physically manifested in the form of incessant fidgeting as I tossed the knife hand to hand (while it was closed, Mum, take it easy) and began flipping it open and closed over and over. Effectively making myself look like I was in a less greasy (and far more smelly) version of The Outsiders.
It was around this time when I was on edge from a long stress filled day and thoughts of terrible tooth filled maws waiting for a bite of Billy around every corner, that my brain decided to make a decidedly unwelcome contribution to my over all mental state. It began summoning up questions that I hadn’t burdened myself with since the first few nights on the road. Things such as “What the heck am I doing with my life” and “Was this all a mistake.” If you’ve never made yourself feel existential dread while also feeling the mortal peril of bear country I sincerely don’t recommend it. It’s essentially the opposite of having a “spa day.” This storm of stress nearly convinced me to bail on the hike and retire to the campsite, hopefully giving emotions a rest as they had received way more exercise than my body that day.
A few friendly chats with other hikers on the trail eased my anxiety, which I have to admit is impressively persistent. That stuff refuses to quit; I figure it must watch motivational videos or attend seminars. Eventually I arrived at the top of the Lost Mine Trail and was afforded lovely views of the surrounding mountains and the Chisos Basin visitor center where I would find myself early the next morning. It was the starting point of a hike that straddled the line between a day hike and an overnight backpacking trip: the South Rim trail.
While researching hikes in Big Bend (and clearly not researching how long the roads in the park were) I consistently found that the South Rim trail was a must do hike in the park. The loop trail can range from between 11 and 15 miles, it gains 2000 feet in elevation along the way and there is no water sources. Whatever water you carry in with you is all you have. This fact along with the thought of doing my first backpacking trip alone, except for the possible company of mountain lions and bears was intimidating. This may seem a bit strange as I’ve done plenty of solo hikes and had already spent weeks sleeping alone in random parkings lot around the country. Yet backpacking was different, it was uncharted waters. The unknown always appears scarier than things you are familiar with. Backpacking has always seemed to me to be the next big step into having more “serious” adventures and there was a lot to it that I didn’t know. It was not a bridge I wanted to cross alone, preferring to gain experience backpacking with someones who has done it before. Thus, I decided that I would wake up around dawn to ensure that I finished the hike before dark and that I wouldn’t be slogging through the high heat of midday for large portions of the hike. The South Rim seemed intimidating, a marathon of a hike under the burning sun and amongst (what I imagined to be) hordes of angry animals with a penchant for smelly, socially inept hikers. It was a hike in a strange land, an unknown road whose details I could only leave to my excitable imagination.
I woke up early and took my time cooking oatmeal and making my final preparations before the drive over to the trail head from my campsite. I was in less of a rush, hoping any particular animals that enjoyed hanging out on hiking trails around sunrise would make themselves scarce by the time I arrived.
Arriving at Chisos Basin, my recurring concerns about bears, panthers and giant man-eating spiders were quelled when I found myself entering the trail around the same time as a few older couples, who I exchanged pleasantries and hearty “good mornin’s” with. The sun eased my mind further as it painted the sky lighter and lighter shades of blue. This hike was intimidating, it was no joke, there were real dangers on that trail, but it was never going to be as scary as my mind made it out to be. I couldn’t just not hike. For the only fear that is greater than that of life and it’s monsters is my fear of missing out on truly living and enjoying life, just because I’m scared of a few (thousand) things. Besides, surely there would be some nice photos to capture along the hike.
Hiking’s most necessary evil, the notorious switchbacks, made up the first few miles of my day. I wound my way back and forth, slowly up the mountains that made up the early parts of the trail. Eventually, I arrived at a split in the trail and noting that I had already made good time I decided to add on a side trip to Emory Peak, the highest peak in Big Bend. It was about a mile and a half to get to the summit and back, but I decided I would have a snack on top of the peak which added a bit of pep to my many steps. The views from Emory were nice despite the top of the mountain having what I assume is meteorological equipment at the zenith. Antenna and solar panels took nothing away from the views out over the surrounding land and mountains of the Chisos. I clambered from rock to rock on top of the peak for a while snapping pictures and giving myself butterflies as I peered down at the formidable drops below.
I retraced my steps until I was back on the loop, the next major stop would be the south rim itself. Miles of trail that carved into the sides of mountains, led under blessed canopies, that blocked out the ever present sunshine, and up dry, stony riverbeds that eventually gave way to a small golden meadow, which I found particularly aesthetic. This meadow was the final step before the grand vista that is the South Rim. Around a mile of sheer cliffs provided me with massive open views of the canyon below. The land rippled with hills, small mountains and a host of different geological shapes and features that were probably created by natures testament to the power of time and patience: erosion.
I stopped to gap at the view and was greeted by a middle-aged couple who wasted no time in inviting me to have lunch with them. It took me a minute to realize these were one of the couples I passed early that morning who must have leap frogged me while I was tip toeing my way around the summit of Emory. They were extremely friendly and we chatted about everything under the sun from hikes and their kids to their plans for after Big Bend and mine. It was a totally unexpected and heart warmingly welcome experience as I had not eaten a meal (granted my handful of snacks didn’t exactly constitute a “meal” in the traditional sense) with anyone. It was a genuine and pleasant time which draws to mind feelings one might get while watching Bob Ross. I felt content and calm, a far-cry from the tempest of turbulent emotions of the past 24 hours. I wish I could tell you their names, but all I remember is that they were from Colorado and recommend doing the Travelers Loop hike in Baxter State Park in Maine (which I immediately added to my “to hike” list).
We exchanged “goodbyes” and “happy trails” the pair of them setting off while I hung around to wander the cliffs taking photos.
The rest of the hike was fairly uneventful, the heat continued to increase but I managed to get to the end portion of the hike that was fairly well covered by around 1:30. I fell at one point, banging up my hands and to my greater dismay my camera (which ended up being fine, thank goodness). I hadn’t been paying close attention to were I was stepping and fell hard. I leapt up checking the damage to both my camera and then my limbs. In my mind the blame lay fully on my hiking boots, despite the fact that I had taken my eyes off of where I was stepping. This would be akin to getting into a fender bender and blaming your car’s tires despite the fact that you were looking in the rearview mirror at that homeless man who looked suspiciously like Steve Buscemi.
I finished the trail around 3 and had a second, more traditional, lunch before hanging out in the Chisos Basin visitor center where I pestered a park ranger about how she got her job, as it is one of roughly seven hundred jobs I have considered pursuing in my future.
Afterwards I decided to head back towards my campsite, stopping along the way to do the short walk to Boquillas Canyon, which the Rio Grande flowed through. With the clouds blocking out the opportunity for any nice sunset pictures, I decided to go back to the campground and have an early dinner before working on some writing and picture editing. It was a quiet night, just what I needed. The next morning I grabbed a bit more gas before leaving the park, my sisters arrival date was getting ever closer and there was still some hiking to done in Texas.
While I only spent a few nights inside the borders of Big Bend, it was the first big, adventurous outing of the trip. It confronted me with arduous trails, beautiful sights and dark thoughts. I felt that upon leaving the park, having overcome these obstacles I was ready to really begin diving into the trip and getting the most out of it. Flinging myself into photography headfirst, attempting to become the best photographer I can be and maybe, just maybe, starting that “whole blog thing” I said I would start. There were still many unknowns out there, including backpacking, all waiting to be discovered, braved and possibly even conquered. The biggest unknown I have constantly looms in the distance, a massive storm cloud lancing down white and purple lighting, an ink black tornado tearing up the land underneath while a distance volcano belches fiery magma down its slopes. That unfortunate (and unlikely) combination of weather and natural disasters is how it feels for me to look towards my future. A large, dark, uncharted future, a shadow that falls across my mind reminding me of my lack of long term jobs, career path, or any general idea of where I’ll end up in a month let alone years down the line. There are lessons to be learned on the road and one of them I’m starting, very slowly (as is my nature) to pick up on, is that the unknown doesn’t have to be scary. Sometimes it can just be unknown, nothing more. The future is not something that will reveal itself all at once, but I figure maybe if I take it slow, one step at at time, one day at a time, one thought at a time, it might not feel so overwhelming. In fact it might begin to seem like something thats not worth constantly stressing about, instead something that is to be discovered and explored along the way. Heck, it might even make for some nice photographs.
