The Dune at Boquillas Canyon

I confess that there's not much to Boquillas Canyon. On foot, you don't get much of a view, because the river turns sharply 40 yards past the canyon mouth. It's nothing like Santa Elena, and there's frankly not much to do or really anywhere to go.

I vaguely recall being underwhelmed 25 years ago, although it might have been the weather then which was a lot hotter than this time. But there was, I recalled, a huge sand dune between the American shore and the rock wall behind, and I looked forward to climbing it again. But when we rounded the last turn on the path, there was no dune to be seen. Well, there was a pile of sand blown up against the rock wall but not the dune of my memories.

We walked down the path until it stopped at the entrance to the canyon. We found a spot to sit in the shade under a tree by the water's edge. And then Trudy and Ben spotted a rock in the river.

The two of them rolled up their pants and waded out to the rock and sat down with the Cretaceous wall of Mexico as a backdrop behind them. I took photos from the American side. When they waded back, I suggested to Ben that he climb that hill of sand and investigate the small cave at the top. It was not the dune that I had told him about ... but still.

A wind blew up just then and kicked the sand along the river into our faces. A cloud of yellow dust surrounded us and drifted in the direction of the rock wall behind us. We had to hold on to our hats, and I had to cover the camera until it stopped. Ben set off barefoot in the direction of the sand. I started taking pictures of him as he made his way.

At the foot of the hill, he stopped to reconnoiter. The sand was to his right, blazing in the midday sun. A tumble of boulders was to his left. He started up the sand but quickly changed his mind. Evidently the sand was hotter than his feet could bare, which is saying something. He began scrambling over the five-foot boulders heading to the top of the dune.

As I followed him thru the viewfinder, I realized I had misjudged the distance, and the hill was much larger than I had thought. He was dwarfed by it, and the cave at the top was clearly going to be a bigger destination than it originally seemed.

Yes, this was the dune I had remembered. It had just shifted a bit in the twenty-five years since I had stood here last. I guess sand dunes have a habit of doing that, don't they?

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Big Bend National Park

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At Rio Grande Village

In Rio Grande Village, we bought our lunch at a little store. We had a bag of chips big enough for the three of us, so we only needed to get some sandwiches and some drinks. So equipped, we drove down the Cottonwood- and Sycamore-lined road that ran from the store to a park with three picnic tables.

But three tables are not enough for this time of year. There was a couple sitting at one, another couple and an elderly parent at another and a family with many kids at the third. We had to settle for a shady spot under the Cottonwood trees.

We made a picnic there in the shade under the trees. It was hot in the sun, which was a bit of a welcome contrast to the chilly wind that blew during our lunch on the South Rim the day before. In the shade, the breeze that rustled the leaves far above us was glorious.

We ate our sandwiches and chips. We drank our drinks. I think I saw a Tanager flitting in the branches of a tree not far away. Trudy saw a Road Runner at the far end of the grove. Woodpeckers pecked at the branches above us.

When we finished eating, Ben propped himself against the great grey trunk of one of the Cottonwood trees and took out his book to read. Trudy and I napped in the grass until the shade moved away from us and the heat of the sun woke us up.

Thus refreshed, we resumed our journey to Boquillas Canyon.

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Big Bend National Park

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Dugout Wells

On the road to Boquillas Canyon from the Basin, you descend into the desert and drive southeast. Halfway there, in the middle of the scrub and rock, off to the left as you drive, the green canopy of Cottonwoods stands out by itself.

You really can't miss something like that. The color effect is quite striking. There's all this red and brown and white and drab around you, and then BANG there's this bright green out there in the middle of nowhere.

We turned left off the main road and drove the short distance to Dugout Wells.

Here, in the middle of the desert, the Huisache trees were blooming, their yellow blossoms alive with the buzz of hundreds and hundreds of bees. Here, in the desert, water was running across the road. The desert air was already getting hot, but under the Cottonwoods, the light was filtered, the wind made the green leaves quake, and you could close your eyes and imagine yourself being somewhere far away.

I was here a quarter century ago or so, here at this very spot standing under these very trees. That large Cottonwood was certainly not as large then, and that branch had probably not fallen to the ground. But the windmill was here. And this path thru the trees was here. And I must have stood on this very spot. I wonder when the next time will be.

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Dugout Wells
Big Bend National Park

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Time to Make the Eggs

I was sitting on the patio outside the lodge restaurant writing and periodically looking out over the Basin, thru the Window and into the desert in the west.

The morning sun was behind Casa Grande, and the shadow of the Chisos lay on the desert floor. As I wrote, it receded, and sunlight crept down the sides of the mountains on either side of the Window. The Basin would soon be warm, but sitting there in the morning shadow, my fingers were cold.

A Canyon Wren flitted in the bushes. Maxican Jays flew about. Once in a while, the wind would kick up, reminding me of my fingers, reminding me that it was time to go back to the hotel room and make the eggs.

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Back From the South Rim

We sat on the South Rim 2500 feet above the desert, sheltered from the wind, resting our weary bones. We set our fanny packs and Camelbak on the rocks. We drank our drinks and snacked our snacks. We laid back and closed our eyes. And soon it was time to go.

There are two trails between the Basin to the South Rim, one that winds around the west side of Emory Peak thru Laguna Meadows and a second thru Boot Canyon on the east. Since we took the first one up, we decided to take the second one down.

Of the two trails, Boot Canyon was the best. The vistas were better. The trail was more varied. And of course, we were hiking downhill. But the best part was along the canyon floor. Upper Boot Canyon Creek is usually dry, but the creek bed has been polished smooth by torrents that come infrequently but must roar when they do. The trail took us down into the middle of the dry creek. The forest climbed the slopes on either side.

In a few places, we saw pools of clear water. We interrupted a stag on his way for a drink. He watched us from a distance, slowly working his way into the underbrush as we passed. And we came to a place where a huge boulder had long ago fallen from the heights — a house-sized, flat-faced cube sitting in our way.

The hiking here was easy, as the creek was clear of debris and easy to walk on. And as we went, we saw more pools of water here and there, which made this side of the mountain seem more friendly, more gentle that the side we had ascended. But it was here that my feet began to hurt.

It didn't bother me at first, but eventually I started catching myself focusing on the pain. I would change the subject by looking into the woods or a clear pool, but as we passed the halfway point, more and more my focus would snap back to my feet.

Ben was in the lead. (Trudy had led on the way up.) He would get ahead of us regularly, just out of sight or around a bend, and then he'd sit and wait, hopping up and dashing off again just before we reached him. Trudy probably would have dashed off with him, but she knew I was lagging, and I knew there was no way my hurting feet would support a faster pace.

It was somewhere about this point that my sore feet began hurting so much that they were all I could think about. The little blooming things on the ground, the small pools of water, the song of the Canyon Wren ... these did little to distract me. The hike became a death march.

What was that guy in Austin thinking when he told us that padded socks don't really matter? What was I thinking when I listened to him? Oh my sore feet.

As we rounded the last major bend in the trail and a spectacular view of the Basin unfolded before us, the lodge buildings seemed so small. Oh my sore feet.

The path began to descend in steep switchbacks. With each step, the weight of my body pounded my feet against the rocky trail. The lodge buildings grew no closer. Our progress seemed to slow to a crawl. An endless eternity stood between us and our destination. And with that I fell into marathon mode, focused on nothing but each footstep.

But of course, that eternity passed, and we eventually found ourselves in the final stretch to our hotel room. The building was in sight. Third door on the left. Yet my feet hurt so badly that with less than 100 yards to go, I honestly didn't think I would make it.

And then we were home. I managed to wash a bit and to put on dry socks and comfortable shoes. I took some Tylenol. I got horizontal on the bed.

And that was that.

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Hiking back from the South Rim
Big Bend National Park

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To The South Rim

The sky was blue. The morning sun was still hidden. The Basin was still shrouded in shadow. There was a cool morning breeze coming down the mountainside. There were vistas to see. There were dry creeks tumbling down the slopes. There were animal trails winding into the underbrush. There were rocks and trees and stabby things.

I sometimes found myself standing still — gazing out over the tops of the Pines and Junipers or bending over some little blooming thing on the ground. With each step there was something else to study or contemplate. Before long, I was falling behind, but my intrepid companions would stop periodically and wait.

With each step, I was weighing the soreness in my legs. I had been dreading this day. If a little hike like the Window Trail could break my spirit, what would a 12-miler one do? So I was waiting for pain as we climbed higher and was preparing myself for the spot where we decided that I could turn back early if things didn't go well.

But things went well. So when we came to the junction, we just kept going.

We came to Laguna Meadows with its tall tufts of grass in broad open places. In another life not too far perturbed from this one, we might have over-nighted at the primitive camping sites here. But in this life, our style of camping is hardly primitive, and anyway our only gear was water and food enough for the day. And so we kept going.

The South Rim towers above the desert facing towards the Rio Grande far in the hazy distance. On this day, it was a harsh, wind-swept place, with great gusts bursting over the edge of the cliffs and threatening to blow my hat away. We briefly sat at the edge of the precipice, dangling our legs over the edge and staring out at the mountains and desert below, but the gusts and my hat and the camera looped over my shoulder and the two bottles of water in my fanny pack made for too many unpredictable variables, and like a nervous Nellie, I announced that I didn't want to sit so close. We took a few photographs and then found a low spot behind an old, gnarled Juniper tree and rested our weary bones (or was it just my bones that were weary?) and ate our peanut butter sandwiches.

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Hiking from the Basin to the South Rim
Big Bend National Park

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Tomorrow We'll Run

He knows when late afternoon has come. When it gets to be 4:30 or so, he comes into the study to remind me that it's almost time.

Let's go, he says, it's time. Even though it isn't quite.

He might bark or he might politely jump beside my chair. No, I'll tell him, not yet. And he'll look up briefly and then leave the room.

But when I stand up from my chair, he comes dashing back. And when I put on my shorts and tie my shoes, he's up on the bed beside me, nose in my face, hoping beyond hope that he'll get to go. Because it's that time of day, and he knows what the man does at 5:00 and it usually involves shorts, a pair of running shoes and a leash.

But today is a rowing day. How do I tell him that? Not today, I say, and he gives me a kiss on the nose.

I grab my wallet and keys, all part of the ritual he knows so well. I turn off the light in the bedroom and walk toward the front door. He dashes ahead of me, sliding on the slippery floor as he turns the corner in the living room.

When I get to the door, he is there waiting. Now comes the leash, he must be thinking. Instead, I gather my things and walk out the door alone.

He doesn't let his disappointment show. He just peers out the window beside the closed front door, his wide, dark eyes and black nose barely poking up above the low sill.

Certainly there must be some mistake. Surely he'll be coming back.

But today is a rowing day, little doggie. Tomorrow we'll run. I promise.

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The Call of the Chisos

Amid the desolation of the Chihuahuan desert, the Chisos Mountains rear their igneous faces and reach for the sky. Their dark slopes beckon, visible from almost everywhere in the park.

Come, they say. Come to where the air grows cool. Come to where trees and birds of ages past survive in ecological niches that have long since retreated from the flatter lands. The Alligator Juniper. The Mexican Weeping Juniper. The Texas Madrone. The Mexican Jays. The Canyon Wren. Come see them, come hear them, the mountains say.

From our vantage point in the desert, the mountains seem impenetrable, a wall of hard rock soaring above roughly rolling hills. Somewhere up there, the Window looks out to the west, and there are people standing up there on the slick, smooth stone looking down on the desert, down on us.

Trudy and Ben are waiting for me.

I'm on my stomach shooting pictures of a little yellow flower I spied growing beside a pinkish-red rock with the hazy face of Sierra Ponce on the distant horizon.

Trudy and Ben are waiting.

It has been a long day. They hear the Chisos calling. It's time to return to our little hotel room in the mountains.

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Big Bend National Park

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