Once the van got going I had a better day, although I never forgot about another possible stranding in the middle of nowhere, and today was a hot day.
Rio Grande Village was my first stop, a small camping area along the Rio Grande on the park's eastern side. The camp store attendant didn't seem too friendly but he told me where Boquillas Canyon was and that it was closer to the store than the Hot Springs. I opted to see both.
I didn't do long hikes today because of the heat. It quickly climbed into the upper 80s by early afternoon and I had to change into shorts and sandals.
I climbed up to the overlook of the Rio Grande at the camping area. The river was shallow and narrow here, and there were spots where one could easily walk across the wet gravel to get to the other side. How easy it would be to cross over undetected...
But the views were beautiful. Toward Boquillas the canyon walls rise again on either side and the rio takes a bend and disappears between the limestone walls.
The casual river crossings are no longer allowed since 911 and the Mexican village of Boquillas has been suffering from the cut in tourist trade. But now the villagers have gotten smart: instead of hoping for Americans to cross over, they cross over to our banks and leave their souvenirs for us to look at. Money is placed in a plastic bowl: $6 for a walking stick, $10 for petriefied wood, $5 for a chunk of crystal rock. A few men, a red-shirted man in particular, watched me as I walked down toward Boquillas canyon. I could tell he had binoculars.
A man's voice echoed in the canyon. It was the "Singing Mexican," Victor, who was on the US side singing. His voice was lovely but he stopped and excused himself as he walked across back to the Mexican side through the river that just came up to his knees. What was it about me that scared him? That I had a camera?
I didn't bring any money with me on my hike (I never bring money, just an ID in case something happens to me) but I would have bought something from the people. A reed hut was on the banks of the Mexican side where the men waited for tourists, but they watched us first for possible sales.
Mexicans who are caught crossing over are deported back via Presidio, a 100-mile voyage. Americans who cross into Mexico here and are caught re-entering the country can face up to a $5000 fine and two years in prison. Somehow I don't find the punishment equal.
The canyon was pretty and watching the Mexicans was nice, too and somehow I felt a little drained that I couldn't help them financially. There was nothing I needed or wanted, but I should have plucked in a dollar or so into the plastic bowl. Boquillas is practically a ghost town now that the casual border crossings that were so traditional in Big Bend Park (and which older tour guides even suggested doing) are no longer allowed. These casual meetings of North and South help cultures unite and understand each other better, and what better place than in Big Bend to come together, just like the river does to the natural surroundings?
I saw pretty dune flowers, a few lizards and talked to Canadian cyclists before I headed back out toward the Hot Springs. Boquillas Canyon at one point was a popular spot for Americans to cross into Mexico for cheap tacos into town, but now signs warning of illegal entry are everywhere, and the USBP patrol the park's roads.
Hot Springs was another nice stop: to see the old canyon store and post office and to walk down to the white banks of the hot springs area. The sand here is coated in white from the sulphites. The springs itself are warm and lack the smell of rotten eggs, but the spring isn't very big. A party of six would crowd the bricked-off warm water before it flows into the river. A few hippies hung out at this rest area and I didn't linger for long as it was getting too hot and there was little shade away from the river.
The van had started successfully four times now and that gave me courage to drive on. And boy did I drive. From Rio Grande Village to Castolon it's over 60 miles one-way. I turned off on the Ross Maxwell Scenic Highway to see some of the most spectacular desert views sofar in Big Bend. The lava formations of the Chisos Mountains are obvious here. The red bands of rock uplift, the rock dikes, the ancient ash flows and the broken magma are visible along the road.
There are plenty of turn-off on this road for drivers to pull over and read historical markers or to hike a short trail to a canyon view or vista view. The 30-mile drive took me over an hour before I made it to Santa Elena.
I got to Santa Elena at 4:30 and the sun was dropping low over the Mexican side. Canoers and kayakers were still floating down the river. I found the trail that went into the canyon and disappeared for another hour to find photographic marvels amiong the rock. Just as the hiking guide mentioned, this 1.7 mile round-trip hike is "the prettiest in the park"
I was alone here. Malards and ravens flew overhead, their sounds echoing off the canyon walls. It was peaceful. I waded a few feet into the river to get a few good river shots. Then I turned around and walked out. I felt newborn, like after a baptism. This river truly is inspiring in all its colorful splendor. It's a must-see for any Big Bend visitors.
I got to witness the sun set over Big Bend with the Chisos to my north. It was dark when I got back on the road to Study Butte, and made a left turn here toward the town, officially leaving Big Bend after three days of adventure and thrill. I had heard wonderful stories about Terlingua, Lajitas and Presidio and now wanted to see the rest of West Texas.
I pulled over into the first RV park I saw, which was at the edge of town and next door to the town Deli. A white dog sat in the parking lot and didn't budge at my arrival, neither head lights nor vehicle made him move. He only twinkled his eyes. I didn't want to travel any further in the dark and miss the rest of West Texas. I was going to spend the night here somewhere, anywhere.
I stopped my van at the RV park office and asked if I could stop here for the night. The owner, who was on the proch drinking beer with a few other guys, said "Sure, I'll charge you $5!"
What a deal that was, and the evening for me had just started. Even though I felt grimy and desert dirty, these guys welcomed me to their porch.
"Wanna beer?" asked Troy, the blonde bearded guy in the corner who is the grounds keeper, and before I could say sure I had a beer in my hand.
Scott, a leather-faced Marine from the Vietnam era, heard I was an Iraqi veteran and got into VA and current politics with me. I didn't want to talk about the war, but all the men were in awe of me and thanked me for my service. That certainly was an uplifter, but I don't want to spend the rest of my life referring to myself as an Iraqi War Veteran. (There are other tags I'd rather be known for). Nonetheless there is an invincible bond among veterans of all wars that I feel honored to be a part of. Tonight I was a part of this bond.
Scott left but I stayed to talk to Troy and Rich, a Vince Vaugn look-alike from Maine who comes down to this part of Texas in the winter. He works with disadvantaged girls and takes them on advetnure camps. All the men tonight, from Scott and Troy and Rich, all fell in love with the town and stayed. Scott stayed after visiting an old girl friend's parents in Terlingua. The relationship didn't last but his love for this open desert did, and he's been here for six years.
"We're going down the street to the Starlight Theatre bar for margaritas and burritos, would you like to come along?" asked Troy, and I went along.
The Starlight Theatre is a stop-over for tourists. A large crowd was inside, including one man wrapped in a long-length robe who reassured me he had pants underneath that robe. Women dressed in fine dining clothes stood on the patio, and here I was in two-day old clothes and hair and fit right on. I was now part of the underground local scene. I loved it!
Davis was the bartender, a 30-ish man in a French hat and brown t-shirt who quickly served everyone. He was in a chipper mood. The youngest of five children born of a Marine, he knew as a kid he would never join the military. His dad is now 67 years old and lives in Texas, but Davis travels from Oregon to Alaska to West Texas to work as a bartender or whatever brings in the money. He is a free spirit.
Troy showed me his dog's puppies, little border-collie/Heeler mixes that surely will make beautiful pets as adults. If I didn't already have two dogs I'd have taken the one male resembling a border collie, but they are super active dogs that need constant attention and exercise. And I already have two dogs and if I ever get a third dog, it would be a German shepherd dog I could train as a pup for search and rescue operations.
There are six dogs in this RV park/restaurant complex. The white dog I met in the beginning, "Bob," was abandoned here three years ago but has stayed on. Scott said he loves to hike with anyone who asks the dog if he wants to go along. What is Troy going to do with these six puppies?
"If I can't find them homes, I'll give them to the Mexicans who will take them into their own packs."
Rich and Troy showed me where they live: in the open air under a tin roof. Rich's bed is a sleeping bag on a mat. Troy lives the same away on the other side of the hut, with his dog and puppies in yet another separate kennel. All live under the West Texas Stars.
Beore the night was over I was invited to join the guys for a hike tomorrow afternoon and I consented. That would give me time in the morning to explore the towns along the way and take pretty photographs of the rustic buildings.
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