I was up at 7:45am, a long sleep after getting to sleep at close to 3am. I walked across the park to use the Study Butte restroom behind the store and washed up. Troy, Rich and JoAnne were already waiting for me and together we drove down to Kathy's Kosmopolitan Kowgirl BBQ off TX170, a local hangout where a fire pit welcomes the earlybirds and around which we sat drinking our morning coffee. I met an older man riding his bike from Sierra Vista, who had been here two weeks. I never got his name but he was a friendly sort.
"When you first come here you fall in love with the area but after a few weeks you want to move on" he said. "I suggest you get yourself a 18' and drive around until you find a place you really like. This place gets old real fast."
The guys helped JoAnne pack her belongings and moved her into her new rental, a lovely little adobe house overlooking east into Big Bend's Chisos Mountains. Tile floors and desert flora mark her new little place. She could walk around naked with no neighbors getting in an uproar.
I helped unpack her stuff from three trucks, but I left when the guys went back to pack up three more vehicles. With a heavy heart I moved on; we hugged and bidded eachother well.
My next stop was Lajitas. I wanted to stop by the old Trading Post and find out what happened to Clay Henry III, the beer-drinking goat made so popular back in the 1990s. I met a couple from San Antonio, Mary and Frank, who invited me to ride with them on their golf cart to the goat's old pen, now empty, and the deserted Ocotillo Restaurant overlooking the river. We also made it down to the old cavalry post.
I went inside the Badlands Hotel to inquire about the old goat, literally, and the receptionist answered me kurtly with "The goat went back to Mexico about a month ago. Sorry!" And thus I went on. After that sad news I had no reason to stay at the overpriced resort, although the inside of the hotel was lavishly furnished in old rustic western style befitting the 1880s heydays of the rich and powerful.
It was 12:45pm before I drove off in direction of Presidio. Already behind schedule and still with a heavy heart, I departed the area to drive one of the most beautiful backroads in Texas: Farm Road 170 to Presidio. Next stop: an afternoon in the Mexican bordertown of Ojinga, or "OJ" by the locals.
The road kept getting more dramatic the further west I got from Lajitas. The tallest mountains were on the Mexican side of the river, which by now had become a trickle again. I stopped at every pullover and chatted with every traveler, from a group of elderly women who had been in Terlingua a day before me and knew the same hide-outs as I, to two men who were driving along the road toward the state park ranch. It was a vast and barren ruggedness in Mexico. My brakes were feeling the grade.
But the mountains did give way to more gentle hilltops the closer I got to Presidio and Fort Leaton. I stopped at the fort, admired its 1820 history, talked to some local kids, and moved on into Presidio.
A group of young Texans of Mexican descent lingered in the fort’s courtyard. They were well-behaved but looked bored. “How did you like Presidio?” asked me one young man.
“I haven’t been in it yet, I came from Terlingua” and the teens gave me an even more bored look. I was to find out later on why.
There wasn’t much to Presidio, just a lot of run-down trailers, abandoned adobes. The downtown was a block long of commercial stores with simple sidewalks. The only pretty part about the town was the sign on the town’s north end welcoming drivers to the town.
I had a hard time finding the parking lot to the bridge crossing and eventually settled with parking my van at the tax-free shop a half-mile from the border. It was a hot day and I was already feeling parched. The sun had reddened my exposed arms.
The two border guards seemed suspicious of me traveling alone across the border. The pedestrian walk was one-way and no one was on it. A lone man crossed later and I met him half-way; he told me where to go in town. The river below looked small and narrow, much like I’ve seen it in New Mexico.
And once in Ojinaga, I was disappointed. It was the first dirty town I have come across in my crossings, and nothing looked inviting. It was more of what was in Presidio. Trash littered the streets, broken-down cars lined the lots, stray dogs and dusty people stared at me. I didn’t get a welcoming feeling at all. The man on the bridge told me to head up the hill toward the town church and that was my destination. That was a 30-minute walk up dusty streets.
The longer I lingered the more I liked the town for its dilapidation. The streets reminded me of what I saw of Iraqi villages from the air. Everyone was inside because of the heat, and looked at me through their front windows. What was I doing in town, walking around with a camera? Asked me one young girl who spoke perfect English. When she asked me where I was from, I simply replied “From Texas!” since my van was parked there.
The prettiest part of the town was indeed the hilltop with the plaza and church. A stray young dog, a puppy with disheveled fur looking for food walked about, wanting to come close to people but yet scared. Again I should have taken some dog food across, I still have three cans. Shoeshiners worked on two men’s boots. A child sold balloons in the plaza and sat in the balloon’s shade to stay cool. A book sale under a canvas was underway, but otherwise the plaza was quiet. Hardly anyone was around.
A horse was tied up behind a building on the north side of town, with a view of the lush green valley below. That is where the town became interesting, seeing the mountains in Texas to the north and the valley inbetween. Poor people walking or staggering down the streets, a homeless woman hidden on a street corner holding her few possessions, and children playing in back yards now became apparent the later it got.
I was getting thirsty and walked into the “Pink Pig” sports bar at the corner of the plaza. An “Open” sign was lighted on the window and I walked inside. There were no other customers and I asked meekly “Esta abierto?” and the young man cleaning the bar counter assured me they were. Another young man was mopping the tile floor. The Cruz Azul-Chivas soccer game was on the flat-screen TV. Chivas, I learned from Julio the young bartender, was the state team from Jalisco, where he was from. He moved up here when his father was transferred with the telecommunications company he works for.
Bras of various cup sizes and panties lined the ceiling. I learned later those wre from table-top dancers
I hadn’t spoken much Spanish yet on this trip and today was my first attempt. I had forgotten so much of my Spanish 101 or 202 from college, and I was ashamed as many words I once knew. Julio spoke no English. He’d never been in Texas. But we liked each other; he smiled at me a lot, told me I was a very sentimental, kind woman. He even gave me his phone number on part of a bill. (What was I going to do with that? I could barely speak at all with him in my broken Spanish)
Customers didn’t come into the bar until 8-9pm, said Julio. An older couple sat up front but left after a beer or two. Julio made popcorn and served me a bowl, with picante sauce on the side. The sauce was to go over the popcorn; it was quite tasty but also spicy, prompting me to order more beers than I wanted or needed. It was getting dark outside but I didn’t care; the longer I stayed the more people came in, until around 7pm four college boys from Sul Ross came in and English dominated the bar. Julio watched from afar.
The boys, said Travis, the blond who sat next to me, come down all the time from Alpine. It’s only an 80-mile drive. The others introduced themselves but I was in the outbound mode because of the time, and I worried about my van being in a dark area because the duty-free shop closes at 6pm and it was well after 7pm. The town, said Travis, is safe although two murders happened in town that officials would rather not publicize.
When I left the bar and stepped back into town, I was like in a different world. There were people in the square, music played and more people were lingering on the benches, including one older woman from Odessa whose husband hails from Ojinaga. She told m to stay a while as life was just beginning in town. I would have had I not been so worried about my van, and at night a woman with a camera looks different.
I landed on an unpaved side street on my way back to the border, a street with more stray and mean dogs, cars cruising by with teens with sex on their mind. I still get catcalls from Mexicans.
“How long were you in Mexico?” asked the border agent.
“Three hours and fifty minutes.”
“What did you do in Mexico?”
“Walked around and took photographs.” What else was I to say? And what was the agent expecting me to answer with? Perhaps there is something I don’t know about that agents gossip concerning solo female travelers into Mexico with cameras. My intentions were pure and harmless. I went over to learn more about Mexicans and I came back to the American side wishing I was still over there. I am now convinced that I want to visit the heart of Mexico soon. I don’t just want to visit border towns, but the hill towns, mountain towns and seaside towns of the country. There is something simplistic about Mexican peoples that have me fascinated. Like so many other countries of lesser development, the people know how to live and be happy.
Presidio at night was a dead town. Unlike its Mexican counterpart, no one lingered anywhere as there is no plaza in town to hang out at. Streets are dark and dusty just as they are during the day. There was nothing in town for me other than a spot at the Loma Paloma RV park. I was hungry from all the walking but went to bed with an empty stomach after working on some photographs.
"When you first come here you fall in love with the area but after a few weeks you want to move on" he said. "I suggest you get yourself a 18' and drive around until you find a place you really like. This place gets old real fast."
The guys helped JoAnne pack her belongings and moved her into her new rental, a lovely little adobe house overlooking east into Big Bend's Chisos Mountains. Tile floors and desert flora mark her new little place. She could walk around naked with no neighbors getting in an uproar.
I helped unpack her stuff from three trucks, but I left when the guys went back to pack up three more vehicles. With a heavy heart I moved on; we hugged and bidded eachother well.
My next stop was Lajitas. I wanted to stop by the old Trading Post and find out what happened to Clay Henry III, the beer-drinking goat made so popular back in the 1990s. I met a couple from San Antonio, Mary and Frank, who invited me to ride with them on their golf cart to the goat's old pen, now empty, and the deserted Ocotillo Restaurant overlooking the river. We also made it down to the old cavalry post.
I went inside the Badlands Hotel to inquire about the old goat, literally, and the receptionist answered me kurtly with "The goat went back to Mexico about a month ago. Sorry!" And thus I went on. After that sad news I had no reason to stay at the overpriced resort, although the inside of the hotel was lavishly furnished in old rustic western style befitting the 1880s heydays of the rich and powerful.
It was 12:45pm before I drove off in direction of Presidio. Already behind schedule and still with a heavy heart, I departed the area to drive one of the most beautiful backroads in Texas: Farm Road 170 to Presidio. Next stop: an afternoon in the Mexican bordertown of Ojinga, or "OJ" by the locals.
The road kept getting more dramatic the further west I got from Lajitas. The tallest mountains were on the Mexican side of the river, which by now had become a trickle again. I stopped at every pullover and chatted with every traveler, from a group of elderly women who had been in Terlingua a day before me and knew the same hide-outs as I, to two men who were driving along the road toward the state park ranch. It was a vast and barren ruggedness in Mexico. My brakes were feeling the grade.
But the mountains did give way to more gentle hilltops the closer I got to Presidio and Fort Leaton. I stopped at the fort, admired its 1820 history, talked to some local kids, and moved on into Presidio.
A group of young Texans of Mexican descent lingered in the fort’s courtyard. They were well-behaved but looked bored. “How did you like Presidio?” asked me one young man.
“I haven’t been in it yet, I came from Terlingua” and the teens gave me an even more bored look. I was to find out later on why.
There wasn’t much to Presidio, just a lot of run-down trailers, abandoned adobes. The downtown was a block long of commercial stores with simple sidewalks. The only pretty part about the town was the sign on the town’s north end welcoming drivers to the town.
I had a hard time finding the parking lot to the bridge crossing and eventually settled with parking my van at the tax-free shop a half-mile from the border. It was a hot day and I was already feeling parched. The sun had reddened my exposed arms.
The two border guards seemed suspicious of me traveling alone across the border. The pedestrian walk was one-way and no one was on it. A lone man crossed later and I met him half-way; he told me where to go in town. The river below looked small and narrow, much like I’ve seen it in New Mexico.
And once in Ojinaga, I was disappointed. It was the first dirty town I have come across in my crossings, and nothing looked inviting. It was more of what was in Presidio. Trash littered the streets, broken-down cars lined the lots, stray dogs and dusty people stared at me. I didn’t get a welcoming feeling at all. The man on the bridge told me to head up the hill toward the town church and that was my destination. That was a 30-minute walk up dusty streets.
The longer I lingered the more I liked the town for its dilapidation. The streets reminded me of what I saw of Iraqi villages from the air. Everyone was inside because of the heat, and looked at me through their front windows. What was I doing in town, walking around with a camera? Asked me one young girl who spoke perfect English. When she asked me where I was from, I simply replied “From Texas!” since my van was parked there.
The prettiest part of the town was indeed the hilltop with the plaza and church. A stray young dog, a puppy with disheveled fur looking for food walked about, wanting to come close to people but yet scared. Again I should have taken some dog food across, I still have three cans. Shoeshiners worked on two men’s boots. A child sold balloons in the plaza and sat in the balloon’s shade to stay cool. A book sale under a canvas was underway, but otherwise the plaza was quiet. Hardly anyone was around.
A horse was tied up behind a building on the north side of town, with a view of the lush green valley below. That is where the town became interesting, seeing the mountains in Texas to the north and the valley inbetween. Poor people walking or staggering down the streets, a homeless woman hidden on a street corner holding her few possessions, and children playing in back yards now became apparent the later it got.
I was getting thirsty and walked into the “Pink Pig” sports bar at the corner of the plaza. An “Open” sign was lighted on the window and I walked inside. There were no other customers and I asked meekly “Esta abierto?” and the young man cleaning the bar counter assured me they were. Another young man was mopping the tile floor. The Cruz Azul-Chivas soccer game was on the flat-screen TV. Chivas, I learned from Julio the young bartender, was the state team from Jalisco, where he was from. He moved up here when his father was transferred with the telecommunications company he works for.
Bras of various cup sizes and panties lined the ceiling. I learned later those wre from table-top dancers
I hadn’t spoken much Spanish yet on this trip and today was my first attempt. I had forgotten so much of my Spanish 101 or 202 from college, and I was ashamed as many words I once knew. Julio spoke no English. He’d never been in Texas. But we liked each other; he smiled at me a lot, told me I was a very sentimental, kind woman. He even gave me his phone number on part of a bill. (What was I going to do with that? I could barely speak at all with him in my broken Spanish)
Customers didn’t come into the bar until 8-9pm, said Julio. An older couple sat up front but left after a beer or two. Julio made popcorn and served me a bowl, with picante sauce on the side. The sauce was to go over the popcorn; it was quite tasty but also spicy, prompting me to order more beers than I wanted or needed. It was getting dark outside but I didn’t care; the longer I stayed the more people came in, until around 7pm four college boys from Sul Ross came in and English dominated the bar. Julio watched from afar.
The boys, said Travis, the blond who sat next to me, come down all the time from Alpine. It’s only an 80-mile drive. The others introduced themselves but I was in the outbound mode because of the time, and I worried about my van being in a dark area because the duty-free shop closes at 6pm and it was well after 7pm. The town, said Travis, is safe although two murders happened in town that officials would rather not publicize.
When I left the bar and stepped back into town, I was like in a different world. There were people in the square, music played and more people were lingering on the benches, including one older woman from Odessa whose husband hails from Ojinaga. She told m to stay a while as life was just beginning in town. I would have had I not been so worried about my van, and at night a woman with a camera looks different.
I landed on an unpaved side street on my way back to the border, a street with more stray and mean dogs, cars cruising by with teens with sex on their mind. I still get catcalls from Mexicans.
“How long were you in Mexico?” asked the border agent.
“Three hours and fifty minutes.”
“What did you do in Mexico?”
“Walked around and took photographs.” What else was I to say? And what was the agent expecting me to answer with? Perhaps there is something I don’t know about that agents gossip concerning solo female travelers into Mexico with cameras. My intentions were pure and harmless. I went over to learn more about Mexicans and I came back to the American side wishing I was still over there. I am now convinced that I want to visit the heart of Mexico soon. I don’t just want to visit border towns, but the hill towns, mountain towns and seaside towns of the country. There is something simplistic about Mexican peoples that have me fascinated. Like so many other countries of lesser development, the people know how to live and be happy.
Presidio at night was a dead town. Unlike its Mexican counterpart, no one lingered anywhere as there is no plaza in town to hang out at. Streets are dark and dusty just as they are during the day. There was nothing in town for me other than a spot at the Loma Paloma RV park. I was hungry from all the walking but went to bed with an empty stomach after working on some photographs.
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