Bruiser Tour 2012

Sunday

Or was it buffalo hunters and Indian soldiers?

Same difference.

Today I read a monument to one of the pioneers of the region in the 1850’s that speaks of his efforts to settle and civilize the area in the face of “hostile Apaches”. But for the life of me I can’t imagine what might have pissed them off.

Our driving itinerary today involved zigzagging south to the Rio Grande and following it east to Big Bend National Park. We visited Alpine, a character town with a university, then Marfa that had little to offer. I promised the Bruiser an oil change, and Marfa really wasn’t the place for it.

But we’re getting closer. I bought the oil and I now have a wrench that fits the drain plug.

Neither is Marfa the place to shop for a gently used vehicle

On the road south to Presidio the scenery started to get quite interesting with rocky bluffs appearing, exotic desert vegetation that I never tire of, and much evidence of old communities with forgotten ambitions that came and went. Shafter is one such place, a self styled ghost town with a dozen or so inhabitants. Rachel Jones introduced herself to me as one of them. (She said there were six of them in church this morning). A retired park warden, she is a custodian of this place and quite proud of it. She showed me the shattered old brick houses, the remains of the silver mining industry, the cemetery with unmarked crosses (and six little ones all from the same family that were victims of some kind of epidemic), and a little brick building which houses the history of Shafter in photos and stories. I was honoured to have had such a tour. Thank you, Rachel Jones.

My first glimpse of the Rio Grande stopped me in my tracks. Literally. As did many vistas I smacked into today, and accordingly my progress was kind of slow. But as I was framing the shot I realized there were people in the river and a car parked on the north shore. Either folks on this side decided to take a dip with their clothes on, or someone on the other side (we’re talking Mexicans here) was in the process of immigrating. If only I had been packin’ heat I could have done something about it, but decided instead that I should take off before they took exception to me standing there with a camera.

The Rio Grande. In the middle of the photo there is a head in the water, presumably attached to a new immigrant.

Rachel related a story about her truck breaking down and the U.S. Border Patrol happened  by.
“We may or may not be able to help you, Ma’m”, says one. “But first I must ask, are you an Illegal”?

“No”, she replied. “I live here”.

“Then I’m sorry”, he said.

Another fellow told me about once camping beside the river near a rusty gate in the fence. They were kept awake all night by the squeaking of the thing swinging open. What was really needed was a turnstile and a counter to at least keep inventory.

Down the road (on Hwy 170 if you are following this) Lajitas is a remade little town in an historic area, but its present claim is a nice green golf course in this water-starved desert, high end restaurants and lodging and a tourist version of a cowboy town boardwalk.

The Bruiser at the Rio Grande!

Terlinguas is somewhat more authentic. Here is another of a series of ghost towns that has been resettled and reincarnated for its funk-value with funny little shops and saloons. Rachel told me to make a point of sitting on the porch at the general store along with everyone else and passing the time of day. So I did, and met a couple of bikers from San Antonio that were doing the reverse of my ride, just coming out of Big Bend and speaking highly of the experience.

A 1 H.P. ATV 4x4 

Eco-friendly, bio-fuel, organic exhaust emissions. But not equipped for highway travel. Note the solid line in my lane which prevented me from legally passing for about 5 miles.

I must confess that I hadn’t heard of this national park prior to this trip. But the setting is very familiar to anyone who has ever watched a western movie. These hills have appeared on the silver screen innumerable times over the decades as a backdrop for cowboys and Indians that chased and shot at each other for one reason or another while we stuffed popcorn in our yaps. We even happened upon one most interesting little Mexican style village that was actually the movie set of “The Streets of Laredo” with James Garner, as well as a half dozen other films.

The Streets of Loredo. Not.

Roads led me to the Chisos Basin, high in the hills and another gobsmack in the scenery domain. A black bear sauntered across the road in front of me as I approached it, then regarded me thoughtfully from his new vantage point probably wondering what festering vittles I might have in my saddle bags. This campground sits in the middle of a crown of jagged and colourful peaks. The sun settled magnificently into the notch behind me as I write this, with Venus hanging like a splendid jewel over the western horizon.

The view off my back porch

Monday So Far

There is a bumper sticker that advises “Don’t drive faster than your angels can fly”. Similarly, a traveler should be advised not to travel faster than his appreciation for the place he is in can be absorbed and assimilated. Life should not be lived in fast forward.

So I slowed down today and decided to pack leisurely and take a morning hike in these hills. Signage at the trail entrance warned about mountain lions, bears and hostile Apaches and suggested that when confronted one should stand tall, make a lot of noise and throw rocks, sticks, cigarettes and spare change. Sorry. I made the last one up.

Juiced up with a bellyful of water I set off for an hour or two. Apart from some skittering lizards the only wildlife encountered were a half dozen vultures soaring beautifully in lazy circles; their broad, white tipped wings hardly moving, ugly red heads like plucked chickens, and with hags’ eyes that regarded me with patience, vigilance and buzzardly hopefulness.

I will not speak more of the beauty of this environment until I can think of another term for “exotic desert vegetation”. However, you will not be spared further descriptions of the geology encountered on the long road ahead. Suffice it to say it was a beautiful thing to just slow down and marinate in it today.  One thinks (and writes in one’s head if that is what one is inclined to do) rather differently in such a place and at slow speed, not being distracted negotiating tight corners or contending with the obscenities of freeways.

I met just one hiker on the trail, a young researcher of astrophysics at a California university. Her area of study is investigating the probable conditions at the moment of the beginning of the universe. She was ‘skipping out’ from her work to take some time for herself, but we rationalized that one must study the conditions at the endpoint of cosmological evolution such as might be found in the high desert in Texas if one is to understand its beginnings. Certainly worthy a footnote and a citation, we agreed.

We laughed and moved on in opposite directions. Then something struck me that was profound enough, at least in my own mind, to cause me to stop walking for a moment to digest. Permit me to share it out loud and you may make of it what you will.

At successive points in our lives we find ourselves at moving endpoints of our own cosmomlogical evolution—that is to say, this, now, is the culmination of all the actions and conditions and events and decisions that conspired to bring us here. Everything comes from that which came before it. Therefore it is absolutely true that a study of the endpoint leads to a conceptualization of the Beginnings, and that it is a worthy investigation to conduct.

As I taught my weary students many times over the years, the universe began at The Big Bang and everything shaped and reconfigured itself as it rolled along. Now, at the centre of our own universe is this deep and personal thing that is called the Self which became what it is because of its origins and evolution. Where we now locate ourselves on the road in our own particular journeys is a consequence of all the paths taken so far. And it is not a trivial thing to consider.

"Remember backwards, live forwards" the saying goes. Not to live in the past, in other words, but certainly to acknowledge, appreciate, even celebrate, but not regretting or wishing to revise or foolishly attempting to relive it. But living well in this moment of the journey must certainly command an understanding of what paths delivered us here.

The picture I see daily on the start up screen on this computer is of Grandpa’s First Hold of little Olive as a newborn. Looking into her eyes is a window into the beginning of that personal universe.

In the beginning...

And the only one who can see mine, is me.