12.) Prelude to an Addiction....Jesus Doesn't Sing During Sandstorms.....

     My elation is stymied the next morning.  My back is worse than ever.  I manage to pull myself out of my tent but when I kneel back down to roll up my sleeping bag my body won’t cooperate. I just can't do it.  Physical collapse leads to mental and eventually emotional collapse.  I curse my body for failing me again.  A string a expletives that would make a hangman blush streams passed my lips and into the still desert air. I bloody my knuckles pummeling the ground and weep like a child, like a little girl suffering her first bee sting.  Inconsolable wailing.  Not so much from the pain, but from the doubt the pain conjures up.  “Maybe I can’t do this”, I think. “Maybe I’m too old and fragile already.  I’ll have to move back in with my parents, forget about my odyssey, and indefinitely remain an aggressively mediocre nothing.” Drama queen tantrum in full swing now, I scream, “What the FUCK!? I don’t ask for much, so why!? huh? Why can’t I have a body that works!?  FUCK YOU, YOU PIECE OF FUCKING SHIT!”  I kneel there, with my forehead on the ground and my ass in the air and just cry. Defeat, complete and devastating.  The lowest of the low.  Eventually, it subsides,I tell myself to quit being such a fucking pussy and pull my shit together.  It takes me hours to break camp and when I finally do, I head right back to the hot springs to soak.  

Hot Springs Trail

Again, the back and forth hot and cold loosens up my back and while I still can, I hike the 1.4 mile loop that runs right past the spring.  It leads up a ridge and over looks the Rio Grande and the hot spring itself.  Flaky limestone and sad little cacti hug the ground making the most of what little resources are available in the desert.  I can see for miles over the barren hills of Mexico’s borderlands. Hiking, being upright, my back can handle.  It even seems to alleviate some of the tension there so I hurry over to hike the Boquillas Canyon before it seizes up again.  

Hot Springs Trail

Along the way, I notice how prevalent a presence the border patrol has.  They are everywhere.  In SUVs that appear to be cop cars when they appear in my rearview, but the thick green stripe along the side gives them away when they speed around me.  I will continue to see a lot of them as the days pass.  

Boquillas Canyon is on the eastern most side of the park and when I arrive at the trailhead, it’s the windiest day in the history of humanity.  I’m able to hike a mile or so into the canyon, and it is impressive.  It’s insane what a little water and a few billion years can do.  As magnificent as the canyon is, it’s difficult to fully appreciate in this wind.  I try to venture deeper into the canyon, but I’m constantly forced to stop by the sandstorm building all around me.  I turn to face down wind so I take the brunt of the gusts in the back.  So strong is the wind that it rips my sunglasses clean off my face and I have to chase them toward the water.  The backs of my legs sting as sand is pelted against them, so hard that it makes me wince.  I recover my sunglasses and escape the canyon with only minor abrasions and surface wounds. 

Boquillas Canyon

     En route to the trailhead I step over a rock, scrawled across it in permanent marker are the words “Donations for the Singing Mexican Jesus.”  The savior is nowhere to be found; singing, Mexican or otherwise. I’m later informed that the wind was due in large part to a cold front coming through the park.  “Well god damn, that cold front had a middle and a back end too!” My campsite for the night, Terlingua Abajo, is clear across the park and I point the jeep in that direction with the hope of arriving before dark.  

The sun is setting as I take the Ross Maxwell Scenic Drive.  A 30 mile winding road through the desert at the west end of the park.  Up and around buttes and mesas, down and through valleys and floodplains.  Behind the black silhouette of the landscape, the sky slowly fades from yellow to pink to red to an electric purple. I feel more cowboy than ever, riding off into the sunset. 

     Camp tonight is a third of the ways down a 16 mile dirt road.  It’s dark when I arrive and as windy as ever.  Pitching my tent solo, in hurricane force winds is not my forte and I resign myself to sleeping in the jeep.  

The next morning, surprisingly refreshed and well rested for a night spent in a car, I cruise the the remainder of the 16 mile dirt track, out of the park and into the small town of Terlingua.  They call it a ghost town, but it’s had a revival of sorts as of late.  All sorts of hippies, outcasts and degenerates have descended upon it to give it the feeling of a commune.  A sense of apart-ness, shielded from the rigors of a world that seems so far off the very idea of it fades away into the ether.  

I stop for lunch at the Starlight Theater.  Back in Terlingua’s heyday, the Starlight was the social hub of the town.  Plays were preformed, dances were held, and bands played all without a roof on the place, hence the Starlight Theater.  It’s been renovated, roofed, and turned into a restaurant and bar. I grab a stool and order a burger and a beer.  They have Big Bend brand beer on tap, and while the golden ale I try isn’t bad, it’s hardly worth the four dollars they charge for it.  I think the ambiance is factored into the price.  An empty stage looms against the back wall of the place.  A lone cowboy strums an acoustic guitar amidst the tables full of patrons.  Between songs he takes deep pulls from a still-frosty pint glass filled with amber liquid.  Eventually, he informs the crowd he’ll be taking a short break.  His breaks are impeccably timed to coincide with the emptying of his pint glass, I don’t think this is a coincidence.  

He parks his ample frame on the bar stool next to me and sets his empty glass on the bar.  No words are exchanged between him and the bartender as she grabs and refills his pint suggesting a familiarity he has with the establishment.  He tips his now full glass at the bartender, takes another long slug and asks me how I’m doing.  My burger arrives right on cue, with wide eyes and high eyebrows I reply, “very well”, as I pull the plate to me.  “And you?”

“Just livin’ life man, disappearing in my little corner of the world you know?  Ahh, you don’t know, you still got one of those things,” he says, referring to my iPod.

“Yeah, it remembers things for me.”  We shoot the shit for a few minuets, I with my burger, he with his beer, until he excuses himself to reclaim his guitar and fill the place once again with a mellow sound and relaxed air of a small town where deadlines need not be met and schedules need not be kept. 

While I finish my lunch, I eavesdrop on conversations and learn that theres a birthday party tonight for one of the waitresses.  Everyone, seems to know everyone else.  Both a blessing and a curse of a small town, depending on your proclivities.  I thank the bartender and wander outside.  

      They call Terlingua a historic ghost town, and I can see why.  Outside of the Starlight and the shop next door selling an ungodly amount of tourist crap, everything is either shut down or boarded up.  Shutters hang limply from windows, whose glass is cracked, broken, or missing all together.  The doors that aren't rotted through are padlocked and shut tight.  The whole place has a slightly creepy vibe, but this is the sort of thing I’ve hit the road to see.  Backwoods, out of the way places that you don’t hear about on the news.  Hidden gems found on accident that lead to experiences that could never be planned.

  On the porch of an abandoned building theres a couch with a trunk in front of it, like a coffee table. I flop down onto the sofa, put my feet up and take in the view.  Dusty scrubland backed by the faint shadow of mountains.  The overcast sky adds to the feeling of being in the opening scenes of a teenage slasher film.  Stranded in the middle of nowhere in a small, scarcely populated town.  Fortunately, the locals seem welcoming to outsiders, but I still wont be investigating any bumps in the night in the company of any bosomy blondes.  

   My trip is barley a week old, but it’s already brewing up thoughts of the “why’d you wait so long to do this?” and the “why wait to make yourself happy?” variety.  The freedom is intoxicating.  I could sit on this couch for the next 3 hours if I choose to, or I could get in the jeep and drive all night to a new place I’ve never been before...

11.) Up and In; in West Texas......And Unappreciated George Orwell References.....

Petrified Fire! the sign announces at the trail head.  The boulders that line the trail and the ridges on either side of me were once liquid in deep underground chambers.  Millions of years of shifting tectonic plates slowly pushed this liquid up through fissures and crevasses until it cooled near the earth’s surface.  Erosion of softer rocks and soil layers eventually exposed them, giving us the oddly shaped rock ‘plugs’ I’m looking at now.  They're everywhere, these things. Growing right up out of the earth.  Accompanied by wispy clouds on an endless sky the view is beautifully alien.  

The trail follows the valley floor, steep up slopes on either side of me are littered with spires, and pinnacles that conjure up images of castle turrets. Eyes on the horizon watching for approaching armies. A mile in and the trail stars to climb. Up and over mammoth boulders and between others that could easily crush me to bits if wrestled from their resting spots.  They’re all petty well nestled and I reach the end of the trail without incident. I come around the last bend and there it is, Balanced Rock.

Not so impressive in size or stature, but it’s perched in the most precarious of spots.  I’m relatively diligent when it comes to reading all the nerdy little info signs that are posted all over, but nowhere that I saw, did any of them address the events would result in such a large rock coming to rest in such a fashion. It had to be just pure dumb luck that it happened to plunk down between two spires, creating a window that you can actually walk through.  I do just that, although with a fair amount of apprehension.  It’s the size of a Volkswagen, significantly smaller than a lot of the surrounding boulders but still impressive.  I snap a few pictures and then stretch out on a ledge below it.  The cool hard surface relieves some of the pressure on my back, I interlace my fingers behind my head and take the cool air into my lungs as the sun warms my skin.  Moments like this raise my confidence, put me more at ease with the decision i’ve made to disappear for a while with no plan or final destination in mind.  It might all blow up in my face one day, but even if it does it’s better than wasting away in a city I hate, at job that numbs my brain until I’m too old and feeble to do anything about it.  I’m beginning to think this was the right decision.  
The road to the hot springs is another treacherous one.  A cliff of brittle limestone straight up over the top of the jeep on my right, and a sheer drop off straight down on my left.  It’s the type of road that the Roadrunner would trick Wild E. Coyote into running off of with a fake tunnel or some sort of Acme contraption.  Apparently, there used to be a kind of resort here, taking advantage of the allure of the hot springs.  The remains of a store and of rentable rooms still stand at the trailhead.  Now all fenced off so you can’t go inside, but a sign in the doorway shows what it was like in it’s heyday. In the picture a bespectacled woman leans on a counter with shelves filled with loaves of bread and canned goods behind her. The spring itself has been surrounded by a rock wall that forms a pool, big enough for maybe a dozen people, that fills up with 105 degree spring water.  

It’s constantly pumping, 24 hours every single day, so a notch has been cut from the top of the outermost wall that faces the river.  The water spills over this wall and keeps the pool at a constant depth.  You can jump the wall and sit under the waterfall so that the warm spring water runs down your back while your feet are suspended in the icy waters of the Rio Grande.  

This is Xanadu, Shangri-La.  Misty hints of clouds tiger stripe a royal blue sky, just enough to make the intense Texas sun tolerable.  I spend about 15-20 minuets in the hot spring water and then vault over the wall into the frigid river.  The alternation between the hot and cold is a miracle for my back.  I’m hopping from rock to rock, and back over the wall, diving deep to the river bottom, finding holes where it’s over my head and rock shelves where I can sit and let the cold water do its magic.  Things that would have been unthinkable in my state just a few hours prior.  My spirits are soaring and I chat with all the people that come and go throughout the day.  
A group of bikers stops in to soak for a while and they tell me about the town of Terlingua and the Starlight Theater.  Theres mention of a porch out front where all the old hippies from town meet up for beers.  I instantly take note and plan on stopping by on my way out of the park, it sounds like my kind of place.   
     I get out of the water only to reheat leftovers for lunch.  Rice, corn, and a can of chicken noodle soup.  It’s actually pretty tasty despite it’s simplicity, only cost about 4 bucks and fed me for nearly 4 days. After lunch, I’m right back in the water, relaxing and bullshitting with each new group that shows up. I arrived at about 9:30 in the morning and I don’t towel off and head back to camp until almost 6 in the evening.  Today was the epitome of what this trip is supposed to be.  Zero obligations, no where to report back to, nothing that has to get done.  Stay where I am for 5 minuets or for 8 hours directed only by mood and desire…perfection.  

10.) Flowing With the Go.....

     Awaking at 7000 feet makes all the pain and doubt and vomit of the previous days hike just slip away.  Cool, crisp mountain air makes you want to get up and start the day as oppose to the thick, moist ball-sweat that is the calling card of Houston, TX.  The more experienced Caleb, is all packed up and finishing a breakfast of cheese and a pancake as I crawl out of my tent.  The rest has recharged me physically and the previous nights chat with Caleb has recharged me mentally.  It’s nice to see proof that I’m not crazy or stupid beyond words for taking a trip like this.  But at the same time it’s somewhat depressing to know that it’s not an original idea and theres probably thousands of people out there on similar trips right now.  Good for them I try to tell myself, challenge the norms, work less, live more; life’s too short to be miserable. And just because there are more people out there doing the same thing doesn’t make my journey any less meaningful for me.  Caleb and I shake hands, wish each other safe travels and he's gone down the mountain.  I take my time breaking camp and loading up my pack.  It’s gorgeous up here, and peaceful and I’m relieved to be alone again.  Before I head back to the trail, I leave my pack and climb the boulders and look out over the Chisos Basin.

     

     I let my feet dangle over the edge and feel terrified and alive at the same time.  “This is all natural,” I think, taking in the whole valley before me.  This just HAPPENED, the earth just DID this.  Over millions of years, with volcanoes, and water and erosion.  It’s far from the last time I will be awed by the power and capabilities of nature.  It’s a good feeling.  Makes your own problems seem less significant and everyone should take time to try and acknowledge it, you won’t be disappointed.

I’m in no shape to continue my hike as planned.  I overestimated myself and decide to retrace my steps back to the campground in the basin.  I’m disappointed in myself that I was unable to do it, but it feels good to be learning something new.  Good old trial and error; a classic technique.  Water is crazy heavy, and there isn’t anywhere to collect more along the trail.  I’m simply not strong enough yet the carry all I need with me to the south rim.  On top of that I’m still a rookie.  This was my first hike and I went all in, balls to the walls, full speed ahead.  It was a mistake.  I should have started with shorter, more level hikes and worked myself up to something like this, but live and learn.  I’ll stick to day hikes or shorter overnight ones till I build more stamina.  
The hike down is uneventful yet infinitely easier than up and what took me 6 hours to climb yesterday takes me less than two to descend.  It’s warmer at the floor of the basin, and when I make it back to my jeep I peel off my boots and socks and sit in the sun for a while. 

Last night's camp was on this ridge

     I eye the ridge line and can make out the boulders I was climbing on up there earlier this morning.  They look quite a ways up there and even though the hike didn't go according to plan, I still feel like I’ve accomplished something, and now I’m driven to work harder to improve.  
I make some changes to my itinerary in the rangers station, get some new campsites that I don’t have to climb a mountain to get to.  It’s a beautiful day so I decide to walk a few of the short trails that are right around the campground.  The window loop trail is less than a mile long and completely paved.  It’s easy on my legs and feet and still provides an killer view of The Window where all the water that falls in the Chisos Basin escapes to lower elevations over a 200 foot drop.  It’s one of the world’s premiere spots for watching sunsets.  

The Window

     I explore a few more trails that run between the ranger station, the campground, and the restaurant.  When I get back, I let it slide that the restaurant seems kind of yuppie and over priced.  It’s literally in the middle of the mountains, which is pretty neat, and it serves food that I don’t have to cook, which is totally awesome.  I sit at the bar and order a cheese burger with fries and a beer.  I eat every bite and even ask for extra pickle spears but I have no idea if it tasted good or not.  I simply consumed it, my body needed fuel and it was worth every cent.  It’s starting to get dark by the time I finish so hurry to the jeep and begin hunting for my campsite for the night at the end of Paint Gap Hills Road. 
It’s another gravel road to start out, but soon the gravel gives way to a simple dirt track.   After a mile or 2 of this, the trail condition continues to degrade until I’m basically bouncing along over softball sized rocks.  “Nice and easy babe,” I say to the jeep, “tortoise and the hare.”  I’ll continue to talk and apologize to the jeep as the days go on; every time I bounce over a rock too harshly, or slam through a trench too aggressively.  She’s my life line for this undertaking, the tool that makes it all possible and I mean to treat her right and stay in her good graces.  It makes life easier.  (theres an analogy here, but I’m not gonna touch it, for many of the same reasons.)  Finally, I reach my campsite. It’s extremely secluded, nestled in the valley between two rounded hills.  It’s just me out here.  I saw another camper 3 or 4 miles back up the road but he’s as close as anyone gets.  I set up my tent, a little more efficiently than last time, crawl in, and sleep the sleep of the dead.

Find My Camp!

When I wake up, my lower back is one giant, tightly knotted monkey fist.  I painfully crawl out of my tent and limp around camp, hunched over like a gargoyle for a full 3 minuets before I can stand up like a human being.  This happens once or twice a year, sometimes from being engaged in some sort of vigorous activity, and sometimes from simply bending or twisting in the wrong way.  You lean forward to spit a mouthful of toothpaste into the sink and BAM! You feel that quick, sharp pinch; and pain shoots down your legs and your immediately helpless. Immobile.  The synapses between brain and muscle cease to function and, and simple motor skills become things of great, painful concentration.  The only direction you can manage is straight down.  The floor is your home now, and lying on it, flat on your back is the only position you can hold for more than a few minuets.  Humbling, embarrassing, and viciously irritating all at the same time.  You can try to stretch it out, and it helps but only slightly and momentarily. Soon you’re back in that prone position thinking of all the things you wont be able to do today.  
     The only real thing you can do is hobble to your doctor, let him poke and prod you as you grimace in pain and roll around on that paper covered table.  You get a small amount of relief on your way home from the knowledge that soon the muscle relaxers and anti inflammatory meds the doctor gave you will kick in, further hampering your motor skills but distracting you from the rock solid moose knuckle in your back.  
Fortunately, the last time this happened I was able to convince my doctor to prescribe me extra meds so I would have them if it happened again.  I fish them out of the jeep, pop one of each, and begin contemplating the prospect of breaking down camp.  Fuck that! I say to myself, shaking my head and continue to limp around camp in my club footed manner in attempts to loosen up a little.  A half hour later the meds are beginning to kick in and I feel well enough to make an attempt at one of the hills outside camp.  

I reach the crest of the ridge and immediately feel insignificant; at the vast nothingness that stretches out in every direction. Wide open and clear, the way it was before people came and ruined it with cell phone towers, fast food chains, and shopping malls.  Theres no roads, no billboards, no power lines.  Theres just, low scrub brush, juniper bushes, and rolling foothills leading up to the mountains on the horizon that finally put a stop to your sight line.  And the primitive dirt track that lead me here stretching and curving away into oblivion. 
I find a flat rock to rest on and lean forward to stretch my back.  It’s still awfully tight, but lightyears ahead of where it was when I first emerged from the tent.  I’m comforted by my recollection of seeing the words Hot Springs somewhere on my map.  I can lounge in there for a while and start a new book.  I just finished “Into the Wild” for the second time.  It seemed an appropriate read for the start of a trip like this, and it was just as good as the first time.  I write a quick note on the title page and leave it in the bear box at camp so another traveler can discover and enjoy it.  Plus, I have too many books in my car and leaving them for someone to find will slowly give me more space.
     After breaking down camp and packing up the jeep, a process that is both slow and painful, I pull back onto the main park road and head toward the hot springs.  They’re on the opposite side of the park, some 35 miles away so on my way I stop at the trail head for Balanced Rock.  It’s one of the most photographed formations in the park and I’ve got to see it.  It’s a flat, 2.5 mile round trip trail that doesn’t look too intimidating and I figure a hike will do my back some good. So with fingers crossed, I yet again, put my boots to the sand….. 

9.) Strangers on a Trail......Projecting Vs. Accepting....New World Disorder.....Future Tense......

  I hear Caleb return from the peak, and we begin to chat.  Through my tent of course, with me being incapacitated and all.  He’s from Maine, locked in the midst of a trip very similar to mine.  He’s been on the road for for nearly two months already, traveling down the east coast all the way to Key West taking his time along the way.  He quickly realized that Key West is expensive in almost every respect and didn’t stay long.  Turning west when he reached the Florida panhandle, he mentioned that Alabama and Mississippi were a lot prettier than he anticipated.  He got stranded in Austin, TX for a week or so because of a blown clutch, but it’s a college town and he knew some people there so it wasn't a terrible place to be stuck.  
I replay my trip thus far for him and we eventually come to the question of why this is what we’ve chosen to do with our time.  Not particularly surprising, our reasons are more similar than they are different.  It was basically try this, or be stuck in the same place forever, and neither of us wanted that.  Both of us are weary about putting down roots anywhere for fear of never getting out. Caleb has quite a bit more of experience than I do at this point so I listen to him intently.  “Really makes you realize the people and things that matter to you,” he says, referencing his trip and being away.  “And it really makes it special when you get to see those things and people again.”  I can understand that, and he agrees with my “it gives you time to miss them” comment.  
The two months that have passed, coupled with the $1000 he had to drop on a new clutch has him nearing the bottom of his pockets.  He’s been sending applications and making calls to different seasonal positions.  Tour guide, or hiking instructor, things like that in hopes of avoiding returning to Maine with his tail between his legs.  I tell him that even if he does end up back in Maine, at least you did it.  You took the plunge, followed your gut, did what YOU wanted to do and that’s what matters.  If anyone gives you shit upon your return, it’s because they're jealous that they didn't have the balls to do what you did… so fuck em.  You might end up in the same place geographically, and everything might seem the same but YOU’RE not.  You’re richer in experience and self-awareness.  You’ve learned, and grown, and evolved and isn’t that the whole fucking point, not only of this trip but of life in general?  Maybe it’s not and I’ve got it all backwards, but for me, the point is most definitely NOT to preform the same repetitive tasks day after day just to collect a check at the end of the week.  Most of which disappears shortly after you receive it, just to fund the same cycle for the next week.  That’s not a life that I want any part of.  
    Sometimes I wish it were easier for me to take my own advice, that I was as passionate and cocksure about the decisions that I, myself make; but that is to the case.  I could spend all day telling Caleb what a badass he is for giving the naysayers the finger and just taking off.   I could remind him that the world is changing and the trajectory of life is not the same as it used to be.  People no longer work for the same company for 30 years, receive their retirement plan, and then move to Florida to live out their days in warmth and comfort.  I could label Caleb a modern day pioneer, a trailblazer for a new generation whose dreams and priorities are of a different caliber than those of the past.  Not better or worse, just different.  I could tell him these things with passion and conviction and stand behind every word with every ounce of everything that I am; but similar notions about myself never seem to ring true.  To myself I come across as either a coward, staying on the move to avoid ever committing to anything; or as a silly idealist, too naive to understand the ways of the world.  I hope I’m neither of these things, but the possibility that I’m both of them is strong.  I’m just too close to the situation to see it clearly.    
After my little tirade Caleb wants to know what my plans are for after my trip.  I tell him that since my trip is still in its infancy, I’m not even thinking about that yet which is as close to the exact opposite of the truth as one can get.  The truth is, I really have no idea what I’m going to do afterwards and not only do I think about it, I obsess over it…constantly.  I like to think that the only time that really matters is right now, the past is already over and the future is yet to be determined so just enjoy yourself now.  Easier said than done.  

The future is a scary thought for everyone I think.  You can try to control it, but nothing’s for certain.  It’s even more nerve-racking for someone who, at the age of 26 had to be split open like a frog in a high school science class and then speckled back together like some daytime TV DIY project. Suffering from heart issues at such a young age, one can’t help but feel that one is not long for this world. So when asked what I’m going to do after my trip, a little twinge of fear invariably rises up from that pit in your stomach.  The one you try to keep a lid on as often you can, but every once in a while that fear slips around your defenses when your guard is down and spreads through your chest.  Your senses dull and your vision tunnels and you can’t avoid it. You’ve got nowhere to go except face to face with your own mortality.  What am I going to do after my trip?  Realistically, there might not be an after, this could be a last hurrah for me; and the threat of no future is much scarier than any that even the best storytellers could come up with.  I choose not to mention this part to Caleb and I believe we both feel better because of it.

8.) Onslaught of Reality.....Check Yourself Before You....Oh, Never Mind.....

     My jubilation is short lived.  Through the foothills and onto the mountain proper, the trail continues to climb.  Steeper and steeper the further I go.  It’s not long before I have to stop every few steps to catch my breath.  It’s like climbing up the down escalator at the mall, endlessly….with a refrigerator on your back.  And there’s no cinn-a-bunn at the top of this one.  I plow my way up and forward, lugging my pack and myself to the end of the next switch back where I collapse.  Breathing heavily and light headed I wonder what I got myself into.  This isn’t mandatory you know?  You chose to do this, and now you’re going to die of exposure on the side of a mountain because you thought you were some sort of bad ass.  I really don’t want to give up, and at this point it’s just as far to turn around as it is to continue on to camp.  As I’m contemplating this in the fetal position and preying that death comes swiftly, a pack of about 30 elementary school kids comes happily skipping down the trail in the other direction.  They’ve already been to the top and are already on their way down.  All chatting giddily, hopping onto and off of rocks and ledges along he way with the grace and effortlessness of mountain goats.  My ego, which was already pretty close to rock bottom, if not already sprawled limply across it;  has now dug its way through rock bottom and into the muck and mire and whatever else lies beneath.  
I can’t let myself be bested by school children.  I rest long enough for my vision to clear and my lungs to stop bleeding and will myself up to the end of the next switch back.  I continue in this fashion for a while.  Each time I conquer another switchback, I tell myself, next one has to be the last one…but it never is…ever.  My progress is excruciatingly slow and just plain excruciating, and just as I’m sure I’m going to black out the mountain takes pity on me and ends.  I’ve made it to the top….of this leg.  I’m kissing the ground for finally being flat, and when I regain my motor skills I consult my map to discover it’s still about a mile to my campsite.  I want to weep.  Fortunately, from where I’m slumped in a limp pile of my own hubris, I see a sign for a campsite right here, just off the trail.  Fuck it, there’s no way I can go on, I’m staying here.  I drag my body up the trail towards the campsite only to realize, upon reaching it that there’s some one already here.  I don’t care.  I see enough room for my tent, and thats all I need.  
Caleb is cooking himself dinner as I lumber up beside him.  With the last of my breath I introduce myself and explain to him my situation, that my campsite is another mile away, but I think I’m dying and he has no problem with having a little company for the evening.  I thank him profusely, and crawl to the edge of camp where I proceed to liberally vomit up every drop of water drank on the way up.  No food mind you, because I’ve eaten next to nothing for the past three days.  I know, I didn’t really think this through, but I’ve never been one for plans.  Always been a seat of you pants kinda guy, just see what happens.  Well, what happens sometimes, isn't very pretty.  
After my stomach is empty, I feel better, but not much.  Caleb sympathizes with my plight and then heads for Emory Peak, the highest point in all of Big Bend.  It’s only about a mile and a half away, and he’s going without his pack since his camp is already set.  I don’t have the energy to even laugh at him when he asks if I want to go with him.  
As he bounds off towards the trail, I’ve pulled myself together enough to make an attempt at cooking dinner.  All I have is some mac and cheese, and in the absence of milk and butter, this stands to be a bland order made with nothing but water and the powdered cheese mix.  Once it’s ready however, it’s magnificent.  Most likely because, moments ago, I was starving to death but a warm meal, no matter the ingredients, or lack there of, can make a hell of a difference.  The left overs I lock in the bear box for breakfast in the morning and drag myself deep inside my tent.  I’m physically and mentally exhausted, unable to move, nearly paralyzed in my sleeping bag….It’s 7:30.  

7.) Welcome To The Island.....Counting Unhatched Chickens.....

     

The night passes without incident and I wake up with the sun.  I’m awake, but not physically up yet.  The frigid desert morning is not ideal for coaxing one out of ones toasty warm sleeping bag, but the anticipation of my first hike is enough getting me moving.  The tent comes down much easier than it went up last night.  Camp is broken, everything packed up and I head back down the the 7 miles to the road.  The early morning is eerily quiet, the the crunch of my tires over loose gravel is the only sound until an owl flaps wildly out of the tall brush and across the road.  A lone tree, miserable looking and leafless, releases a flock of giant ravens as my jeep approaches.  Finally I reach the road and take the turn towards Chisos Basin.

The basin is referred to as an island of green nestled in a sea of desert.  It’s an oasis.  As you climb the road up over the foothills and down into the basin, the desert brush falls away and a woody forest takes it place.  The road climbs and descends number of switch backs until you break through the wall that is the Chisos Mountains and reach the 3 mile wide basin.  The mountains are all around you, menacing and angry looking.  They are a fortress, a natural castle, protection from the harsh landscape that surrounds them.  Formed by volcanic activity millions of years ago, looking around, one can’t help but marvel at the power of nature.  

Campground in Chisos Basin

The campground is surround by forests that cling to the slopes up until the air becomes too thin and the mountains too steep.  There’s a small store to stock up on food and supplies, rooms, and whole cottages for rent, and a full service restaurant and bar.  Hardly roughing it, but with the full glory of the Chisos standing sentry between you and the rest of civilization, it becomes a world unto itself.  

Packing for my hike is trial and error.  I know the things I will definitely need, but as I go through the jeep, I keep finding things  MIGHT need.  Rain gear?  In the desert?  I know if I don’t bring it, there will be a monsoon, extra batteries, just in case.  How much water? A gallon a day?  Its still hard to judge so I fill up as many containers as I can fit in my pack.  Water IS life out here, and I’d hate to die of dehydration on my first hike.  When I'm satisfied, I zip up and hoist it onto my back.  It’s heavy….really heavy, but I test it out with few wobbly paces and the weight feels alright.  I can do this, I think, the first leg is only about 4 miles….no problem.  Hell, I walked 10 miles in my crocs on my last vacation, this is nothing.  With that, I'm off down the Pinnacles Trail toward Emory Peak, the highest point in the park.  The plan is to camp at the base of it tonight, in boot canyon, and make for the south rim tomorrow.  Come back to my site for another night, and then back to the trailhead the next day.  

The plan starts off without a hitch and I’m enjoying the beautiful weather.  The sun is warm but the air is cool, sweater weather. My favorite.  Periodically, you get a break in the trees and you can see Casa Grande.  The massive flat topped mountain that is the calling card of these mountains and landmark for most of Big Bend.  Nooks and crannies, crevices and caves coat it’s sides, the simple presence of it humbles me, and I can almost feel its weight towering over me.  All these new stimuli work together to create a sense of calm serenity in your chest that makes you feel privileged to be in this  particular place at this particular time. Away from the timers, and schedules, and alarms and deadlines that clog a conventional life with stress and disappointments.  This is how life should be.

6.) He Has Arrived!

I wake up in Alpine, TX.  I’m learning that the desert of reality is not the desert of cartoons.  As the sun goes down it doesn't take long for the temperature to drop.  Last night it went from 86 to 55 in less than a half hour.  Darkness just fuels the decline which continues throughout the night, hence the 27 degree morning.

The turn into Big Bend is only about 20 minuets away and my excitement grows as I near it.  Big Bend was recently raked the #2 national park in the world by a travel channel documentary, so my excitement is not unfounded.  

I make the turn toward the park and discover that it’s another 70 miles straight into the desert before I even reach the entrance. The road snakes along through valleys, passed sheer cliffs, and rocky hills covered in scraggily brush that grab at your pant legs as you walk by. After what seems like forever I finally reach the ranger station at Permission Gap.   

Before I left I purchased an season pass for 80 bucks that will get me into every national park in the country for free.  I present it to the ranger and I’m allowed a weeks access.  Normally the entrance fee is $20 per vehicle, so it seems the pass will pay for itself rather easily.  I pay $10 for a week of backcountry camping and choose my campsites with some help from the ranger.  Keep in mind, generally speaking, I have no idea what I'm doing, so I just kind of wing it.  I make an attempt to pick sites throughout the park so I get to see as much as I can. 

Big Bend is enormous, 801,163 acres, around 70 miles from end to end.  I takes a good hour to just drive across the damn thing.  With my basic itinerary mapped out I embark to my first campsite, Grapevine Hills.  

The turn off for it is just a few miles down the road, but mine is the very last site at the end of a gravel track 7 miles deeper into the desert.  My jeep chugs along relentlessly and the gravel gives way to dirt, and then basically just rocks that I navigate through slowly but surely until I find my site.  It’s nothing more than a square of desert  where the brush has beed cleared away and the ground leveled.  The solitary feature is a large metal box about six inches off the ground colorfully named a bear box.  Storage for food and anything pungent that could attract the attention of the local fauna.  Theres a hidden latch that locks the door, making it wildlife proof.  

Setting up my tent for the first time proves difficult in the desert wind.  In the weeks to come, I’ll realize that the desert, like the beach, is almost always windy; sometimes to a terrifying degree.  Camping in either of these venues, I imagine,  is a kin to living in a kite.  I hunt down the pair of mechanics gloves I bought and use my knife to cut the plastic straps holding them together.  My old man had given me a knife he had received as a gift in the Philippines.  As I remove it from its leather case I remember thinking, “Watch me cut myself with it the first time I use the thing."  Sure enough, because of me wielding it in a incompetent way, it slices through the plastic strap, and then, swiftly across and deeply into the base of my left index finger.  My stupidity overshadows any sense of pain as I watch the blood begin to run and pool in the palm of my hand. All I can do is shake my head.  “Idiot”, I think to myself and run to find my first aid kit.  I manage to stop the bleeding, but it looks awfully deep, I could probably use a few stitches.  I just wrap it up tightly, put my gloves on over the bandage and hope for the best.  

Eventually, I get my tent sent up despite the wind and the less than desirable stakes that came with it.  If you’ve ever bought a tent before, you know the ones I mean.  The flimsy, blunt-ended, ‘L’ shaped rods that bend as you drive them into the ground, or simply pull out altogether if the wind yanks your tenet at the right angle.  

Finally arriving has calmed my nerves considerably.  Two straight days of nothing but driving had me pretty low.  Worried that I’d made a mistake with this life style change.  But I’d much rather be here, doing this, than working any of those old jobs with deadlines, and due dates, and scheduled breaks.  While that my be a safer life, this one is infinitely more interesting.  The good Doctor Thompson said it best, “It seems hardly proper to write of life without once mentioning happiness; so we shall let the reader answer this question for himself: Who is the happier man, he who has braved the storm of life and lived, or he who has stayed securely on shore and merely existed??"  My first hike is planned for tomorrow, to the south rim of the Rio Grande.  Visions of wide open vistas, purple sunsets shuffle through my mind as I huddle deep into my sleeping bag and drift off to sleep.