Getting Near the End

I stopped for the night at a small privately owned RV park outside of Alpine, Texas. The pleasant woman checking me in raved about the climate in her part of Texas, but said she had left a piece of herself at Lake Superior. Nevertheless, she had found her ideal weather on this Texas plateau. It’s high enough above sea level that it stays cooler, not getting a lot of the over one hundred degrees type heat. It also doesn’t get too cold for her in the winter. She made the location sound perfect and the night I was there the weather was perfect at about 80 degrees and clear skies. She welcomed The Dude, and showed me a big pasture-like area where he could do his business and get some exercise. She also advised me not to rush off like so many tourists do, but have a cup of coffee and relax in the morning. I told her there were no worries there -- that was my routine.

Despite my follow-through with coffee and relaxing, I reached Guadalupe Mountains National Park the next evening. I had even taken time along the way to see Fort Davis National Historic Site. Fort Davis, built in the late nineteenth century to protect emigrants, mail coaches and freight wagons, was in service thirty seven years with a short gap during the Civil War. The brochure boasts that the military post is one of the best surviving examples of its kind. The interpretive costumed guides were all portraying their 1880s counterparts with flair. On the tour I took, they were able to answer all questions put to them, staying in character. The “Average Enlisted Man” showing us the barracks joshed with the young teens in our group about the relative comfort of the mattresses laid over ropes in the bunks. We learned that the fort was one of the first to allow African Americans to serve in the military. Well worth a stop, especially if you appreciate living history presentations. I am deeply confused to find I have no pictures at all of the fort or its denizens, except in my mind.

The Sierra Diablo Mountains along Highway 54 are spectacular. The road follows along the eastern side of them, providing miles of stunning mounded foothills and craggy peaks beyond. It wasn’t a good day to photograph them, though I took a couple of shots. Haze obscured much of the detail, though I could see suggestions of colors and lines. Looking at my atlas, they seem to be only about 10 or 20 miles away from the highway. How disappointing it was to have a polluted haze while I was there. Even more discouraging is the fact of its existence at all.

Approaching as I was from the south, I watched Guadalupe Peak grow for many miles. It is a huge chunk of rock, shaped somewhat like Wyoming’s famous Devil’s Tower, only seven times taller at 8,749 feet. I don’t know why I find such bare rock peaks to be so majestic, but they grab onto my gaze so I am reluctant to ever stop looking at them. Guadalupe Peak is big, big, big in comparison to me, and big even in comparison to the smaller, but still really big foothills. Having lived all my life in Minnesota, I don’t see mountains unless I travel quite a way. Our highest point is Eagle Mountain at 2,301 feet, hardly deserving of the title “mountain.”

Driving up Highway 54 towards the park, I had found myself eerily alone. Being the lone vehicle for miles and miles brought to mind scenes of suspense movies -- like in North By Northwest when Cary Grant is waiting in the vast North Dakota prairie about to have a crop duster sweep down upon him. After busy interstates and somewhat less busy trunk highways, I was unused to the solitude, though I enjoyed it. (Remember how I complained about traffic in the first part of this narrative?) No one going in the same direction passed me and I followed no one. For an hour or so, only two vehicles passed going the other way. Of course I found more vehicles sharing the road again when I hooked up with the main route just south of the park.

Arriving after the visitor center was closed, I went directly to the Guadalupe campground (only eight dollars per night). At first I was appalled at the blacktop parking lot “camping area” allotted for RVs. The mountains surrounding us were of course incredible. I can see the sense in not spreading out a huge campground, impacting the delicate desert floor. It’s a parking experience not a camping experience, but the view was gorgeous just the same. I’m glad the park has been preserved this way, allowing those who want wilderness to find it out past the roads.

Severely worded signs pointed out that RVs were meant to stay ONLY in the paved area and ONLY tenters were allowed to use the tent section. (The tent sites had space to move, a barbecue and a picnic table. I could see how we RVers would want to set up there.) Some park staffer has gone so far as to put up a large sign illustrating the difference between a tent and an RV.

The paved lot with 19 delineated spaces was conveniently located next to the toilet building. It was not a bathhouse. Sensibly, the park service did not install shower facilities for campers in this arid area. So it seemed odd to me that they had flush toilets when there are waterless options. A park representative recently told me they have waterless urinals in the men’s room. People are so picky about their toilet facilities. Do we have to waste water every time we go, even in the desert? Composting toilets for public facilities have been developed; I saw some in use at a New Mexico wayside rest area. (You don’t want me to get started going on and on about desert-living morons who water lawns and golf courses.) Drinking water and a sink for dishwashing are available on the front of the building. With signage, every effort was made to convey the seriousness of conserving water. Tent campers were allowed to wash dishes only at the sink at the washhouse building, not at their campsites.

Guadalupe Mountains National Park is mainly designed for hikers. There are no roads into the interior, just foot trails and one four-wheel-drive-only road. Day visitors can explore displays at the visitor center, including a beautifully designed and labeled botanical walk. If you have the time and temperament for a short hike, don’t miss the beautiful little pond, Manzanita Spring, just a quarter mile walk from the Frijole Ranch History Museum.

Pulling in to the Ranch lot the next day, I was glad to find a shady spot for the Explorer, so The Dude could stay cool under the fan, while I checked out the museum. Spring water available at the ranch supported some grass and shade trees in the midst of the desert. Five springs within a two-mile radius make it a logical choice for a ranch location in this arid place. In the modest whitewashed cabin, a woman played the character of a previous rancher. She was a volunteer, trading a place to camp at the staff living area for time spent telling visitors the stories of past residents. She and her husband had volunteered at several other national parks, and enjoyed learning about them. I told her I have often thought volunteering would be a good way to experience the parks. She told me I wouldn’t be sorry for doing so. She also urged me to visit Manzanita Spring before leaving the ranch. I was hesitant because The Dude is not allowed on trails and would have to stay “at home.” I checked in on him in the Toy House. Despite the heat of the day, it was still comfortable inside, so I decided to take the short hike.

I signed in at the gate, as all hikers are asked to do, and paid the small fee for the privilege of hiking the Smith Spring Trail. It was so hot I expected I wouldn’t be gone more than a half hour, but the Manzanita Spring and surrounding vegetation were so beautiful I spent a couple of hours in the desert oasis. The desert glowed in the sun, radiating the kind of heat you can see. East of the spring, a single conical mountain appropriately named Nipple Hill rises about 5,600 feet high. Because the surrounding area is over 5,000 feet above sea level itself, the peak seemed more like a hill than a mountain. Photographed with the spring in the foreground, it resembles a grass roofed yurt or a small volcano. In contrast, Frijole Ridge rises to the west reaching up over 8,000 feet, 400 feet higher than the surrounding plateau.

Prickly pear cactus bloomed with dazzling yellow petals displaying a red center. A few small scrubby trees gave some shade on one side of the spring, while the dead grey branches of others reached towards the sky here and there around it. Desert gravel gave way to tall grasses as I approached the little lake, probably 40 feet at its widest and 20 feet at its narrowest. The vegetation around and in the spring was rampantly lush compared to the dry desert gravel ringing it.

The clear shallow water revealed a wide variety of underwater plants waving gently under the surface. One area looked like a lawn beneath the water, the leaves undulating like prairie grass in wind. For a moment the water would be utterly still and then a breeze would make its way across the surface, obscuring the plants below. Under a network of tall grass near the edge of the pond, a turtle rested on top of some mossy plants but just under the water surface. I photographed him through grass spears that made a criss-cross pattern of shade across his back. The water was so clear and the day so bright, that I was able to take excellent photos of the plants under the spring’s water. My favorite photo is of a golden orange dragonfly resting on a blade of grass. I was surprised I could catch it being still enough to show up clearly, but there it is for me to treasure, along with the other 4,000-some photos I took on the trip.

I hiked a short way up the trail towards Smith Springs, but it was too hot for me to walk the couple of miles it would take to get there. I saw a fabulous specimen of the Texas Madrone tree with its smooth red bark glowing in the sun and deep green leaves bunched about in the canopy. Near there I found a small clump of one of my favorite wild flowers, Indian Paintbrush, red blooms contrasting sharply with the pale gravel of the desert floor.

I hated to leave, but the shadows were lengthening. I wanted to return to the presumably lonely Dude and get a way up the road into New Mexico before stopping for the night. If I had more time, I would have done more hiking and checked out the other two entrances to the park. I zipped past the entrance to McKittrick Canyon, where hiking trails lead you into the desert hills, and exhibits explain the geology and history of the area. Around to the north of the park, a road leads to Dog Canyon and another trail head.

About fifty miles up Highway 62/180 is Carlsbad Caverns National Park. I skipped that park, but didn’t feel too deprived since I had spent a few days there the previous year. I love caves as much as I love mountains. I had had to be reminded to leave as closing time approached while I was still staring at the ripples and curtains formed by dripping mineral water. Carlsbad was fascinating for its huge caverns, rock formations and great tour guides. One is allowed to wander some caverns with out a guide.  I was also sorry not to take time to visit the Living Desert Zoological and Botanical Park in the city of Carlsbad. That too had been an enjoyable stop on my last trip.

I spent the night at Brantley Lake State Park where I had stayed while visiting Carlsbad. At this large recreational park, set up for picnics and boating, you can choose from two separate camping areas. For just $8 per night, you can park near the lakeshore in the primitive area, or for a little more, camp in the full service campground on top of a hill.

As I had the previous year, I chose the lakeshore. A rough dirt road leads down to the area. The invasive tamarisk shrub, also called Saltcedar, obscures the shore of the lake. It can be a very beautiful shrubby tree with large feathery pink blossoms. Unfortunately, it has no other redeeming values. Here as in many places in the southwest, the plant has become as big a menace as kudzu in the southeast. In the 1850s tamarisks were introduced to help stop erosion and form wind breaks. That turned out to be a big mistake. A tamarisk can evaporate (read “waste”) large amounts of water, sometimes drying up its water source, as well as pushing out native species of plants and fauna that live within or upon the native vegetation. It springs back after a wildfire, and puts up with any weather that nature throws at it. Many areas plagued by tamarisk have developed volunteer brigades to remove the nuisance, but I understand the tactic is not as always as effective as desired.

Tamarisk is not only difficult to kill, but it multiplies way too effectively. One plant can produce up to 500,000 tiny seeds that are easily dispersed by the wind. It can also spread by root, branch and stem sprouts. It can grow a foot a day! This innocent looking plant is wreaking havoc. It thrives in salty, poor soil, actually increasing the salinity of the soil as its leaves decompose. According to the National Park Service, “In one study along the lower Colorado River, tamarisk stands supported less than 1% of the winter bird life that would be found in a native plant stand.” The plant is not nutritious for wildlife or for the insects wildlife can eat. There is hope. In Death Valley National Park, the plant was effectively eradicated. Native plants were replanted. The native wildlife returned.

At Brantley Lake there didn’t seem to be any attempt to eradicate the plant, as it was growing thickly all along that side of the lake. Over time campers had created openings in the thicket. Tamarisk, being seven or more feet tall, gave some shade early and late in the day. The thick tangles of stems and leaves provided privacy. In some areas the thicket completely blocked access to the shore and made walking anywhere within difficult. Very few other plants grew where the tamarisk spread.

Up in the bathhouse at the main campground, I spoke to some teenage girls who were aghast that I would camp “down there.” Here were the toilets, the showers, the picnic tables, and it was safer up here. Again and again, women I talk to about my trip thought I was in great danger. Perhaps it was safer with the bigger crowd, but I hadn’t found evidence of that in my experience. I’ve been robbed in a city, but never ran into a thief or worse out in the “wild.” The chance of running into a bad guy was why I’d chosen a motor home with a lock on the door and access to the driver’s seat from within. I figure my luck avoiding the criminal element could run out at home in Two Harbors as easily as anywhere.

Returning to my campsite, I set my chair in the shallow water, dangling my feet in the cool liquid while I wrote and read. On top of the sandy soil nearby lay scattered white to brown chunks of small to large rock, most of them rather flat so they stacked nicely into fire pits. Out on the lake, noisy speedboats raced around, creating pleasant little waves that washed across my ankles and calves. The Dude likes wading anytime, and unlike at the ocean, here he could drink the water. He wanted to play ball, but he wouldn’t bring the ball back to me. He would only fetch if we played on dry ground. If I would not get up and take the ball, then he would sit at the edge of the water mouthing the ball, sometimes leaping upon it as it lay still. Then he would whine for me to stop being lazy and play. Don’t expect him to wait on me by bringing me the ball. He will happily dash into the water to collect a stick or a ball. But apparently not when I am sitting in the water. I suppose if I’m not standing, then I’m not serious enough about the game.

A little songbird repeatedly flew out over the water and back to the tamarisk tangles. The only other bird I saw was a red winged blackbird, lending credence to the information that tamarisk limits the species around it.

When a neighboring camper began playing loud music, I thought about going back to the Toy House to fix dinner. Then my cell rang, and it was Tom! How funny to be sitting in a lake in New Mexico talking to Tom in a hotel in Fremont, Nebraska. After our usual evening chat and discussing estimated times for arriving at our mutual destination, my stomach signaled me to make dinner.

The next day’s drive brought me to Villanueva State Park a day or two ahead of Tom. After about a 200-mile day, I reached Villanueva around 7pm. Settling in to a site, I was overjoyed to have several days to stay in one place again. I had arrived at the end of Memorial Day weekend, so the place was nearly full. After one night at a spot by the Pecos River, I moved to a newly vacated site with a shelter. Open to the front, the little adobe buildings have three walls with large window openings. A laid stone floor and a picnic table complete the deluxe shelter. During the hot sunny days, the mosquitoes weren’t out much, so it was pleasant to enjoy my coffee in the shade of the adobe walls. Somehow the few insects that did buzz me were all the more annoying. Must have been feeling cranky that I had chores ahead of me.

Sipping my coffee, I couldn’t decide if the morning was going too slow or too fast. I hadn’t looked at the clock at all, so I decided it was going just right. I had fed The Dude and myself, read for maybe an hour and knocked off half a pot of coffee. Then it was time to clear out the mess of days of traveling. I dragged about three days worth of dirty dishes out to the picnic table along with dishpans and water. I washed them surrounded by fresh air and songbirds and space to splash and spread out my kitchenware. After that Promethean effort, it was time to read some more, feet up on the picnic table seat, chair tilted at a comfy angle, and finish off the coffee. If I hadn’t had to get up to use the biffy, I might have sat there all day instead of attacking the other housekeeping chores I kept conceiving for myself.

But I did my chores. I hung out the blankets and rugs to air, swept the floor of the Toy House, and filled the solar shower with water, setting it in the sun on the hood of the car to heat. Even though showers are available at the campground, I thought it would be fun to heat my own water in the sun using zero manufactured energy. By then it was well past time for The Dude’s walk. We checked out a path going up river, and played ball for a while as well.

Back in my chair, I perused the park brochure showing the Canyon Trail heading up into the red and yellow sandstone cliffs. Dogs are allowed on the trails. The brochure advertised that we would find fantastic vistas and the nineteenth-century Spanish ruins of a threshing floor. I determined not to be lazy. I must see the back-country as long as I had the opportunity. I packed some dog and people snacks, filled up a big container of water, and dressed for hot weather – shorts, t-shirt, cap, long sleeved white shirt and plenty of sunscreen. Strolling across the bridge over the Pecos, we were just heading up the trail when I heard a motorcycle. Could it be Tom? He wasn’t due until the next day. I paused, listened, and decided the motorcycle was coming into the park. The Dude and I turned around and headed back to the camper. Tom was slowly cruising the campground looking for us. Yay! I waved him down and he hopped off the bike to give me a hug and a kiss. The Dude was jumping and yipping and wanting some attention from Tom too.