Elizabeth A. Garcia
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Going South, Part Two

4/24/2014

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In a previous column I mentioned that a few weeks ago I treated myself to a mini vacation in South Brewster County. I didn’t take my laptop because I wouldn’t be away from home long. It was a decision I regretted as soon as I pulled into the driveway and saw what was happening over, in, and among Big Bend National Park’s mountains.

I’d brought along a notebook and I set it on the table next to my favorite chair as if nobody would notice. A kitty sat on it immediately, looked down with disapproval, and then stretched out on top of it. Cats have no appreciation of writing things down. They live in the moment and when that one is over, another takes its place. Why make a note of it?

My friend and I chatted while I stole glances at the clouds covering and then revealing various landmarks in the national park. They looked like fluffy cotton balls at times and at other times they moved like a wall of water, drowning what lay in their path. Something would be there and then it was gone. Sometimes they dripped over peaks and rocky formations like fluffy white frosting sliding down the sides of a cake.

We talked, drank coffee, and played with the cats. I should say they deigned to let us pet them. Then we decided that, since it was late afternoon, we should take a drive to pick up a dog that had gone to a friend’s house and not returned.

As we headed away from the national park goings on, a fire smoldered behind the Corazon Peaks. Those mountains turned purple, then deep red-brown; it was eye-popping to see them against the blazing sky. My heart rate sped up. I started to say something but the scene spoke for itself.

We made a turn onto the main Terlingua Ranch road, headed past and away from the Corazones. Immediately there were purple peaks showcased in the distance. We gaped at each other.

“What mountains are those?” we asked at the same time. Neither of us had seen them before. Of course we had, but we’d never seen them as they were in that moment—velvety purple and commanding the stage. The next day in the light of full sun, we realized they were the buttes and rugged formations on the other side of Highway 118. They always seemed so far away. But on that magical evening they were close enough to take your breath. I can’t explain it; I can only tell you what I saw.

We turned in to our friend’s place as darkness fell and the purple range faded away into dusky oblivion, as if it had never existed.

When we headed home later, my friend blurted, “Oh my God, we forgot the dog!” She swung her big truck around in the dirt road, taking advantage of a cut-out left by the road grader. We didn’t quite make it. The truck was stuck. There are two things you need to know: her truck has no reverse gear, and it’s a huge vehicle that weighs 4,400 pounds.  “Well, crap,” she exclaimed.

Yes.

After a few seconds of staring ahead in frustration, she opened the door. “I’ll just have to push it out.”

Push it? She’s not young, large, or built like The Incredible Hulk. The truck outweighs her by thousands of pounds plus three hundred or so. True, but there she was, leaning into the front of it, pushing as hard as she could. Do I need to say that it didn’t budge?

She yelled, “You’ll have to get out.”

Really? Did she think my weight was what was holding up progress? I pretended outrage but then I offered to help. She waved me away with, “I got this.” Yeah, right. I figured we’d be there the rest of the night.

I stood gawking at the starry extravaganza going on above Terlingua Ranch and wondering where all the big, strong men are when you need them. The words from an old Eagles song came to mind. “On a dark desert highway, with the wind in my hair…” But we weren’t on a highway or even close to one.

My friend was grunting and panting, and then believe it or not, the truck started listing from front to back. I stared in awe as it rocked harder and harder and then lurched back a few feet. It wasn’t far, but it was enough to allow us to get out.

Wonder Woman was dusty, sweaty, and out of breath, but she flexed her biceps and grinned. Then we laughed until we hurt.

Never let it be said that a small, determined old woman can’t make a giant thing move when she needs it to. We celebrated her triumph all the way home. Until we realized we still hadn’t gotten the dog.

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Going South

4/10/2014

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Recently, I went to spend a few days with a friend who lives on Terlingua Ranch. I left Alpine on an overcast, gray, drab morning. I was feeling stressed out by things I should’ve been doing instead of visiting, but I knew I needed a good, strong dose of South County scenery and my calm, good-natured friend.

On the long road into the ranch, there were thick, brilliant patches of bluebonnets by the side of the road. The day was colorless until I spotted those flowers. It made me wonder if I had missed more of them on my way down from Alpine, but I didn’t think I had. I’m always on the lookout for blooming things and any animals that cross my path or stand near it, or features on mountains I never noticed before—anything interesting—cowboys, for example.

When I stopped to check out the bluebonnets, I glanced to my right and there was West Corazon Peak staring down at me. It’s known to a select few as “Garcia Mountain.” For all the years we owned a “spread” below it, I studied that peak in every type of light, all kinds of weather, and even at night. I feel a deep intimacy with it that is hard to explain in less than a thousand words. And I possibly couldn’t explain it if I had ten thousand.

When I looked up, I said “hello there” in my head. I know that sounds weird, but the thought was there and my heart felt full, as if I were greeting family. Then, the sun peeked from behind a cloud and illuminated a rugged piece of my mountain’s side that I had never noticed before. It felt like a gift.

My friend doesn’t just live “on” the Ranch; she lives way the heck back in there at the heart of it. Her house is not but a few miles from the headquarters, and yet it seems another world away, even from that remote spot. Cell phones don’t work where she lives and she has no Internet service, so I’m forced out of electronic gadget-mindedness and into mindfulness.

Her set-up couldn’t be a better place for a writer. It’s comfortable, quiet, and with views so beautiful they take the breath away. I’d like to hide out there for a few months among those mountains, absorbing the scenery and describing the way it changes from moment to moment. I wonder how many columns and novels I could write if I weren’t constantly distracted by interruptions and compulsive email or Facebook-checking. And heaven forbid I should miss a text…

The front of my friend’s house faces the Chisos Mountains and the view is not obscured by anything. It’s right there in your face whenever you want to look, which for me is most of the time.

The back porch faces the Corazones, both of them, and her home is surrounded by other rugged mountains I can’t name. Oh, I could name them, but what I mean is that I don’t know what they’re really called.

As I pulled into her place, I saw that the Chisos were covered by clouds. The sun came out, but the wind picked up and seemed intent on blowing the cloud cover back and forth between the Corazones and the Chisos. One or the other range was illuminated but never both at the same time. I could’ve watched that show the rest of the day, but my friend insisted that I come inside and be sociable.

We talked a while and then I sat in my favorite recliner by a glass door that looks out at the vast Big Bend National Park. Its sheer size is almost incomprehensible. It isn’t just the Chisos that command attention. There’s Croton Peak, Slickrock Mountain, and Tule Mountain, to name but a few. Even if you can forget the mountains, there are miles of the Chihuahuan Desert with its infinite humps and bumps and canyons and arroyos. The clouds hung over all of it for a time and then they’d begin to move and the sun would spotlight one thing and then another. It was too amazing for mere words.

“Beth,” my friend said, “you’re in another world.”

No. The fabulous thing was that I was fully present in this one.


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Storming the Fortress

4/3/2014

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In an earlier column I spoke of my love of hiking. That brought to mind another fond memory of a solitary place in Big Bend National Park. At the time, a girlfriend and I were on a year-long journey from Florida to “see what the big deal was about the West.”

Kay and I were so in awe of the rough and rugged land of the Big Bend Country that we signed on to work for the concessioner in Big Bend National Park for four months. We were assigned a room in a trailer at Panther Junction, the park headquarters. If you’re familiar with “PJ,” you know there are three striking peaks that loom behind it: Pummel, Wright, and Panther. The first time I saw them I fell in love. I worked in the Chisos Basin but when I was “at home,” I sat on the front steps and studied them. They called me to explore their secrets.

I decided to hike into one of arroyos that led to a canyon at the base of Wright Mountain. I asked around and found out several things: it was called Mouse Canyon, it was not a recommended hike, it was a dead end with giant boulders and a deep pool, mountain lion activity had been reported nearby, and “nobody hikes there.” Cool. It sounded like my type of adventure.

The first time I went, I was so taken with the quiet and majesty of it that I didn’t get far. I spent much of the day examining rocks and lying on my back on a low, slanted wall of what eventually became a deeper, darker canyon.

I watched turkey vultures soar so far overhead I had no idea what they were. I thought they were eagles. I also studied the crumbling rock formation at the top of Wright, something that to this day I call “The Fortress.” And I took note of the various ways I could get from the arroyo to the top of the peak because no matter what, I was going. The route looked easy but would prove to be yet another learning experience on a real long list.

After many hikes into Mouse Canyon, I chose my route. By then, I’d been to the “end” and climbed on the giant boulders. I’d worn myself out trying to see what was on the other side of that colossal rock pile. I didn’t venture farther because I was alone and didn’t think I could drag out of there with a broken leg.

On the day of the climb, I was forced out of the arroyo before I got to my chosen ascension point because I met a herd of javelinas that had no concept of sharing. A large boar cocked his head, perhaps trying to decide what I was, and then he charged. Who would’ve thought I could climb so fast?

Even from the rim of Mouse Canyon, the view was to die for. I sat and admired it while my heartbeat returned to normal, and the javelinas moved on to do whatever. Then I stood and the challenge began. It was one lone woman vs. the slipperiest, deceivin’-est, aggravatin’-est mountain ever created. I made it about three-quarters of the way up by sheer force of will.

As with many goals, the closer I got the more difficult it became. For every step forward I slid back two. I’m a determined woman, but my legs finally said, “Hold up here, missy. This isn’t happening before nightfall.” So I did what all exhausted hikers do. I sat and pondered the wonder of it all. I was higher than the Dead Horse Mountains. The magnificent Sierra del Carmen was practically in my face. Sunset’s colors began to play on them. Even the thought of meeting javelinas in the dark did not deter me from the fiery red/purple/orange light and shadow show splashed against those mountains. Sitting on the slope of Wright and soaking up the vastness of the land, the aloneness, the majesty and grandeur that is Big Bend National Park, is one of my best memories of all time.

Behind me was the fortress I longed to touch. I wanted to walk in there and lean against the ancient stone. Without doubt, there’s hidden treasure, along with the wisdom of the ages. Those walls protect a sacred place. Isn’t that the purpose of a fortress after all?


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