Elizabeth A. Garcia
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A Rio Grande Affair

7/11/2013

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Picture

Recently I had an opportunity to stick my toes into the Rio Grande. The river is no longer the formidable barrier it once was, and it can seldom be rafted, but the mud along the bank still squishes. Birds still swoop at the surface, turtles still dive into it, the water still moves downstream, and it still smells like damp desert. I still love it.

We have a history, this river and I. Thirty-three years ago, I saw it for the first time. It might have been its historical significance or cowboy movie memories, or the surreal beauty of the land it divides, but I had goosebumps at first sight. And I fell in love, not just with the Rio, but with the rugged, wild terrain on both sides of it.

This Florida girl, accustomed to sandy beaches, lakes, crystal clear streams, swamps, and more greenery than is healthy, fell hard for the Big Bend country—everything about it. The immense open spaces with nothing to block the view, jagged peaks, hidden forests, steep canyons, and the widest sky I had ever seen, spoke to me in a way nothing ever had.

At the time, my familiarity with Mexico pretty much began and ended with Speedy Gonzalez cartoons and of course, all those insulting stereotypes from old westerns.

I stood at the top of a nature trail at Rio Grande Village in Big Bend National Park. The idea of a foreign land “right over there” was even more intriguing than the famous river. From the top of the trail I could admire both sides, the mountains that stretched out in all directions jutting towards the sky, the vegetation growing along the banks, and then I spotted a man, a Mexican man, dressed all in white and wearing a wide sombrero, hoeing in a garden in Boquillas, Mexico. Ordinary, you might say, but my heart rate sped up and I got a little teary-eyed. I wanted to laugh and cry and dance at the same time. And I had no idea why.

How would I have known that I would meet, fall in love with, and marry a Mexican man? Or that my future self would learn to speak Spanish and cook Mexican food? Or, that without question, I would take in a chubby little Mexican boy and raise him as my own? If you had told me I would stay up until two in the morning making tamales with my mother-and-sisters-in-law on Christmas Eve, I would have thrown up my hands and sworn there was no way that would ever happen.

I have spent so much time in Mexico it has become as much a part of my life as my country of birth. I’ve attended weddings, quinceañeras, funerals, births, and deaths—and more dances than I could ever count. I’ve wandered its shores, explored its mountains, and camped in its wilderness. I love its people with all my heart.

How would I have known then that I would go to work for a river outfitter and enjoy the work so much I would eventually own the company? I would raft all the canyons and most of them more than once, on trips guided by some of the most fun and life-loving people I have ever had the pleasure to know. Every river adventure was different and each held its own magic. There was always something new to learn or to admire or some side canyon to explore. After sumptuous dinners and campfire conversation, we would fall asleep under a ribbon of stars or stay up late to watch the full moon illuminate the canyon walls.

It runs in my veins now, this muddy river. Who knew it would be so hard to drag my toes out of its mud? 


 Many thanks to Molly Dumas for the photo!



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Coming Home

7/10/2013

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When I first decided to get away for a while, I only meant to experience the west, not have it invade my heart and soul. Somewhere on the list of national parks and other places I couldn’t wait to visit was a vague plan to return to Florida.

The first time my feet touched Big Bend National Park soil I was a mess, a runaway. Left behind was a man I had loved for eleven years. All I had to show for it was a divorce decree, memories, and experience—and the experience part I couldn’t appreciate yet. I was in a relationship but wasn’t ready for one, and it was going nowhere; and on top of that, my career had failed me. Or I had failed it. Success had been mine, but at what price? 

When a friend and I planned our trip, our ultimate destination was Alaska, but that would be after several months. The first stop was Big Bend because it was February when we left home, and the park was in Texas. How cold could it be, right? My friend wanted to skip Texas altogether. “Nothing in Texas but miles and miles of miles and miles,” was her favorite witticism. 

I always replied stubbornly, “You’ll see,” because one time I opened a book about America’s national parks to a page showing a deep canyon. Muddy water flowed through it, and standing at the edge on a pebbly beach was a cowboy on a horse. The text spoke of mountains and canyons and hundred-mile vistas. Without knowing anything more, I longed to go there. The header on the page read: Big Bend National Park, Texas. Texas? I didn’t care; I was going.

Approaching the park from Marathon, our first glimpse of The Chisos Mountains was surreal. They looked like a mirage, no more real than the mountain-like clouds you sometimes see on a distant horizon. It was a cool, misty day and for a while they disappeared altogether, and we decided they had been dark clouds after all. 

Santiago Peak drifted in and out of the mist as we passed it, and my friend said, “Typical Texas, they brag about everything, and even claim to have mountains—and this is it?” She was insulted.

“That’s only one mountain.” I was losing patience.

“Huh.” She was unconvinced.

There were more; I had seen the photographs.

As we progressed through the park, the entire landscape seemed alive, coming and going and disappearing again in the fog. 

“This is kind of creepy,” my companion commented. “Wasn’t that weird rock formation on the right a few miles ago?”

“Yes, but the road is winding. And I think there’re a lot of weird rock formations all over this park.” I already had a sense of it.

“And the plants are all prickly-looking,” she complained.

“Those are cactus,” I said, “and they’re beautiful.”

“Did you notice the tall, spindly plants with lots of branches? They look like spiders lying dead on their backs with a bunch of legs in the air.”

I laughed; they were weird all right.

The mountains were getting closer. Clearly they were not clouds. As the mist lifted, some new part of them would be exposed then it would settle again, hiding what had just been revealed.  

Meanwhile, we had not passed even one other vehicle. With the slinking fog and abandoned road that seemed to never get anywhere, the oddly shifting landscape was horror movie-ish. 

At last, we neared the park’s headquarters, Panther Junction. A sign declared there were three peaks behind it, Pummel, Wright, and Panther. We could see the bottom parts but whatever was above was shrouded in clouds, yet  those three mountains had a presence—that’s the only way I know to describe it. The promise of more was there, and we only needed to have patience.

We parked and got out of the car. The air was wet, but not tropical wet. This air was fresh and cool—mountain air. We breathed deeply of it.

“This is great,” my friend admitted.

    Then we stood at the farthest point of a nature trail, staring at the canyon’s deep cut and the rough rock formations and giant boulders and plants all over the big, wide, hugeness of it. 

“I told you there were mountains in Texas,” I said.

  She shrugged. “Who knew?”

  We hadn’t even seen the mountaintops and we were enthralled. While we stood there wondering at it all, the clouds dipped low and the sun burst out and we saw the peaks for the first time. 

  “Holy ...,” my friend said in a whisper. It was a lot more reverent than it sounds.

I had no words. I felt I had come home, and I would never be the same.


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    Elizabeth A. Garcia, author

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