The End of the West

I woke up this morning in Terlingua ready for a relatively long day, 270 miles to Del Rio. After a lot of meetings and emails for work, I packed up to meet the 11:00 checkout time, then rode 50 yards over to the adjacent bar and grill's parking lot to handle the 11:00 call for tech writers.  During the call, I was reminded (for, like, the fourth time) how little experience Houston-based folks have with West Texas and the Big Bend area in particular. I guess it would be like asking Southern Californians about eastern Oregon.

As I took that last call, a Cactus Wren invaded the patio tables next to the restaurant, searching for any human-related goodies. The Chisos Mountains glowed in the morning light. After the call I mounted up and headed for Marathon, a hundred miles away. That's how it is in this part of Texas; towns are 30, 50, 100 miles apart, with nothing in between, and that's normal.

The road to Marathon went up into the Big Bend National Park, skirting the north side of the Chisos Mountains. Those are just... awesome. Then it turned north and descended forever into Marathon, passing vast basins and four separate mountain ranges on the way.

So many wildflowers! Such long views! And what's with Texas bluebonnets, anyway? Even in the deserts they grow strongly and happily by the road's edge, but nowhere else. The highway is the best thing that ever happened to them.I don't know what others think is the best time to visit Texas, but April's got my vote.

Marathon is a pretty little town (450 souls) and I stopped for a slow lunch. I watched trains roll by across the street. I gassed up at a station that let you pump first and then pay! And instead of an LCD display, little wheels slowly rotated to show gallons pumped and cost incurred. Haven't seen one of those pumps in a long time. Then I launched myself eastward on US90 toward Del Rio.

54 miles from Marathon is Sanderson, and there is no significant civilization in between. Several times I rode for 10 minutes without seeing another vehicle. Wildflowers were everywhere. The terrain transitioned from wide plains to shallow, wide canyons between hills that revealed their layered rock strata. 23 miles out from Marathon I saw a strange bird and turned around to confirm my suspicion. It flushed before I could take a photo but I'm certain it was a Scissor-tailed Flycatcher (I saw the pink belly), which is a spectacular bird, and a life bird for me. (Photo from Wikimedia Commons.)

Kingbirds, hawks, and vultures were the other predominant birds on the trip.

Sanderson was the site of a devastating flood many years ago, and I can understand why. For perhaps 20 miles before town the road followed the shallow canyons that all merged together and drained into Sanderson Canyon. If this region ever gets heavy rain, that immense drainage would become a beast.

Sanderson itself was a sad thing, with almost every business closed temporarily or shuttered permanently. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sanderson,_Texas A lot of West Texas is like that. I would say that if you pass a restaurant in West Texas, odds are better than 50% that it is permanently closed. Same for motels and RV parks.

The tablelands continued after Sanderson – wide plains and mesas cut by shallow canyons. Eventually the highway climbed out of the canyons and ran along the plains. By now I was once again in awe. How can there be this much empty land in the U.S.? It goes on forever!

So it went, seemingly endlessly, until a highway construction project caused a stop just short of the hamlet of Langtry. I was first in line at the stop and I chatted with the flagman. He told me that Judge Roy Bean (famously known as "The law west of the Pecos") was infatuated with the famous 19th century singer, Lillie Langtry, and named his town after her. I don't think she was influenced much by the gesture.

After the stop at Langtry I, and the other 20 or so vehicles that had to wait, took off at a furious pace. To keep up in this devils' parade I was flogging the Ninja at full throttle, doing 82 or 83 on the speedometer, probably 75 in real life, into a headwind and over hill and dale, literally. (This led to the worst mileage I've ever gotten on this bike, about 38 MPG, when I finally filled up near Del Rio).

The mountains were gone now. I think Sanderson could realistically be called the end of the West (or the first town in the West, if you are coming from the east.) My feelings changed somehow with the change in terrain. The land got flatter and flatter, and wider and wider. At each highway "cut" you could see that the topsoil here was only a couple of inches deep, and below that was layer after layer of sedimentary rock. The illusion of endless rolling fertile plains was shown as a lie by those relentless rock layers. In the very deepest canyons the off-white rock color gave way to dark gray, basaltic rock in the lowest places. After a very long time, we crossed a bridge over the Pecos River, which carried the most water that I have seen on this trip. It flowed slowly between high, sheer black walls. Turkey Vultures soared over the gorge, just below eye level as I crossed on the bridge.(Photo from Wikimedia Commons.)

On and one we went, across the endless plains and tablelands, twisting the throttles like demons. I had to stop about 10 miles short of Del Rio to gas up. When I finally reached the town, I blinked at the sight before me: a traffic light. I think it had been at least 700 miles since I had seen one. In fact, the town had the entire panoply of national chains. It was strange after the isolation and tiny towns that I had experienced for the last several days.

I had also just reached 2000 miles of riding on this trip.

I got to the Whispering Palms motel, where I had made a reservation. I was delighted to see that this was a real, properly furnished, well-run motel at a bargain price. In the past several days in the Big Bend country I had paid significantly more for motel rooms that were a joke by comparison.

My armored jacket and my helmet, together, deflect almost all the stuff that flies into me. But if something has the perfect trajectory, especially if I have my head turned while gaping at some scenery, I get whacked on my neck, which stings a lot. At one point I felt the usual whack and then felt some kind of secondary sting. Now there's a big red welt on my neck. I am going to buy a bandana.

Now it's getting late. I had a big dinner at the steakhouse next door and my eyelids are starting to close. I, a child of the West, am not in the West anymore. I need a new approach. I have to figure out what I'm going to do between now and Sunday night, when I need to be in Houston. I have a few ideas already. Stay tuned.