Big Bend, with a "d"
Telling me it has to be done at four in the morning is a good way to reduce my enthusiasm for just about anything.
I'm not the camping-est guy in the world and long drives are about as much fun for me as bone bruises (which is to say, kind of fun when they involve people other than me) so when my dad informed me that we'd be embarking on a 7-plus hour drive to go camping at 4 AM on a Sunday, I was hard-pressed to keep my expression deadpan. When we left, already tired and with around five-hundred miles of road ahead of us, it was everything I'd expected it would be.
My dad wanted to stop at every stupid roadside attraction and historical marker. I just wanted to get to the fucking park (Big Bend National) and take a goddamn nap. We stopped five times on the way up: Del Rio, for breakfast at an IHOP (because there was no Denny's); Langtry, to see the Judge Roy Bean Museum (which was, to be fair, dedicated to a real-life character who was everything you want out of a Western: violent, greedy, tough as saddle leather, and with an absurd sense of humor); Sanderson, the cactus capital of Texas, for supplies at a convenience store (also the largest store in town); Marathon, to gas up at a larcenous $3.13 per gallon; and at a historical marker that was actually more of a geological marker, since it marked the spot where the Rockies and the Ouachita fold come together.
By the end of the drive my father and I were both exhausted, cramped, crabby, and barely rational. Our relationship is . . . awkward under most circumstances, just being around him was toturous by the time we finally made camp in the Chisos Basin (campground, with toilets, running water and built in shade). He tried to sleep in the sweltering tent, I attempted nap on a picnic table plagued by flies. Neither of us were very successful, but I think not having to deal with one another or the car for three hours did us a world of good.
Not that we didn't argue for the rest of the trip. There was one hike the following morning where I somehow became responsible for his having left his keys and wallet on the wide-open table while I went to do the dishes. I'll concede that he had a point about my leaving stuff out at the campsite, but his method of argument essentially amounted to "You will admit to being wrong regardless of whether Imake sense." That's one of those strategies that should probably only be employed with creatures lacking sophisticated vocal skills, like dogs or toddlers.
But mostly, we got along fine. I wound up planning our days and he did most of the driving and cooking. So, we went with our strengths. But that's enough about my predictably rocky interactions with my father. On to the even rockier terrain surrounding us at the time:
Big Bend National Park is named for the grand sweep from heading South to heading North that the Rio Grande takes in West Texas. Check a map of the country, that little bulge on the southwestern edge before the big river begins its final southward plunge toward the Gulf? Big Bend is pretty much the only thing in there. It's a park the size of Rhode Island, with only one place to shower in the whole damned thing. My father and I drove around a hundred miles, on road and off, inside the park itself, and we didn't come close to exhausting it.
On the upside, it's a place with the kind of staggering natural beauty that you hope for from a National Park. Mountains of grey, red, orange and black rise out of the patchy, thorny foliage of the Chihuahuan desert (it's like the entire ecosystem is built on an aesthetic of "pointy"). Sweeping vistas like ideal backdrops to a Sergio Leone flick are around almost every huge bend of the road, and elevation differences are often conveniently calculated in thousands of feet. Unusual rock formations abound, from caballos to laccoliths to things I have no clue how to classify. We had planned to go white water rafting but the rivers were too low (it was a drought, in Texas, in the desert; I drank a lot of water); there was so much spectacular natural loveliness that we hardly noticed the lack of action. Indeed, by the end, I was fairly burnt out on pretty mountains and valleys. ("Oh look, another unspeakably magnificent canyon.")
It is the most beautiful place I've ever laid eyes on. And I've been to the Alps and Monhegan Island.
It's not a trip I'd eagerly undertake a second time. But I'm glad I took it once.
I'm not the camping-est guy in the world and long drives are about as much fun for me as bone bruises (which is to say, kind of fun when they involve people other than me) so when my dad informed me that we'd be embarking on a 7-plus hour drive to go camping at 4 AM on a Sunday, I was hard-pressed to keep my expression deadpan. When we left, already tired and with around five-hundred miles of road ahead of us, it was everything I'd expected it would be.
My dad wanted to stop at every stupid roadside attraction and historical marker. I just wanted to get to the fucking park (Big Bend National) and take a goddamn nap. We stopped five times on the way up: Del Rio, for breakfast at an IHOP (because there was no Denny's); Langtry, to see the Judge Roy Bean Museum (which was, to be fair, dedicated to a real-life character who was everything you want out of a Western: violent, greedy, tough as saddle leather, and with an absurd sense of humor); Sanderson, the cactus capital of Texas, for supplies at a convenience store (also the largest store in town); Marathon, to gas up at a larcenous $3.13 per gallon; and at a historical marker that was actually more of a geological marker, since it marked the spot where the Rockies and the Ouachita fold come together.
By the end of the drive my father and I were both exhausted, cramped, crabby, and barely rational. Our relationship is . . . awkward under most circumstances, just being around him was toturous by the time we finally made camp in the Chisos Basin (campground, with toilets, running water and built in shade). He tried to sleep in the sweltering tent, I attempted nap on a picnic table plagued by flies. Neither of us were very successful, but I think not having to deal with one another or the car for three hours did us a world of good.
Not that we didn't argue for the rest of the trip. There was one hike the following morning where I somehow became responsible for his having left his keys and wallet on the wide-open table while I went to do the dishes. I'll concede that he had a point about my leaving stuff out at the campsite, but his method of argument essentially amounted to "You will admit to being wrong regardless of whether Imake sense." That's one of those strategies that should probably only be employed with creatures lacking sophisticated vocal skills, like dogs or toddlers.
But mostly, we got along fine. I wound up planning our days and he did most of the driving and cooking. So, we went with our strengths. But that's enough about my predictably rocky interactions with my father. On to the even rockier terrain surrounding us at the time:
Big Bend National Park is named for the grand sweep from heading South to heading North that the Rio Grande takes in West Texas. Check a map of the country, that little bulge on the southwestern edge before the big river begins its final southward plunge toward the Gulf? Big Bend is pretty much the only thing in there. It's a park the size of Rhode Island, with only one place to shower in the whole damned thing. My father and I drove around a hundred miles, on road and off, inside the park itself, and we didn't come close to exhausting it.
On the upside, it's a place with the kind of staggering natural beauty that you hope for from a National Park. Mountains of grey, red, orange and black rise out of the patchy, thorny foliage of the Chihuahuan desert (it's like the entire ecosystem is built on an aesthetic of "pointy"). Sweeping vistas like ideal backdrops to a Sergio Leone flick are around almost every huge bend of the road, and elevation differences are often conveniently calculated in thousands of feet. Unusual rock formations abound, from caballos to laccoliths to things I have no clue how to classify. We had planned to go white water rafting but the rivers were too low (it was a drought, in Texas, in the desert; I drank a lot of water); there was so much spectacular natural loveliness that we hardly noticed the lack of action. Indeed, by the end, I was fairly burnt out on pretty mountains and valleys. ("Oh look, another unspeakably magnificent canyon.")
It is the most beautiful place I've ever laid eyes on. And I've been to the Alps and Monhegan Island.
It's not a trip I'd eagerly undertake a second time. But I'm glad I took it once.