Wild, Wild West Texas

A Tex-Mex multisport adventure takes exhilarating turns in Big Bend country

Paul Kvinta

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“Y2k?” Mike Kasper blurts out, his voice reverberating between the sheer 1,500-foot white walls of Santa Elena Canyon, a limestone cathedral so awesome that we’ve ceased paddling this gentle stretch of the Rio Grande. The momentary lull seems to have tripped a switch in my canoe guide’s brain. A Houston native who wandered into the desert and built a solar-powered recording studio in the side of a mountain, Kasper, 47, splits his time between leading rafting trips down the river and living the rock-music life as an outback jammer known locally as Doctor Fun. And right now, the doctor is in. It’s not that he’s a hard-core believer in impending societal breakdown; it’s just that, much like the water-hoarding yucca, blind prickly pear, and lechuguilla that line the canyon rim, he’s a supremely well-adapted Big Bend specimen. “I’ve got 1,600 pounds of grains socked away,” Doctor Fun announces. “Rice, oats, beans. I’ve got a well, a windmill, a garden, and I’m completely solar. Not to mention fully armed. Dude, the people who live out here are desert rats. We’re built for survival!”

You pretty much have to be to inhabit this parched, far-flung chunk of west Texas border country. Here the Rio Grande abruptly halts its southeasterly flow through the Chihuahua Desert and curves north for 100 miles, a hydraulic detour that lends the region its blissfully simple name, Big Bend. The roughly 3,000 square miles of undulating brown hardpan and towering volcanic peaks cornered by the river’s mighty elbow constitute one of the most isolated expanses of real estate in the Lower 48. The nearest interstate lies 150 miles to the north. The closest major commercial airport, El Paso International, sits five hours to the northwest. One lonely deputy sheriff patrols most of this Connecticut-size region. And until three years ago, when a local high school was built, students from the area’s only actual towns, Terlingua, Lajitas, and Study Butte, held the record for the longest school-bus commute in the continental United States—170 miles, round-trip, to Alpine.

Fortunately, you don’t have to be a resident survivalist to appreciate the stunning scenery and lack of crowds in Big Bend. We’re not just talking sand, cacti, and roadrunners. Punctuating the vast, brightly painted, arid lowlands are a handful of 7,000-foot humps that slope up sharply, supporting oak, piñon, and juniper forests so dense that the former residents, the Apache, were able to successfully dodge Comanche raiders and Anglo settlers for much of the 19th century. Then there’s the leafy ribbon of the Rio Grande itself, twisting through sandy badlands and disappearing now and again into a chain of immense limestone canyons. Similar topography stretches south into Mexico, and almost all of it, on both sides of the border, is protected by a cluster of mammoth parks and reserves: in the United States, the 801,163-acre swath of Big Bend National Park and the 287,000-acre Big Bend Ranch State Park; in Mexico, the 684,467 acres of Santa Elena Canyon Reserve and 513,580-acre Maderas del Carmen Reserve.

For a stint in any of these protected areas, take a lesson from the locals: Travel light, but bring plenty of water. And slather on the sunscreen and wear a broad-brimmed hat, because temperatures in the desert and along the river can reach into the nineties in the “cool” months (March and April, October and November) and above 100 from May to September. Aside from a sturdy pair of hiking boots and a tent, everything else—bikes, canoes, horses, local wisdom—can be rented. But for those hardy souls willing to trek in alone, a proviso: Bringing plenty of water means stocking your vehicle with gallon jugs. Also, while there are many designated camping areas in both the national and state parks, desert hiking trails are marked by rock cairns, which can be difficult to read. Hikers should be cautious; the last thing you want to do is get lost and wander off into the great sandy beyond.

“Man, this is probably the coldest place in Big Bend,” Doctor Fun confides to me once we’ve beached the canoes and boulder-hopped into Fern Canyon, a narrow side gorge where water gurgles up from the bedrock and rain collects in deep crevices called tinajas. I dip my toe into the chilly pool, thinking that when you know how to find hidden iceboxes like this, being a dusty, oat-chomping desert rat suddenly doesn’t seem so rough. Then I rip off my shirt and plunge in.



When the Great Spirit finished creating the Earth, he dumped his leftover rocks in Big Bend, or so goes local legend. Scientists, however, attribute the area’s geologic disarray to a series of violent earthquakes and eruptions 35 million years ago that shattered layers of limestone and spewed volcanic ash and lava over 10,000 square miles. Subsequent millennia of erosion sculpted the rock into a mountain range. Then the Ice Age came and went, turning the forested slopes and rocky spires into an alpine island in a desert sea, home to stranded animal and plant species found nowhere else, like the three-foot-tall Chisos oak.

For extensive exploration of the Chisos Mountains, pitch your tent in the aptly named Chisos Basin, a 5,400-foot high bowl rimmed by red-rock pinnacles, including the park’s highest, 7,825-foot Emory Peak. There’s a store for provisions, a campsite with running water, and the Basin trailhead, a departure point for the South Rim, Big Bend’s most impressive view. Take the Laguna Meadow Trail’s 6.5-mile curl around the southwestern slopes of Emory Peak, where you’ll spy Mexican blue jays flitting about the aspens and roving bands of javelinas rooting beneath the scrub oaks, till you reach the South Rim at 7,375 feet. Plant yourself on a jagged outcropping and behold 270 degrees of Chihuahua Desert, rumpled and shimmering, 2,500 feet below. From here, you can see the Rio Grande carving its famous arc through three prominent river canyons—the Santa Elena to the west, the Mariscal to the south, and the Boquillas to the east.

To get an up-close look at the river, which forms the park’s southern boundary, connect with one of a handful of area outfitters that run single- and multiday rafting trips. In rainy years, like this one, the Rio Grande churns with Class III­IV whitewater, but guides here still like to fret about a recent, rapid-taming six-year drought. The more industrious outfitters have devised creative ways to deal with desert dry spells. Some offer “backward” paddling trips, wherein they reach Santa Elena and Fern Canyons by paddling canoes upstream in low water. It’s also not unusual to catch a late-night stargazing party drifting by, or a floating concert put on occasionally by rafting companies, featuring such homegrown Texas crooners as Jerry Jeff Walker or Jimmy Dale Gilmore. “At first I thought, ‘Shit, who’d want to hear me sing during their rafting trip?’ ” says Steve Fromholtz, an Austin musician who penned four of the songs on Lyle Lovett’s most recent studio album. “But people get into it. And hell, I got so interested in boating I got my river pilot’s license.”

At supper time, you’ll want to try a whole other style of boating. Head south on Ross Maxwell Scenic Drive from Chisos Basin to the river, park your car near the Santa Elena crossing, and pay the guy in the rowboat $2 to shuttle you to the Mexican bank. Here you’ll find Frontera Restaurante in the hamlet of Santa Elena. The cinder-block walls aren’t much to look at, but you’re here for something that transcends architecture—enchiladas and ice-cold Carta Blancas.





“I assure you, the cow is more sacred in Mexico than in India,” laments Julio Carrera, wildlife project chief for the three-year-old Santa Elena Canyon Reserve. He’s probably right. Mexico’s reserves are lands where rudimentary tasks such as management plans and species inventories trump tourism, and where people live and raise cattle on private inholdings. Indeed, the fate of this particular protected area depends largely on the goodwill of more than a hundred leery ranchers who have run their cattle on the sun-baked badlands for generations. Carrera spends most of his time trying to protect the indigenous bobcats, black bears, and ten endangered cactus species that most cattlemen would just as soon trample.

The refuge’s lonely cliffs and wind-blasted gorges can be accessed with Lajitas Stables, a horse-packing outfitter based in its namesake American border town. We saddled up in Paso Lajitas, a hardscrabble village on the Mexican side, and ambled south, winding through the pre-Columbian Indian camps of Las Mangas Canyon, where ocher petroglyphs still decorate the walls. At sunset, we spread our bedrolls by the fire at Rancho Conchanillas, a private cattle ranch, and settled in beneath the stars and the watchful gaze of the Virgin of Guadalupe, ensconced in a shrine on a nearby hill. The next day’s ride took us through increasingly surreal terrain, several pink tuff canyons in which wind and erosion have molded volcanic ash into virtual cityscapes populated by throngs of hideously deformed, humanoid figures.

I didn’t spot any actual humans until the end of our second day, when we clip-clopped down the stone streets of San Carlos, a sleepy pueblecito 20 miles south of the border. At La Gloria, a hacienda inn perched on the lip of San Carlos Canyon, I climbed off my tired horse and marveled at the oasis before me—a rock-terraced garden of red geraniums, white lilies, and pink bougainvilleas irrigated by a whispering acequia and shaded by stands of pecan and peach trees. That evening Gloria Rodriguez, the owner, plied us with chicken mole and sotol tequila on the veranda. We watched the stars come out as Onario Orozco and Lico Miller, our trail guides, sang folk songs into the night.

The remainder of the itinerary depends on the severity of your saddle sores. I continued by horseback deep into San Carlos Canyon to an abandoned silver mine called La Mina Grande. Wandering burros and spinning dust devils are the only residents left in an adobe ghost town that housed 1,500 workers earlier in the century. If that’s more than your rump can take, simply stretch out in one of La Gloria’s garden hammocks with a margarita and snooze the day away.


Mountain bikers and geologists can bond over the Solitario, a rare limestone and sandstone laccolith in Big Bend Ranch State Park. An odd arrangement of concentric mountain ranges formed by an ancient subterranean dome of magma that blew its lid and then collapsed in on itself, the Solitario is a mineralogical maze.Geologists get downright giddy mapping 520 million years of history in the jagged, upended flatirons of rock, and bikers flock because they can fly around the Solitario’s labyrinthine inner loops like happy-go-lucky rats. “We try to get them interested in the geology,” says Jim Carrico, owner of mountain-biking outfitter Desert Sports. “But let’s face it, most of ’em just want to ride.”

A ranch road winds over the mountains and into the Solitario’s isolated center, where Carrico and his charges set up camp near a ramshackle former cowboy outpost called Tres Papalotes. From there, bikers negotiate rolling doubletrack that weaves through a postapocalyptic landscape of shattered limestone. Unless you pack some pretty impressive geology credentials or hook up with Carrico, the only way to see the Solitario without risking a visit by the park’s search and rescue crew is by arranging for a guided hike with one of several local outfitters or a park ranger—which shouldn’t be a bother, since you’re not likely to run into other people anyway.

The park’s other unusual geological feature—this is a desert, after all—is an abundance of bubbling springs and, stranger still, some of the state’s tallest waterfalls. To visit one of these oases, set out along the Rancherías Canyon Trail, taking care to sidestep the whiplike ocotillos, barbed chollas, and pointy Christmas cacti. After five calf-wrenching miles up a dry, pebbly riverbed, you arrive at the foot of Rancherías falls, spilling off an 80-foot half-dome. Take note of the wetlands at the base, complete with lily pads, maidenhair ferns, cattails, and a cluster of shady cottonwood trees.

Few things can rival that vision, except maybe the sunset drive from park headquarters to Lajitas along Presidio County 170. You’ll have to dodge roadrunners, jackrabbits, and stray cattle, but the winding, dipping route parallels the Rio Grande and affords jaw-dropping views of the lonely river disappearing into Mexico’s pink and purple Sierra Picachos.

Paul Kvinta’s story about the disappearance of journalist Philip True appeared in the June issue.


La Vida Local

Getting around the Bend


GETTING THERE: Fly into El Paso International Airport and rent a four-wheel-drive vehicle ($65 per day at National Car Rental, 800-227-7368). Head east on Interstate 10, turning south onto U.S. 90 at Van Horn and then south onto U.S. 67 at Marfa. Then pick up Presidio County 170 east, and you’ll find the entrance to Big Bend Ranch State Park (915-229-3416) just east of Presidio. To reach Big Bend National Park’s (915-477-2251) western entrance, continue east for an hour.

LODGINGS: Both U.S. parks have toilet-equipped campsites that are available on a first come, first served basis—don’t worry, there’s always space. At Big Bend National Park a spot costs $7, and backcountry and primitive camping are free with a permit. At Big Bend Ranch State Park, admission is $3 per person and camping is another $3. More upscale accommodations can be had at the comfy Lajitas Resort, between the parks on Brewster County 170 (doubles, $75; 877-525-4827), or the Chisos Mountains Lodge, inside Big Bend National Park (doubles, $80).

LOCAL FARE: For a sit-down meal, order the zesty pork chop chipotle at the Starlight Theatre (above) in Terlingua. Stock up on camping essentials at the Lajitas Trading Post or the Study Butte Store (below).

OUTFITTERS: For Rio Grande cruises (and Y2K monologues), sign on with Mike Kasper at Far Flung Adventures (915-371-2489), or try Texas River Expeditions (800-839-7238) or Big Bend River Tours (800-545-4240). All are Terlingua-area-based and offer daylong trips for $110 per person. Lajitas Stables’ (888-508-7667) four-day horsepacking trip in Santa Elena Canyon Reserve runs $560. To bike the Solitario, Desert Sports (888-989-6900) charges $450 for a three-day excursion. Arrange for guided hikes through Big Bend Ranch State Park.


A Lick of Common Sense

You want to live? Have a cup of tea, know your plant life, and yield to snakes


I swear I don’t know where the match came from. But when David Alloway, the nation’s leading desert survival expert, found it in the charred remains of our fire, he was less than pleased. “Class,” he grumbled, “when I said we’d be making fire by rubbing sticks together, I did not mean one of the sticks could be a match.” Fortunately Alloway, a Big Bend Ranch State Park naturalist who has imparted his water-finding, fire-starting, shelter-making, weather-predicting, desert-cooking, and plant-edibility-testing techniques to U.S. Air Force pilots, customs officers, and Outward Bound instructors, didn’t hold the cheating against me or the 11 other civilians who had signed on for his desert survival workshop ($350; 915-229-3416).

For three days out in the Chihuahua furnace and two nights spent in a rustic ranch bunkhouse, the lanky El Paso native—a former hiking and horsepacking guide in Mexico’s Copper Canyon and in Yellowstone and Big Bend National Parks—instructed us on such life lessons as signaling planes with shaving mirrors, trapping desert fowl and baking them underground, and coaxing water from wells beneath broken windmills. We dutifully trooped across the flats behind Alloway as he cataloged the medicinal value of the entire landscape. “This leatherstem?” he barked, grabbing the rubbery shrub. “Sap’s great for hemorrhoids. That creosote bush? Make a tea of the leaves and you’ve got your antifungal.” He also divulged his most challenging desert walkabout—a ten-day, 120-mile jaunt across Western Australia’s severe Pilbara territory—and a memorable lesson he learned from it: To remove a grain of sand from someone’s eye, just stick out your tongue and lick.

Common sense, you may have gathered, is the basic tenet of Alloway’s teachings. “Take poisonous snakes,” he advised one simmering afternoon on the trail. “Your best bet with them is the Alloway 12-Step Snake Bite Prevention Program. You take four steps off the trail, four steps around the snake, and then four steps back onto the trail. Simple.”