A Map and a Mustang: It's Allllllll Good

2022 ROAD TRIP! Hello to those who still check in here once in a while! I've just come back from this year's road trip (yes, in November) and I'm now working on the accompanying blog posts. This year's run was short - 8 days - so that means I'll have to work real hard to make each post extra-interesting. I hope you enjoy!

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11/5

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Another year. Another adventure. Same car. Same driver. Same theme. Are you getting tired of me yet?? I hope not.

At least this time I’m traveling at a different time of year! Small differences. The reason for a November trip – instead of my usual August romp – is twofold: 1) I had a conference to go to in Banff in August this year (yeah, boo-hoo, woe is me, my life is awful), and 2) I’ve decided that August is just too damn hot! This year in particular – it was Austin’s hottest summer ever, and boy did I feel it. The prospect of hauling my buns (or, rather, making Jane haul my buns) across the hottest state at the hottest time of year was just not that appealing, believe it or not.

So, I elected to try something new: an autumn trip! This one is tricky to arrange as October is usually very busy for me, but it’s also the best time to travel. I figured early November would be okay too, as long as I stuck to the southern portion of the States. Not a problem – and actually a boon, as I have a lot of great places left to see in the south. You know, because I’d actually melt if I tried to go in my usual August timeframe.

Anyways, due to various overlapping commitments, I only had a 10-day window to do my yearly tour. Yeah, reduced to the length of the average American vacation – terrible! But, that’s just how things worked out. So with that in mind, I elected to finally check a big item off of the list: Big Bend National Park.

Now, Big Bend is the closest national park to my Austin, TX home – in fact, it’s the ONLY national park in Texas – but I’ve never been, despite living in Texas for nearly eight years now. This is because when I moved here and saw how few large parks there were in the vicinity, I decided to “save” Big Bend for a point in my life when I was having a really bad time and needed a break. You know, a “bail-out” park for a pocket adventure to cheer me up! The problem though is that in all the time I’ve lived here, I just have never felt I had a bad enough day to merit a visit. Boo-hoo, woe is me, my life is awful. Whatever. I figure I’ll check it off the list now, and you know what, if I ever have a terrible day again, I can always come back.

Remarkably, I had Jane tuned up and reasonably presentable a full THREE DAYS before leaving on this trip! And I finished packing at 10PM the night before, instead of the usual 2-3AM! I’m really growing up. I hope that Jane appreciates how hard I work to improve on my terrible procrastination habits for her.

Annual toolbag check... not pictured: the kitchen sink.

Looking clean n' mean!

Starting mileage... for once I remembered to document this.

I planned on an 8-day-long venture, which should be the perfect length to hit most – if not all – of Big Bend’s Jane-accessible trails. And I have to admit, I’m actually very excited to get to go hang out at a single park and really experience it for a significant length of time, since usually I ping-pong around parks and destinations pretty quickly. It will be nice to not feel like I have to milk every drop out of every day to get the full experience.

Saturday morning dawned, and I made my preparations for the dreaded first day of the trip. I really do hate the first day. Usually I’m facing a 10-12 hour drive through a 110*F Texas wasteland, on very little sleep, with the sole intent of just escaping the stupid state. And Jane always has to go and throw a wrench into things, just to remind me who’s boss (and probably to punish me for the past year’s neglect). Combined, the first day is always just a disaster.

But for once, it actually seemed poised to not be so terrible. This time, I was only facing an 8-hour jaunt down the highway in 75*F temps, AND I had gotten enough sleep the previous night! My spirits were high – and I hoped Jane’s were too.

We set out at a breezy 10:30AM, hopped on the highway headed west, and got to running. In my experience, most Texas highways are no joke. Speed limits are high (and always viewed as a suggestion anyways) and drivers are some unholy combination of enraged, asleep, distracted, and/or possibly drunk. West Texas highways are especially bad, combining 75+ MPH speed limits with poorly maintained, narrow, often gravel-filled roadways, dotted with slow-moving oil tankers and semi trucks like slugs covering a particularly busy sidewalk. The only solid strategy I’ve found to navigating West Texas highways is to move fast, keep your head on a swivel, and be ready for anything at any time. Exhausting, to say the least.

I was prepared for the worst, as usual, but it was not to be. No, it turns out that the majority of the roads leading out towards Big Bend - including Highways 290 and 10 – are actually very nice roads. They're smooth, they're wide, they're well-maintained, and they're pretty sparsely traveled so a nice high-80s cruising speed doesn’t feel like so much of a death trap. This might be my new favorite highway drive in Texas! Not that there was any competition.

For once, Jane and I were on the same page and she ate up the miles with ease, every mile passing more smoothly than the last. The urban sprawl of Austin gave way to grassy fields spotted with vineyards (every year more than the last, I notice), then gently rolling hills with live oak-filled pastureland.

Pastureland gave way to rounded cedar-studded hills and towering rocky roadcuts.

And eventually even those hills gave way to flatlands filled with scrubby brush, the old Texas classic. After some time, I turned off the main highway to head south, and stared at some more scrubby brush.

The Davis Mountains grew large before me, then disappeared in the rearview mirror.

New mountains loomed far in the distance. And still Jane roared on, as the sun sank towards the horizon, turning those scrubby flatlands into something like amber waves of grain.

Distant mountains turned to closer mesas.

Closer mesas turned to even closer ancient volcanic mounds.

And seemingly abruptly, we arrived at our destination for the night: Terlingua, TX. Completely without incident.

Well, except for the final five minutes of driving, which were a bit harrowing due to the impending sunset and the angle of the roads in Terlingua. You see, I have to be very careful about driving west at sunset when I first start off on these trips. The reason is incredibly stupid: Jane is too shiny, and when the sun is very low, it will simultaneously lance in through an unavoidable spot in the windshield, AND reflect off of the hood, creating a double-blinding effect (and not the fun medical study type). It's worse when the car is pointed a little (or a lot) uphill, which it was. And it’s even WORSE when the windshield is full of bug smears, as if, say, you’d been driving through a billion trillion butterflies for eight hours. Which I had. So, triple-blind. But, miraculously, we kept all four tires on the road and we didn’t even miss our turn to the night’s lodging. Must be because I’ve been doing this for so long.

Anyways, I had booked a night at the Buzzard’s Roost, which is right near the old Terlingua ghost town (yes, Terlingua is technically a ghost town – more on that later). It advertised “tipis and a luxurious lifestyle”, so obviously I had to find out what that was all about! Come to find out, it was exactly as advertised.

I parked Jane next to my giant tipi (“La Luna”) and surveyed the surroundings. The tipi came with its own hammock, fire ring, and lawn chairs. Nearby, there was a small bathroom, and a shower facility with both an indoor and outdoor shower (both large, with wonderful high-pressure waterfall shower heads). An open building to the side featured a large lounge area with tons of cushions suitable for a large party of hippies (despite the fact that the entire facility probably only accommodates 12 people at most).

Boy that is just not a bad view, eh?

And everywhere there was odd, vaguely threatening but certainly very funky art.

Angry-looking children's playground equipment is never unthreatening

Ok, this one isn't threatening, it's just cool.

I popped into my tipi and found that they had indeed figured out how to make a tipi luxurious! Somehow they had stuffed a queen bed – replete with a dozen pillows and the SOFTEST sheets I have ever experienced – and a futon in there, plus a couple of nice chairs, some end tables, a small refrigerator, a heater, various tables, spare blankets, and a large assortment of rugs to keep your feet off the rock. They even provided towels and comfy robes for the shower! Lap of luxury, indeed.

The tarp on the bed is for... in case it rains?? Here, in Terlingua, where it rains 12" per year?? Anyways I forgot to take it off before snapping this pic. Whatever.

With Jane inspected and my gear settled, I turned my attention back outwards, and just in time. Sunset proved to be soft but spectacular, especially as a backdrop to Jane and my ridiculous tipi. No skies of fire tonight, as there were too few clouds in the sky, but what few cotton candy clouds did float in the vicinity certainly put on a show. The mountains and mesas surrounding town were bathed in light, dying them a brilliant breathtaking red.

Ft. a buzzard made of old tires

Something about this photo just tugs right on my heart a little

As the twilight hour set in, the mountains fell into soft shadows and a quiet – the kind you can only get in a desert - descended over the landscape. Beams of soft pinks and purples shot across the sky, lending a surreal feeling to the scene.

Ft. a giant metal ant, scary children's playground equipment, and an ocotillo sculpture that looks suspiciously octopodian in nature...

Yeah, I really don't think you can beat this.

And then, the music started to play.

Terlingua is not a large town, the town “proper” occupying maybe a square mile of space. It doesn’t have many residents, either, with the full-time population hovering somewhere around 100. But those that do live here – and the tourists besides – make it count.

This town has a lot of different reputations, making it a wholly unique place to visit. To some, mention of Terlingua prompts visions of the heyday of automotive racing in the 1960’s and 70’s. To others, it evokes thoughts of a conglomeration of transient dirtbags-turned-community. To others, it’s a town for wild art exploration. And to still others, it is simply a great place to find the world’s best chili.

It’s a town that doesn’t know what it is, but it’s happy not knowing. And that is something I can get behind for sure.

As night fell, music and laughter began to well up from small oases of light scattered across the barren landscape. Here, the wailing of an overenthusiastic karaoke crew, set to Tom Petty or Guns N Roses. There, the sounds of exuberant dining, the clinking of silverware and hum of lively conversation and occasional shattering of glass. Elsewhere, the rising hum of a few dozen RVers holding a bonfire party out in the desert. Altogether, elements that should have been annoying instead blended into a pleasant background tempo, a pulse of a town long declared dead, but still unquestionably alive. A town of 100 people has a way of sounding much bigger when all 100 of them are out and about on a Friday night, it turns out.

I took a wander up the ghost town road, the main "drag" in town. To my surprise, the ghost town itself is anything but - sure, there's ruins that remain, well, ruined, but there's also a number of old ruins that have now once more resumed being homes. Outside of the ghost town buildings, though, you won't find a house in sight. No, the preferred residence in Terlingua appears to be an RV - theoretically moveable, but probably not given the distinct lack of wheels on most of them - maybe with a shade roof thrown over top, or an outhouse tacked onto the side.

A view of the entire Terlingua ghost town

Upon closer inspection, not so ghostly... people just live here like normal I guess

The more common Terlingua residence, for those not privileged enough to live in the ghost town itself

I followed my ears and nose to the biggest (and best) restaurant in town: the Starlight Theater. And man, talk about THE place to be! People filled every chair, bench, and table on the sprawling wraparound porch and in the adjoining cantina. Light, music, laughter, and rowdy voices spilled out into the night endlessly, brightening the night sky as much as the brilliant moon and stars. I think half of the town was turned out there, and some tourists as well, but it was hard to tell the difference between the two groups as any stranger was treated immediately as a friend. It made my 45-minute wait to get a seat at the bar pass a little more quickly, despite my ravenous hunger.

Eventually I did get a seat at the bar, where I proceeded to order their biggest steak with a side of their famous roasted chili bacon brussel sprouts. A middle-aged couple (I later named they were Mary and Matt) plopped down in the seats next to me, and immediately struck up a conversation with the bartenders and waitresses that made it apparent that they were locals. “When’s the wedding?”, “How was your daughter’s birthday?”, “Band tonight is great.” Naturally I was roped into the conversation, as were others at the bar. No such thing as a private conversation here, no penalty for “butting in” on others. I might ask about a cool place to find local art, and a guy two tables behind me might hear and shout an answer. Maybe someone else mentions a broken motorcycle, and someone else knows a guy the next town over, don’t worry. Need a plumber? The guy in the back corner is a retired one, he’ll help you out, no big deal.

I sat and chewed on my steak (delicious) and let the camaraderie wash over me. I have been a lot of places – a lot of small towns – but this little town, smack dab in the middle of (almost) nowhere, declared dead but steadfastly ignoring the label, glowed with a warmth I’ve experienced nowhere else. I think it’s because it’s a place that welcomes all – the artists, the ranchers, the RVers, the out-of-towners, the dirtbags, the transients, the oddballs and leftovers – and finds a place for them effortlessly. Be who you want to be in Terlingua. As my impromptu dinnermate was fond of saying, “It’s allllll good.”

As midnight approached, I headed back to my ridiculous tipi through the frankly frigid night, guided by the light of the stars and the nearly-full moon. Bad karaoke still trickled through the air, if a bit more softly and a bit more likely to be songs like “Every Rose Has Its Thorn” than “Welcome to the Jungle”. After a nice fancy-rustic-feeling shower, I plopped into bed, piled up the blankets, and slipped off to sleep.