11-10-2022
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I packed up camp again in the morning – tonight I’ll be
moving to a campsite outside of the park! When I booked it, I kind of figured I
would want to do some more stuff on the western side of Big Bend and in the
Lajitas area. But now that I’m here… well, I’d like to finish out the Big Bend
trails. So it would appear that I’m moving camp for no reason at all – except
that the campgrounds outside of the park have one all-important amenity:
SHOWERS.
Don’t get me wrong, being dirty and gross kind of comes with
the territory when you do long camping trips, and when you’re a geologist. But
a shower every four days or so is pretty nice. So it’s worth leaving the park
boundaries to get one.
Anyways, I had a lot of fun things standing between me and
that shower, so I set to it. I decided that I would spend the day in the
Castolon area again, as there were a few trails down that way that had been
recommended to me by various parkies that I hadn’t gotten to yet.
Jane and I came out of the mountains and puttered down towards
the Ross Maxwell Scenic Drive, dodging spindly slow-moving tarantulas the whole way. I’ve seen quite
a few tarantulas on the roads and trails over the past few days – maybe it’s a
migratory season for them. Or maybe they’re just walking around everywhere so
they are easy to find on pathways. I don’t know, I’m not a tarantula expert.
The temperatures warmed the whole way down – it was
promising to be a beautiful but hot day. Great planning on my part – hiking in
the hottest part of the park on the hottest day of my visit. Well, whatever,
I’ve hiked in much worse than mid-90’s temps for sure.
I first pulled off at the Tuff Canyon trailhead just north
of the Castolon visitor center. Both parkies that I spoke to earlier this week
were adamant that Tuff Canyon was one of the best places to see geology “up
close and personal”. But they also said that the rocks exposed in this canyon
are all volcanic… arghhh! Well, volcanic rocks can be really cool too, I just
don’t know anything about them which is aggravating.
It turns out that Tuff Canyon is a pretty small canyon, and
one that comes out of seemingly nowhere. It’s embedded in the valley floor,
completely invisible except when you come up on it. You can’t see it from the
road, or even from the parking lot at the trailhead – but step about 20 feet
down the trail, and it all unfolds in front of you. Kind of a neat secret
feature.
I wandered along the canyon rim a ways, checking out some cool features from above. Then, I followed a dirt track down to the mouth of the canyon, where I was greeted by a wide flat gravel wash that made for easy walking. So up the canyon I went.
I have to say, even for someone who knows nearly nothing
about volcanic rocks, this place is COOL. Everywhere I looked I saw some
fascinating detail, some rock or volcanic flow or ash bed that spoke to a
turbulent, firey past.
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| Not so much lava bombs, as ejected blocks? But still - imagine several very large rocks, each over 2' in diameter, being chucked through the sky to land at your feet |
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| Lots and lots of layers of ash and other volcanic matter with bits and pieces of other rocks along for the ride |
I can only imagine what it was like to be here during the time that all of these rocks were being deposited. A world of smoking, volatile mountains, belching ash and smoke and fire into the air, hurling lava from their depths out into the world to cascade down their flanks and smother the surrounding lands. The layered volcanic flows and ash beds are evidence of a series of catastrophes, one after another. I can imagine that – perhaps – some life came forth here, scrapping together an ecosystem after every eruption, the plants stretching their roots deep into the nutrient-rich soil for a short time before being burned away again. But nothing of them is left behind now. Here, the land remembers only the rage of the volcanoes.
As I marched up the canyon, it became evident that there
were two different volcano types here at some point. The canyon walls are made
mostly of tan ashy-feeling volcanics – rhyolitic tuffs – but there are a lot of
heavy, black basaltic boulders bound up within them. Two very different volcano
types, likely cropping up at two very different periods in time – and I’d guess
the basaltic volcanoes as being the older ones, considering pieces of them are
caught up in the tuffs.
Interestingly, a lot of these weird yellow butterflies
clustered around certain layers of the rock walls. I assume that either water,
or some kind of mineral nutrient they crave, comes out of those specific
layers. Weird!
At the furthest point of the canyon, more of the story was
laid bare. Here, those tan tuffs are shown to very clearly overlie rounded,
pillowy-looking basalt deposits. The basalts were likely deposited as
slow-moving lava flows, similar to those you would see on Hawaii today – hence
their kind of lumpy, pillowy look. In contrast, the overlying tuffs look like
quick-moving flows, likely blown out explosively to level the landscape in a
blast of incredible heat and wind. Mount St. Helens comes to mind.
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| Cool evidence of flows cutting over one another |
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| That's a lotta rock |
What a cool, cool place!
I soon found that I couldn’t go any further, so I turned
around to head back. Tuff Canyon proved to be worth the recommendations for sure!
Nice short flat easy hike, and lots of very cool rocks to look at.
I tucked myself back into Jane and headed south past the visitor center, keeping an eye out
for the turnout for another trailhead: the much lesser-traversed Dorgan-Sublett
House trail. This trail is almost never advertised in literature or by parkies,
mostly because it’s a pretty desolate rugged hike that’s lacking in the
cinematic scope that so many other Big Bend trails have. It does have some neat
ruins to look at, and you can see into Mexico, so that’s cool. But it has one
fairly well-kept secret that makes the whole trail absolutely worth it, which that chipper Castolon parkie had shared with me
a couple of days prior when I mentioned I had worked at a National Monument focused
on preserving petrified trees.
Anyways, we’ll get to that in a bit.
The trail started unassumingly, traversing through various
amounts of scrub and ditches with nary a cool view in sight. But it wasn’t long
before I came upon the remnants of a few homes – probably built by ranchers and
farmers in the 1800’s – each of which felt saturated in memories of a hard but
proud life. Although modest in size (500 sq. ft. for the biggest one, maybe)
and composition (some combination of mud bricks and stone), they all boasted a
pretty spectacular view of the Cretaceous escarpment towering over the Rio Grande.
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| Someone got tired of mud bricks and swapped halfway through |
One home had been nearly fully restored, and showcased a
layered mud brick and stone construction with wooden rafters and cedar-lined
window frames. I can only imagine how much care and effort must have gone into
building it, although very fortunately this area of Big Bend has no lack of either
mud or rocks. Still, not an easy endeavor.
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| Some modern materials used in restoration, but mostly looks like locally sourced mud and clay! And by locally sourced, I mean from within a 1-mile radius |
The trail crested a small hill – more of a mound of scree,
really – and finally yielded some expansive Big Bend views. Two ruins set atop
the hill – one, a mere suggestion of a building that would have overlooked the
Rio Grande and nearby fields just to the south in its heyday, and another, set
further back on the hill looking southeast. I stopped by the first house – the Sublett
House, now reduced only to a pile of mud bricks and a couple very short walls –
before continuing on to the second (and last): Dorgan House.
Dorgan House is quite a bit larger than the other houses in
this area as a result of its unique construction, being both better-engineered
and more sturdily built, which enabled more of it to survive the passage of
time. Some of the adobe walls still stand, as does the main doorframe and front
windowframes. But there is one feature of Dorgan House that has withstood the
sands of time far better than any of the rest: its absolutely massive,
magnificent, petrified wood fireplace and chimney. This chimney is why I’m
here.
The Dorgan House chimney is cobbled together from large
pieces of petrified wood collected from the area – a feat in and of itself, as
finding this many large chunks of petrified wood in the area is not easy. But
they are masterfully arranged, mortared together in an aesthetically pleasing
way that has survived for nearly a century. Aside from being beautiful, the extra-sturdy
construction of the chimney served a functional role as well: apparently it
also functioned as a main pillar for the house, allowing the architect to make
the living room twice the usual size with the rafters (made of local trees,
thus the size limitation as local trees are not tall!) butting up to each other
at the top of the chimney. The two-way fireplace was able to heat the entire
space evenly, keeping the whole house warm on those occasional chilly winter
days. Although most of the rest of the house no longer exists, this chimney
remains as evidence of a home carefully thought-out and lovingly built. And it
makes for some really truly spectacular photos.
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| Through a door! |
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| Through a window! |
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| From outside! With a cliff! |
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| From up close! |
I spent a while
taking photos – even with the subpar lighting, the striking colors of the
chimney still made for an excellent subject. But eventually I felt it was time
to move on, so I headed back down the trail to Jane.
We took one last drive up the Ross Maxwell Scenic Drive –
and boy, what a beautiful day.
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| Massive ash beds |
It was mid-afternoon when we made our final stop for the day
at the trailhead for the Chimneys trail. Another off-the-beaten-path trail,
also infrequently recommended although my trail map did mention that it had
some cool Native American rock art and shelters at its end. That was enough to
pique my interest so I stopped by for a visit.
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| The view from the parking lot wasn't half bad either! |
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| Add grass |
As I walked down the trail, the muted crunches of gravel
underfoot almost swallowed up by the incessant rustling of endless dry grasses
and the subtle creaking of brittle creosote, I found myself really listening to
this place. It’s unsettling how quiet it seems at first, with nothing but the whisper
of wind reaching your ears. No background sounds of traffic, no voices, no
electrical hums, nothing whatsoever related to the noisy human world. With this
much open space – and this much sound deadening from the dense stands of grass –
even the occasional passage of cars on the main road becomes nearly
imperceptible.
But the harder you listen, the more you start to pick up. Birds,
hidden among the grass and in the bushes, softly chirping back and forth to one
another. Or maybe the slight rustle of dry grass or the click of a shifting twig,
the only cues of a curious whipsnake observing you next to the path. Maybe
traces of a coyote’s mournful cry, drifting on the wind. And slowly, the
landscape starts to come alive.
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| Pictured: birds. Lol. |
It occurred to me that aside from tarantulas and the
ever-friendly Mexican jays, I really haven’t seen that much wildlife over the
past few days. But it now also occurred to me that maybe I just wasn’t listening
right.
In no time at all, I reached the “chimneys” – a string of rock
outcrops popping out of the valley floor, remnants of a volcanic dike. They
provide a good vantage point to survey the surrounding landscape, so it’s no
surprise that they were frequented by Native Americans in bygone years.
The southern chimney must have been particularly popular, as
there were a number of petroglyphs and pictographs ringing its base. On one
side, some rocks had been stacked in a small divot under an overhang to make a
protected camp area with a great view of the surrounding land. The walls were festooned
with carved slashes, a bit ominous looking until I was able to pick out what
looks like a carving of a deer hoof. Maybe these were once records of deer hunt
tallies.
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| Originally a weathering feature in this sandstone, but now maybe also enhanced by use as something like a mortar and pestle?? Who knows |
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| A bunch of cool fossilized burrows in the sandstone |
I climbed up the other chimneys for a while, exploring the
various slots and arches and keyholes they had to offer.
By then, the afternoon was growing long, and I realized that
I needed to be at my new campsite before dark. So I headed back through the sea
of whispering brush, arriving back at the parking lot in fairly short order. Jane
roared to life, raucous after the quiet solitude of the trail, but I welcomed
her comforting rumble, the heartbeat of an old pony car. That rumble is one of
the most reassuring sounds in the world, especially when you’re out on the open
road.
We arrived at the new campground – Rancho Topanga, located
about midway between Terlingua and Lajitas – in good time. I had just enough
time to set up camp before the lightshow started. All afternoon, the clouds had
been gathering, descending lower and lower and growing thicker and thicker. It
all seemed a setup for what must be one of the most spectacular sunsets I’ve
ever witnessed. Without warning, the skies burst aflame, cascading reds and
oranges and yellows refracting off of bands of clouds, weaving into an
unrivaled patchwork of brilliant firey hues across the entire sky. Texas
sunsets really cannot be beat.
As dusk descended and the riot of oranges and yellows and
purples bled from the sky, I began to realize how unique this campground is. It’s
divided into two parts – a string of campsites along a high ridgetop, and a
string of campsites just down in the valley (more of a gully) below. I was staying
in one of the valley sites, nestled down between two hills. And the owner has
done a fantastic job taking care to preserve the real feel of this place – so although
there’s a very nice bathhouse with showers and flush toilets and sinks, and it
does have lighting internally, there are no other sources of electricity. What
I’m getting at is that my campsite was DARK. I mean completely, pitch black
dark. Amazing.
I sat there at my picnic table, surrounded in the comforting
inky embrace of the night, broken only by the small light from my headlamp, and
had a very remarkable dinner (just soup, but it was remarkable because of how
remote and otherworldly it felt to be sitting there in complete darkness). It gave
me some quality time to think back over all of the awesome sights I got to experience
today. From the preserved remains of raging volcanoes, to the enduring strength
of a petrified wood chimney, to the vast rugged desolation of the grasslands, I
feel that today really captured the essence of Big Bend, less from a
hiker-tourism standpoint and more from the perspective of those who actually
lived here long ago.
With that, it’s time for a shower – I’m really looking
forward to this! Kelly signing out.
