Big Bend II
The last leg of the Jeep trip takes us up to the Mariscal mine. Perched high on a hill, the buildings of stone and concrete are spread on down the mountainside and to the bottom where the worker’s homes are slowly falling in. This was a mercury or quicksilver mine. The ore is called cinnabar, and is a plummy red color, and so the mine tailings are very venetian red against the tan stones of the buildings and the hillside. Right in the middle is what looks like the insides of a giant brick toaster. The vivid red ore is pulverized and heated until the mercury vaporizes and then the vapor is cooled and the silvery stuff is poured into 3 quart flasks which weigh 76 pounds. The bricks of the oven are saturated with mercury, so we are told not to touch.
As the storm clouds thicken, we hurry back out to the pavement. The violence that flash floods can cause is evident at every turn when we are in a low area, and so we are taking no chances.
Next day we do another drive on rough roads, this time in the truck. We have enough clearance, and barring mud, not a problem. They have to exaggerate the state of the roads or they would be rescuing people in motor homes and sports cars all the time, and the park is huge so it would require an army. We are following the old ore road, where silver, lead and mercury ore was driven up to the RR at Marathon, 75 miles to the north. It is here that we see the tinajas up close, and pass the remains of ranches. And the grave of Mr Leon, murdered. We know who, he did not hang for it, but not why.
There are ghost ranches scattered throughout the park. Looking at the land now, raising lizards would be about the only possibility. There is only something called chino grass (yes, the color of chino pants) in a few spots. There isn’t even any dirt. The brochure tells us that there once was grass, but it was over grazed to the point that other species have now taken over, and without the grass to catch stuff, any plant debris that might become top soil is blown away by the never ending dry wind.
Our last stop is the SE end of the park. Here the Rio Grande charges into the Boquillas canyon, though a nearly invisible slit in the towering rock face of the Sierra Del Carmen. This is lighter colored rock, and pinker and crenellated at the top. The orange light of the sunset sets it all aflame. This range is high and dramatic, and is especially interesting because the colors vary with the light. There is also a hot spring near here, where a small tourist village existed in the 40-50’s to encourage people to come and have a soak and drink the mineral laden water. Only the stone store and the “motel”( which looks more like horse stalls) remain. The bathhouse, a substantial 2 story stone building, was swept away entirely by a flood in 1932. I wore my bathing suit all day hoping for a chance to sit in the spring, but the river is high and rushing right over it. The river is so solid with dirt, and moving so fast that it doesn’t look quite like water.
Across the river is a small Mexican village. There are several of these along the length of the park’s river edge. Before the recent unpleasantness of 9-11, these were wading or boat crossings and people from both sides went back and forth, coming to work and sell crafts, going to visit and buy crafts and eat Mexican food. Locals tell of several excellent tiny cantinas where they would go after a day of hiking or rafting. Much mutual benefit and now, no more.
Directly across the river from one place we stopped, we could see a sort of open shelter and some laundry, with a well trodden path to the water. In another place, a blue boat waited on the Mexican side. I asked the locals if there was anyway that people could be stopped from crossing, and they allowed as how folks came and went pretty regularly with an eye on the border cops. I never saw any except at the immigration stops.
Being here, and stomping about by the banks of the river, I don’t see how anyone expects this border to be controlled. You can’t take a truck of goods or a car to get to work across the river except at the remaining policed border stations where there can be hours of waiting, but I’m sure that people come and go regularly. There are plenty of back roads to go around the immigration stops. As far as I can see, pretending to close the border has only hurt the local economy on both sides and had little effect on the rest of the immigration problem. When I think if the miles of back woods in northern New England where there is no real deterrent to crossing into Canada, or the endless lands of open lands of ND, and MT, closing the borders seems a pretty silly thought. A nice political noise to lull us into believing the gumment has done something to protect us. And besides, the Hispanic peoples were here long before us noisy Anglos.
Our last drive was all the way to Presidio. Along the Rio Grande, seeing canyons and cliffs. The road climbs and swoops and charges around corners and drops into washes where we can see the leftovers of last night’s thunderstorm across the pavement. We stopped at Closed Canyon, where a creek in its rush to get to the river has made a 100’ deep but hardly 20’wide slot in the rocks. The floor of this corridor is smoothed by the water, and has pockets of fine gravel. Where the water hits harder layers, we have to climb down, and maybe scrabble down, until we get to a drop that would require a rope to be sure to we could get back up. It is shady and cool, and there are acacias and rock nettle blossoming with bees busy at them. We have been severely warned not to go in here if there is ANY rain even possible. There would be no where to climb up, nothing to hold onto and certainly some deeper drops ahead. The water slide of death. Just thinking about the wall of water makes us walk faster, even though there isn’t a cloud for miles.
We stop to climb up “the Big Hill” a long steep grade, diesels roaring up it, and a rocky knob on the river side. There is a cache at the top. It is rocky and steep and not 100% good footing, but the oldsters climb on up anyway. I was doing fine until I happened to glance to the east and see the 1000’ drop from the rocky knob to the river below. The drop to the road was OK, but not that. My brain just said no. Don, who usually is worse at heights than I am, went on up to the top and got the cache, and we both came down slowly and carefully. Most geocachers are younger than we are and if not, they are all mad hikers and bikers and built like whipcord. We like our ice cream too much.
Presidio is busy with the border crossing, but looks kind of bleak, a lot of deserted houses and businesses. It is named for an old Mexican fort across the river that guarded the trade route up out of Mexico from Chihuahua to El Paso and on. There were many fortunes made and lost moving freight along here, and many banditos and rascals. One of them, Benjamin Leaton, built himself a typical Mexican fortified house, of adobe with huge thick walls, even the corrals are within the walls. It is now a museum, run by the State park system. Inside it was cool and kind of dark, just what you need in the desert, and we saw history exhibits of the area. My favorite Spanish explorer, Cabeza de Vaca ( Mr. Cowhead to you) came through here and converted the natives. The fields along the river have been under cultivation for 1000’s of years, each new wave of outsiders bringing new crops, new technology, new religion. This is also one of the places where vaqueros came north with the Spanish cattle and taught the gringo cowboys how to ride and rope and wrangle and herd.
Our last night is a fine dinner at the Starlight Theater. The town of Terlingua has a sort of business center down at the highway intersection, with the post office, gas station and assorted shops, and then there is what is called the Ghost Town. It was here that we visited the cemetery. Tonight we went on up the hill. I’m not sure why it is a ghost town, most of the old buildings seem to be inhabited. What was a theater and dance hall (I imagine the girls, not all that pretty, a bit leathery from the heat) is now a very funky but good restaurant. The walls are thick, the plaster is falling in some places. On the stage there is a big back drop of cowboys around a fire, there are fat faux adobe benches on the side and murals of the wild colors of the hills. Tonight, there’s a guitar playing singer doing folksongs who was pretty good until the second set when his two boys joined him, the older one should have sat down.
Next door is a shop and a gallery, and all look our on the distant Chisos that stir my heart. The moon rose and made everything silvery as we left, with the mountains going to deep indigo blue as the day light died.
Although I have no real interest in stopping my roaming ways, having 20 acres out here, with a metal roof to shade the Airstream and a view of the Chisos would be very close to heaven, at least in the cooler months. There are a lot of similar set ups around here, and also a lot of unfinished houses. There is really nothing to do out here besides helping the tourists eat, sleep, shop, take a raft trip, a jeep tour or a trail ride. I wonder if the great white hot nothing of the desert eventually stops being an antidote to the rat race, and starts to bleach your eyes and roughen your skin until you leave for grass and trees and water. Like those who can live on an island for any length of time, people who can live in the desert are different from the rest of us. I think the lack of people all around is key, more important than the actual climate or location. I wonder if I really could go off like a hermit and be OK.
As the storm clouds thicken, we hurry back out to the pavement. The violence that flash floods can cause is evident at every turn when we are in a low area, and so we are taking no chances.
Next day we do another drive on rough roads, this time in the truck. We have enough clearance, and barring mud, not a problem. They have to exaggerate the state of the roads or they would be rescuing people in motor homes and sports cars all the time, and the park is huge so it would require an army. We are following the old ore road, where silver, lead and mercury ore was driven up to the RR at Marathon, 75 miles to the north. It is here that we see the tinajas up close, and pass the remains of ranches. And the grave of Mr Leon, murdered. We know who, he did not hang for it, but not why.
There are ghost ranches scattered throughout the park. Looking at the land now, raising lizards would be about the only possibility. There is only something called chino grass (yes, the color of chino pants) in a few spots. There isn’t even any dirt. The brochure tells us that there once was grass, but it was over grazed to the point that other species have now taken over, and without the grass to catch stuff, any plant debris that might become top soil is blown away by the never ending dry wind.
Our last stop is the SE end of the park. Here the Rio Grande charges into the Boquillas canyon, though a nearly invisible slit in the towering rock face of the Sierra Del Carmen. This is lighter colored rock, and pinker and crenellated at the top. The orange light of the sunset sets it all aflame. This range is high and dramatic, and is especially interesting because the colors vary with the light. There is also a hot spring near here, where a small tourist village existed in the 40-50’s to encourage people to come and have a soak and drink the mineral laden water. Only the stone store and the “motel”( which looks more like horse stalls) remain. The bathhouse, a substantial 2 story stone building, was swept away entirely by a flood in 1932. I wore my bathing suit all day hoping for a chance to sit in the spring, but the river is high and rushing right over it. The river is so solid with dirt, and moving so fast that it doesn’t look quite like water.
Across the river is a small Mexican village. There are several of these along the length of the park’s river edge. Before the recent unpleasantness of 9-11, these were wading or boat crossings and people from both sides went back and forth, coming to work and sell crafts, going to visit and buy crafts and eat Mexican food. Locals tell of several excellent tiny cantinas where they would go after a day of hiking or rafting. Much mutual benefit and now, no more.
Directly across the river from one place we stopped, we could see a sort of open shelter and some laundry, with a well trodden path to the water. In another place, a blue boat waited on the Mexican side. I asked the locals if there was anyway that people could be stopped from crossing, and they allowed as how folks came and went pretty regularly with an eye on the border cops. I never saw any except at the immigration stops.
Being here, and stomping about by the banks of the river, I don’t see how anyone expects this border to be controlled. You can’t take a truck of goods or a car to get to work across the river except at the remaining policed border stations where there can be hours of waiting, but I’m sure that people come and go regularly. There are plenty of back roads to go around the immigration stops. As far as I can see, pretending to close the border has only hurt the local economy on both sides and had little effect on the rest of the immigration problem. When I think if the miles of back woods in northern New England where there is no real deterrent to crossing into Canada, or the endless lands of open lands of ND, and MT, closing the borders seems a pretty silly thought. A nice political noise to lull us into believing the gumment has done something to protect us. And besides, the Hispanic peoples were here long before us noisy Anglos.
Our last drive was all the way to Presidio. Along the Rio Grande, seeing canyons and cliffs. The road climbs and swoops and charges around corners and drops into washes where we can see the leftovers of last night’s thunderstorm across the pavement. We stopped at Closed Canyon, where a creek in its rush to get to the river has made a 100’ deep but hardly 20’wide slot in the rocks. The floor of this corridor is smoothed by the water, and has pockets of fine gravel. Where the water hits harder layers, we have to climb down, and maybe scrabble down, until we get to a drop that would require a rope to be sure to we could get back up. It is shady and cool, and there are acacias and rock nettle blossoming with bees busy at them. We have been severely warned not to go in here if there is ANY rain even possible. There would be no where to climb up, nothing to hold onto and certainly some deeper drops ahead. The water slide of death. Just thinking about the wall of water makes us walk faster, even though there isn’t a cloud for miles.
We stop to climb up “the Big Hill” a long steep grade, diesels roaring up it, and a rocky knob on the river side. There is a cache at the top. It is rocky and steep and not 100% good footing, but the oldsters climb on up anyway. I was doing fine until I happened to glance to the east and see the 1000’ drop from the rocky knob to the river below. The drop to the road was OK, but not that. My brain just said no. Don, who usually is worse at heights than I am, went on up to the top and got the cache, and we both came down slowly and carefully. Most geocachers are younger than we are and if not, they are all mad hikers and bikers and built like whipcord. We like our ice cream too much.
Presidio is busy with the border crossing, but looks kind of bleak, a lot of deserted houses and businesses. It is named for an old Mexican fort across the river that guarded the trade route up out of Mexico from Chihuahua to El Paso and on. There were many fortunes made and lost moving freight along here, and many banditos and rascals. One of them, Benjamin Leaton, built himself a typical Mexican fortified house, of adobe with huge thick walls, even the corrals are within the walls. It is now a museum, run by the State park system. Inside it was cool and kind of dark, just what you need in the desert, and we saw history exhibits of the area. My favorite Spanish explorer, Cabeza de Vaca ( Mr. Cowhead to you) came through here and converted the natives. The fields along the river have been under cultivation for 1000’s of years, each new wave of outsiders bringing new crops, new technology, new religion. This is also one of the places where vaqueros came north with the Spanish cattle and taught the gringo cowboys how to ride and rope and wrangle and herd.
Our last night is a fine dinner at the Starlight Theater. The town of Terlingua has a sort of business center down at the highway intersection, with the post office, gas station and assorted shops, and then there is what is called the Ghost Town. It was here that we visited the cemetery. Tonight we went on up the hill. I’m not sure why it is a ghost town, most of the old buildings seem to be inhabited. What was a theater and dance hall (I imagine the girls, not all that pretty, a bit leathery from the heat) is now a very funky but good restaurant. The walls are thick, the plaster is falling in some places. On the stage there is a big back drop of cowboys around a fire, there are fat faux adobe benches on the side and murals of the wild colors of the hills. Tonight, there’s a guitar playing singer doing folksongs who was pretty good until the second set when his two boys joined him, the older one should have sat down.
Next door is a shop and a gallery, and all look our on the distant Chisos that stir my heart. The moon rose and made everything silvery as we left, with the mountains going to deep indigo blue as the day light died.
Although I have no real interest in stopping my roaming ways, having 20 acres out here, with a metal roof to shade the Airstream and a view of the Chisos would be very close to heaven, at least in the cooler months. There are a lot of similar set ups around here, and also a lot of unfinished houses. There is really nothing to do out here besides helping the tourists eat, sleep, shop, take a raft trip, a jeep tour or a trail ride. I wonder if the great white hot nothing of the desert eventually stops being an antidote to the rat race, and starts to bleach your eyes and roughen your skin until you leave for grass and trees and water. Like those who can live on an island for any length of time, people who can live in the desert are different from the rest of us. I think the lack of people all around is key, more important than the actual climate or location. I wonder if I really could go off like a hermit and be OK.
posted by Thistledown24 at 9:21 PM
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