Road Kill and the Rio Grande

 IN LUKENBACH, TEXAS, I didn't see Willie Nelson, but the annual Women's Auxiliary Chili Cook-off provided enough excitement for one day. I'd been sure that Texas would be anticlimactic after New Orleans, but I'd already been charmed by the backroads and by Austin. I don't know what I expected. Cowboys and rednecks, cactuses, snakes, cattle drives, pickup trucks, guns... trouble.

What I got was gently rolling hills, enormous man-made lakes tucked into valleys golden with dry grass and sage, quaint stucco towns.

After Austin I turned off to see Lukenbach, a sleepy village overrun with cowboys, rednecks, and bikers from miles around, already well into a commitment to spend the weekend drinking, smoking, and brawling.

A steady stream of Harleys rumbled into town and threatened to park me in; the music got louder, and everyone had a beer. Something told me it might be a good idea to move on.

 

 

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Tents were lined up along the river on the way into town, which looked to be little more than a collection of lean-tos and wooden buildings. In the square was a bust of a cowboy, a new red bandanna tied around his neck. A few crusty old cowboys sat on the park bench in front of the statue, watching people run between the beer kegs and the funnel cake stand.

The chili wouldn't be ready until late in the afternoon, and it was rowdy already at 11:30. I sat in the grass by the Ural eating a quesadilla and fielding questions about the bike and my trip. A steady stream of Harleys rumbled into town and threatened to park me in; the music got louder, and everyone had a beer. Something told me it might be a good idea to move on.

I rode away kind of pissed off that I had to miss it. I guess I could have stayed, but following my gut feelings had kept me safe so far. I wasn't about to get careless now, so I rode on to the Cowboy Museum, to the hanging judge Roy Bean's town, and to Seminol Canyon, where I saw pictograms and petroglyphs much like the ones at Canada's Milk River. It was all very interesting, but I was sorry not to be in Lukenbach and participating in something, instead of just observing.


Judge Roy Bean's office

AFTER THE CANYON, Texas flattens out, and Highway 90 is the only choice to Big Bend. The morning desert is fresh with dew shining on sage the color of dust and lavender, and the road is peppered with the warm bodies of road kill, mostly deer, surrounded by buzzards.

Buzzards are efficient creatures. At first light, they began with the small animals and the rear legs of the deer. By 9:00 all the rabbits and armadillos were gone, and the deer were neatly devoured from the stomach down, not a leg bone in sight. By 10:00 only the front legs and heads were left. By 11:00 the road was clean. Even the heads were gone, probably scavenged by some larger creature.
At the sound of my engine the buzzards looked up, stretching wrinkled necks as red as the blood that dripped from their beaks. Poised over their kill, the buzzards resented traffic interrupting their meal. At the sound of my engine they looked up, stretching wrinkled necks as red as the blood that dripped from their beaks. They waited until the last possible moment to insolently spread their wings and flap slowly away, settling again as soon as I had passed.

By noon the road was a clean plate again, and the buzzards stood at attention on the fence posts, waiting for lunch.

The desert blanched under sunlight unfiltered by moisture. Purple sage faded to gray, and the green, spiky plants curled inward to create minimal, but critical, shade.

By mid-afternoon I was stopping every half hour to drink from my canteen. I took off my jacket and smeared myself with sunblock, thinking I'd be cooler. My skin blistered in the arid wind. I thought about taking off the fairing.

At the next break I put on a long-sleeve shirt and my full face helmet to create some shade for myself, like the plants that curled up after the morning cool.

At 3:30 I turned off onto Highway 385, wondering if I could stand 100 more miles of this heat. But there wasn't a choice. Besides a gas station at the intersection, there was nothing in sight but the black streak of asphalt heading south to Big Bend.

The Ural seemed hot but she was running just fine. I kept her at about 50 and envied the Harley that passed me at 80. At least the monotony of heat and road was broken now by mountains on each side. A jack rabbit sprinted across my path and disappeared into the sage and cacti.

I WAS RELIEVED to get to the campground, which was across the Rio Grande from the Mexican town of Boquillas. Camped next to me was a woman named Cindy, who waved enthusiastically when I rode past -- so far she was the only person on my trip who had immediately recognized the Ural. She had a BMW like Renata's, and had come here from Louisiana to take part in a family reunion. She invited me to go with them to the hot springs later.

The hot springs were tucked away on a dirt road a mile or two from the campground. We'd been talking loudly, but were silenced by the sight of a ghost town silhouetted by the full moon.

At the springs, Cindy's brother told us that the town had been built by a German just before the onset of World War I. He had found the hot spring, and had built a spa town around it, apparently living quite happily until the start of the war, when he was drafted. Tragically, he took his own life to avoid returning to Germany. The town and the spa were destroyed later, to discourage vandals and vagrants from hiding there, and all that is left is the foundation of the spa building and the old post office.

Even in the moonlight I could see the difference between the clear hot water that bubbled up into the foundation and the muddy Rio. I sat in the spring and soaked with my hand over the edge in the cold river water.
I eased over the foundation into the cold water. I could easily have swum to Mexico. Nobody would care. Across the river in Mexico, a rafting party was cooking dinner, their tents illuminated like Japanese lanterns in the firelight. We sat in the hot springs, and caught snatches of conversation and laughter over the noise of the Rio Grande rushing by. I eased over the foundation into the cold water. I could easily have swum to Mexico. Nobody would care.

The next day I asked about the lack of border control in this area and was told that it simply wasn't necessary.

"It's 23 miles from the Rio to Highway 385, and then it's 70 miles to anywhere," said the ranger. "Nobody can walk that far. We have road checks, and of course there are checks from the air, too... but you know, it's just not a problem."

THE NEXT MORNING I went to Mexico without even showing my driver's license. A small boat took me to Boquillas, where I hired a burro to take me into town. I think I could have walked faster, but it seemed more appropriate to ride a burro.

"A burrito," enunciated my guide, Miguel. "She is not like the burrito you eat."

This was about all the English he could speak.

The burrito wasn't anxious to have a tall gringa woman on its back. My feet would have touched the ground if the leather stirrups hadn't been pulled up so high. I held onto the reins and worn leather of the saddle, and wished I'd walked up the sandy path myself. The leather creaked, and with every step I was jerked left and right. The only time the burro moved quickly was when it headed for shade. I didn't blame it, but Miguel clicked his tongue in warning and whacked it with a stick to keep it moving uphill to town.

"I wait one hour for you," he said as I dismounted.

"No thank you, Miguel," I replied. "I think I would like to walk back."

Boquillas is a tiny town built on top of a hill that rises above a deep curve of the river. On one side is Big Bend, and on the other is a large mountain range, with an expansive dry valley between the river and the mountains. It was the only civilization for many miles in any direction.

The people of Boquillas are largely dependent on tourism from Big Bend. Small, dark-eyed children approached me with woven bracelets and rocks that looked like crystal and amethyst. I heard later that this area is renowned for minerals -- a rock-hound's dream.

As I walked through the village, little boys broke away from their mothers, shouting, "Give me quarter!" Other than that, and the restaurant full of gringos, there was little evidence of American influence.
You can see the dust from the Federales' galloping horses for miles before they arrive. The United States has been trying to extend Big Bend park into Mexico, like the Peace Park on the Canadian border. The plan was formed in the 1930s, and since then the project has moved along haltingly, slowed by lack of funds. But park officials in Big Bend think it might actually happen as early as next year.

Now you can hire guides and horses to go into the hills. Doris and Joe, a gringo couple who own a simple bed and breakfast called The Lonely Buzzard, told me that the area is spectacular.

"And you can see the dust from the Federales' galloping horses for miles before they arrive," Doris told me, extolling the virtues of living in Mexico.

THE LONELY BUZZARD is more like a youth hostel, really, with bunks they pull out onto the porch most times. There's an outhouse about a hundred feet away, and bathing facilities are the hot springs in the Rio Grande just below the building.

Their son and his girlfriend, Anna, also live there. Anna gave me a little tour of the grounds.

"The local women used to come here to bathe," she told me. "But since they put in the water tower, they use hoses. I think this is much more fun."

For $10 a night I would have liked to stay there, but I had to move on. I had lunch in the town's only restaurant, where the owner could speak enough English to take my order of burritos and a cervesa. The patio was bright, shaded, and open on two sides. It was full of tourists, and one couple who had stayed at the Lonely Buzzard were praising it loudly.

I had been gone three hours, and Miguel still waited, so I was stuck on the burro again. As I mounted the small, sad animal, two men on horseback rushed by, reining-in their energetic, high-stepping horses. They laughed and leaped off gracefully, slinging the reins casually over a hitching post, and clomped noisily inside a bar.

I felt especially awkward on the burro after that, but Miguel had waited three hours, so it was another squeaky ride back to the Rio. By holding on to the saddle horn, I managed to stay fairly upright, and the burro didn't argue as much now that it was going downhill.

But the scene at the river was disconcerting. The boat had been brought out of the river to be emptied of water, and a large hole was visible through its tin bottom. A group of tourists waited at the other side, watching just as suspiciously as I was, as the boat was put back in. The boatman beckoned to me. I shook my head no.

"Eeeez okay, senorita," he assured me, smiling. "No problem."

I'd heard that phrase many times, in all kinds of countries, in all kinds of situations, and had learned that it usually means quite the opposite.

I evaluated the situation. I'd seen a man wading across the river a little farther up. I guessed I wouldn't drown if the boat sank. But my boots would be soaked and my camera ruined.

"Couldn't I go across on a burrito?" I asked him.

"Burrito?" he smiled. "Eeet in Boquillas," he said, pantomiming eating.

Oh well.

The tourists on the other side watched anxiously as the boatman helped me in and shoved off.

The muddy river rushed at us, and the boatman paddled energetically against the current, taking us in a curve to the other side. Brown water poured into the bottom. I moved my feet out of its path, calculating my abandon ship technique.

In the middle of the river the man stopped paddling and just steered, having caught the current that took us with frightening speed to the other side. The waiting tourists stepped back as we slid onto the half moon of dirt that served as a landing. All the water went to the back of the boat. I got out, and the boatman started baling.

Some of the tourists walked back with me, unwilling to go across.

"It's okay, really," I said. "It's worth it."

"Yeah," said one white-haired lady wearing an expensive pantsuit and Italian shoes. "But I can't swim."

I LEFT BIG BEND RELUCTANTLY, taking Highway 170 along the river before I'd have to head up to Marfa and El Paso, where I planned to visit my cousin Cecily.

The ride was insanely hot, and the road curved up and down hills that dropped off into the river. Caution signs warned of unfenced livestock, and sure enough, a herd of long-horned cattle crossed at the worst time, down hill and around a blind curve.

By the time I got to El Paso I was exhausted, dehydrated, and running a fever. I took aspirin and drank a quart of water before falling into bed, hoping to waylay whatever bug had gotten me. I had a date near Phoenix in a few days, and I didn't want to miss it.
 

Index | Dispatch 23-