Trip Log: Big Bend
For someone who’s naturally a night owl, almost all of my favorite things involve absurdly early starts.
My alarm went off at 3:45 a.m. last Tuesday, and when I stumbled into the bathroom to brush my teeth, it looked like my roommate, Maggie, had already been up for a while. My friend Sara pulled into our driveway a few minutes later, and we spent the next half hour mostly-silently puzzling together the trunk of Maggie’s Rav4. Bags. Cooler. Hiking boots. Tents. A three-drawer container of pots and pans and miscellaneous items.
I curled up in the passenger seat and woke up in Uvalde for a sausage McMuffin (road trip guilty pleasures, okay?) and to take over a driving shift. We rode Highway 90 down and west, through sprawling ranches and impossibly tiny outposts of towns, the weather turning increasingly grey as we went. By the time we did our last driving shift swap in Fort Stockton, raindrops were dotting the windshield.
Maggie and Sara both commented that they’d never experienced anything but sunny weather in West Texas, but to me, it felt familiar. Every time I’ve ventured out to this area of Texas, I’ve gotten at least one day of clouds or rain; and honestly, the breadth of the sky layered with clouds that turn the high desert from sun-faded golds and reds to deep purples and blues? It’s a magic all its own, one worth experiencing.
The familiarity stopped shortly after we rolled into the park itself, though. At the risk of sounding a little, um, stupid; I was totally surprised by how big Big Bend was. Not in size, but in scale.
The Davis Mountains to the north are gorgeous, but mild. And even the Guadalupe Mountains, for all their drama, seem like an appropriate size for the state they’re in.
As Chisos Basin unfurled before me swathed in rolling fog, though, I almost couldn’t believe it. These mountains looked as though someone had cut a slice of Utah and transplanted it to Texas; layers and layers of red-and-purple rock, rising from the land in steep, stark faces to height I genuinely couldn’t believe. It seemed a little magic, especially with the moody weather and the clouds spilling over each peak. We were all giddy, to say the least.
We bumped our way down a 4x4 road to a backcountry camping spot at the foot of the Basin, where Casa Grande and Lost Mine Peak loomed just beyond and above. We set up tents, sorted out food, and rearranged the contents of Ruby, the aforementioned Rav4, to better suit shuttling us to trailheads and hot springs. I didn’t grow up camping, and neither did Maggie, so it was fun to learn from Sara and take notes on how to set up camp myself in the future.
Once settled in, we decided not to let a little rain stop us and get a hike under our belts. The Window turned out to be pure magic with a little extra water, anyway; the mountain colors turned extra rich from moisture and the trail, at one point, changing from a stone path and steps to a tiny creek and system of pools, some of them deep enough to have fully submerged in. We ran into a black bear enjoying the weather, too; both of us startling and eyeing each other warily as we went our separate ways. (We peppered our conversation with shrieks of “HEY, BEAR” from that point forward in the trip — such an incredible experience, though. For all my hiking and time in various mountains, I’d never actually encountered a bear, and it was thrilling and humbling all at once.)
We picked our way down slippery rocks and finally reached the window itself. One by one, shoes came off and we wiggled our way down to the viewing shelf, bare feet and rain jackets and big, awe-inspired smiles. The rocks above us opened up to a view that stretched for miles, and I still couldn’t believe my eyes, even as I sat there drinking it all in.
I was honestly equally amazed when we got back to camp that night and Sara actually made tortellini and brussels sprouts for dinner on a camp stove, which she had said she could do but still seemed truly like a miracle. The last time Maggie and I were in West Texas, we ate peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for literally every meal until my mom Venmo-ed me money and said “please go to a restaurant and get some vegetables.” The fact that we were miles from anyone or anything eating bowls of hot pasta was a wonder to us. I crawled into my sleeping bag very full and very glad to be where I was, with who I was. And not just because one of the who-s could cook in the wilderness. Though that was a serious plus.
That night, we found out that one interesting side effect of camping at the foot of the Chisos is that the Chisos, with their height in an otherwise flat land, kind of produce their own weather; and that weather is often wind; and that wind swooped down off the sides of the mountains and straight into Pine Canyon, where our poor little tents sat. I woke up a few times to unbelievable gusts, and realized at one point that from where we were positioned, we could actually hear them coming before they hit us. I’d hear a blast of wind whistling down the mountains and hold my breath. Three, two, one — and the whole tent would suddenly come alive, shaking. It gave me chills, but things seemed to be holding up fine, so I burrowed deeper and eventually went back to sleep.
We stayed that way the next morning until the weather had completely calmed down. By seven, we were back to calm silence. (Truly, silence — we all commented over and over again how utterly quiet it was, how little we notice the noise that constantly surrounds us in everyday life until we get out somewhere like this, soundless.)
We rolled out of our tents to crystal clear sky and golden sun, shed and added layers as needed, tied hiking boot laces, and split eggs straight from the pan. I lost my mind over the morning light — the mountains to one side of us, the desert sprawling to the other. We could just make out the canyon line where the earth would drop once more, a totally different landscape we hadn’t even yet seen in the park. Still a little tired and overcome with the beauty of it all, we laughed and felt like kids and I thought that if all we’d done the entire trip was sit right there at that campsite together, I would’ve been satisfied.
As it were, though, we decided to go hike Emory Peak; the highest point of the park, and a well-worth-it hike. We wandered through forest that, AGAIN, I AM TELLING YOU, LOOKS NOTHING LIKE YOU THINK SHOULD EXIST IN TEXAS, sorry I had to yell for a second. But seriously, so many more layers of trees than I imagined there’d be in a place I mostly associate with ocotillo and prickly pear.
The wind returned midway through the hike, and the higher we walked, the stronger it blew. It made the scramble at the summit a little more heady than we expected, and joked with others near the top about the grade — “Nothing like a little 5.5 free solo!” “Soft V2?” “Lots of dihedral moves on this one, amirite?”
The view, though? The view, though. It never gets old to me, standing on top of that particular landscape. West Texas steals my heart, especially from heights. In a world that seems crowded and crazy so often, there’s something deeply rooting about knowing there’s so much space, yet. That we’re still small. And for me, and my faith, it’s always an incredible reminder for me of God’s goodness. When I’m tempted to believe that he is purely pragmatic or doesn’t understand me, views like this remind me of the truth. The part of me that’s never finished a hike without crying at the top because I can’t handle the beauty is the part that reflects him. He gets it, and he gets me. And he’s someone I can trust completely.
Maggie and Sara and I talked as we walked back down, letting that kind of place do what it does and open things up. We talked about things in the past and things in the future and what scares us and what we hope for and what we love and our people and favorite things. (The favorite things one started as a half-kidding get-to-know-you question from Sara to Maggie — “What’s your favorite thing?” — and morphed into a weeklong conversation topic and inside joke. Every time one of us got excited about anything, from finding out Maggie had packed Double Stuf Oreos to getting to use a real bathroom instead a bush, it would start — “IT’S HER FAVORITE THING!”) I got to the car satisfied to my bones, not just because of the hike and the incredible view, but because of the conversation up and down the trail. The kind of moment that makes you grateful right then and there, not just in retrospect.
From the hike, we decided to go straight to a hot springs, which our tired feet cheered on. We swapped into swimsuits and made our way down a dusty trail, tossing our packs to the side and joining a truly bizarre group of strangers in the hot water by the river’s edge.
“The only thing we all have in common is that we all like to be in hot water,” Maggie whispered at one point. “…that’s such a low bar.” We snickered to ourselves, but wiggled our way to prime real estate in the natural hot tub and eventually, following Sara’s suit, jumped over the edge into the Rio Grande, spending the last moments of sunlight between America and Mexico and under an early-risen crescent moon.
Maggie’s and my tent decided that we shouldn’t be the only ones to go on an adventure while we were gone and somehow managed to blow off its stakes into a pile of cactus, so when we got back to camp, we spent the first half hour or so shivering in our swimsuits; picking needles from the roof and walls and trying desperately to secure it back down. It was clear the wind was going to pick up even earlier on night two, though; so we finally just changed and tossed enough of our belongings inside to hold it down for the night. We ate black bean tacos — yet another minor miracle courtesy of Sara — and got ready for bed absurdly early, my friends packing all into the same tent for a while when I downloaded the photos I’d taken so far out of impatience and started editing. (I’ve never edited with an audience, and I’ll admit; it made the process a lot more fun.) By nine, I’d packed up the laptop and we were all ready to sleep.
At least, I thought I was. Night two ended up being rough for me — my blood sugar was running low (I’m type 1 diabetic, for those who don’t know that!), and I spent much of the night up off and on dealing with it. (All’s well that ends well, don’t worry, Mom.) I also realized just how much heat retention my sleeping bag has lost thanks to the less-than-gentle life I’ve given it, and temperatures dipped even lower than the night before. At one point, though, Maggie happened to wake up around the same time as me (unless I’d been keeping her up anyway, which is just as likely, but she’ll never say because she is kind), and we unzipped our tent flap to lay in our bags and look up at the stars. We kept whispering adjectives into the sky, trying to describe how clear and bright and close they all felt, but in the end, you never get close. It turned out to be one of my favorite moments of the trip.
We started day three slow, still in awe of the beauty around us and a little sad to pack up. But after breakfast — Pancakes! Seriously! What wizardry is this! — we did; rearranging the puzzle of Ruby’s trunk and making sure nothing was left behind. We pointed her south towards Santa Elena and took in as much of the mountains as we could before they shrank into the rearview mirror.
From our campsite, the landscape of Big Bend becomes increasingly what you’d expect — flatter, hotter, bleached-out. Desert. But as the road kept winding, lower down, we found ourselves in a third and final place; canyon walls suddenly rising ahead and a line of neon green tree-tops indicating a river in dry land.
Santa Elena is the place I was most excited to see in all of Big Bend, and it didn’t disappoint. From the green river shining calm at the canyon’s mouth to the slow, steady hike into the cool shadow of her rock walls on either side, Santa Elena was breathtaking in a quieting way. Some views make me want to scream or laugh or speak. I just wanted to take this one in, absorb it somehow.
Sara and Maggie waded out into the middle of the river at the canyon’s end, sparking about seventeen enthusiastic “I hope they have their passports, Border Patrol is on the way!” jokes from middle-aged men on the U.S. bank. (Super funny, Jerry! Killer!) I pasted a polite smile on and tuned it all out, entering a little bubble all my own and simply staring up at the walls above, trying to pick out lines. I saw crimps and sidepulls and rails. I tried to imagine what it would be like to climb them; to be suspended on that rock, the river beneath. It gave me chills, impossible as it would actually be. I loved the thought of it. (I also couldn’t help thinking that anyone who believes we need a wall between the United States and Mexico in this part of the state clearly hasn’t seen it for themselves.)
The canyon walls may be too powerful and precarious to climb; but there are some legitimate boulders within the canyon itself, and Maggie indulged Sara and I as we played on a known V0/V1. I cradled an undercling, backstepped, stretched for a beautiful, slippery crack in the rock. Wished badly for real shoes. Lit up like a little kid. Is it weird to love rock climbing so much? (“It’s her favorite thing!” Maggie joked, again.)
We finally peeled off after a few minutes, both of us knowing we couldn’t wisely go any higher on the boulder without shoes or crash pads, and hiked back into the now-midday heat. I said goodbye to the canyon as we went, happy as a clam.
We made sandwiches, fired up Ruby, and took her down one last sketchy dirt road, back to the main drive and out of Big Bend.
I essentially slept the whole way to Alpine, rolling out of the car when we arrived at Antelope Lodge to grab our room key. We piled our stuff in our room and one by one washed the dust and river off our skin and out of our hair. Amazing how good a shower feels after a solid adventure. We got enchiladas at Reata, toasted a great trip, went back to our room, and called it a night.
Eight hours and a few Cedar Coffee & Supply pourovers later, it was back to the interstate and east as quick as we could. 10/10 would recommend giving yourself a recovery night between the park and an 8-hour drive home — it made the return trip much more bearable. That, and lowering our standards in music. By the time we hit San Antonio, we were on Justin Bieber’s new album. And several of Taylor Swift’s not-new albums. It’s fine.
It wasn’t until later that night, after we’d unpacked and done laundry and were getting back to normal routines, that Maggie sent me a text. “One year to the day!” she said, with a timestamped photo of us on Guadalupe Peak. We hadn’t realized it before, but apparently our trips were exactly one year apart.
“It’s a tradition,” I responded. And I really hope that’s true.
Here’s to an annual trip out west with lots of stars and mountains and some of the best humans I know. It’s my favorite thing.
