The two men drinking coffee at the table next to me were talking about hunting mountain lions when the conversation took a sharp turn — to hunting hogs. More specifically, how, when given chase by a particularly adept hunting dog, a hog would always end up backing into a hole in the bank of a creek. The dog would then corner him before the hunter moved in. The punch line: “You had to be careful not to shoot the dog.”
There are probably hog hunting conversations going on at any given time in West Texas, but I didn’t expect to hear one at Squeeze Marfa, a self-described “Swiss café” in what is certainly the artiest town in the region. But, hey, hunters like good coffee too, right?
Marfa, population about 2,000, is not New England arty or California arty, it’s Texas arty. It is home to the Chinati Foundation, a contemporary art museum housed in abandoned Army barracks, founded by the artist Donald Judd; and it hosts the Trans-Pecos Festival of Love and Music, a two-day music festival held at the quirky El Cosmico campgrounds. Hunters with lattes are the least of it.
I had pulled into El Cosmico one late afternoon after driving 250 miles southwestish from San Angelo, dodging Interstates and driving through fields dotted with bobbing oil drills. Though I yearned to stay in one of El Cosmico’s yurts, the staff had recommended that with winter winds picking up, I stay in one of the more gust-resistant tents, which were the same price ($60 a night plus tax) and were similarly outfitted with electricity and cozy beds with heated mattresses. (El Cosmico also offers lodging in tepees and restored vintage trailers.)
To be honest, there wasn’t a whole lot to do in Marfa in January. Live music at a local bar never materialized, and I was a day early for an event for an artist in residence at Chinati. At night I drove out of town to see a phenomenon called the Marfa lights — mysterious twinkles that appear in the distant desert without explanation, or, in my case, don’t appear quickly enough for me to see them before those cold winds make me give up my search.
But after breakfast at Squeeze in Marfa’s tiny, lazy downtown, I did have some fun wandering the county courthouse, admiring its grand wooden stairwells, gazing at historic photos and climbing up to the dome to look out across the town and the Chihuahuan Desert beyond. And just as I ran out of things to do in the courthouse, I remembered: I was in a courthouse. There had to be some drama on view.
I slipped into a courtroom to take in some Texas-style justice. What I got was a judge moving through a docket of drunk driving and domestic disturbance cases. But add a melodramatic soundtrack and find a slightly wittier district attorney, and it could have been “Law Order – Texas Misdemeanor Unit.”
Despite being early for the artist in residence, I next headed to the Chinati Foundation, now the town’s top attraction – unfortunately, a fairly expensive one. The galleries, which feature work by Judd, Dan Flavin and John Chamberlain, among others, are open only by tour, and the full shebang costs $25 — too much for my budget. I settled for the $10 half-hour tour, which runs through two former artillery sheds that Judd transformed into light-flooded galleries. One hundred rectangular aluminum sculptures, each slightly different, play off the sunlight and the desert that stretches off into the distance. I had a “what mad genius would have thought of this?” reaction; for an art layman like me, that is the equivalent of a rave.
From Marfa I headed south toward the Big Bend region — the bend in question being the elbow of Rio Grande that gives southwest Texas its shape. The main attractions are Big Bend Ranch State Park and Big Bend National Park. My plan was to stay the night in a border town called Presidio and drive through the two parks the next day.
I made the fortuitous decision to bypass U.S. 67 – the direct route to Presidio – and instead take the prettier and virtually unused Ranch Road 2810, a 44-mile strip of asphalt through dramatic emptiness that eventually turns into 10 miles of dirt road, weaving through cowboy-movie scenery of parched hills the color of toasted sand and blue skies with wispy clouds hanging along the horizon. Adding to the drama was the soundtrack provided by Marfa Public Radio, an NPR affiliate: Mendelssohn’s Concerto for Violin and Strings in D-minor, though that eventually was replaced by Spanish-language “register to vote” ads from a station across the border.
I finally reached Presidio, a lazy border town where Tex-Mex restaurants play the music of the Tejano singer Selena and serve hard-shell tacos with ground beef, a lot like the ones my mom used to make from Old El Paso taco kits.
The closest thing to a tourist attraction I could find was the Desert Hill Cemetery on a plateau outside town, bursting with the colors of plastic flowers on the well-kept graves, most of which had Hispanic names. Dark brown, undulating hills served as a backdrop.
As it turned out, I was not alone. At the far end of the cemetery, an old man in a straw hat sat by a grave particularly festooned with flowers. He was Manuel Holguin, and the grave belonged to his wife, Manuela, who had died in 2004 at age 69. He had 30 grandchildren, he told me, and no, he could not remember all their names. “And now there are about 30 great-grandchildren too,” he said. I was betting this was about the only alone time he got.
Though I found a cheap place to stay in Presidio — the Big Bend Inn, run-down but neat, ramshackle but charming, with Christmas lights still in place and rooms for $45 plus tax – it was fully booked. The nearby Tres Palmas was $77 with tax — way over my budget.
The obvious solution: outsource my lodging needs to Mexico, just across the bridge. Though many towns along the border have developed reputations for danger, Presidio’s Mexican neighbor, Ojinaga, was safe, I was told by people on the American side (press reports I found while on the road confirmed this).
Maybe 30 seconds over the border, I found the Plaza Hotel, a workaday spot where a no-frills, no-cucarachas room went for $35 in cash, including (or quite possibly not paying) tax. The only downside was crossing back the next morning at around 6:45 a.m.; the American border officials didn’t know what to make of me. They apparently found my story of being a money-scrounging travel writer who slept on the Mexican side to save $42 mighty suspicious. (I’m so misunderstood.) But with no drugs, firearms or foreign nationals in my car, I was eventually nodded through.
Big Bend Ranch State Park and Big Bend National Park are way too big to see both in a day, but that was all the time I had. I entered the state park first, driving east just as the first orange-pink glimmers of dawn peeked out over the hills. Wild hogs darted along the road, which ran along the grayish-green Rio Grande, which at least in this stretch was not very Grande at all.
Stopping just a handful of times to wander around and take pictures, I made it to the entrance to the national park around 10 a.m. Entry for a vehicle was a hefty $20, though that came complete with map and some tips from the woman manning the lonely entry post.
Big Bend is one of America’s least visited national parks, mostly because it’s so far away from pretty much anything. It is desert country to be sure — vast, empty and gorgeous, but with dramatic hills and canyons that bested (though actually not by that much) the scenes both on Ranch Road 2810 and at the state park.
The park has endless displays on the geology, flora and fauna of the park; one of the best was at the Sotol Vista, named for the spear-like desert plants that sprout from the ground. But what struck me most was the silence. I stood still and listened – eventually, a tiny bird chirped in the distance and a fly zoomed by my ear. But no other sounds interrupted the tranquillity.
In the afternoon, I hiked the Lost Mine Trail, one of the park’s most popular trails, just under five miles long with dramatic scenery along the way. But the best part was at the beginning, where signs told me what to do if I encountered a mountain lion or bear – wave arms, shout aggressively, throw stones. They were enough to make things exciting, even if the only wildlife I saw was a glimpse of a fox.
After a stopover in Fort Stockton for one final night of motel living and barbecue (including my first – and last ever – sickly sweet Big Red soda), I got up early and began the drive back to Austin.
The final stats for my road trip: Miles covered, 1,680 (280 more than expected). Gas, $166 ($16 over budget). Lodging, $270 ($30 under budget). Food and everything else, $253 ($73 over budget). Newly minted fans of West Texas, one (right on target).
Article source: http://feeds.nytimes.com/click.phdo?i=c983810736e06fb0c7d2abf224700076
