Where the Rio Grande Roams

It lay coiled on the pavement, soaking in the morning heat after surviving a chilly desert night.

The western diamondback knew the land. It wouldn’t lie there long before it slithered to find shade under a gnarled mesquite tree or spiky Torrey yucca.

In retrospect, I’m glad we didn’t see him until we were leaving Big Bend.

Two days earlier, my husband Richard, our daughter Kristen, and I drove nine hours from San Antonio to Big Bend National Park in southwest Texas. Considered one of the most remote national parks in the continental United States, it’s located about four and a half hours southeast of El Paso. If you are familiar with the shape of the state of Texas, it’s the curved bump at the bottom.

It’s called Big Bend because the Rio Grande makes a 118-mile long U-turn to form the park’s southernmost boundary.

The park is massive, encompassing over 1,250 square miles — larger than the state of Rhode Island. Marked by deep ravines, rugged mountains, arid desert, and searing heat, its beauty and danger lie in its remoteness and size.

It had become one of our favorites, and we brought our nature-loving daughter here to explore its mystical offerings with us.

The serenity. The colossal vistas. The danger.

On our way into the park, we had stopped in Marathon, Texas. It’s one of the last places to find gas, water, food, and supplies before reaching the isolated park.

I wanted a broad-brimmed hat to protect my skin from the brutal rays of this southern scape. I found one hanging on a rack at the Local, an all-in-one dry goods store.

Woven straw, leather band, Mexican-made. Sturdy and dependable — like the people.

We grabbed some sandwiches and hopped back in the car. The two-lane highway carved a flat line through the desertscape. Tufts of grass and long, barren stretches of land passed in a blur.

A startled jackrabbit, its overlong ears raised in alert, paused in front of us, then leapt and darted across the road, disappearing in the scruffy brush.

In the distance, the Chisos Mountains rose from the horizon. On the other side, we knew the temperamental Rio Grande flowed eastward to the Gulf of Mexico.

I felt dwarfed and insignificant, surrounded by the desert’s unending expanse.

Once we reached the park entrance — marked by no attendant, just a sign — we drove another hour to our lodging. Birds chirped, hidden in the desert willows. Though monsoon rains would bring much-needed rain later in the year, for now, the landscape was parched.

After we checked in, we took a late afternoon stroll to get our bearings.

The moon peeked out to get an early start in the night sky.

Quiet blanketed us.

The next morning, after a hearty breakfast at the dining hall, we started out on the Window Trail, a five-mile round trip through Oak Creek Canyon, up to a V-notched opening in the mountain. The Window.

The trail was worn by backpacking, REI-clad trekkers hiking through the basin to find the iconic landmark. But that did not make it easier.

The sun climbed as we slowly made our way through the brush. The trail descends one thousand feet to the Window. Along the way, we stepped around beaked yuccas and prickly pear cacti. Dust filled our mouths. Rusty-rumped whiptails froze, then fled to find cover.

The scent of sage and juniper hung in the still air. Stubby bushes clung to crevices on outcroppings, barely holding onto life. Rivulets of sweat dripped down my forehead and back, dampening my shirt.

A skittish roadrunner, twice the size of Georgia’s brown thrasher, darted in front of us. It paused, cocked its head, then continued with its day.

Near the end of the trail, the dirt path transitioned to polished stone. Slick under our hiking boots, the Oak Creek bed was smoothed by millennia of running water. It was totally dry that morning, but with heavy seasonal rains, Oak Creek can become a treacherous torrent.

The trail felt precarious, as though an unseen hand could devilishly push us over the cliff.

Then we were there. A pair of two-story rock monoliths, tilted by volcanic action, flanked the creek bed. Through the V-shaped opening in front of us, we could see the Chihuahuan Desert, painted in pale greens and golden browns, and stretched out like a glorious picnic blanket.

Looking down, my heart stopped. The slip rock floor ended in a pour-off, dropping a dizzying two hundred feet. With or without water, one misstep meant disaster. It was breathtaking. Literally.

We paused for a moment, taking it all in, as we sipped water from our canteens.

The sun reached its peak, so we turned and started our return hike, now a one thousand feet steep ascent.

After a half-mile, Kristen said weakly, “Mom, I’m not feeling very good.”

“What’s wrong?” I asked, immediately transformed from awe-inspired, slightly frightened visitor to concerned mother.

“I feel lightheaded and like I’m going to throw up,” she said, as she sank to the ground. Her face paled. Damp ringlets of her blonde hair stuck to her neck.

Richard pulled off his backpack, retrieved a bandana, and poured a small amount of water on it. He then wrapped it around the back of her neck. We shaded her with our bodies as I rummaged through my backpack to find any more liquid, having consumed several liters already on our walk.

I couldn’t swallow. We were at least a half-hour away from the outpost. It was unlikely a ranger would happen by, and we had only seen a couple of hikers who had passed us fifteen minutes before.

In the desert, discomfort can become life-threatening sooner than one would expect.

We gave her the last sips of water. And waited, silently working out what to do next if she didn’t recover soon.

A red-tailed hawk circled high in the cloudless blue sky. “Keeer, keeer,” it shrieked, its call echoing off the canyon walls.

I looked down at Kristen. Color was returning to her face as she perked up. Relief spilled over me like cool rain.

Our daughter, now more like herself, started singing to the birds.

Really?

I shook my head, amazed at how quickly a twenty-something can recover.

The cactus wren chirped. I wondered how it hadn’t pierced its skin on the long spikes of the prickly pear it perched on.

Kristen smiled. We were good to go.

We took it slow and returned to the lodge, winding our way through tall tufts of desert grass.

Tepid shower water washed off the grime. I was grateful for the air conditioning and a hot meal.

The next day, we drove down to the Rio Grande. America on one side. Mexico on the other.

The river here was calm. Passive. It beckoned one to take a dip. Richard told me it could be ferocious during fall’s flash floods.

Townspeople from Boquillas del Carmen had left wooden carvings of birds painted black and yellow, small wool coasters, and hand-knotted strings of beads. $5. Spread on a woven blanket, the wares were unattended.

The suggested transaction was based solely on the honor system. Pinned under a rock, crinkled dollar bills fluttered in a soft breeze.

I picked up a koozie with a needlepoint cactus and hand-stitched crude letters, “No Wall.” We selected a few pieces, tucked in some dollars, and shouted our gracias toward the river.

Before we got back in the car, we watched the sun’s rays bend over the craggy mountains as the Rio sent salmon and mango-colored ripples downstream.

After dinner, we sat on the porch of our CCC-constructed lodgings. Low to the ground, these stone and adobe cottages were simple. Serviceable. Integrated into the desert.

The night sky glittered like a thousand fireflies. No streetlights. No billboard lights.

No spotlights.

Just the Milky Way. A hazy, dotted luminescent ribbon.

I have never seen a sky so bright and dark and quiet.

A great horned owl hooted “who-who-who” in the distance. Its call echoed through the canyon. Its mate answered. High-pitched. “I’m here.”

The next morning, as we packed to leave, the lingering chill of a desert night coaxed us into pulling on our fleece hoodies. Tiny butter-colored wildflowers bowed their heads. A family of javelinas scooted across the path in front of us, the little ones squealing as they scurried.

As we rolled our suitcases to the car, Richard stopped abruptly. I nearly ran into him. Before I had a chance to ask him to move on — kindly — he pointed to the ground.

There on the warming asphalt, bent into a U-shape, was the rattler.

I screamed. Kristen moved closer. Richard snapped a photo.

“Kristen, move away,” I yelled.

“We’re okay,” said Richard, my wildlife rescue hero. “But Kristen, keep your distance. If you leave him alone, he will leave you alone.”

In an instant, the snake slid under the car.

“Where did he go?” I shrieked.

“Wendy, calm down,” Richard said.

“It’s poisonous, honey,” I said.

“Venomous, Mom,” Kristen whispered, correcting me. I rolled my eyes. At this point, either term meant “not good.”

Richard took the lead. “Kristen, go to the front of the car and see if you see him. Wendy, stay here,” he said calmly. “I’ll go to the other side of the car.”

We waited a few minutes. No snake. Richard bent down to look under the car.

“Honey, what are you doing?” I asked. With urgency.

“He’s not under the car,” Richard said.

“Oh, just great. He’s probably in the car now,” I said.

“Well, then keep your feet up,” Richard laughed.

“This is NOT funny,” I replied, hands on hips.

“Mom, he probably slipped back into the desert,” said Kristen.

My stomach churning, I got back into the car, stomping my feet on the floorboard to create noise and vibration.

My palms sweating, I turned up the car’s air conditioning, hoping I didn’t hear a rattle.

After all, I was just traveling through, in unfamiliar terrain. Suddenly the landscapes seemed more vibrant. And more dangerous.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw movement near the edge of the road. A serpentine pattern in the sand led to the base of a knotty creosote shrub.

A place to rest. A place of refuge. Home.

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For other travel and reflection stories, check out Hometown Hero. Or Looking for Gatsby