The Predator

NOTE: a memory from today's freewriting.

Up a gravel road from my trailer in the shadow of the ragged Chisos Mountains in South Texas, lies Mouse Canyon. It is discernible from my front steps in the mornings when I watch the sun illuminate the mountainsides and every dark stone and pale green Sotol seems to glow with an ethereal light. In that rich winter sunlight, a dark cleft can be seen; a wound in the face of Panther Peak, where the dry wash that curls around behind my temporary home is disappears, swallowed by the mountain.

One midwinter afternoon, I set out from my house beneath the blazing South Texas sun and walked the wash toward the mountain. It curled this way and that, cobbled with water smoothed stones and walled in by eroded walls of desert earth. At one bend in the wash stood a stooped cottonwood shimmering with the leaves of the previous summer that still clung to its time-sculpted branches.

I sat to rest in its shade and looked out onto the blasted landscape of jagged rock and thorny plants. Everything here was shaped by the desert around it. The landscape was vigorous in itself defense. Over there was a patch of Shindagger, and at my back stood the globular mass of a Sotol with last year’s flowerhead looming high above and casting a narrow strip of shadow upon its serrated leaves. Cacti come in all shapes and sizes here; from the tall rose-hooked Devil’s Claw to the low and lethal Horse Crippler, the plants of the Chihuahuan Desert are both beautiful and terrifying at once. They invoke a deep respect and admiration in me; one does not travel lightly in this country.

As I round a bend in the wash, the dark walls of the stone cleft loom over my head and I enter the narrow coolness of the canyon. Everywhere is the trace of water’s passage in through this deep defile, dead plants layered with sediment wrap the up-canyon side of each tree trunk and beneath boulders lie the concentric rings of slowly drying pools. Each day having taken a little more of their precious contents leaving only the dessicated bodies of the ephermeral pool-dwellers to rise again with the next rain. Water is so fleeting here, more-so than any other desert that I have found myself a part of. It has not rained here since my arrival.

Yet I smell water. A wet coolness borne on the sweeping downcanyon wind. Does it come from a spring in the heights of the Chisos? Unseen from my vantage point, the only thing I can descry of the world outside the confines of the canyon is the pale sliver of the winter moon riding high in the unbroken azure ribbon between the towering walls.

As suddenly as the canyon began, it came to an end, and a pile of smooth boulders lay piled below the twist of a high pour off that lay at the utmost end of mouse canyon. Beyond its lip I could see the broad expanse of Sotol grasslands leading up the mountain side to the cliffs ringing Panther Peak. Off to my left, another pour off beckoned, darker and narrower, its end unseen and unknown. I clambered up the boulders to its entrance and eased myself gently into its cool embrace.

As my eyes adjusted to the light and the echoes of my clumsy passage died away, I became aware of being surrounded by the strong smell of water; cool, clean, and strong. At my feet lay a deep pool cut from the solid stone of the canyon. It was small, no more than two feet across, and the reflection of the sky in its glassy surface made the canyon walls around glow a deep sapphire. It was everything cool and pure in the midst of a land defined by sharp edges and searing heat.

So taken in by the beauty of this perfect window, that I did not at first realize that I was not alone. It stood there, perfectly still, the smooth vertical expanse of the canyon wall at its back and the pool before it, so close it almost brushed the surface. It was an ancient predator, and it was poised above the sky-mirror ready to strike at the slightest movement within the depths of the water. A living fossil, the water-bug waited for its prey. It was like the landscape surrounding it, beautiful and terrifying, a perfect killing machine of lethal precision and ruthless appetite. It was the largest I had ever seen, the golden oval of its carpace nearly six inches in length. Beneath it were folded six deep yellow legs; thick with cruel barbs and each one ending in a long claw that gripped the slick stone. It would stay there, motionless, waiting for a succulent canyon toad or slow-moving lizard to cross its path, or for an unlucky insect to break the glassy surface of its pool.

I was an intruder in its domain, and remembering myself, I nodded my head in aquiesence and left it to its hunting. Life in the desert, always juxtaposed with death. Like the siren song of a selenium spring, what I had just seen was a clear and beautiful illustration of this ageless dichotomy.

Life.

Death.

The pool.

The predator.

One cannot exist without the other...

-Charlie Kolb, Atlas Mountains, Morocco

On the Porch

NOTE: This was written while I was working a season as a Park Biologist at Big Bend National Park on the Texas/Mexico border. It's another of my favorites.

11th of March, 2009

Three days left in Big Bend National Park, two more of work. Today I have driven into Terlingua to bid farewell to the town that has been my home and haven these past few months.
It rained all night last night, the first rain since I’ve been here, the first real rain since September. Winter is dry here in Big Bend, most days are clear and scorching hot; reports of snow and ice from friends and family back in Colorado seem surreal against such a backdrop.
The desert blooms this time of year, the cactus is budding and asters appear like tiny stars on the edges of the roads and trails. The ocotillo is blooming; a plant that looks dead for much of the year is now set afire with crimson racemes of blossoms that burst from the end of each snake-like branch. The thorny mesquite have leafed out as well, giving a false hope of water to any weary traveler unfortunate enough to mistake them for a distant cottonwood.

~

I sit on the Terlingua porch, a tin-roofed edifice of crumbling brick and concrete. This is the first time I have been here in daylight, and it is a different place. Usually the porch is packed with people; parkies and locals and the occasional bewildered tourist. Missing are the slurring conversations and the strumming of a bawdy barroom ballad; the clink of glass on glass and the scratchy padding of dogs’ feet on the pavement.
Today it is quiet, tourists filter in and out of the store and locals stop briefly; some sit and drink, others pace and gaze out at the cloud-wreathed summits of the Chisos, grey blue in the distance. The view from the Terlingua porch is an awesome one. The Christmas Mountains dominate the left side view along with Study Butte which looms over the town that bears its name. The Chisos comprise the center of the view, their slopes dark with the only real trees in the region. The right side of the scene is a descending scale of mountains; Mule Ears, Sierra Castellan, and Punta de la Sierra, can all be recognized from my perch on this ancient bench. Santa Elena Canyon can be seen to the far right, cleaving the otherwise unbroken cliffs of the Sierra Ponce in the Mexico, the Mesa de Anguilla in the USA. All is capped with dark, rain-fat clouds.
The rain is on everyone’s minds, water on the brain. I can hear it in conversations around me, commenting on how lucky we are to have it, how long it was in coming. Rain. God’s greatest gift to the desert, some say. Not so, I say; rain is certainly a necessity here and is made precious by its scarcity. I say true gift of the desert is the desert itself. Now this may sound a bit cryptic or stoned, but bear with me. The desert is a place unlike any other, it is a place that is built of scarcity and the ecosystem, while resilient, is perfectly balanced on a razor’s edge. Introduce too much or too little of any one thing and watch the house of cards come crashing down around your ears.
I deal with the consequences of this every day as I work to restore a grassland (now wasteland) that does not want to come back. The desert itself is a gift, a near perfect machine, it works best when all the cogs mesh and no parts are missing. It is a beautiful and terrible land of extremes. I love it dearly.
The cool breeze brings the heady smell of creosote and the damp scent of dust. No sage like the Colorado Plateau and its absence reminds me just how far from home I am, once again. But this isn’t the Tetons or Yellowstone, this is entirely foreign. This, is Texas.

~

The Chisos are again hidden by the fog when I look up again, and the damp breeze carries with it a chill. Snow? No, not here, not in March, although it is not entirely unheard of. I zip up my fleece vest and think more about my time here and my experiences on the porch.

~

At the far end of the Terlingua porch is the old Starlight Theater which has a “burger night” every Monday. This is the primary social event for parkies and locals alike and people flock to it in droves. My usual burger buddy is Mark Yuhas, a mechanic for the NPS who came to Big Bend when he was about my age and liked it so much that he decided to stay. That was awhile ago, but he is still here. Mark is an avid cyclist and rides to burger night almost every week, permitting that he can find someone to drive his car as the shuttle. This is a ride of roughly 30 miles over the gently rolling terrain on the park highway.
After several burger nights, I joined Mark on his weekly ritual; decked out in old bike shoes, borrowed spandex shorts, and a t-shirt. I started out some time earlier than Mark to give me a head start, handy for a greenhorn. After sweating my way up the first hill, I cruised along the flats, utterly enthralled with the experience. The mountains rose sharply on my left side and the setting sun set their basaltic cliffs aflame, the only clouds were on the western horizon and helped lessen the glare. The desert rushed by, and, unlike riding along in a car, I felt a part of it; the sounds and smells, asphalt hissing under my tires. I was in Terlingua before I realized and sitting on the edge of the porch, grinning ear to ear as Mark pulled up, bewildered that he hadn’t caught me.
I am reminded of another evening, perhaps a month later when I lay on the pavement beside of the door of the Starlight in a whimpering ball of agony, cramped and exhausted from dehydration. I had “bonked”, as the cyclists say, by doing my 30 mile ride after hiking the 13 mile South Rim trail, on far, far too little water. I lay there on the porch as my friends looked down at me and wondered what to do, eventually coaxing me back to life with some Gatorade and saltwater. The porch represents much to me, content and agony, drunkenness and sobriety, cold stars and blazing sun. It is difficult to comprehend my departure.

~

A cleft, barely discernible on the flanks of the distant Chisos, marks the location of one of the most incredible places in the park, Cattail Falls. Wisps of cloud shroud the cleft now and it appears dark and forbidding, but I recall a day not so long before when it was not so. The sun beat down on my back as I walked a trail across the open Sotol Grasslands that cover the flanks of the Chisos. Last year’s flowerheads tower from green and vibrant Sotols and the wind hisses through the dead stalks and stirs the feathery golden grasses in between. The wind helps with the heat somewhat and I walk on, soon reaching the edge of an old river terrace, a massive slope of gravel and smooth, round stones.
Volcanic cliffs loom overhead, and my eyes follow the sharp angles of the cleft downward. They meet at a spot maybe ½ mile away, and it is marked with the vivid green of trees. Water. I clamber down the terrace and start toward the patch of green. I hear the falls before I see them; it is not a roar like a mountain waterfall, but rather a trickle, like the emptying of a bucket into a still basin.
The water pools at the base of the cliff and the waterfall trickles down from high above. Hardly a waterfall at all, one of my co-workers had remarked earlier in the week. She may be right, but is enough; and the dripping water resonates and echoes off the slick black walls of the canyon, draped with hanging curtains of maidenhair fern. Live oaks shimmer in the cool canyon breeze and the water cascades down through a series of deep pools before being swallowed by the thirsty creekbed. Frogs hop into the safety of the pools as I pass and birds sing in the treetops; an onslaught of life, a true gem in the desert. A place so delicate, the NPS has had it removed from all of our maps. Cartography on a need-to-know basis.

~

I look out on the cloud-layered Chisos and smell the sweetness of the rain on the desert air. I sigh and take a sip of my drink. Leaving soon, for the ocean no less; I wonder what that will be like. Not like this, that’s for damn sure. I look sideways as a bearded fellow in an overcoat endeavors to start an ancient “moped” and turn back to the view. The park, my park, soon to fade into memory; to be filed next to my other parks, other places I have called home in the past few years. Each has had its share of challenges and treasured experiences. My life is a transient one, enviable but not unattainable. Each place has shaped me in some indescribable way, and I savor every moment; I am constantly on vacation.
I glance at the wood of the bench on which I sit, worn smooth by use and the desiccating desert winds, and then turn back toward the mountains. Images and emotions from my time here in Big Bend float to the front of my mind and, as if watching a movie on fast-forward, they blur together in a miasma of heat and light, smells of the river and of desert wildflowers float by like phantoms. The stars wheel over my head as I lie on my back in the hot springs, I crouch in the shade of a boulder as the sun glares on the crushed rock and twisted vegetation of Sierra del Caballo Muerto. The crunch of deer hooves and the cries of nightbirds lull me to sleep under dark volcanic cliffs; the sun shimmers on an endless plain of creosote and dust, tumbleweeds roll by and the heat is so intense I feel the upward press of its waves on the underside of my cowboy hat; I pull a bandana over my nose and mouth and get back to work.
The images come faster now, and I wipe the sweat and dust from my brow, kneeling to sharpen my chainsaw under a furiously blooming Acacia; I dig my paddle into the water as I paddle against the wind blowing down the crevasse of Santa Elena canyon, a newspaper blows across the deserted street of a Mexican border town. Water drips, wind blows, birds call, and the Rio Grande flows on. Sights, sounds, and smells; overwhelming memories of grandeur, simplicity, joy, and occasional pain. I get up from the bench and discard my bottle; I look back at the porch one last time, my hand on the door of my truck, get in, and drive slowly away.

-Charlie Kolb, Terlingua, Texas