Wild Wild West Texas:
Gateway to Mexico
“Where the pavement ends, and the real west begins”

2002

Monday, July 29, 2002

US 90 West of of Del Rio Texas, can be a long, lonely ride, punctuated by an inspection station, and little towns like Sanderson. Our intention was to spend the night there, but the buildings looked beat up and washed out. Later, we were told of a freak thunderstorm which flooded and soaked this canyon-based desert town right up to the windows.

Finally arriving at Alpine, a college town, and the crown jewel of these little far west area ‘bergs, we book a couple nights at the local Holiday Inn, clean and comfortable. Although Alpine is not up in the mountains, it is hill country, the riding good, but best of all, makes for a great jumping off place for tooling north to places like Fort Davis, a great 118 mile loop from the Alpine.

Tuesday, July 30th

After a coffee-soaked donut from the continental breakfast bar, we split the motel via 118 north for Fort Davis, the highest elevation town in Texas. Easy on the eyes, where the people are friendly, and your word is your bond. The bank had been left in it’s original authentic design, as were many town dwellings, from 1900. You’ll find a cool 1854 fort, erected to protect early settlers as they traversed the “overland trail” toward El Paso. Restored barracks, amid a 460 square mile tract, contains lots of hiking trails and a picnic area.

Pushing on, my ’02 Harley Deuce was taking the mountains with fuel injected stride, but we were totally unprepared for the winding, vertical climb to the very top of McDonald observatory on Mount Locke, with it’s 107 inch telescope. This is the highest point on any Texas highway, at 6791 feet above sea level, and the ride up the hill is a trip! Coming back down the hill, you’ll be leaving the tranny in first gear for most of the decline, or go shopping for a new set of brake pads when you reach the bottom. All part of a fantastic 75 mile scenic loop, route 118 north out of Fort Davis, to 166 South, and back to just south of Fort Davis. If you think all of Texas is hot ‘n’ dusty, this loop will expose ponderosa pine-lined high mountain passes, deep canyons, and rippling brooks. This is where to go when the rest of Texas is sweltering in mid-summer heat.

It’s getting late in the day, we’re starving, so we grab the little 505 spur off 166. Five miles before reaching I-90, we stop to stare at 2 beautiful antelope, grazing roadside, and discover an abandoned 1950’s style adobe gas station, pretty cool. At the main drag, we turn left, and hit Marfa, famous for the “Marfa Mystery Lights”. For more than a century, this spot, about 9 miles east of town, has hosted thousands of people straining for a glimpse of this nighttime phenomenon. Unlike the Northern Lights, nobody can sufficiently explain why, from time, to time, light balls appear on the southern horizon, but there must be something to it; the state has erected a special viewing area with facilities, just off I-90. The mystery lights appear only now and then, and nope, we didn’t see ‘em, but it may not have been dark enough. In the 1950’s Marfa hosted a film crew from the movie “Giant”. James Dean, Elizabeth Taylor, and Rock Hudson all cruised these roads to and from work, staying at the beautiful El Paisano hotel. El Paisano is also the Spanish name for Road Runner, and means, “fellow countryman”. They can grow to 2 feet long, have four toes, two front, two back, and run up to 15 mph, which doesn’t sound real fast, until you try to catch one. Considering their little legs, the size of a chicken’s, you gotta be amazed at their speed and agility. Thick as this area is with Corre Camino (“runs the road”), it’s absolutely nothing compared to what we’ll discover in the next 48 hours! Back in Alpine, we enjoy fine dining consisting of the local Dairy Queen, and a stop to grab a six-pack before crashing one more time at the Holiday Inn.

Wednesday, July 31st

Fort Davis was pretty cool, but we have Rio Grande fever, so it’s 26 miles back over to Marfa, and south on 67, for 60 miles through the eastern edge of the Cuesta del Burro mountain range. We were in such a hurry to see the Rio Grande, I made the mistake of passing up a “gem farm”. Little gravel road leading up to a gem field where you could pay an hourly fee and search for emeralds, ruby's, and other precious stones. Man, should have checked it out. Next time, won’t miss it. After a couple hours of stopping to fart around, we’re getting close to our next destination, the little border town of Presidio, Texas, one of the oldest continually inhabited areas in North America, and slap on the Mexican border. As such, when you pull into town, be prepared to have the local Sheriff tail you for a block or two, probably doing a Motorola search on your tag to check for priors and/or smuggling expertise. After that’s over, you’re pretty much able to go about your business. There are no chain motels in this little border town, but we found a clean one called the “Three Palms” at a reasonable rate, with a great little diner next door. It’s always a good idea to check out the local tourist center before plunging into Mexico, and a transplanted Bostonian, with a thick New England accent told us of a deep, secluded canyon some 25 miles down into the old country. (Of course, we bit!) However, we spent this day searching ruins of “Shaftner”, a ghost silver mining town, deserted, very, very cool, and untouched. You could spend the whole day just riding through this area, stopping now and then to walk around and check out the roofless, adobe dwellings. We were told about nearby RV spaces, but I didn’t see any campers whatsoever. This entire area is that remote.

Thursday, August 1

The official crossing into Mexico hereabouts is from Presidio into Ojinaga, pronounced, “Oh’HEE-Nagah”, Chihuahua, Mexico. This little town has been continuously populated since.. get this..1200 AD. After the Mexican war, the town was divided into North and South Presidio, the south eventually being named after a famous Mexican war hero. The locals refer to it simply as “O.J.” The large central plaza with ancient church and the Pancho Villa museum is a picture-takers paradise. The locals are enthusiastic and friendly. How so? Before crossing the Rio Grande, we stopped the Harley to read a billboard proclaiming that Americans were more than welcome, and should we break ANY TRAFFIC INFRACTION, anything at all, we’d just be given a warning and sent on our way! How’s that for hospitality? The border police didn’t even ask for the normally required proof of Mexican insurance, simply waving us on over to the old country, like driving through a toll booth without stopping.

Unlike other border towns, you’ll need to speak a little Spanish now and then to find the ‘ban-yo’. (bathroom), for instance. My better half tried to do a little “bargaining” for a $5 belt, which I wound up paying $7 for anyway. (I think we might need a remedial course in Spanish). What I found out about the local’s shopping habits however, was a trip! When Americans want to dine, or visit a dentisto, they cross over to OJ. When Mexicans want to buy shoes or do grocery shopping, they go over to Presidio. Yeah, the two villages were divided by a war, but it’s pretty much the same little town on both sides, when it comes to the common denominator, people. Before 9-11, you could slide across the rio grande on the sly by wading across, or paying some kid to pole you over in a leaky skiff. Lajitas Pass, Santa Elena, and Boquillas all had a little cottage industry of catering to wayward tourists, walking or riding donkey-back to little villages where the locals would shower you with great food and cheap tequila. Ah, for the simple life, destroyed by one tragic event. The little towns are all but deserted now, and the area is patrolled by border police. It sucks. On the southbound, passing through OJ, my passenger sittin’ on the ‘bess, is bitchin’ about the smell. I patiently explain that we’re in the third world, and people burn their garbage, because there ain’t no city refuse team to do it for ya. After leaving OJ, we’re a little nervous, without passports, and are in no hurry to meet up with the “Federalies”. There should be no trouble so long as we don’t foray more than 25 miles into the country. Ten miles south of the border, I’m winding around a huge mountain on Mexico 16, when suddenly, I come to a 180 degree corner, midway through which it looks like we’re going to roll right off the road edge and plunge a thousand feet into a huge canyon. Talk about butt pucker! Dodging rocks in the road, we slowly make the corner, and look down to see our road crossing the canyon, miles below us, and we’re all alone. After a few minutes, we reach the canyon floor, and begin another climb, finally reaching our destination, Rio Conchos Canyon. The Rio Conchos River has been carving downward for a million years, and it’s a nearly vertical drop to the river basin, far below. At a named observation point, it’s clear that Mexico is not America. Would this lookout have been here, we’d have fence and park guards to keep visitors away from the edge, but this is Mexico, so only a plaque, and several trails right to the edge. If you fall in, dammed fool, it’s your own fault. Works for me.

Friday, August 2

Off at sunrise, we’re headed east on Rt. 170, along the Rio Grande, and through Big Bend Ranch State Park. You want to talk sparsely populated? How about one person for every ten square miles? That means a family of four would be theoretically surrounded by forty square uninhabited miles. Now that’s remote. This particular morning, we’re a little concerned because of some sprinkles. The ground here is packed with concrete-like stone and sand, with very little non-cacti vegetation, and even a few sprinkles can turn a “wash” or ground valley, into a raging torrent of brown mud, rocks and water, sweeping everything in it’s path to oblivion. With little or no tax base, there is no money for municipal projects like bridges or dams, so you have to be really careful on lower parts of the road, where these “washovers” occur. It gets so bad, that Presidio keeps snow plows on hand to scrape the rocks and mud off the road valleys after a shower, and the plows were out on this day. I’ve read that 200 years ago, this area was lush and green, until ranches were created. Overgrazing by cattle until there wasn’t enough grass to sustain bovines, then sheep were brought in and destroyed what was left. Today, it’s just rocks and sand, but that doesn’t mean no wildlife exists.

Wild burros, brought in to help with mining and ranch chores, can be seen roaming the barren landscape in small herds. They’re everywhere, as are Javalina (“Have-ah-lean-ah”), a black wild hog like animal that smells worse than a pound of limburger cheese. Of course, Road Runners are everywhere too, and as it gets close to lunch, with absolutely nothing around, I’m beginning to wonder if a larger one would taste like deep fried chicken. This 50 miles along the Rio Grande is a great experience, with breathtaking scenery, and knowing that you could simply hop across the river and into Mexico here and there, makes it all the more exciting. Finally, we reach Lajitas, (“Lah-Hee-Ta”), an ultra-expensive tourist town, with rooms running in the hundreds per night, and it’s own private airport. Some locals detest this place because it’s sucking up valuable resources, like water. After being in the middle of such a beautiful and wild environment, even the thought of a golf course is more than I can handle. We gas up, and move on, finally reaching Terlingula (“Ter-rang-gu-lah”). As recently as the late 1800’s the local ranchers here were living a precarious existence with Apache and Comanche Indians. These tribes had a bloodthirsty reputation for foraging into Mexico each year in search of horses, slaves, and wives. Many of their original trails, exist today. Comanche & Apache are long gone, so you’ll find plenty of things to do without worrying about being scalped. Include a visit to the “ghost town”, and get a front porch view of where we’re headed, the Chisos (Cheese-so’s) Mountains. Another four miles east, and we’re in Study (“Stew-dee Beaut”) Butte. At one time in the early 1900’s this town had 600 miners, extracting mercury from stuff named “cinnabar”. All the old dwellings are adobe, and quite a few abandoned ones are mixed in with occupied dwellings, with kids and clotheslines. Today, Study Butte has a few restaurants, shops, an RV park and maybe 100 motel rooms.

A new one, currently being permitted could double the available occupancy. The locals are friendly, easy to get along with, and grateful for any traveler cash they can generate. We’re now about two miles from the entrance to Big Bend National Park, and our foray up into the Chisos Mountain Basin Lodge, with no TV, no radio, and no phones. Did I mention it’s QUIET?? For an information junkie like me, it was hell, (but hey, somebody’s got to do it). Actually, being away from the internet, TV, and English speaking radio was like a breath of fresh air. A word of caution here, regarding students in search of a good time… I’ve been warned to not visit this lodge during spring college break unless I’m packing a beer bong, so be advised. We’re wore out, so it’s a shower, and into the sack.

Saturday, August 3

This morning, we pack up the Deuce, and head out to search around the park. Recent showers have turned the landscape into purple. Some of the pretties flowers you’ll ever see. When one begins to explore the possibilities of riding the back trails, it becomes apparent that a dirt bike is what’s needed to get at the heart of this great park. Many of the trails are washed out, and plain treacherous, not the kind of riding you’d want to do on a road machine you depend on to not break down in the sweltering heat. Problem is, this area is so remote, there simply isn’t anywhere to rent a trail machine. I’ve given serious thought to buying a small dirt bike just to bring back here and pack into the mountains for a few days. After exploring all morning, we return to the Chisos Lodge for lunch, and about noon, pack as much bottled water as the Harley can haul, and head for the Rio Grande, thru Cottonwood, not even a town, just lots of trees, and down to the river’s edge. As we made our way toward Santa Elena Canyon, it was hot. Real hot. Take the hottest day you’ve ever endured, and add 20 degrees and some humidity to it. So hot, that you had to keep on riding. Once you stop the scoot, it’s nearly unbearable. This was the first time I realized that if we had bike trouble, we wouldn’t last an hour in that sun. With no trees, no shade, and having seen not a single vehicle, should you break down, you’re screwed. (don’t even think about making a cell phone call --I’m not even sure they have a phone company).

We keep on riding south, eventually reaching a flood plain, with a low lying road, consisting of a little blacktop, but mostly wash-overs. I’m getting a little paranoid because of these dips, and how the road washes over with just a little sprinkle, but we keep on going until we dead end. Just across the river is a 1500 foot tall sheer cliff, that would be Mexico.

A storm is approaching from the old country, headed toward us, and the vertical relief is obscured by a heavy gray cloud settling down about halfway up the mountain side. Wow. We make the obligatory exploration, and it begins to rain. I’m freaked, because the whole place could be under water in five minutes, and there’s no telling when we could escape on the only road out, so OFF WE GO! The Deuce was in the air over those sandy humps half the time, as the rain picked up, and we’re rethinking why we’d left the lodge in the first place. After a harrowing quarter hour, we’re back in the desert again, under the afternoon blazing sun, and it’s like nothing ever happened.

Adventure. You gotta' love it.

Sunday, August 4

Time to hit the road. We’re headed east for Del Rio, to do some shopping across and into Old Mexico, so it’s up 386 and back on to our old friend, route 90. Del Rio, Texas is home to a large international body of water, called Lake Amistad, which is just the Rio Grande, dammed up to create a huge reservoir. The water was very clean looking, a brilliant bright blue, not unlike the ocean surrounding the Florida Keys. A large local industry exists providing boats, water sporting goods, and fishing supplies. The lake has twisted, craggy rock cliffs, which can be seen far below the water’s surface. Boat launching ramps are abundant, and locals told us that the bass fishing was good, but the cat fishing was outstanding. Another ten miles, and we arrive in Del Rio, where we had our choice among several clean and reasonably priced motels, and the largest grocery store I’ve ever seen. On the weekends, the parking lot is packed with hundreds of cars bearing Mexican license plates. The produce section was almost the size of my entire local store. This “H.E.B.” store’s ad flyer featured some rib eye steaks for about half what we’d pay back home. We bought a couple of thickly cut ones, and searched out a grill in the quaint little Del Rio municipal park. Plenty of grills to be had, as in wherever you ride in the lone star state. Texas is all about bar-b-q, and at nearly every state-owned rest stop, you’ll find grills for public use. Take advantage of these cool little rest stops. Save a ton of money by simply dropping by a store, picking up a delicious west Texas steak, and burn it yourself. Steaks we bought from ordinary grocery stores were tastier than prime cuts you’d pay 10 or 12 bucks a pound for back home.

Out of all the stores we shopped in, Uvalde and Del Rio had by far, the best tasting beef, but man, every steak we bought out here was better than anything I’ve ever had back home. All along the Rio Grande, from El Paso to the Gulf of Mexico, you can find outcroppings of farms growing everything from Pecans to Papayas. Fertile flood plain soil, along with abundant water, and a temperate climate make for truck farming possibilities, and a great fresh salad to go along with those mouth watering steaks.

Monday, August 5

Man, if we don’t get home soon, my cats will forget who I am, but first…
We’re on a mission here. A cheap tequila mission. How cheap? Well, how does four bucks for a one liter bottle of silver sound? And, it’s better than most of the silver I can get stateside, at four times the cost. Keep in mind, this is another world compared to our crossing at OJ. Mexican insurance is required to enter. Without it, your vehicle will be impounded, pending the outcome of your fender bender, not something you need to hassle with. Since we’re only on a shopping trip, we park at one of the many private lots right at the border crossing, for about ten bucks, and walk in, about a half mile to Acuna’s (“Ah-Coon-Yah”) business district. Because of busses crashing through the toll area, carrying illegal's to highly valued jobs in the US, the only public transportation was via taxi. We need the exercise anyway, so we hoofed it in. When crossing, remember that Mexico does not have uniform regulations like we do. Sure, they have provinces like we have states, but every town has their own way of doing things. Be prepared to wait in line coming back to the states. You can only bring back so much stuff each day, and the state of Texas has to get their buck on every bottle. Still, the search was worth it. In Acuna, when you find the tourist district, slide over to the west a couple of blocks to get the local prices on Tequila. It can be as much as ten dollars difference a bottle. If you get all nervous, being on the wrong side of town, or if you can’t handle a little danger, pass. I’d rather you returned safely than get into trouble trying to find some cheap booze. Riding in, I would park the bike right in front of the store, or have your passenger watch it while you’re shopping. Acuna has beautiful cotton blankets, in Aztec brightly colored fabric, and they can be had for 8 or 10 dollars, depending on size. They’re warm and comfy, and I sleep with one every night. There’s always jewelry, collectibles, and assorted stuff for a dime on the dollar. One merchant where I’ve shopped, and been able to get a decent deal is “Acuna Curios”. It’s a half-hour wait in the hot sun as we return to the states, loaded down with all kinds of crap, but we’re touristas, right?? Crossing back over what is a filthy Rio Grande owing to dumping from a major city, I can’t help but think of all the trouble you’d be in without a valid license and registration for your ride. I’ve heard over and over that you can forget bringing any motor vehicle back over with no proof of ownership. Another good way to instantly get into bad trouble is to carry a firearm. Mexico is still dealing with a severe insurgent problem. Any kind of gun is prohibited, same with ammo. Makes it tough to deal with banditos, but that might beat doing time in a Mexican prison.

Wild, Wild West. Not the place to visit if you’re looking for large crowds, but if you crave adventure, come run with the “Paisanos”. (They taste just like chicken-only kidding!) Would I make this trip again? Hell Yeah! I’m nearly out of Tequila.