Travelers Guide to How Not to Do a Big Bend Vacation, or Memoirs on How I Finally Found the Edge of My Husbands Patience

I find there are two types of people in this world – I call them Planners and Wingers. I am decidedly a member of the Winger clan, taking life as it comes at me, with a slight bend in my knees. I also have a love of travel though, which requires some level of planning on my part. Honestly, I have not found it to be totally overwhelming – I generally get the general gyst planned out – a place to stay, something to drive, a few things I would like to do – and then let the rest happen in Winger fashion. 

This does lead to some unfortunate events – like arriving at the San Jose Airport at 4 am with a husband and two children and all of our luggage, and discovering, after dropping the rental car keys into the unmanned box, that we were really supposed to be at the San Francisco Airport. Whoops. My husband is amazingly patient in this (as he should be, since he doesn’t plan these trips either). I was blown away in San Jose when he just said, well, call the Uber. I had braced myself for a tongue lashing at least – that’s what I’m used to in past relationships – but it never came. I married a saint.

So Big Bend. I’ve taken the kid(s) to all these national parks all over this beautiful country of ours – Glacier, Yellowstone, Rushmore, Denali, Yosemite, Joshua Tree, etc, but we never visited the ones in our backyard. It seems a shame. Edith and I had camped on the back side of Big Bend with my Rotary group when we went on a mission trip to Mexico a few years ago, and it was indeed beautiful, in a desolate cowboy sort of way.

We actually know the head park ranger (Keith) at Big Bend and his wife. I asked her about coming out a couple years ago, and she said not to come in the summer – it’s just too hot. So Thanksgiving came around this year, and I thought to myself, let’s go. I contacted her again to try to get the low down. This is how I discovered that there is a Big Bend State Park and a Big Bend National Park – who knew? But no worries, I pulled out the map, and they actually touch – like, overlap even. The National Park camping was all full, but Keith found us the very last spot at the State Park and we I booked it. He was super excited about the location. He did warn me it was primitive  there wasn’t any water or electricity at the site, but he said we could schlep in some water. I laughed in the face of primitive. He laughed at me when I said we were going to pack everything into the Jeep – he insisted we would want a trailer. I insisted we didn’t need a trailer, but the more I thought about it, the more I thought I should trust the Park Ranger over my naïve self who has never been to Big Bend nor ever done primitive camping. I rented a U-Haul.

I ran a half marathon on Saturday. That should have some foreshadowing all of it’s own – nothing good ever happens after running a half marathon. We spent all day Saturday getting the trailer and packing. I asked Alice’s little friend Ellie if she wanted to go with us – she had never been camping at all in her entire short life. Since we had the trailer we threw in everything – and still only used about 1/3 of that trailer. We even took the dog, against Cory’s better judgment. We meant to leave at 7 am on Sunday, and left by 8. Which really isn’t too shabby, with all these people I live with that have no concept of time.

I had always heard Big Bend was 8 hours from us. Well Big Bend STATE Park is more like 10. It is southwest of us, and both of our map programs took us in the west entrance of the state park (all the way around). I always think the map knows something we don’t know, so I don’t worry about it too much, nor did I give it much thought. The trip was pretty okay – fun even – and our spirits were joyous as we got closer and closer to our destination. I wondered if we’d have time for a hike before dinner? At 5 pm, our map and all the signs took us down a gravel road. This was the first sign of discontent, as Cory mutters to me, “You are shitting me, right?” I was a little shocked. According to the map and various Google searches, we were now going to travel 60-90 minutes to get to the park entrance on what was indeed, a gravel road. All there is to do is to forge ahead at this point. And 60-90 minutes while annoying with gravel fog surrounding your vehicle and your tires crunching so loudly you can hardly think, is not the end of the world. I think at this point I realized there would be no hike before dinner. During this 60-90 minutes we lost cell service, which we had expected. I occupied myself with following our little dot on the map program and very much looking forward to the entrance popping up on the horizon any moment now, that never seemed to come.

We came to a sign on the right hand side – a map - at about 5:45. It was not grand – it was not what I thought we were driving toward. No ranger station. We just sat there for a few minutes, befuddled. Finally, with an impending sense of doom, I got out of the car and studied this map. Apparently, the park ranger station was another 45 minutes or so in front of us, and closed at 6:00. Two other stations closed at 4:00. If we wanted to, we could camp here for the night, but we could not have a fire. I prayed for a bar of service and dug in my email and found out our camp site was named “Panther Javelin.” Staring at the map, south of the ranger station, I found an area that said Panther Creek and some camp sites with the name Javelin in them. I didn’t see “Panther Javelin” per se, but I was pretty sure, after scanning the rest of the map with no relevant names, that that must be our destination. I took a picture of the map. (THANK GOD, as we soon lost all service entirely).

Cory was not pleased when I cheerily informed him that I had found the camp site, the ranger station was closed, and it was for sure another hour of driving. At this point, we were racing the clock of the sun going down, and knew we still had to set up camp.

As we drove, the road conditions deteriorated. It really wasn’t a big deal with the Jeep, but the U-Haul trailer had an estimated 5” of clearance at the axle. Somewhere along this road I discovered with my one bar of service that it really is not recommended to come to the park at this time of year and that there was no guarantee at all of the road condition. I decided to keep this nugget to myself. I also think it was along this road that Cory first started mentioning leaving first thing in the morning. Leaving???? We had not even gotten there yet, and he’s talking about leaving? I ignore that, and focus on the task at hand – arriving.

The drive was pretty. The sun was setting, against our wishes, and it set off a beautiful display of lights, shimmering through rock formations that were unlike anything I had ever seen. I refrained from asking to stop to take pictures. The car was pretty quiet – tension was brewing. But we were almost there and all of this would soon be behind us. I also remembered Keith warning me it was primitive, but I shooed those thoughts from my mind. 

At 6:30 pm or so we came to a fork in the road where the ranger station should be. According to my calculations, at this fork we should hang a right. The issue was there were two “roads” to the right – or a dry creek bed and a road – or two dry creek beds. By taking a left we went around and found the now closed ranger station. We were ready to be done. It didn’t help any that there are cabins and bunk beds at this location – that were not for us. We drove back around to the creek bed road enigma. Cory parked the car and we walked down both for about 100 yards. It looked pretty sketchy. We were not speaking at this point, unless we had to. I was of the fake it till you break it mentality – everything always works out in the end Pollyanna mode - and Cory was in the what the hell was I thinking when I married this girl mentality. We were definitely in different places. The biggest concern, aside from getting stuck or flipping the car or being held at knife point by drug smugglers or something crazy like that, was just taking the wrong road and then having to drive in reverse with that trailer on. Impossible. So we stood at the impasse. I didn’t think it looked that bad. Cory thought I’d lost my mind.

Suddenly, a couple pulls up in a white truck. They needed fire wood – we informed them the ranger station was closed. We told them our predicament about the roads. The husband offered to drive Cory down a ways in his truck to see how bad it was. I was relieved. For what seemed like an eternity, I waited with the wife and three girls in the jeep, in the middle of nowhere, trying not to think about serial killers and illegal immigrants that might be creeping through the bushes. Finally, the guys returned, with the prognosis that it was indeed a road (the one I thought, for the record) (I love being right) – and it wasn’t that bad. I was so relieved! We only had to go 5 miles down this road, and we’d be at the camp – maybe – if I was right about that being our camp. I kept my uncertainty to myself as much as I could. You have to say a little in case it turns out to be a disaster later.

The first couple of miles were okay. Not great. Okay. After two miles we came to a set of camp sites, and this was about half way. In hind sight, we should have camped here. But we were so close at this point, and the road wasn’t that bad – we both thought so. So we plodded along. It was now 8 pm and completely pitch black. I was beginning to see that there would be no dinner.

The road turned into what I can only describe as hell. I can still see it in my mind – but I don’t know if I have the words to tell you how bad it was. Without the trailer, it would have been terrible. With the trailer, it was absolutely ridiculous. And we were now committed – we could not go in reverse. There were ruts the size of the Grand Canyon – okay, I’m exaggerating with that – but they were gihugic. I am now seeing my husband truly angry for the first time in our marriage. He’s not really saying much, but there’s this glow coming off of him, and not a happy glow either. I’m clutching the Oh Shit Handle and praying quietly but fervently with white cramping knuckles – “Please Lord, let this be over. Please Lord, keep us safe. Please Lord let us get out of this alive. Please Lord, don’t let him kill me in front of the kids.” 

Ellie had had to pee for two hours now, on the bumpiest “not roads” in America. There was no convincing her to pee outside – she never had, and she was not starting now. She was insistent she would wait for the camp site, which we feel fairly strongly about it should have at least an outhouse. Even Alice was saying, "Ellie, you might as well just pee. We won't look." But Ellie was not having it.

OH I forgot to mention about two hours ago those three darlings were listening to Hamilton for the 16,849^th time, and Cory had told them to turn that shit off. You can only take so much “1776” and “Eliza” while back roading in what is not Big Bend National Park. The kids are at this point pretty quiet – you could almost forget they are back there. Cory and I are talking in bullet points now. “I think that’s the road.” “No, it isn’t.” “We’re leaving in the morning.” “Can we talk about that later?” “We’re leaving.” “We’ll talk about it later.” “We’re leaving.” SILENCE. And suddenly Alice says, “Are we going to die? I want to go home!”

I think we both realized at that point we needed to stop fighting. It was a weird fighting. Full of silence and tension with a smattering of rifle shots, I mean conversation. We were at a junction where we didn’t know which of two choices was the road again. We reassured Alice we were almost there and everything was going to be okay, and then both exited the Jeep with flashlights (one flashlight, one phone) and decided to again walk down these two road creek bed thingies to see which one looked more likely. I was a little scared for my life – a little – I don’t think my husband appreciated my presence or existence even at all in these moments. I truly felt awful – I had not done any of this on purpose. At all. I thought I had even got sound advice.

Outhouse or no outhouse, I decide that the next wide spot in the road, we are camping. I cannot take any more of this. The road splits all out again – this time there seem to be roads in every direction. I take my flashlight to the right, C

ory goes left. It’s not “our camp site” but it is A camp site. I tell him I think we should just camp. He tells me we are leaving first thing in the morning. I am starting to want to choke him. I announce to the children that we have arrived! I hand them some paper towels and wish Ellie good luck on her adventure of peeing outside for the first time ever.

It goes on. That was the worst of it, but not the end of it. We set up camp, we cooked. My foil packets actually did work, which was a huge win, but the girls were pretty asleep when dinner was ready. And we did, indeed, leave first thing in the morning. Not to go home, but to another camp site, and another dirt road, at dark. Also, at some point I realized that while the state park and the national park do all but overlap, the only entrance and exit for the state park is out the west side, down 60-90 minutes of gravel, and the national park is to the east. They are about as close to each other in reality as New York is to Delaware.

But I was happy, in hindsight, to find the edge of my husband’s patience. Boundaries, even ones out in the great deserts of Texas, are good to establish and know. Ellie hates camping now, but she still comes over to play from time to time. The kids let me know it was the worst trip ever, and it really hurt my feelings. I teared up. Cory said, “Don’t listen to them. I had a great time,” as he grabbed my hand and squeezed it reassuringly (we were on a paved road when this happened).

Oh, and the view I had at 6 am one morning, when I’d climbed a little hill to pee in peace, was absolutely fantastic. I don’t typically think of deserts as amazing or beautiful, but that morning it was simply glorious.

And in that moment, I was glad we came.

Help! My Magnum Opus Is Eating Me Alive!

I don’t usually lose it, but when I lose it, I lose it. I was sitting in J’s office, destroying his Kleenex supply. “I feel like I’ve created a monster. I keep trying to feed it whatever I can to satisfy it, and it only seems to get bigger, and demand larger feedings. I’ve given it everything I have – my retirement, my relationships, my home equity, and it eats everything and wants more.”

“And now it’s eating you.”

Yes. Now it’s eating - destroying - me.

Exactly.

Is it me? Am I not good enough? Smart enough? Strong enough? I ask these questions aloud, not falling on deaf ears. He says I’ve let this thing I created define who I am – and I need to step back, and remember who I am, apart from what I’ve built. I understand conceptually, and I actually have thought of this before, but I struggle with separating myself from my business. My self-worth rides the roller coaster of our accounts payable and accounts receivable. When it’s good, I’m queen of the mountain, when it’s bad, I’m a failure.

August is historically the worst month of the year in Texas for the roofing industry, and by the end of August I was a puddle of goo. And not good goo, either. This was now mid-September.

Who am I without it? Who am I? These are the questions I left needing to answer. J strongly encouraged me to try to put some space between myself and my business. But first I had to meet an insurance adjuster.

I didn’t know where to go, after I finally got off the roof 3 hours later with the Slowest Insurance Adjuster Alive. He was an analytic with a torn meniscus, communication through an All State desk agent, using an overheating phone. The good news was, he covered the roof and I finally could go to find a bathroom. I wanted to drink, but instead I found myself, with my dog, laying on an abandoned concrete staircase behind the AA building.

I cried. I blew threw the napkins in my glove box, pun intended. My dog didn’t seem to be concerned – she just waited very patiently for three hours until I finally told her it was time to go.

Who am I? How do I separate that from what I’ve built?

I walked into church two days later, without any answers really. The good news is, I was at a good place for answers, if I can just make myself pay attention. The music soothes me. I close my eyes and fall into it, trying to forget - forget where I am, how I feel, I lose myself in order to find who I am.

“I’ve heard a thousand stories of what they think you’re like

But I’ve heard the tender whispers of love in the dead of night

And you tell me that you’re pleased

And that I’m never alone

“You’re a good, good father

It’s who you are, it’s who you are, it’s who you are

And I’m loved by you

It’s who I am, it’s who I am, it’s who I am.”

The tears cascade down my cheeks. I turn away so that my husband can’t see, not caring who else does. I’m listening, I’m listening with all I have.

The pastor opens with talking about the Mona Lisa being DaVinci’s life work and East of Eden being Steinbeck’s. I really liked East of Eden – I start trying to remember what it’s about – I read it a long time ago – I should reread it. I would think Grapes of Wrath was the Magnus Opus…. I forcibly bring my mind off the rabbit trail and back to the pastor’s voice. These are their Magnum Opus – their life’s work. I always thought I’d be a writer – I had hoped a novel would be my Magnum Opus – but instead it’s a roofing company, and it’s apparently eating me alive.

I again reach out and drive my brain back to the sanctuary, back to his voice. We, mankind, are God’s Magnum Opus. I make a wisecrack in my brain, but then I focus on what he said instead of my own self-deprecating puns. That’s who I am – I’m a creation of God. An On-Purpose-Creation of The Force That Created the Entire Universe. That’s a pretty big thing to be, really.

A verse comes on the overhead projector – I know this verse! I wrote a poem about it that I never finished. I fish out my phone, searching my notes file. There it is, there’s the poem. This has to be important, I think, but I don’t see how. My mind fades in and out and up and down for the rest of the sermon.

We are Jars of Clay, May 2019

I read a verse that says

We are jars of clay

I thought of a mason jar

With clay inside.

The clay is soft and malleable

Easily beaten down by outward forces

Easily dried out

The glass jar, while almost invisible

Protects the clay

I felt protected suddenly

But it means the opposite

The jar is made of clay

And we are the jar

Shaped from the earth

Of the dust

Fragile, very

Easily broken

Not permanent

And we house a treasure

That is eternal and perfect

And will last long after

The jar returns to its dusty state.

Me, it reminds me of an old album cover

The Jar of Flies

I remember it had little flies

That slid about inside the plastic CD cover

I used to wonder how they put them in there.

I am a Jar of Flies

When I am in a panic

I exhale slowly

And I see little gnats come out

Of my soul

I’m in the Green Mile

And the demons are exiting my lungs

It is not a holy image, my Jar of Flies.

That I am the opposite of holy.

I breath the flies out, the demons I house.

It is now a week later, and I am finally writing this out. I lack the bow for the top of this writing. The accounts payable and the accounts receivable have both decreased, and thus with them so has the crisis of my soul. While I should feel better, I somehow feel even more exposed and vulnerable. Maybe like Jonah, hiding under a withered plant leaf, smelling like whale barf.

My company is not my Magnum Opus. I’ve made it that, but it isn’t that. My brain keeps nagging, whispering that I’ve made a False Magnus Opus. That’s likely the take away from all of this, although I am certain it is a vital part of my life work and where I am meant to be, right now. It is not a mistake. It’s not a misguided mission. I am not in the wrong place, and my story is not over. It is not time to give up, but rather it’s time to dust myself off, once again, and move forward into the next chapter.

And I should stop feeding my Magnus Opus Monster.

The End of the Symphony

Sometimes my phone rings and it isn’t you.
You didn’t call again today.
For a few moments, it hurt more than it hurt in the moment just before;
I didn’t know that was possible.

I saw you recently.
Your eyes looked through me like I either wasn’t there, or like I was too there.
One of those.
I didn’t know what to do
So I didn’t do anything
My eyes hit the floor and my entire being felt uncomfortable.
Even with the benefit of hindsight now
It isn’t any clearer, what I should have done

I thought our love was deeper than this insurmountable abyss.
I thought it was stronger than an apology or the lack of one.
While we never said vows, they were written on my heart.

My love is not something I can simply erase.
Even anger and betrayal don’t mask it for very long.

So it mostly just sits, and waits.
Pathetic, I suppose. A pathetic picture I’ve written in prose.

I recently looked at pictures of the wedding.
Everything was picture perfect.
That day.
Your shockingly wonderful laugh. Your victory.
You remind me of a string conductor in an orchestra.
Your part in my play.
My little opera.
Or my B rated Lifetime Television movie.

It seems you loved me when I was whole,
But not when I was broken.
I think, in ways, I’m more beautiful broken.
Honestly.
But not to you.
Maybe you think me useless.
Perhaps I make you uncomfortable.
I may have struck an old chord.

I don’t know.

Ugly things have twisted around us.
What started as mere wisps of an ominous song has now grown bark and choked everything out.
The music is gone.
The garden is dead.
We’re different now.
It’s over.

I know.

I considered trying to edit you out of the photo album.
It isn’t possible.
Even if I removed every picture.
Often I look at pictures (not just these)
And I see the things that are not there more than the things that are.

Like that seemingly perfect picture of me holding the baby on a sunny summer day.

I was hungover and heartbroken that day.
My skin was clammy.
The sun was hot.
I didn’t want to go home. I knew I had to.

Yes, you’d still be there.
Even if you weren’t there.

I miss you, anyway.
And I pray for you.
Every day.

I’ll keep trying to say goodbye.

Until one day,
When it will finally be

The Last Time.