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 16,849th 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.
