In part two of our salute to Texas State Parks, an informative account of one couple’s trip, full of adventure…and misadventure.

My girlfriend Stephanie told me to take a left. We were headed to Estero Llano State Park.  Established in 2006, it is one of the newer additions to the Texas State Park System.  Nonetheless, at less than 30 miles from McAllen and, amidst the Rio Grande Valley and its 1.4 million residents, it helps the System fulfill one of its original goals: to provide the State’s residents, even those in urban areas, access to nature and nature’s blessings.

I thought these blessings could best be found on the right.  Gifted with a strong sense of direction, I am almost never wrong about these things. I turned right, where I found a winding paved road, then a dirt road, and then a dead end.  Through some error in the urban planner’s design, I had been led astray.

A three-point turn is surprisingly loud when there is complete silence inside the car. There is the difference in engine hum from drive, to reverse, to drive; there is the squealing of the axles as they turn; and there is distinctive sound of tires on an unpaved road.  Fortunately for me, there was not the sound of anyone uttering, “I told you so.”

Eventually, we found Estero Llano Grande (it was on the left), and we were soon enjoying another of the State’s 89 parks—a total that does not include historical sites. While at the Park, we saw green jays, chachalacas, and otherwise enjoyed our first foray into the Valley.  Seeing the State Parks, we have learned, is a way to see Texas.

The Park’s Centenary

This year marks the 100^th anniversary of the Texas Park System, and when I first heard this, I became more serious in my goal to visit all of Texas’s Parks.  To date, I have explored more than 30 parks, many of them multiple times. 

I have my favorites.  Cedar Hill State Park, located just 18 miles from Dallas, is a great urban park; Caprock Canyon State Park has the largest bison herd in Texas; the coastal state parks offer numerous beautiful views; and Monahans Sandhills offers a unique geologic setting, what the Park refers to as a “Texas-sized sandbox.”

There are some excellent guidebooks on Texas State Parks. I recommend Laurence Parent’s Official Guide to Texas State Parks and Historic Sites.  

Hueco Tanks

Humans have occupied—or passed through—Hueco Tanks since at least 10,000 BC. The Park’s mountains were made of sterner stuff than the surrounding rock and have eroded more slowly, leaving us with three large, rocky mounds.  But even this hard rock has worn away in places, leaving hollows in the rock.  The Spanish called these hollows “huecos,” and the historic site is named “Hueco Tanks.”

Over millennia, the area’s inhabitants created more than 3,000 paintings that still grace various surfaces in the region. Some of the most famous are inside Kiva Cave—which sounds more impressive than “Kiva Crawlspace.” But crawl we did, scooching through tight spaces until we found all eight pictographs.  It was an intriguing find, and we exited elatedly, with worm-like maneuvers to inch our way out.

This was quite enough excitement for Stephanie, who did not want to do “overdo things.” Prudently, I refrained from scoffing, but, confident in my own abilities—I am almost never wrong about these things—I was in no mood to stop exploring.  Stephanie retreated downhill, leaving me with a parting reminder to “be careful.”

These words floated by me as I began my climb.  Because it is steep, generally slippery, and rocky all over, rangers have installed a chain “rope” to help visitors ascend.  Cleverly referred to as the “bawl and chain” trail by some, it can be a strenuous hike.

I certainly didn’t need the chain. I roamed, crawling over boulders, squeezing into tight places, and enjoying the views from the top of the mountain. Eventually, I descended, doing so with a certain elan, walking purposefully toward the base of the mountain.

Encouraged by my rapid pace, I cavalierly refused to use the chain supports.  This sense of confidence abandoned me when my foot hit the ground a bit awkwardly, landing in a slick spot next to a small ridge. 

My body landed to the right of the chain, and my left arm dangled to the other side, forcing my armpit into the role of a gondola lift, keeping my upper body erect and guiding me such that I slid perfectly parallel with the chain, which collected pieces of my arm. I skidded 20 feet down the mountain, a one-man impersonation of a toboggan, haunted by the words, “be careful,” echoing in my ears.

Big Bend Ranch State Park

It was late at night, and a few hours before we would arrive at our destination: Big Bend Ranch State Park.  Running low on gas, I suggested we stop at the next gas station.

The “next station” appeared shortly.  True, there were no external lights, the eaves were bent and dangling, and there were potholes in the parking lot, but it was a gas station, and the pumps were seemingly operable.  Stephanie, however, hesitated…suggesting we get gas “at the next station.”  I assured her it would be okay.  I manfully disembarked and began fueling.

With the fuel pumping, I wandered, getting in some steps around the unlit lot—when, to my right, I detected movement.  I glanced over, seeing what appeared to be a black cat running in my direction.  I do not like cats, and they often sense this, so it was an odd sight to see one running toward me.  Odder still, it stopped about five feet from me, slowly turned around, and raised its tail.  It was then I noticed the black fur was tinged with a white stripe. 

The ride to Big Bend Ranch State Park is a long one. From Huntsville, it is approximately a nine-hour drive.  But it is longer still when one of the car’s occupants has been sprayed by a skunk.

For the next two days, we repeatedly doused the vehicle’s interior with Febreze—using half a bottle in the process.  We also left the windows down, even while the car was parked outside our line of vision. It is a new, somewhat expensive model, and we were on the border, in lawless lands west of the Pecos–but no thief was so bold as to approach it.

Apart from the smell, the days were a joy as we took in the natural beauty of Big Bend Ranch.  Derrick Birdsall, a friend and photographer, has long extolled the Park’s virtues, and we followed his suggestions in exploring the largest of Texas Parks.  We drove along the El Camino del Rio, which author Laurence Parent described as perhaps “the most spectacular drive in Texas.”  We visited old churches; stopped at Fort Leaton; hiked Ojita Adentro and the Cinca Tinajas Trails, and we enjoyed the beautiful views.

On our last day, we embarked on the Hoodoo Trail, a short hike abutting the Rio Grande and predictably adorned with hoodoos, which Park literature describes as “rock structures with strange animal shapes” that “embody evil spirts.” There was, however, nothing foreboding about this hike.  It was bright, clear, and beautiful.

As the day and the trip drew to an end, we made our way to Closed Canyon. Tackling this hike at golden hour, I thought, might offer intriguing photographic possibilities, topping off what had mostly been a wonderful excursion.

Closed Canyon is a “slot canyon,” or a narrow channel, typically with a depth-to-width ratio of at least 10:1.  In places, the canyon narrows to a width of six-to-eight feet, while the sheer walls tower some 200 above the trail.

Fortunately, these walls were not crowned with hoodoos carrying evil spirits. We were, however, given fair warning about troubles that can befall careless hikers. The trail’s brochure encourages hikers to be on the lookout for rattlesnakes, mountain lions, and flash floods from even small amounts of rain. 

While hiking, we saw evidence of these floods, which had washed and polished some of the canyon’s rock bed. Such floods had also eroded parts of the canyon floor, producing small waterfalls and, in turn, tinajas beneath the waterfalls.  The visual effect is striking, but the practical effect is the canyon is marked with slopes and pits that can make access difficult. “Do not go down any slopes,” a park ranger noted, “that you cannot get back up.”

For half a mile, all was well. We spotted lizards darting through the canyon; eyed birds flying; and we marveled as the day’s last light reflected on the canyon’s walls. But we also noted the canyon floor was becoming steeper in places. 

When we arrived at one drop of about 20 feet, Stephanie declined to go further.  After some negotiation, she agreed to let me continue, so long as I promised to “be careful.” 

I trekked on for half a mile, before a tinaja full of water blocked my path.  I looked for ways around the obstacle, but I was stymied. There was no safe path to the trail’s conclusion.  This was disappointing, but I know my limitations.  I am almost never wrong about these things.

Thus, I returned.  Stephanie looked relieved when she caught sight of me, but as I approached her, it was I who became uneasy.  She seemed to have grown taller in my absence; or, more accurately, the slope on which she stood seemed to be higher and steeper.

With some trepidation, I made my first attempt at climbing out, which proved in vain. Before my second attempt, I handed my gear to Stephanie, lightening my load, but this attempt, too, was fruitless.

I paused my efforts, which were both exhausting and futile. I got the sense that Stephanie was looking in my direction with disapproval, so I looked elsewhere. I glanced behind me, up the canyon walls, and toward the setting sun.

In this dwindling sunlight, I saw bats flitting; heard owls hooting; recalled the trail brochure, warning hikers of the danger of mountain lions.  I remembered the park ranger’s admonition: “Don’t go down any slopes you cannot get back up.”

I devised a plan. I began collecting rocks, the largest I could carry, and I piled them at the base of the pit. As I depleted the rocks in my vicinity, I roamed further to find new rocks, necessitating longer hauls. After 100 or so rocks, I tried another climb, again to no avail.  But I was closer.

Stephanie, ever-resourceful, took my cameras, removed the straps, and tied them together, producing a “rope” of sorts more than six-feet long. This rope, combined with the rock scaffolding, did the trick.  I emerged from the pit, still a half mile walk to the car.

Hiking can be quite loud when there is no conversation.  Bats’ wings whir, owls hoot noisily, wind whistles through the canyon, and hikers’ breathing is heavy. But, fortunately, there was no sound of anyone saying, “I told you so.”

Coda

Our departure from Big Bend Ranch State Park was bittersweet.  Even in the face of recent misadventures, I wished I could stay in the midst of this natural beauty, remain connected to nature, and see more wildlife.

I reflected as we reached the Closed Canyon parking lot, and I turned briefly to bid the trail adieu. Vestiges of the sunset persisted, and I looked admiringly at the orange streaks against a purple sky. It was beautiful, a fitting afterglow to a three-day trip that taught me a bit about Texas…and a lot about myself.

Armed with this knowledge, I entered the car, detecting a faint aroma of Febreze.  For a moment I wondered, “Left or right?” Regaining my confidence, I turned right.  I am almost never wrong about these things.