Big Bend Ranch State Natural Area

The theme for this leg of my trip is Colossally Stupid. My first backpacking trip was to Philmont Scout Ranch in 1981, where they know a little about how to do it right. I have built on that early training to hike in Yosemite, the Grand Tetons, Sequoia National Park, the Pecos Wilderness, Big Bend NP, and innumerable state parks over the years since. Yet on this trip, I made mistakes that, were it not for my 30 years experience, very well may have left me dead in the desert (or at least rescued by rangers). Granted, some people would say it was colossally stupid to make the trip alone to begin with, but I consider that more of a calculated risk. The stupidity came when I got a little too cocky and the mistakes continued from there.

Before I go into my personal saga, a little about the park. Big Bend Ranch State Natural Area is unlike any other Texas State Park I've seen. Encompassing 300,000 acres of Chihuahuan Desert, it is the largest Texas park and contains several distinct areas. There are short trails that offer access to the Rio Grande, several picnic areas that are just off the road (which provides some of the most beautiful views in Texas), and a group lodge that is reached by driving 30 miles into the desert on a rocky, rutted dirt road that should probably not be attempted without a high clearance vehicle (four-wheel-drive being preferable). Several other primitive roads and trails wind through the desert, as well, and the link above includes information on biking in the park. But the trail that caught my eye the first time I heard about this park is the Rancherías Loop.

You don't get cairns like this on every trail.

This trail is not a true loop unless you hike along the road for a stretch of a couple or three miles. Total distance is over 20 miles and it climbs around 1300 feet into the mountains (if you go the whole way round, I think you see a maximum elevation change close to 2000 feet). There are multiple springs marked on the park map, though after six months of drought the ranger was not willing to promise I would find water at any of them. The trail is very rugged and difficult. Loose rocks and gravel cause slipping and sliding over large sections of the trail. The ascent winds through draws and over ridges almost without any switchbacks; it seems the trail was designed by and for horses, not hikers (and probably was, as the park was once a working ranch). Ascending from the west trailhead, two miles of brutal hiking finally brought me to a 3.5-mile stretch of fairly easy going across two mesas (which I came to think of as the ocotillo flats, though they really aren't all that flat and their official names are Upper and Lower Guale Mesa). The mesas are marked by some of the most impressive cairns I have seen. Four feet high and comprised of easily 50 stones weighing up to 20 pounds, these things took some real labor to build. Then the trail bends through an amphitheater-like canyon and crosses another mile and a half of tough going that leads to Rancherías Creek. Unfortunately for me, this part is not marked so grandly, but I'll get to that later.  Not quite a half-mile down the creek is the first spring (though I see now that most people hike in from the eastern trailhead and thus pass two other springs first). This was as far as I intended to go. I hike to get places where few others will, not to log miles. I was expecting about 8.5 miles in, a day to play around the spring, and then back out.

I expected this to be a hike much like I saw in Big Bend National Park. It's all the same desert, after all. Though it was similar, there are actually differences in the flora and the geology of the parks that make this a unique experience. Entering the trail, I passed through some narrow draws and into a section dominated by ocotillo and creosote bushes, along with a few prickly pear and other cactus and some dry, dead grasses  that might have been anything as far as this amateur botanist is concerned. Once I reached the upper mesa, I began to see a few sotol, but nowhere near as many as in BBNP, which also had greater variety and number of cacti. The mountains looked different, the trail looked different. It's all very similar, but not quite the same.

So I was on this trip with no plan, and that was a large part of my problems. It started Tuesday night. I was in a hotel in Marfa resting from a couple of days at Big Bend NP. I vaguely decided to go to BBR the next day, but didn't think it through or make any attempt to prepare beyond what I had done when I packed the car in Austin. Mistake number one.

The next morning, other hotel patrons woke me at 6:30. Mistake number two: I rolled over and went back to sleep. I got up around 8, packed and loaded, walked to a little cafe for breakfast, and started toward the park around 10. That put me at the ranger station around 1. By the time I got checked in and drove the extra ½ hour to the trailhead, it was 2pm. This is not a good time to start a hike into the desert.

I had a rough time at BBNP because of my heavy pack, so before I left I stripped it down to bare bones. No chance of rain; the tent fly and four stakes stayed behind. No trees in the desert; leave the hammock. I had already gotten sick of dried fruit and nuts, so I just kept a small bag in the pouch on my shoulder strap for trail snacking and left the big bag behind. And so it went, until I had culled probably 10 pounds or so. I loaded up and found it much nicer hiking. It's amazing how much difference a little weight makes.

Shade!

Once I finished the initial ascent onto the mesas, there was a nice breeze out there and the hiking was fairly level, and I made good time for the next 3.5 miles. When I stepped into the canyon, it was a great relief because it was preceded by some more tough climbing. There were huge boulders everywhere and, being late afternoon by now, there was shade. Sweet, sweet shade. I knew I was tired, and this wasn't perfect but was a good place to sit out he evening so I could get a fresh start the next day. But in BBNP, I busted a water bag, so I was barely carrying enough for one day, much less two (mistake number three). So I really wanted to make it to the spring. If it had water, I could slake my thirst that night and not worry about running out of water. If the spring was dry, I would have to ration carefully and probably come back a day early. So I pressed on. Mistake number four.

This little canyon was not well marked. I was lucky to find two rocks stacked here and there. They were frequently obscured by vegetation that also blocked the trail, making both hard to see. I was hot and tired. I came to a point where I should have crossed a dry wash, but I missed the turn and wandered up the wash a ways. It quickly became obvious I was off the trail and I turned around to look for my mistake. When I finally saw a cairn on the other side, it was a struggle to motivate myself to backtrack to it. Once I did, I noticed myself stumbling a bit, but just attributed it to big, loose rocks that were hard to navigate. I made it back to the trail and started the final leg of about 1.5 miles (mistake number five).

It looked easy on the map, and it sounded easy to just bang out another mile, but this was a long, steady climb and I was hot and dehydrated. After a quarter mile or so, I realized I was still staggering a bit. Years of working in Texas heat has taught me to recognize the signs of heat distress. But now I was back in the open. I vowed to stop at the next shade I found. After a little more hiking, I realized I was really getting to a critical place. The best shade I could come up with was a big ocotillo, which is really just a jumble of long, thorny whips emanating from a single base. I dropped my pack and snuggled in as close as I could to the thorny bastard. Once the pack was off, I fairly floated in a lightheaded haze, and I knew the situation was getting critical. I sipped some more water and leaned over my pack for a short nap to try and recover. I won't go so far as to say I almost died (though if someone had walked up then they might have wondered) but I was at the edge of serious distress, 8 miles from the road, 30 miles from the nearest building where someone might be able to help me. When I woke, I did feel a little better, and I pressed on. Mistake number six.

Trees! Green leaves! Water ahead!

Finally I crested the last rise and began to descend into the canyon. And, glory be, I saw trees! With green leaves! Water was a distinct possibility. But this was another steep, rocky slope and I struggled most of the way down. I got relatively close to the trees, dropped my pack and marked it with the GPS, and took an empty water bottle and my filter into the canyon. Sweet, blessed shade! Trees for 100 yards in both directions! I was feeling much better about things now (but also kicking myself for leaving the hammock—this is why I always carry too much stuff). The map showed the spring a little less than ½ a mile down canyon, so I headed that way. I saw a few places where there was moist soil, but no standing water. I almost gave up, even considered a trick I learned from the Cormac McCarthy I was reading, which was to dig down in to the wet soil in hopes that water would puddle in the bottom of the hole. But after I reviewed the map, I decided to go a little farther.The trees petered out briefly, but I could see another group of green plants ahead and made for it. And there it was! A pool roughly 5 feet across and 4 inches deep. It had scum over most of the surface, javelina hoofprints in the mud suggesting it was less than pure, and was surrounded by deadfall and thorny plants, but I worked my way in and filtered a quart of water. I drank half of it, refilled, and headed back to my pack, feeling proud of myself for locating water by topo map.

Water!

On the way, I passed a pretty nice campsite. Clearly, it had been used before, and the bigger rocks had been cleared away to make a fairly level tent pad. I put down the water and filter and marked the point “camp” on the GPS. Except I had already used that name and the GPS doesn't offer a “replace” option, so I renamed it “campbbr”. I went on to get my pack and started back to my site. On the way, I passed another, even nicer site. I'm not sure if it was really all that much better, but it was closer, and that was important right then. I went into the GPS to delete “camp” so I could use it here, but it didn't come up. In my distressed state, I didn't think it through to realize I was viewing points based on the nearest, not alphabetically. I just deleted campbbr instead and named it that. Then I set off to get the water and filter.

Except I had just deleted the coordinates (mistake number seven). I had also deleted the point marking my pack (eight), so I couldn't even go back to the spring and try to recreate my path (well, I could have by following the digital line that marked my path, but, again, I wasn't thinking clearly). I spent a little while trying to find them anyway, but it was dark by then and I gave up, hoping daylight would help.

I set up the tent and pulled out the stove and food. I was planning to eat some dehydrated soup I had brought. I went into the pack to get the pot so I could boil water. It wasn't there. I frantically dumped the whole pack out, but nothing doing. I had no way to cook tonight (mistake number nine). I went back to the food bag to get some dried fruit and nuts, as sick of them as I was. But I had left them behind, too. That put me into my backup emergency food: some ancient nutrition bars (which were basically dried fruit and nuts) that I stored in the pack after my last trip. I forced myself to eat one, sipping water with each bite to get it down. I slipped into my sleeping bag and lay there exhausted, trying to decide what to do next. After some thought, I reasoned that I made it twice as far with my lighter pack as I had at BBNP before I really started feeling the pain; with an almost empty pack, I figured I could make it out and back to get the pot and more water. Honestly, I think I was more motivated by the excuse to get the hammock. There's few things I like better on a camping trip than lounging in a hammock.

It was time to smarten up. I decided to get an early start so I could beat the heat and be back by early afternoon, leaving me a few hours of daylight to play in the trees. I set my alarm for 6am and went to sleep. For a little while. But then I woke up around 4 and could not get back to sleep. After lying there awake for another hour, I decided to just get up and go. This could be considered more Colossal Stupidity, but I viewed it as another calculated risk. I emptied the pack of everything except what water I still had, some emergency supplies (compass, matches and tinder, backup warm clothes, those nasty bars, etc.), put on my headlight, fired up the garmin, and started out a little after 5. I immediately began to question this decision; even in the cool night air, I was sweating almost instantly. But I kept going.

The GPS tracks a line as I hike, so my goal was to watch the arrow representing myself until it hit my incoming path. Unfortunately, it doesn't give a clear indication as to where you're heading if you can only move a step or two at a time. In those rocks and thorns and cacti, that's just about all I could manage at times, and I had a hell of a time picking up the trail in the dark. I found a cairn, but it was beyond the point where I started my beeline for the trees, so I couldn't tell how it related to the trail. But I knew I needed to climb back up that canyon so I headed toward the pass from memory. It was hard going. I still wasn't seeing anything that was clearly a trail. Garmin had me way too far to the north, but there's a margin of error with those things and I figured since it was12 hours later I was on different satellites. I continued toward the pass (mistake ten). Eventually, though, I became sure I was going the wrong way. I climbed straight up the slope to my left to drop down onto the trail on the other side. In the dark. By half-moonlight and headlight that was really designed more for finding something in the tent than for lighting a trail. Miserable.

But I finally did it. I found a clear trail and started moving quickly along. Until I lost it again. Several times. Each time, I had to clamber up and down slopes and over rocks and through thorny bushes to get it back. Finally, the moon was behind the canyon wall, I was hopelessly stuck between two thickets, and since I couldn't get a steady line I wasn't even sure anymore which way garmin was telling me to go. Just before dawn, I decided to take a short nap to wait for dawn. When I woke, there was enough daylight to find the trail with only a little searching. I was back on track. I might take this same risk again if it came up, but in the end I wasted so much time and energy stumbling around in the dark that I don't think the head start was worth it. I can definitely say there's no way I could have done it without GPS.

So I got going again, and picked my way through the canyon and back to the upper mesa. At this point, I buried my nose in the trail and pushed as hard as I could. That still wasn't very fast due to fatigue, but I made pretty good time. Once I got back to the mesas, there was a breeze again, and it was actually quite pleasant hiking. Until I got back to the brutal two miles at the trailhead. Every time I was sure I was about to start my final descent to the car, the trail would turn and sweep around a hill, down into a gulley and back out. I was thrilled to finally reach the car around 9 AM, but so-o-o tired. I packed my pot and my hammock, along with some extra GPS batteries and the water. I left just enough for one good drink when I came out the next day, assuming I would have drunk everything else by then.

I used my backup stove to boil some split pea soup and ate that for breakfast sitting in the car. That seat never felt so comfortable. I snoozed for half an hour or so and hit the trail again about 11. If that first stretch seemed hard the first two times, it was nothing compared to the third. Each time I looked up to see a descent followed by another climb ahead of me, I groaned, cursed, practically cried. About a half mile in, I realized I could have left my gear in the desert, driven into town for rest and regrouping, then gone back out a day or two later to finish the trip. But one of my little personality quirks is that I hate to backtrack, even to drive around the block to get something I forgot at home. So I kept going. Mistake number eleven .

I may have just been getting beaten down by now, but I would swear it was ten degrees hotter that day than the previous one. I was sipping from my camelback every few minutes, sometimes every few seconds. I was stopping to catch my breath multiple times on every ascent. The sun was beating straight down so even the ocotillo were not offering their scant shade. Somewhere out on the mesas, I passed a large boulder that formed a bit of an overhang and I crawled under it and sat for a nap. I woke feeling a little better and set out again, but the sun was immediately, viciously back. I didn't even get any shade when I finally reached the canyon this time, because it was only about 1 o'clock. I continued to take frequent short breaks, but was reluctant to take any more long ones because I'd just be out there in the sun baking the whole time. I felt it was imperative to get to that shade as soon as possible. It was getting more and more obvious that sips of water were not helping much. Either I was not able to keep up with my sweating, or I needed electrolytes to go with the water, or I needed more food, or some combination thereof. But I felt my only real choice was to push on.

More inviting than you can imagine.

This time, it was easier to stick to the trail because I knew what I was looking for. That last stretch was still miserable, though. When I finally crested the last rise and saw my tent below me, I couldn't even feel relieved because it was still a good half mile down there over difficult terrain. I laboriously picked my way down a few steps at a time, leaning on my sotol sick to catch my breath again and again. A bright moment came when I finally got close, as I spotted my filter and bottle just 20 yards from the tent, about 90 degrees from the direction that I had looked the night before. I picked them up as I passed, dropped the pack into the tent, grabbed the ropes for the hammock (which I had carried in the first time in case of emergency) and staggered into the shade of the creek bed.

Once I got there, I flopped down against a tree and wondered if I would be able to recover. I had to get up the next day and get out or I'd face the heat again. I wasn't sure what was worse—less rest, or more heat. I sipped the filtered water, which by now was over 100*, and desperately tried to catch my breath. I nibbled a little dry fruit to see if that would help. Finally, I just managed to hang the hammock. I stripped down, soaked a bandanna with the hot water, and used it to towel myself down. The evaporating water cooled me off even better than I had hoped, and after an hour or so I was feeling almost normal, just very tired. I lay on the hammock the rest of the evening sipping hot water until finally it started to get dark and I decided I could cook my dinner. I ate and rested in the hammock until I couldn't eat any more and went to bed. So much for playing in the trees.

I got up the next morning about 8. Since I was only going one way this time, I didn't rush out, but I generally applied myself to packing and leaving, setting off around 9:30. Almost immediately, I realized I still wasn't sure where the trail was. I searched for cairns to no avail. I started up a likely path that quickly dead-ended into thorns. I stared at the garmin, shifted back and forth trying to get a read on my direction, and finally just started heading toward the pass. The same wrong pass as the previous morning. But this time I realized it right away. It was a struggle to climb over the rise and down to the other side, and still I found no trail. I finally started bushwhacking in the general direction of the path until I ran across it. Once I was on track, I only had a few false steps here and there and soon was back on the breezy mesa.

It wasn't as easy or pleasant this time, as I was barely any more rested than the night before, but I pushed myself on because there was no other way to make it all end. If I was out there through another hot afternoon, it was not going to be pretty. As I loosened up a bit, I was able to lengthen my stride and did pretty well getting across the mesas once again. Then there was that last two miles. The temperature was at least twenty degrees hotter than the second day.  I fantasized about genies granting me wishes such as transporting me and the car to Balmorhea State Park, where I could swim in the spring-fed pool and rinse off the miles of trail dust and sunscreen I had accumulated. Occasionally I would glimpse the trail far ahead, where it snaked out from behind another switchback, and consider making a beeline for it, but I knew I could no more do that than I could conjure a genie. It was just too steep, too rocky, too thorny, too harsh. I plodded on.

I swear they added another half-mile and three more up-downs through gullies overnight. It was excruciating. I had sucked every last drop out of my camelback, but still resisted stopping to get out my other water because I thought I was almost out (does that count as a new mistake when I already did it?). By the time I finally reached the car (Hallelujah!), it was all I could do to flop the pack into the back, down the last of the jug of water I left there, extract the last quart from my pack, and climb into the driver's seat.

It felt like real work to push the clutch in and start the car. I set off east toward the other ranger station ( I came in through Presidio and checked in at the fort there). I passed a few different signs that pointed to park river access, and even glimpsed the river here and there. Murky green-brown water never looked so enticing, but I knew I was not out of the woods yet, so to speak. The car's A/C could cool me off, but I wasn't going to feel safe until I had some good food and some gatorade or equivalent. I drove. As the road twisted and turned for 30 miles of no-passing zone, I followed someone's grandfather who was apparently worried that 35 MPH was dangerously fast on that road with a speed limit of 45 to 50. I resisted the many uncivilized urges this inspired. Finally, I made it to Lajitas and the miracle of cold sugar water and prepackaged snack foods.

Good times.

Seminole Canyon State Park

Approach to the rock shelter where the art is.

This is thought to depict a shaman

This is more car camping, which I knew because I've been here before. I mostly stopped in to check on my terracache (found it intact on ground and put it back where it was). The main reason to come here is to view the prehistoric rock art in the canyons, though there is a 3-mile trail to the river and other hiking in the park. The desert is beautiful, of course, with more kinds of plants than you'd expect if you've never been.

more ancient paintings, plus some really old grafitti.

Since I've done it, I'm skipping the tour (no unaccompanied hiking in canyon), but I have some photos from last time.

I came in last night and enjoyed seeing a couple of cottontails hopping around the visitor center. Even took pics, though I've seen plenty of bunnies. But then I saw about 50 more, including some big jackrabbits, on the way to the campsite, and then another couple of dozen this morning. I don't remember them being so plentiful last time (maybe because it was August). I also saw four or five turkeys last night and startled up some whitetailed deer.

There aren't that many campsites here--about 30, I think, though they seem to be expanding. Choice is one of 8 sites without electric and the rest with. Every site has a covered picnic table on a slab and a fire pit. There's a dump station, showers, and wifi. The visitor center is better than most, with a small museum showing the history of the area.

I listened to a couple of guys having a conversation late into the night last night, despite my best efforts not to. I think everyone in the campground did. And they weren't even that loud. Then the big diesel pickups and RVs started before dawn as some people left early. Again, I hate to carp, but this is not my idea of great camping. But if you like that sort of thing, and especially if you will be inside an RV anyway, this is a really nice park with good instructional displays and the aforementioned guided tours of the art.

Last time we also connected with a tour at the nearby Rock Art Foundation land, where they have some of the seminal images of the Pecos River people. That was also guided-only, and we probably got lucky that we found a tour on short notice, but it was well worth the effort. If you decide to come here, I recommend you contact them in advance to see when you can tour that site.

More later. Gotta go out and recreate so I'll have more to write.

Garner State Park

view of campground from hiking trail

So I'm told Garner State Park is the most visited park in Texas. I can see why. There are miles of trails for hikers, mountain bikes, and road bikes. Plenty of bike trails look like old jeep roads--wide and smooth, generally easy to ride; hiking trails can get quite strenuous as they twist up and down through the hills. Sometime other than last night, they routinely host dances at the pavilion. The Frio River runs through the park for 1.5 miles. You can rent bikes, tubes, kayaks, or mini-golf setups (to play the on-site course). Fishing is good, floating is good; it's a family paradise for families who enjoy outdoor activities. Having said all that, this is not my kind of park, so if it sounds like I'm carping, well, that's just a reflection of what I'm looking for in a camping trip.

second-largest fish I caught

I'm not saying I didn't enjoy myself. I caught a fish on my first cast, then pulled in four more before the day was done. None of them was big enough to keep, but it was still fun. Then I did a lot of hiking through the trails and roads of the park. Dominant tree species include mesquite, Ashe Juniper, Live Oak, Hackberry, Spanish Oak, another oak I never IDed, Mexican Buckeye, Red Buckeye, Texas Persimmon, Pecan. I saw a lot of cardinals, sparrows, vultures, a few nondescript dark-colored birds, and one turkey. Park brochure tells me I might have seen endangered golden-cheeked warblers and black-capped vireos, but I didn't.

there's a turkey there just beyond the road

The tubing looked great. The water is shallow enough to wade in most places, but rocks have been piled along the way to create sluices that keep tubers moving without getting to any major rapids. Though "frio" means "cold" in Spanish, the water was pleasant if not a bit warm. I kept reading park literature that suggested there are areas that are much deeper, but never saw it. Maybe it's a timing thing--there were certainly a lot of rope swings along the banks that only a fool would drop from into the water as it is today. At any rate, it was beautiful, clear water, lined with massive baldcypress trees.

cypress trees along the Frio

The things I don't like are the things I don't like about any car camping. The most primitive sites still have water at every site. Each is in full view of at least three others within 20 feet. There is a loop road and the sites are arrayed around the loop. As always, the sites in the middle appeal to me least of all, though it would probably be fun to take up a lot of them for a reunion or something like that. Beyond the water-only sites, the park has four other camping areas, ranging from water+electric (RV) sites to screened shelters with lights and outlets. All sites that I saw include a fire pit. The store sells wood--even today, which is surprising since I thought the whole area was under a burn ban.

Worst of all was the placement of my tent. I chose the water-only area (Persimmon Flats or something like that), which is very close to the highway. My 8 am wakeup call was from the trucks and commuters roaring by (video above is 360 degrees from inside my tent when I woke up). The ranger said the spaces along the east side are most popular (probably because they are closest to the river) but if I went back I'd stay on the opposite side. I suspect it would make little difference to the noise. Other camping areas are farther from the road and seemed quieter. Trails are farther still, and they wind through canyons so that the noise is only noticeable when a big truck goes by.