The landscape is vast with a near constant wind. It’s a place where dirt predominates and color is doled out frugally by way of scraggly shrubs and thorny bushes. My black shoes are now a pale shade of taupe. “I feel like Neil Armstrong,” I say to Pat as we approach Big Bend National Park. “Clearly this is the closest I’ll ever come to walking on the surface of the moon.” We drive thirty minutes before we pass another car. 

One of my favorite travel moments is that sliver of time when I cross the threshold from the unimaginable into the known world. All around me Big Bend unveils itself.

We have arrived here by chance. Our son Mike picked Marfa, Texas as one of our mandatory roadtrip stops. It’s a nine hour drive west of Houston to the westernmost part of Texas near the border with Mexico. Once in Marfa, it’s a relatively short 90 minutes to Big Bend National Park. Since this was undoubtedly the closest we’d ever get, I included the park into our itinerary.

However, these trips to less-traveled places are hard to envision and even harder to plan. I’ve spent more time on this segment than the entire rest of the road trip. Fortunately, the traveler universe is extraordinarily sharing. Everyday I graft ideas into our itinerary from a passing aquantance, an internet comment, or occasionally Pat.

We resumed our roadtrip after a month break in Fredericksburg. The day before we left, Pat mentioned that he’d seen intriguing photos of the Devils River. I mapped it and realized that we could conceivably cross the river by piecing together a network of side roads that cut south off the interstate towards the border with Mexico before resuming westward. The detour would take an hour longer than the interstate option. “Hey Pat, how much do you want to see that river?”

We discussed the change. One of the pleasures of retirement is the luxury of time, and these deviations have created some of our best memories. Unlike my working life where I always seemed to be chasing a destination, I’m now focused on the journey. We chose the new route.

“Hopefully it’s all paved,” I tell Pat as we exit the interstate. We venture through an increasingly desolate land devoid of cars, houses, and cell phone service. By the side of the road, we pass two wild pigs lying on their backs with their stiff legs pointing to the sky where a flock of vultures are circling.

My GPS quit some time ago, which is somewhat inconsequential in a place where roads cut straight for miles unencumbered by intersections. Besides, apparently the frisson of unknowingness is my drug of choice.

The first hint of life comes an hour later in the form of this: 

Within a few miles, we spy the elusive Devils River—a snippet of turquoise peeking through a dense scrub forest. It’s notoriously difficult to access as it’s almost exclusively bordered by private ranches, but our road will eventually cross it at Baker’s Crossing.

Within ten minutes we park near the river, walk the bridge, and explore the riverbanks with Pat periodically shouting out, “Watch out for rattlesnakes!” (Note to Pat: This is both harrowing and completely unnecessary. I’ve been scanning for rattlesnakes since we crossed into Texas.)

We head onto Marathon for the first night. Although it’s more than an hour from the nearest park entry, it’s still one of the closest of a handful of towns.

The following morning at the coffee shop, I take Pat through our next 24 hours: A stop at the Big Bend Panther Junction Visitors Center, a walk on the Windows Overlook Trail in Chisos Basin, a hike along the Rio Grande River into Santa Elena Canyon, dinner at the Starlight Theater in Terlingua with an overnight in Terlingua ghost town, finally onto Marfa for a few nights. A man nearby leans towards us and says, “Sorry to eavesdrop, but when you leave Terlingua, take the river route through Lajitas and then along the Rio Grande.”

“It’s paved?” I ask.

“Completely. A bit longer, but it’s spectacular.”

I believe in the existence of travel angels, random strangers doling out obscure recommendations in transient conversations. Thank you kind traveler. This route was amazing.

It takes a village to build a road trip. 

The trip goes exactly to plan. We end our time in Big Bend with lunch at a family-run Mexican restaurant in the border town of Presidio. The daughter smiles patiently as she answers a myriad of menu questions, the chicken enchiladas are simple yet delicious, the tres leches cake is in contention for our favorite. (We didn’t plan on a tres leches tasting competition, but across Texas it just happened.)

After lunch, we turn north to Marfa.

Ultimately, Neil Armstrong spent 21 hours and 36 minutes on the moon, which is almost the exact duration of our time in the park. As we leave, I feel a flutter of what I can only conjecture are emotions similar to his: pride in creating and executing the perfect stop, happiness for the experience, relief to be reentering the known world. 

Now, I’ll jump forward. I wrote the above a week ago but never posted it. We are in Flagstaff, Arizona. Sunday we’ll begin to meander across Utah for a few days before our next stop chosen by our son Ryan: Fruita, Colorado. From there we have a trio of chosen stops: Missoula, Spokane, and Bellingham. We will spend a week in each. 

After a detour into Oregon to visit two of my favorite people in the world, we will loop back into Montana and arrive June first into West Yellowstone. There we will spend the summer. It’s where the real story begins—and a legacy continues. More on that to come. 

For now, happy trails.

Categories: Ruminations, The United States

Tags: big bend, nomadic retirement, road trips, the world inbetween, Unusual retirement options