A Land As Big As All Outdoors

This may be the only place left where all the lies about Texas are true.

Big Bend, a boot heel of the Rio Grande in the extreme southwestern part of the state, is the last remaining scrap of aboriginal Texas. Here, the sky really is bigger, the horizon endless. The mesas and mounds and obelisks of limestone rising from hardscrabble desert floor are so vivid that they appear computer-generated, and at places along the 118-mile, curvy stretch of the Rio Grande to which this magnificent landscape clings, the river seems to run uphill.

But if the Big Bend region is otherworldly and achingly beautiful, it is also unremittingly inhospitable. Apaches, Mexicans, Spanish explorers, ranchers, and miners have all been forced to reckon with this paradox, generally about the time they decide to turn tail and run. As a result, the name given to the region by the Spanish—El Despoblado, "the unpeopled place"—remains apt to this day. In more than an hour of hiking through Boquillas Canyon, one of the geological masterpieces that dot Big Bend National Park, my wife and I spotted all of two burros over on the Mexican bank of the river and chatted briefly with two German tourists. But that may be exactly why some of us love Big Bend. It seduces the right kind of traveler, those that dote on adventure, and drives the rest away.

To begin with, Big Bend is impossibly huge: 1,250 square miles for the parklands alone, about the size of Rhode Island. It's hard to get there, and even harder to find a place to stay once you've arrived. Aside from the unpleasantness of the occasional dust storm, the weather in this rare collision of mountain, river, and desert ecologies ranges from uncomfortably muggy to uncomfortably arid to uncomfortably chilly—all in the same afternoon. The brightly flowered prickly pear and ocotillo are a delight to behold in early spring, but the things that bloom here can also stick you. Wild animals—mule deer and javelinas—abound, but snake bites and maulings by mountain lions are not unheard of. How tough is the Bend? So tough that contestants in the Old Goat Cook Off compete in four categories of food preparation: beans, rice, corn bread, and, of course, old goat.

In fact, our ramble through Boquillas Canyon ended with a violent dust storm, and it wasn't until later that day, when we were safely back in the comfort of rocking chairs on the porch of the eccentric old Gage Hotel, that I was reminded of why a visit to Big Bend is always worth the trouble. Gazing at the most spectacular sunset either of us had ever seen, my wife sighed, "The sky's on fire." Despite its daunting nature, this landscape has the ability to render even the most plainspoken of us poetic.

Casting about for more serendipity the following day, we decided to take a leisurely drive through the Davis Mountains, a dramatic range of peaks north and west of the park. Along the way, we stopped to hike a couple of not-so-well-worn trails and cruised the main drags of tiny desert towns like Alpine, where we stopped for chicken-fried steak and homemade biscuits at Reata. After dinner, we set out in search of the Marfa Lights, mysterious luminescences that appear after dark on the southern horizon outside of the nearby town of Marfa. Depending on which local "historian" you choose to believe, these are either electromagnetic hot spots or the ghost of the Apache chief Alsate.

Not quite accepting either explanation, we dropped by the rest stop alleged to be the best viewing place. And there they were. "But those could just be car lights," I said, after spotting some flickering in the distance. The old guy next to us shot me a wounded look, as if to say, "Why impose reality on this place?" He had a point. Who was I to doubt the veracity of the Marfa Lights? On the other hand, who needs science fiction when reality does just fine? On another evening, about the same time on another stretch of lonely highway but nearer to the park, I had spotted a mountain lion in the peripheral glow of our headlights. It was carrying the carcass of a small deer back into the scrub.

The next afternoon, we hiked up the region's other mountain range, the Chisos, and later, when we got to the Rio Grande, hopped into what passes for a ferry in these parts—a small aluminum rowboat—to cross ten yards of muddy water to the other side of the river. We then followed a narrow dirt path to the Mexican town of Paso Lajitas, whose main claim to fame is the Dos Amigos restaurant.

Based on what locals had told us, I had pictured a miniature border town, like the quaintest two blocks of Nuevo Laredo with a more rural flair. But when we reached the top of the last hill, we realized that Paso Lajitas was no more than a scattering of ramshackle houses. The restaurant was a low-slung building surrounded by a barn, a chicken coop, and a corral with a couple of haggard horses and a large emu. It had open-air windows, concrete floors, folding metal chairs, brightly checkered tablecloths, and two of the friendliest señoras ever to deep-fry a tortilla. (Since there wasn't another living soul in sight, we felt that the restaurant should more properly have been named Dos Amigas.) And I wondered if we should be concerned about wandering onto private property in a foreign country that we had just entered, if not illegally, somewhat unconventionally.

We both had the chicken flautas smeared with mayonnaise, a surprisingly tasty variation obviously born of necessity, given that sour cream seems to be rare in these parts. The plate came with refried beans, a pico de gallo made with farm-fresh vegetables, and steaming-hot homemade tortillas that actually tasted of corn. Maybe it was the soft breeze drifting in through the window, the perfect final flourish to a perfect meal, or maybe it was the $10 tab, but as we walked back to our river taxi I felt my chest swell as full as my stomach at our great culinary discovery.

We had sized up Big Bend by car, on foot, and on horseback. But on our final day, while rafting a 21-mile stretch of the Rio Grande through another of the Park's crown jewels, Santa Elena Canyon, we came to understand that the river is the surest way to the park's soul. We passed by flatlands thick with candelaria and between weathered walls of limestone and sandstone that rise up 1,500 feet on each side, looking oddly fragile, like papier-mâché stage sets. Turtles dozed on rocks, buzzards and peregrine falcons soared overhead, burros stared at us blankly from the riverbanks—all to the distinctive hum of nature.

Our guide, a bearded and ponytailed fellow, explained that under the shadows of those massive cliffs is an atmosphere so dry that nothing biodegrades. "You leave an orange peel here and come back in a couple hundred years and it'll just be a rock," he said. That sounded suspiciously like a Texas-size lie. Still, I liked the drift of what he was saying.

But I also knew that pollution drifting over the park from coal-fired power plants has changed the air quality in the last ten years. Big Bend is not L.A.; no one is wheezing here as they hike along the trails. On some days, though, it's not hard to spot the blanket of haze that settles over the valleys from the higher elevations. Despite this modern intrusion, the rocks and water that make up this lovely natural museum are all pretty much as they were back when the Spanish, the Mexicans, and the Apaches came and went from here. I hoped they always would be.

After a lunch of cold cuts, we plowed through a stretch of water known as the Rockslide, so named because some time back several massive chunks of the cliff face fell into the river, creating an imposing gauntlet. We squirmed and squished the raft through the rocks until, late in the afternoon and not too far from home base, we finally met our match: a passage so narrow that the boat simply couldn't fit. We had no choice but to hop into the chilly water and give the thing a shove. It was not the most comfortable way to end a trip, but it reminded us of what may be the best reason to keep coming back to Big Bend: It humbles you in all the right ways. And that's no lie.

STAYING THERE

Big Bend is a big place, so bed down in different parts of the park for a couple of days at a time to sample its pleasures more easily.

Best cowboy hotel: Spend a day or two at the Gage Hotel, a charming restoration in the equally charming little town of Marathon, 70 miles north of Big Bend National Park. It's a convenient base from which to visit the towns of Alpine, Marfa, and Fort Davis, as well as the Davis Mountains and the McDonald Observatory. And the roomiest suite here is only $175. (915-386-4205)

Best rooms close to the park: You can choose from a handful of motels, including the Big Bend Motor Inn, in Terlingua, an exemplar of that dying breed of mom-and-pop motels with rooms for $65, clean sheets, and a restaurant, gift shop, and gas station all in one. About 20 miles farther west, the Lajitas Resort, in the small town of the same name, has large double rooms from $115. Big Bend Motor Inn (915-371-2218). Lajitas Resort (915-424-3471).

Room with a view: If you want to move all the way into the park, the Chisos Mountains Lodge has a beautiful setting, but the rooms (from $75) are pedestrian. Still, you must book months in advance. (915-477-2291)

Sheer luxury: You're supposed to be roughing it, but if you must stay in grand style, Cibolo Creek Ranch, 65 miles from the entrance to Big Bend, is hard to beat. It sits in the middle of 40,000 acres, and guest rooms (from $450 including dinner) are straight out of Architectural Digest. (866-496-4960)

Best carbo load: The grilled cheese sandwich at the Fort Davis Drugstore, in the town of the same name, comes with Cheddar and Jack and is served on wheat toast. It's especially tasty if dipped in their house ketchup or hot sauce. Or try a doughnut from Shirley's Burnt Biscuit Bakery, on the main drag in Marathon. I ate one that lasted me through the first five miles of the morning's hike. Fort Davis Drugstore (915-426-3118). Shirley's Burnt Biscuit Bakery (915-386-9020).

Best overload: Somehow the folks at Reata, in Alpine, have figured out a way to whip up a chicken-fried steak that doesn't make you feel as if you've swallowed an anvil. Reata has plain old grilled steak, too, plus regional inventions like tenderloin tamales with cilantro-pecan mash, and lighter fare like filet-wrapped asparagus. (915-837-9232)

Best cowboy food: The bacon-wrapped roast quail with hearty mashed potatoes at Cafe Cenizo (the restaurant of the Gage Hotel, right next door in Marathon) is so spectacular that you might not be able to speak—literally—until you've finished the whole bird. Or just have a regular roasted steak. (915-386-4434)

Best cowboy-watching: Over at the Starlight Theatre Restaurant in the "ghost town" sector of Terlingua, the bar, in a converted movie house, is peopled by ranch hands, river guides, and desert slackers, none of whom seem to have noticed that they've been playing the same loop of Jerry Jeff Walker tunes since 1991. The menu has broadened beyond southwestern since new owners took over a few months ago, but you can still find dishes such as pan-blackened salmon with black-bean ensalada, and beef tenders with chile butter. (915-371-2326)

Best Mexican food: Dos Amigos wins hands down. There's no phone, but anyone in Lajitas can tell you how to get there.

BEING THERE

Best free tour : Drive into the park after dark to watch the fauna of the region come to life. Javelinas, foxes, and coyotes are easier to spot by moonlight than they are during the day.