Tuesday, November 14, 2006

Junkyard Cowboys


As a New England native, my perception of West Texas has always been of a wild and free land, filled with various ruffians and colorful individuals living on the open range of an America long forgotten. I had no idea that my preconceptions were so accurate and inaccurate at the same time.

Our tale of Texan intrigue and excitement actually began outside of Las Cruces, New Mexico, where Jon and I were riding through Pecan country, desperately searching for a sweet delicious pecan pie to satiate our growling tummies. While wandering the back roads of an orchard, following signs towards a promising lead on said pies, we ran into an interesting cat named Ray. He chatted us up about our trip, and informed us of his two "hippy" friends in Alpine, TX, who would gladly put us up when we went through. Always eager to meet like minded individuals, we gladly accepted the phone number, and continued on our way towards El Paso. (also, we never did find a tasty pecan pie, as the sign lied to us about the orchard's business hours, causing much sadness, but it only means that we will have to consume two pecan pies when we get to Louisiana).

A few days later, we contacted Jon and Beverly, and confirmed that they 1) indeed had a place for us stay and 2) were not insane. Passing these two important tests (I later found out that I would need a new method of ascertaining the latter), we got directions and told them we would be there soon.

Rolling through Alpine, in search of our host's abode, we quickly left behind the town and entered the trailer park section of the area. Shortly thereafter, the trailer parks began to fade away and we were confronted with what appeared to be a junkyard. Decades old trucks, which resembled rusted relics of Kerouac's rides in On The Road, littered the desert; old and dusty RV's were strewn about, giving the place the feel of a crazy, modern pioneers camp, encircled to protect against society's onslaught of judgment. At first, we thought we had been led astray, but with a sense of trepidation we looked at the number on the side of the creaky and malformed mailbox, and realized that what seemed like the place old scrap heaps came to die was in fact our accommodations for the evening.

We rolled in through the gate, squeaking a worried hello? when from behind a jumble of scrap emerged a woman in a home made dress, her face betrayed years of hard work beneath a scorching desert sun, and her tired eyes, while friendly and warm, also belonged to a soul whose mistrust of modern living ran deep in her veins. She introduced herself of Beverly, and nodded towards a long broken mobile home, indicating our sleeping quarters for the evening.

We chatted for a bit, and stopped for a second to soak in our surroundings. Behind us a shirtless man, his body deeply browned and wired, loaded scrap metal onto a trailer, which would be taken to Odessa the following day and sold. Another man, a caricature of the old and grizzled Texas cowboy, ambled about, his belt buckle and white ten gallon hat glimmering in the setting sun, tinkering with various pieces of machinery. As we looked about, we noticed that interspersed with what we thought was junk were beautiful sculptures and cars which had been painted with gorgeous Texas ranch scenes. I realized that everything was not as it first appeared, and a tinge of guilt swept over me as I realized that I was guilty of prejudging the very people who had opened up their home to us.


Having absorbed our surroundings, Jon and I shuffled into the RV in order to get ourselves settled for the evening. After a brief quarrel over whose turn it was to enjoy the evening in the larger bed (actually the only bed), I realized that my attempts to smooth talk Natkin out of his rightful turn at comfort were not going anywhere, and I slinked away defeated. My sleeping quarters, which resembled more of a small bench than a bed, gave me leg cramps just looking at it. Grumbling, I plopped down, and was immediately enveloped in a plume of dust, "Well," I thought, "at least Natkin's dust allergies will keep him from enjoying that big bed too much" (I can be extremely petty when I lose arguments, but I'll just chalk that up as a character defect and move on). I realized just as quickly that the increase in allergy activity would greatly increase the volume of his snoring, ending any selfish enjoyment I might of had.

After making some phone calls to check on the election, I stepped outside to join everyone by the fire. The scene was striking, three men sat on various hunks of metal and machinery, the light of the fire's flames licking their faces in the dying hours of the evening as they slowly sipped tequila out of shot glasses. Here, I finally had the pleasure of meeting the two men I had spied earlier. Jon, Beverly's husband, had a quiet nature to him, and when he did speak, he did so with a deep Texas drawl which drew you in with its guttural tone and elegant simplicity. The other gentleman, Luke, peered at the world through his one eye, as his life cowboying from Arizona to the Texas panhandle had claimed his other and most of his teeth. The scars of his past were hidden behind a long and white conquistador goatee with a week's worth of stubble, and when he looked at you, you could see that he had seen his fair share of unpleasantness, and carried with him more knowledge about the West than Jon and I would ever be able , or hope, to acquire.

As darkness crept across the landscape we chatted for a while about Jon and Bev's life in Copper Canyon, Mexico. There they lived by farming on the nearly vertical walls of the abyss (which is over twice the size of the grand canyon) and had some interesting stories regarding "altered experiences" while partying with the local indigenous population. To say the least, we were impressed the rich experiences of these people who had so little in the way of material wealth.

The next morning, we said our farewells and headed into town in order to secure an automobile for a brief sidetrip down to Big Bend National Park. With temperatures forecasted to reach well into the 90's, Jon and I decided that we weren't interested in adding 350 miles of barren and mountainous terrain to our agenda, and were pleased with our decision. Unfortunately, upon our arrival at Mountain Motors, we were informed that every car in the entire city was out for the rest of the week (every car amounting to exactly 2 autos, one pickup and a sedan), and that if we wanted to see Big Bend, we would be forced to rent a U-Haul truck. Now, I have a sordid history with u-haul, and the last time I dealt with an agent of the company in Cambridge, the conversation quickly devolved into threats of lawsuits from both ends, so I was not to pleased that we would be giving this awful company so much money so the we could enjoy south western Texas. But, things being as they were, we were forced to rent a monstrosity of a truck (enough to move a one or two bedroom house mind you), and roll our way southward.

After picking up some food at the local Market, we shoved off towards our eighth National Park of the trip. Jostling southward under the electric blue desert sky, we were saddened as one by one, all radio stations abandoned us, leaving nothing but the vast emptiness of the west Texan desert hissing at us through the speakers. Turning off the static, we looked off towards the horizon, and our next adventures in the Chisos Mountains.

-Erik

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