I. Westward Yo!

Nothing like a good ride to the Big Bend region of Texas to clear the mind and rid oneself of the garbage that collects from life's clutter.

Here’s a teaser video I shot while there…

In the past, my trips to the area have been fast and relatively furious, squeezed in between work projects, with the need to see as much as possible. But this time I wanted to enjoy the area with no agenda or schedule and to play with the GoPro and Sony, trying out a few things and experimenting with video a bit. I planned to camp, shoot some video, a few stills and edit on the laptop to get a feel for the realities of documenting a long future trip both on still and video on the road. Shooting still and doing a ride report isn't difficult, but adding video into the equation was something I wanted to try.

I decided to hit Marfa first, just because I've never spent any time there other than a lunch or gas stop on the way through heading somewhere else. A friend had sent pics of "El Cosmico", the hipster campground located on the edge of town and I decided to give it a try. With that in mind, I loaded the bike and hit I-10 west to get out there as quickly as possible.

If anyone has stumbled across my threads lately, my GS has been suffering poor fuel mileage for a while, and despite my best efforts to resolve it, it still has been getting crap mileage. I-10 west from Kerrville has an 80 mph speed limit and headwinds, so gas mileage drops anyway and this trip I hit several stations along the way to keep topped up.

I didn't get on the road until noon or so, taking Interstate 10 West towards El Paso as fast as I could. By the time I passed Ft. Stockton and took the highway south for Alpine, the sun was slipping fast to the horizon.

Turning west on Highway 90 into the setting light of the sun, I felt the tinges of excitement and freedom that each exploration brings.

Approaching Marfa in the face of a beautiful sunset, I was feeling the fatigue of the day's 80 mph buffeting, but the wide open spaces and a beautiful west Texas sky made me happy.

It was nearing dark as I rolled into the El Cosmico campground and luckily the tatted hippie chick in the registration room hadn't closed shop yet. El Cosmico is a funky chic campground, with tent camping areas, teepees, safari tents, yurts and 60's era travel trailers, the proprietor owning a boutique hotel in Austin, if not more. Prices are commensurate for a chic tourist spot, but tent camping is $12 which is a plus.

It had been a long day and I was tired, so I decided to splurge and stay in a safari tent the first night, rather than set up my tent in the dark. Yep, I wussed out.

I was the lone camper that evening

After unpacking, I inquired about any places open for a meal and was told that only the restaurant and bar at the old Paisano Hotel downtown were open this particular evening.

I fired up the unladen beast and purred into downtown Marfa, parking in the darkness on a side street and finding a table on the patio to avoid the few folks inside. The meal was good and it felt great to be a world away from the familiar.

For those unfamiliar with Marfa, Texas, it is an enigma. It’s a classic west Texas town with just enough buildings and businesses to support the local ranchers, but was put on the map initially as the place where the film "Giant" was done. Rock Hudson, Liz Taylor and James Dean stayed in the Paisano for a few months while filming.

The New York artist Donald Judd moved there in the 70's and Marfa soon developed somewhat of a mystique for the art intelligentsia and has been a draw for tourists and seekers for quite some time. Amidst the old buildings are small galleries, little and pricey dining establishments and urban style places to stay.

Having grown up in Texas, it seems surprising that such a tiny classic Texas town has enough interest to draw any visitors, but I suppose it’s the extreme contrast to urban dwellers that makes it seem interesting.

Marfa's other claim to fame is the "Marfa Lights", a series of well established reports of strange orbs of lights and various optical and luminous shenanigans in the vast prairie south of Highway 90 on the east side of town. The state, for safety reasons, finally built an official viewing area to clear the roadside of cars and midnight gawkers.

I’ve spent several hours in winter freezing my butt off watching for them over the years, and though never having the dramatic encounters others have had, I have seen some distant lights zigzagging very rapidly and doing odd things in general.

More soon amigos!

II. Funkytown

I awoke early to use the potty, in the hip chic bathroom/shower stalls that have as much privacy as a cattle pen, and frankly looked to be a repurposed one. The two bathrooms are separated as loosely, and it could be a peeping perv's heaven (not that I know anything about that btw). But it fits with the laid back stoned hippie feel of the place, and I can easily adapt, ponytail notwithstanding.

It was a bit cool early, as Marfa sits about 5000' in elevation IIRC, and is the recipient of winds coming down from the plains and plateaus further north, as well as the Davis Mountains, so I dragged the laptop into the small lobby area and stared bleary-eyed at the wall where I fantasized hot coffee would be waiting. The poser hippie chick didn’t care too much, but eventually she made it materialize and it tasted pretty good.

I popped open the Mac and checked emails, hoping for the chance to score a Nigerian prince's millions from an account, God Bless Me. No luck however so I decided to surreptitiously stare at the few stragglers who came in from the 50's trailers looking for java. I lifted my feet for the cleaning lady to mop under them, and watched a nicely dressed Spanish looking man check his email on his Mac, everything about him pristine and perfect, expensive watch, perfect leather organizer and pen, each hair in place, quite the opposite of me. I pondered the yin and yang of it, he and I in perfect contrast, keeping the world from spinning off it's axis.

I walked outside and looked up at the dull, gray, hazy sky, a bit bummed since I was anxious to get out and shoot some photos. One's percentage of good shots on overcast days is slim, especially in a vast flat landscape that screams for contrast and color, so I decided to hang in the lobby a bit more in hopes the sky would clear some.

In short order a young lady came in with her camera and Mac laptop, dressed absolutely as if were on a shopping spree in Neiman Marcus, perfectly made up, skin tight fashion jeans with top and expensive scarf wrap. Suddenly I was feeling underdressed for a chic hippie campground, as both she and the Spanish guy were squeaky clean, stylish and spiffy. God knows I'd tried to keep my favorite UnderArmor t-shirt in good shape, but it has a furry strip of fabric pulls right down the center from various zipper catches and lens caps flapping against it. Probably made worse by my iron-like six pack abs pushing the fabric against the zipper. Oh well, I was on vacation.

Bored of leering, I went outside to check the sky again and ended up at an old porcelain topped Corona table with a British couple, he having a bushy black beard and round John Lennon sunglasses. I asked how they'd ended up in Marfa, and they said they'd flown to California to be with the wife's dying mother, and after her passing decided to drive across the U.S. to see the country. They'd rented an SUV, and left California with intense warnings of how dangerous America was. They'd been warned that their car was guaranteed to be broken into, so somewhere along the way they had decided to make color copies of their passports and send the originals back to California for safekeeping by her sister

Needless to say, I felt a bit sorry for them that their journey had been so jaded by fear and bullshit, but I also said that they did need to be a bit cautious around big cities. He continued with the story that they'd had good luck until they reached the Border Patrol checkpoint on I-10 near the junction with I-20, a few miles west of Marfa, where he said the agents treated them as criminals since they only had copies of their passports. After lengthy interrogation they were told they would be allowed to go to Marfa with an escort and had to remain there until their passports arrived.

When they found out I lived near Fredericksburg, they asked about local cuisine and produced a list of restaurants and dives across the U.S. they had planned to visit. Turns out they were chefs in England and wanted to sample great, or at least different, foods on the trip. I suggested they hit Alamo Springs Cafe outside Fredericksburg for a great burger and music, and if possible to hit Cooper's BBQ in Llano, telling them on a good day it was some of the best in the world depending on which cow had come through that day.

After talking them to death, I headed for downtown Marfa to walk around a bit and wait for the skies, hitting the courthouse to climb to the top of the tower where some friends had gotten married, but it was closed that particular day. My amazing charm and looks could not persuade the County Clerk nor the judge standing next to her to allow me to go up.

So I wandered the empty streets, peering into vacant buildings through cloudy windows and reading faded signs, checking the galleries only to find them all closed. As an aside, if you visit Marfa be prepared for almost everything there to generally be closed, opening only at odd hours and random times of the week.

Bored and ready to ride (as you are too from reading this), I decided to head south for the Chinati Hot Springs to check out the place where I planned to spend a couple of days camping. I'd heard of it and seen it on the map but in previous trips was never able to take the time to ride out to it.

The cloud cover began to lift into high veils in the sky as I raced south on the blacktop Ranch Road 2810 through the vast plains of the big ranches on the high plateau. I stopped briefly to putz around with my GoPro for a bit of ride capture on the narrow blacktop road.

One thing about the area around Marfa is that if you like wide open spaces, you're in heaven. Beautiful plains with great skies, the occasional windmill or pronghorn antelope and long stretches of open road will be your companions.

Continuing southwest, I eventually reached the end of the blacktop where the road drops off the plateau edge and down into Pinto Canyon as it heads for the Rio Grande river and the border of Mexico. Pinto Canyon has long been known as a smuggler’s road, having carried various illegal items by couriers from Mexico for a very long time. I stopped to take in the view at the top and noticed that my custom-made filter mount for the GoPro had somehow let loose of the filtration I was using, tossing it somewhere in the last 30 miles. Oh well.

The high hazy clouds had left the landscape drearily flat in color and the continuous dust from the winds created a soft and distant feel to the canyon as I headed off for the mostly abandoned road junction at Ruidosa and the river road north of Presidio.

Pinto Canyon is a favorite road of mine and I enjoyed the vistas and terrain, eventually passing the cut-off road that turns west for Chinati Hot Springs, but I decided to go all the way to the Mexican border before returning back north to the Springs. The terrain is a part of the Chihuahan Desert that runs north from within Mexico, a harsh and brutal landscape that chooses the few who live there. The sun was hot, despite the cool spring temperatures, the cool weather one of the reasons I had traveled west.

After reaching the river road at Ruidosa, I rode it to the western end and the tiny group of mobile homes that comprise Candelaria, literally where the road along the Rio Grande ends and isn’t picked up for a few hundred miles further west towards El Paso. Eventually I headed back and finally rumbled into the entrance to the hot springs, parking in front of the adobe cabins. I was the only vehicle there in the hidden little oasis. I walked around, looking at the campsites and community kitchen, listening to the ringing in my ears in the dead silence of the little canyon it resides in.

One of the cabins at the Chinati Hot Springs

Porch of the community kitchen and dining area

I eventually wandered up to the main house to the sound of intense barking from a large dog inside, a female owner's voice shushing the dog, or at least attempting to. When she opened the door, I told her I was planning on camping there in a couple of days and she said they stayed steadily booked, but if I was camping there was no problem this particular week. That was good to hear. I told her I'd be back in a couple of days, then wandered to the hot spring pools and enjoyed the utter silence.

The sun had begun arcing lower and I figured it was time to start the long trek northward for Marfa and El Cosmico.

Running the rocky and dust covered road through the canyon was beautiful, a ride I always enjoy.

I paused again at the top where the road climbs to the plateau and shot a few photos in the setting light, sitting on the edge of a steep hill and looking out at the timeless landscape, puffs of wind whistling in the Spanish Dagger and dry grass around me.

Satiated with soft sounds and sunset, I fired up the German rolling rig and headed north to the blacktop section of road and the beautiful open land and sky ahead.

The fields on each side became a beautiful gold as the sun skimmed lower, my attention and motorcycle being drawn to the shoulder for photos, just to watch the light change.

Each time I see this lone tree, it reminds me of the scene in the Coen Bros movie "No Country For Old Men", some of which was filmed in the area.

Eventually I crested the large hill before descending to Marfa miles ahead, passing the lone white GMC Yukon with Border Patrol officer, stationed at his watching post just over the crest. I waved to him nonchalantly, figuring my bike was probably the most interesting thing he'd seen all day. I also figured at some point he'd stop me out of curiosity and I may as well start the brown-nosing early.

I arrived back at the Cosmico, swapped clothes and checked email on the patio, watching as a stylish couple arrived in a rental car and proceeded to unload their Gucci gear. The girl, a stunning blonde “Brigitte Bardot-esque” model type in painted-on black clothes, matched her companion perfectly, a tall thin man with sunglasses and black hair, he too in skin tight painted-on jeans and shirt. As they struggled to put their luggage into the little hand-pulled wagons provided for campers, I heard them arguing in French and wondered if they had flown all the way from France to this little berg in west Texas. Paint me blue and call me a Smurf, but I can tell you I'd sure as hell fly to somewhere else in the world if I had enough money to choose.

Somewhat tickled by the idea of someone leaving Paris to end up in an old travel trailer and having to do their business in an old cattle stall after spending a fortune to do so, I chuckled inside and watched as another rental car pulled in and a thin wiry guy and two girls got out, their clothes also betraying the fact they "warn't from around here" either. The threesome proceeded to mumble and unload a tent and backpacks and head for the tent camping area.

I was getting hungry and again asked the hip chick inside where to eat. She repeated the litany from the night before, asking herself what day it was, and then looking at the clock, then telling me I'd missed the one place that had been open that day and for 3 hours that afternoon. Again it seemed the bar at the El Paisano Hotel was the only place available.

I again repeated the same physical litany as the night before, this time eating inside the hotel bar rather than the patio, and choosing a corner from which to eat since I appeared about as attractive as a wet rat after riding all day. My thoughts wandered to the next day, when I hoped to get a bit more serious about trying to experiment with shooting a bit of video. As I mentioned previously, I’ve never done any video and wanted to see how feasible it might be when doing long term moto travel and camping. In the future, I have plans to travel from Alaska to South America and wonder how complex and time consuming it might be, adding to the already difficult issues of doing such a trip.

More mañana amigos...

III. British Girls, Lion Tamers & Drug Runners

Morning consisted of my usual routine: 1. Try to stand up, 2. Try to remember who I am and, 3. Put pants on before going out in public. Wonder if they'd notice at Cosmico? Probably.

But the coffee was good once again, and I warmed my fingers over a hot MacBook Pro downloading pics and trying to think of witty comments for the blog. I got stuck on the first line, which started with "I..." (cause it's all about “me") and was about to think of the second word when the wiry guy who'd arrived the evening before with the two girls popped into the Cosmico lobby, fiddling with the artsy door latch that every person who enters does. He proceeded to look around, exploring the general vicinity of the coffee pot and then boldly and loudly asking the tatted hippie chick if they had any "hot tea".

The words thudded to the ground with no response and he seemed a bit lost, so I stood up and told him to hang on, that I had some individual tea packets in my tent. And, would he prefer English Breakfast, Earl Grey or Irish Breakfast tea? He looked at me like one would look at Frankenstein’s monster asking for a dance. He said "well, any is fine actually." Using my brilliant powers of deduction I figured he would actually need three and headed for my tent to find the 8 year old tea bag packets that I'd been carrying around in my tank bag for 6 years, glad to pawn them off on someone and still look like a hero.

When I returned he thanked me in a slight yankee accent and made up a couple of cups and disappeared. I was still stuck on "I" when he returned with the two girls, all carrying Mac laptops and cell phones with notepads. The two girls spoke in lovely British accents, or maybe it was two lovely girls who spoke in British accents, or maybe it was two lovely British girls who spoke in lovely British accents - it was early so I’m not sure - but they proceeded to start making calls, checking emails and talking to various folks about "shoots" and I realized they were doing production for some form of media.

About the same time, the girl who'd been dressed so fashionista the previous morning, came in with her cameras and laptop, followed shortly by three hipsters with bushy beards, tight pants and plaid shirts, all sporting old film cameras, including a Hasselblad 500CM. They began discussing shooting and such, and I enjoyed eavesdropping, finding it interesting to see them shooting film with retro gear. As a photographer for 30 years, it was fun seeing the art still alive and I started talking to them a bit. Turns out the fashionista girl had been driving to Marfa and needed gas, pulling off the highway at what she thought was a gas station only to find it abandoned. Shortly after stopping, an old van pulled in and the three guys had piled out, they too needing gas and fooled by the sign. The guys were on the way to Austin from LA to play a gig and she told them about Marfa, so they had followed her and were going to spend a couple of days in town. Cool.

About that time, one of the Brit gals came over to thank me for the tea and I acted as if it were nothing (but now hoping desperately that they not die from "old tea” poisoning, since everyone in the place now knew who gave it to them). In conversation it turned out that the two girls were filming a documentary about the most famous lion tamer in the world, a guy from Texas who'd lived in the early 1900's, and so impressive a tamer that Haile Selassie, the Emperor of Ethiopia, had given him his two personal royal lions as pets.

That was news to me, but at this point in my life and especially in Marfa, I'll believe anything. The guy with them was a filmmaker from New York City, an associate of a world famous documentary film-maker and had agreed to do the film they were to direct.

They'd all met up in New York and then flown into Midland, rented a car and driven down the day previous. The girl, Sophie, told me that they had a week in Texas and were going to drive from Marfa to Houston, then down to Brownsville and then back to El Paso. Though I knew the answer, I asked if she realized just how big Texas was and just how much driving they would be doing in one week…

We continued talking and Sophie shared that she and her friend Liberty, had both worked in production for feature films in London before striking out on their own to make documentaries. They shared a converted river barge on the Thames in downtown London. She said they had managed to record a video of an amazing phenomena which it had gone viral, being picked up by news agencies and television the world over. The money they'd gotten from this had financed their current research trip to Texas. She showed me the video, called “Murmuration” and I got chills watching it. It was filmed on her iPhone after all their video camera batteries had been used up during filming that day. Truly stunning.

They asked if I had any suggestions as to travel from Marfa, and I told them to hit Presidio then Terlingua by Hwy 170 and catch the sunset from the porch in the Ghost Town, dinner at the Starlight Theater and then thru Big Bend out to Marathon. From there I told them to take 90 east to see the old sights, telling them to stop at Langtry, seat of Judge Roy Bean, and was about to explain a bit of history when the wiry guy jumped in. He was very excited and said he'd studied Judge Roy Bean extensively in college, excited to know they would be passing through Langtry. After I'd gotten a lengthy history lesson on Bean from him, I told them that if they went through Brackettville, to find the ranch where the recreation of the Alamo was and to charm their way in, since it was now closed to the public. I told them it was a Texas symbol and may be useful for imagery in a story about Texas.

The skies still sucked, being overcast and gray, but I hit the little Mexican restaurant in town for a breakfast of huevos rancheros, with possibly the hottest sauce I'd ever eaten. Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaayyyyyyyyaaaaaaaayyyyyyyyaaaaaaaaa!

After I could see again, I floored it for Pinto Canyon to start shooting some video and testing some camera mounts. I flew past the Border Patrol SUV and waved again, cresting the high hill only to find a woman trying to have a peaceful walk with her golden retriever, who of course bolted onto the road to all of our surprise. All I can say is thank God for ABS brakes.

I spent time slowly exploring the dusty road in Pinto Canyon, hoping the sky would clear but to no avail. Most of the afternoon was spent stopping and setting up a camera, or laying on the ground adjusting a GoPro, and by the time it started getting late and the light finally began to improve, I was worn out from dragging my fat ass on and off the bike all day.

I'm sure I looked highly suspicious to whatever technology the Border Patrol uses to monitor the road, and sure enough an SUV arrived to question me. The guys were all young, sweating and tired looking, so their questioning was half hearted and they moved on, but I surreptitiously watched as they drove higher in elevation and eventually stopped to glass me for a while.

(This is my surreptitious look)

I had spent the afternoon shooting video and fiddling with things mostly, though eventually the light began to improve late in the day. Forgive my lack of still imagery but the day was spent wrestling with video - so tough titties.

I continued shooting as the sun began to sink and worked my way up to the plateau to take a break and watch the sunset.

Indulge me a bit on the sunsets...

I don't know what it is exactly, but there is a magic to this area of Texas, especially in the evenings, that enters one's soul and never leaves. It's found when you sit in silence and watch the never changing hills change in the light.

It was after dark by the time I hit the asphalt on the way back to Marfa and I was wishing for more headlight, my recently installed Wunderlich dual headlights an improvement over the stock by far, but never enough. Just as I began to relax a bit, a large herd of javelina rocketed from the brush and flowed across the road like a stream. I barely missed them and the adrenaline popped me wide awake, to say the least.

I stayed intently focused on the road for a while and eventually saw what seemed to be a large black blob in the road ahead, just at the dimmest edge of my headlights. I blinked multiple times to make sure it wasn't fatigue, but the dark mass seemed to stay ahead of me.

It was a little disconcerting seeing a dark mass that I wasn’t getting closer and I began to wonder, hitting the throttle to see if I could discern what it was, if anything. As I sped from about 65 up to 80, I began to see more and more shape as I began to get closer, and by the time I was approaching it, I saw that the black shape was, in fact, the tail end of an old flatbed truck and as I moved into the opposite lane and closed on it, I could see there were no license plates, no tail lights or lenses, no glass windows, chrome or even shiny paint. There were no lights or headlights on and it was painted in flat black and flat brown. Whatever truck it was, it had been blacked out completely and any form of reflectivity removed. It was also traveling about 65 mph in complete darkness with no headlights or lights of any form.

By this time I was peeling past it and trying to figure it out, when I looked ahead and saw another flatbed a few yards in front, traveling fast and totally blacked out as well... however this truck had a high-tech dune buggy of sorts on the back - flat dull black and brown as well. It was just as blacked out as the first truck and traveling just as fast, the two running together with no headlights. I wasn’t sure what to think and was totally confused at the sight. Then my mind began to race as to what I’d accidentally run up on in this vast remote area and really pegged the throttle to blast past and get on ahead.

Both trucks were old 60's era flatbeds, beat up and painted flat black and dark brown and were hauling ass down a pitch black road with no lights of any sort. As I wondered how shocked they were to be overtaken by a motorcycle coming out of the canyon behind them so late, I also was a bit wowed and figured I'd just passed some sort of secret military observation unit or something, because all I know is they had to be using night vision goggles to drive that fast with no lights.

In short order they disappeared in the darkness behind me and I raced on at higher speeds than normal, probably pushing 100 mph the more I thought about the incident. It was a deadly thing to do on a motorcycle at night, but thankfully no animals came into the road and I eventually slowed down. Marfa was still a long ways away, as it’s roughly 30 miles of blacktop from the canyon edge I’d just left.

After a while, I saw the reflective stickers of a Border Patrol truck ahead, and began slowing since I knew there was no way he'd let a motorcycle coming out of that canyon in the dark go past unchallenged. In fact I debated just pulling over and rolling up to him to save him the trouble, but also knew he'd be very tense and I had no desire to be shot. So I slowed to about 60 as I went past and watched in the rear view as his lights came on, the headlight beams wavering back and forth as he slid around on the shoulder and gassing it.

Shortly after, the red and blues began flashing a good 1/2 mile behind me, so I pulled off into the long grass and waited, remaining on the bike and keeping both hands on the bars for his sake.

After stopping a good 20 yards behind, he made a wide berth with flashlight to my right, hand on his gun and began asking me questions. I asked him if I could remove my helmet and he agreed. I told him I'd been photographing in the canyon late and got caught after dark. After he'd checked my license and talked a bit, I saw him relax and the tension dissipated. We ended up talking for a long while, illuminated by his headlights in the dark. I joked that I had debated just pulling over to his car, but had thought better of it. He laughed and then we talked motorcycles and travel. He was from Chicago and had never been anywhere before taking the job with Border Patrol, where he and his wife and kids were assigned straight to Marfa. I laughed out loud and said what a change that must have been. He said that it was a shock, but now they'd fallen in love with the area and lifestyle and didn't want to leave.

I told him I'd probably surprised some of his buddies many miles back by overtaking them in the dark, and told him about the blacked out vehicles and dune buggy. His expression changed a bit, then said he didn't know of any operations like that. He paused, then said it probably was some ranch hands moving some equipment to another pasture. Could be, I suppose, but hard to imagine ranch hands with a need to run fast and dark in pitch black with no lights... and it seems like two headlight bulbs would be just a bit cheaper than a couple of sets of Gen 4 Night Vision goggles.

We shook hands and I headed on for Marfa and straight to the Paisano bar for dinner, cutting out the need for asking the hippie chick where to eat that night.

IV. Heavenly Hot Springs

Having lain awake in the tent too late, pondering the evening's events and especially the blacked out trucks, I awoke tired, crabby and draggy. Since it was March, the nights were pretty cold in the canvas safari tent, however the queen size bed featured a heated comforter so I was able to stay toasty warm with only my nose protruding to remain in the high 30’s.

The lobby was quiet this morning and I was the solo coffee hound, at least as early as I had gotten up. It was time to move on to the Chinati Hot Springs and a change of place. I reminded myself I was in no hurry and had no agenda, except riding and shooting whatever I felt like. I tend to be purpose driven, having been self-employed all my life and I’ve been trying to learn to slow down and just enjoy the moments in life I passed so quickly before. So I took my time before packing up the camping gear and loading the bike. I checked out and was gearing up when I saw the stylish French couple rolling their wagon down the gravel walkway from the trailers to load their car. Such an incongruous image, and yet it captured the entire Marfa enigma in one moment.

I checked out to the complete disinterest of the hippie chick, then rode around to look at other places to potentially stay in the future, including a motel nearby that was restyled in modern metro, but the girl behind the counter couldn’t have cared less that I inquired about rates, so I wandered on back to the downtown area to stretch my legs a bit before heading out. What’s up with the lack of Texas friendly?? Damn New Yorkers already influencing the youth… grrrrr.

As I wandered about, I saw a young, tragically hip couple wandering about on the opposite side of the street, he dressed in skin tight black jeans and skin tight black shirt with a huge bushy black beard and sneakers. I had seen them each day downtown, both morning and evening and they were always dressed exactly the same, wandering as I was, trying to find any place open or discover the magic key to Marfa’s fame. What a tragedy.

It was yet another sucky sky day, and I began to wonder wtf was up, as the skies out west were almost always clear and blue. I was still having trouble waking up and decided to hang out for a while, moseying and being nosey until the small sandwich shop across from the courthouse opened. I had lunch there since I hadn't eaten breakfast and talked with a couple of folks on the patio, enjoying a delicious sandwich, feeling fat, happy and sleepy. I decided I'd forego any shooting today and fired up the bike for the Hot Springs. The more I’d thought about it, the better a leisurely soak in the springs sounded.

I eventually arrived at the hidden place and checked in with the manager, the lady I'd spoken with a couple days before. She told me a room had just come available if I wanted one. Having stayed in a tent the last few days I decided to take it for the night. It turned out to be a great little adobe abode and I had the chance to spread out my gear, clean out the dust and charge all my batteries.

My Sidi Adventure boots smelled so bad they could have killed Bin Laden and his entire compound, so I left them outside along with my riding pants. Sheesh they smelled.

The room was great, the bed was good and the hot pool was even better. It felt good to just relax in the deafening silence of the evening with the stars overhead.

The Chinati Hot Springs had, of course, in ancient times been an Indian camp and sometime in the 1800's were taken in by a ranch. They have had a couple of owners, including the artist Donald Judd, and are tucked away in a small canyon devoid of cell signals and wifi and far enough from Presidio to take away any desire to search for either. It is a genuinely quiet, peaceful place to hide from the world. The manager told me they have worked very hard to keep it that way, and due to the lack of water they are very careful as to how many, and when they allow folks to come. They say not to show up without advance reservations, and I can assure you they will turn you away otherwise. I had initially gone by just to see the place, having read about it and circled it on the map for years, not expecting to be able to stay. I was lucky when she said camping was not a problem and then the timely cancellation for the days I was there. A couple of other folks arrived later, but I went out like a light in the comfort of the bed.

The next morning I took my kit to the common kitchen area, and boiled water for fresh coffee and my Mountain House scrambled eggs pouch.

The dining area and kitchen with everything you need. Two fridges for guests.

Sitting on the porch alone, I enjoyed the rising light of the sun in silence. It was going to be a clear and gorgeous day.

I spent the day on the bike, riding and enjoying the scenery, shooting stills and some more video. But most importantly, enjoying the solitude that purges my mind and gives me clarity again.

I saw one other motorcyclist that day, a guy on a DR650 who'd ridden up from Terlingua. We talked a while, then moved aside as a Border Patrol truck rumbled past, each of us waving. He continued on north for Marfa and I continued putzing with my video rigs until another two riders came by. They stopped briefly to see if I was ok, advise me that my GoPro was mounted in the wrong place, then tore off on their KTM's with their race faces on.

At one point high up in the mountains, I stopped for a breather and to cool off a bit. The afternoon sun was dropping and I took my helmet off to feel the wind. I sat with eyes closed until I heard the far off sound of a jet and turned to look, just as a roaring black B1 bomber came low over the mountains from behind me on the plateau. I was amazed to see it so low and so close, maybe a mile or less away and rocketing low over the valleys. I was thunderstruck for a moment, not realizing that we still had B1 bombers anymore, watching as it banked and turned south. As I watched, suddenly a second B1 came rocketing behind it, mirroring the moves of the first. I was so surprised and enthralled I didn't even think of trying to catch a pic, but they were gone almost as fast as they came. A very cool sight to see.

That was a good cap for this beautiful day, and I was hot, tired and beat as the sun sank low. I headed back south, into a setting sun and mild dust storm, thinking of the hot springs and a good shower. Here and there I had to stop, the light creating interesting images at each turn it seemed.

I stopped to watch the sun set over the mountains across the Rio Grande in Mexico as I exited the mountains into the river valley, dust coating my face like fine talcum powder in the wind.

I took off my helmet and looked around, the winds whistling in the brush and the clouds moving rapidly, at times imitating the silhouetted mountains to the point one wasn't sure which was cloud or which was mountain.

As the sun finally dipped behind the range, I headed on into the darkness, riding slowly to minimize the front wheel washout in the random sandy creek bed crossings.

I got back to the room, truly exhausted, and took a long shower in the hot spring shower rooms, before getting in the hot springs and having a long conversation with a young couple from San Antonio. I made it back to the room, crashing on the bed, too tired to mess with batteries, downloads or much of anything.

It had been a great day, with images and sounds forever printed in my memory.

V. Terlingua & The Technicolor Yodel

Slept well and headed for the community kitchen for morning java and a bit o' breakfast, having company in the kitchen, a couple from New Mexico who'd camped a couple nights. Nice folks who were retired teachers and a looked to be old hippies gone straight, still in a VW van however, only a late 80's Vanagon version.

We talked about things in general and they shared how much they liked Texas and thought of moving to the state. Eventually the conversation rolled around to politics, wherein the subtle innuendo of our ignorance and backward political thinking came forth. Being the courteous Texan that I was raised to be, I bit my lip and said nothing. After a life of watching people move here from other states, which they’ve made unbearable by their “enlightened” political choices, who then arrive to tell us poor idiots ho wrong we’ve done things has gotten pretty damn old.

After they left, I was wishing I'd given them some 8 year old teabags. Anyway, the manager came in to clean a bit and scope things out and we ended up talking while he leaned on his broom. He and his wife had moved to Ruidosa years before, after he'd retired from a large defense contractor in Fort Worth. He discussed the area, the few folks who'd moved here, just as they had, to get away from life's BS and to be free to live the life they wanted. He discussed the history of Pinto Canyon road and its use as a smuggler's trail throughout history, having been used for rifles, whiskey and even candle wax when it was prohibited by the Mexican government.

He said the recent appearance of the Border Patrol and it's mandate had of course led to issues with treatment of locals, and certainly the destruction of some families and children who used to attend school in Candelaria, living 75 feet across the Rio Grande. He went on to share that he and his wife drove to Presidio and Ojinaga on almost a daily basis, and one day recently a new BP officer decided to be a smartass with his wife. He said "I'm not anyone special, but by God having worked in the defense industry I did know some. I made a call to a friend in Fort Worth and at 9 a.m. the next morning there was a knock at our door. I opened it to find the head of the Border Patrol and a few officers standing in the yard. The head man officially apologized to both me and my wife and said the offending officer had been dealt with."

Score one for the little guys. He then said he's been greatly disturbed by the continuing buildup of government agencies and the kids they hire to carry a gun. He said one of these day the U.S. will be just like Mexico, where only the Federales and Banditos have guns with us as the innocent peasant population cowering between.

But I digress. My only real agenda for the trip was to make it into Ojinaga to get my temporary vehicle permit canceled for the bike before the 6 months expired from my last trip into Mexico. I had a couple of days left til it was due and I planned on coming back to Presidio before heading home, so I bypassed the crossing into Ojinaga and hit the local grocery store for something to toss in the tank bag, coming out with a pack of tortillas and a couple of bottles of water. As I began gearing up, I was approached by a tatted up girl who'd been sitting under the awning with a couple of other characters who seemed a bit dirty and somewhat “meth-heady”. I normally have no issue with anyone and enjoy talking with the various characters I meet on the road, but this didn't feel right nor did the two guys watching her. I've learned through some dangerous events in life to trust the gut and my gut said "git your ass outta here." I acted like I couldn't hear her since I had my helmet on, and proceeded to fire up and take off. Don't know what was up but didn't matter, cuz I didn't stay to find out anymore.

Didn’t stay here - but I bet it's cheap…

From Presidio east to Lajitas is one of my favorite motorcycle roads in the world, Highway 170, and known as "the river road" to "the hill" where it crests a high rise in the peaks, winding its way right against the Rio at times. It was a clear day and the road didn't disappoint, passing historic Fort Leaton without stopping, as in all times previous, then the flatter desert area disappearing a little after Redford and the curves and scenery increasing by the mile.

I rode for a while then stopped at an overlook to eat my plain tortilla brunch. I'd been there shortly when a van pulled up and a couple got out with a big, older boy who had Downs Syndrome. The boy walked over and looked at me and I started to offer a tortilla but the dad came up quickly and gently dismissed my intentions without a word between us. The boy then turned and began taking photos of everything, and I mean everything, continuously. He wandered away just going "click, click, click, click, click, click" with the camera. I can't imagine how many thousands of images his dad would have to go through later.

The father sat down as did his wife, so I offered a tortilla to them. They were from Canada and had been traveling and staying in Big Bend for almost 6 months. He thanked me for the tortilla offer and said he didn't mean anything by his glancing my earlier offer away from his son. I knew he meant it could have started something they'd have to deal with. They told me that they had been given the opportunity to be the caregivers for their son under the Canadian medical laws, rather than institutionalize him, and if I remember correctly he said they were given equivalent monthly income that matched what the cost of an institution for the government would be. It was sort of a form of retirement. He said they loved Big Bend and were able to come stay each year for a certain length of time, having done so for years.

When I reflect on life, it’s folks like these that I consider unsung heroes, as they, like many people, suffer their loss of dreams in silence but continue on.

I continued on 170, the rollicking road soooo much fun. No matter how many times I've ridden that road, I always manage to pinch the seat vinyl a few times on the surprise off-camber drop away turns just as you crest a blind hill. Finally, over "the hill" and past the roadside rest stop Tee Pee's to Lajitas and then Terlingua and the porch.

Time for a cold Mexican coke and some wifi

The Three Wise Men of Terlingua

“Uh” Clem, in red, suggested I pay his modeling fee with a beer, which sounded reasonable to me

I ended up camping that night at a friend's place, listening to the coyotes some distance away as I fell asleep, slowly sliding downward in my tent against the bottom. Dammit. The spot had looked level when I set up the tent.

The next morning I was ready for coffee and a couple years later, I'm still bummed that Kathy's Kosmic Kowgirl Kafé no longer existed. Best breakfast, best company and best fire ring around. Kathy is the hardest working woman I know, so if she closed her place it was for a good reason. Kathy babe, you know I love you girl but you're killing us!

My early morning buddy

Lamenting “no more breakfast at Kathy’s ritual”, I had coffee at the little place across the lot from the General Store - can't ever remember the name - and sat with a couple or three of the local retired sages staring down the road towards the cemetery. It was quiet and enjoyable.

In short order, a white Jeep SUV came racing down the road at enough speed to know it wasn’t a local, zipping into the parking lot and pulling straight in to the lone available space directly in front of us, a billowing cloud of dust rolling over us, the silent patio coffee dwellers. It was a bit uncouth, however we assumed it was a tourist since anyone who lives in dusty areas generally is thoughtful about the dust clouds.

A man bolted out of the Jeep, pasty white from a lifetime’s lack of sun, yet wearing the typical adventure tourist’s outfit of cargo shorts, Columbia fishing shirt and goofy looking boonie cap. His face was slightly darker than his snow white legs and he was a nervous type - sort of a chubby version of Don Knotts - excitedly and loudly asking in a definite northern accent "Where is the local carwash!?"

As the words exited his mouth, his wife exited the car yelling "I told you you were driving too fast" at near the top of her lungs. To describe the contrast of a quiet peaceful morning, trying to wake up, surrounded by classic quiet, thoughtful Texas boys and suddenly being hit by a high pitched, nervous tourist tornado is difficult at best. In the long ensuing silence to his somewhat demanding question, I started to chuckle inside, wondering what response would come forth from the stone-faced and silent weathered warriors on the patio, knowing that their minds were busy despite their lack of emotion.

After he'd looked quickly back and forth at each person, his white triple chin wobbling like a rooster's wattle, a voice went forth stating calmly "We don't wash our cars around here." He looked slightly stunned, then said loudly "I need to wash my car!" The voice from the patio then spoke again, "We don't wash our cars here. It's dusty all the time and we don't waste water." He just stood blankly and then the voice said, "The closest one is in Alpine", to which he asked where that was. The response of “a couple of hours north” disillusioned him, and then he began explaining why he needed to wash the car. His wife again yelled out "I told you you were driving too fast." Again I chuckled inside trying to imagine the thoughts rolling in the heads around me.

He went on to explain that they'd flown in to San Antonio from upstate New York the day before, arriving about 3 pm and when he looked at the map to Big Bend, he told his wife they didn't need to spend the night in San Antonio. Instead he decided to drive, thinking they'd be there in a few hours. Rookie mistake.

The pair finally reached the region sometime very late at night and he was driving very fast trying to get here when a herd of javelinas had run across the road and he’d plowed into them at full speed in the white SUV. He simply said “It was horrible” and that he needed to wash the car.

Everyone's head turned to look at the grill and bumper and indeed, there were a couple of strips of pink meat and brown hair embedded under the engine, but nothing particularly gruesome. Again, the voice from the patio said "Just leave it sitting here a while and the dogs will take care of it."

Whitey Touristy looked around breathlessly and said "Is this a breakfast place?", then told his wife that they could eat here and they both disappeared behind us at the order window. Eventually they settled down a bit and his voice quieted some while they ate and drank coffee. The silent sages and I continued our silent stares towards the road and the distant peaks, until the couple got up and expressed their thanks, telling us they were here for a week in the park and surrounding area.

The silent ones smiled and said "Enjoy the time", at which point the couple backed out in the Jeep. As the car turned while backing out, the passenger side of the white SUV was exposed to the patio observers. A loud roar went up from the patio as the silent ones exploded with laughter, now understanding why he so desperately wanted to wash the car.

Somehow, during the javelina herd incident, one of the victim pigs had sprayed a gigantic stripe of green diarrhea all over the passenger side of the white car, even covering the side door, window and rear quarter panel window in an organic and odorous green paint job, now well dried. We all looked at each other and still chuckling, shook our heads.

Several hours later as I rode through the park on the motorcycle, I thought about the whole scenario and began laughing so hard I had to stop in the road and lay on my tank bag until I could breathe again. To this day I have the vision of a portly woman wearing a boonie hat, sitting in the white Jeep with fully 1/3 of the side covered in dried green poo. It was even funnier, that for an entire week they'd be driving around with the car looking that way since there was no way to wash car there.

I took it easy, riding into and playing tourist in Big Bend National Park, stopping here and there until I got hungry late in the day and stopped at the remote Castolon Store for a coke and snack. Come to think of it, everything and everywhere in the park is “remote”. I grabbed some chips and one of only two deli sandwiches from the chiller, asking the clerk if they were fresh. She said "I ate one and I'm fine" and laughed.

I sat outside under the ocotillo roof shade and chilled out a bit.

The slow ride back to Terlingua at dusk was good, the park such a beautiful place I never tire of it.

Dust. It's what's for dinner.

I ended up at the Starlight late that evening and signed up for a table, wasting an hour outside as the seating dude simply left and went home. I went in a bit miffed and Kathy saw me from behind the bar, motioning me over. She asked if I'd been waiting long and apologized, then poured me a big, strong bourbon and coke for my troubles. She ran into the kitchen and shortly produced a huge sandwich with some other goodies for me. God I love that gal - bestest woman in the west!

I returned to the camp, where my friend Roger had graciously invited me to let me sleep in his guest trailer that night. I’d been asleep about an hour when I felt it. Yep. That deli sammich from Castolon.

Let’s just say, for you squeamish types, that I transformed into The Growling Splash Monkey. I sang the Technicolor Yodel. It was the Honey-baked Howl, Clams on the Lam and Liquid Scream all rolled into one. I Barked at Ants. I talked to Ralph. I was the Big Bird Feeding My Young. Roger’s trailer had become Regurgitation Station. In short, I threw up. It was so bad I asked God to kill me.

That morning there was a knock at the RV door and Roger invited me to coffee, unaware of my condition... it was everything I could do not to spew at him like Linda Blair in "The Exorcist".

It was a brutal 36 hours of barking and sleeping. You know it's bad when coyotes start howling back at you at 3 a.m. when you’re out in the dark doing your gurgle. That is the sickest I've been in I can't count how many years.

By the time I came out of it a day and a half later, I was weak and never wanted to eat again. I got up early and decided to tenuously try some coffee at the place by the porch. It stayed down ok.

Beat to a pulp, I spent the day on the General Store porch and in the old church, half-heartedly shooting a few photos and a little video here and there. I was asked by some German tourists if I'd shoot a pic of them on the porch on a bench. I pointed out the bullet hole in the wall next to them, which got their excitement up a bit. I had to mime shooting the hole since they didn't speak English, but laughed when they understood. One of them, a younger guy with long hair came over to look at the Beemer and laughed at the concept of a guy in west Texas on German bike.

I was still weak and woozy, but explored around the old store, ending up in the mission church of St. Agnes. I spent the hot afternoon sharing the peace and quiet of the old chapel, the only sound besides the wind being a swallow who’d nested inside, filling the room with chirps and trills.

I sat in the quiet, hitting the video record button on the camera and documenting the place and the peacefulness I felt.

I’d hung out most of the day in the Terlingua Ghost Town and retired early that evening, bravely downing a lone tortilla from my tank bag and going to sleep gingerly.

VI. Ojinaga & The Bees

I'd spent enough time on my knees talking to the dirt in Terlingua, setting up video cameras and not to mention barking like a midnight dog after the bad sandwich. My Mexico vehicle import permit was due, so I figured it was a good time to say "adios" to Terlingua and head back for Presidio and Ojinaga.

I slowly packed up, the day a gorgeous one, and headed for coffee before rolling back westward along the Rio. I braved up and ate a muffin, still worried about my recovering stomach, then sitting and watching the dusty road towards the cemetery as was custom. The occasional old truck rattled up to the store, or into the roads behind, with little activity in the morning, the majority of Terlinguans probably nursing hangovers since the national sport here seems to be drinking. They're darn good at it too. I guess practice makes perfect.

In a little bit, a convoy of 5 Suburbans whipped off 170 onto the Ghost Town road from the Lajitas direction, all traveling fast and bumper to bumper. They came up the road quickly, barely slowing as they blew through the General Store parking lot, doing a loop through and leaving a cloud of dust and exiting as fast as they came.

To say they took the quick tour was an understatement. I could see the passenger in the first Suburban, a lady in hi-neck North Face type vest, black hair in a ponytail pulled so tight on her head it seemed to make her eyes bulge. She leaned forward and peered at the porch before they sped off like the president's convoy and hit the blacktop, accelerating past the High Sierra restaurant and disappearing. I can't help but imagine what a great vacation they all were having, racing through west Texas with the windows up and never slowing down. But I'm sure she'd be able to say to her Austin friends "Oh yes we went to Terlingua on our trip!"

When I went to get a refill of coffee, there was guy at the window in front of me. Dusty jeans and boots, dark tan, twin braided ponytails, well-used handmade knife and sheath along with other Terlinguan accoutrements. He stepped back and I said hi, recognizing him from a year or two before. He responded with a hello guardedly, in a heavy French accent. He didn't recognize me, but I'd picked him upon the bike in Lajitas when he was hitchhiking back to Terlingua a couple years before.

At that time he was freshly in town, with clothes and coloration belying his arrival from somewhere else, not to mention his French accent. I never inquired as to whether he was from France or a French Canadian, but we had talked a while on the porch. He’d only a backpack and was sleeping in the community center at night, excited to be in this world. I didn't try to remind him, but just smiled and filed away the fact that he had integrated into the community quite well, looking far different and much more Texan.

Stopping briefly in Lajitas for gas, I roared along the roller coaster ride known as 170, listening to my earphones for the first time on the trip, Sounds From the Ground and Underworld being my soundtrack to this sunny day's ride.

I had determined to stop more on this trip, to take in sights and more history, so when I reached Fort Leaton on the edge of Presidio I made myself pull in and walk around. It was hot and I was sweating, but the ruins of the old fort are still impressive and in fairly good shape. I was overwhelmed with the sense of difficulty of those times and the rule of strength over law. In the courtyard there is an old ox cart from the age of the Spanish rule and though it's a replica I'm sure, the massive size blew me away. I had no idea the ox cart trains that traveled to Santa Fe utilized such massive carriages. They were indeed the tractor/trailer rigs of the day and I visualized the long trains of them being pulled by oxen, guarded by Spanish soldiers as they rolled through the murderous heat and rugged conditions northward.

The fort itself was the hacienda of a man named Leaton (imagine that), a somewhat controversial figure and likely a strongman more than a savior to the area. As I wandered around the interiors, I came to a large, windowless room near the back and stepped in. I stopped quickly, as it was very hard to breathe in there and there was a palpable feel of darkness in the room. I tried to rationalize it away, but couldn't walk further in and stepped back out. It took a bit to shake off the dark feeling. Very strange. I read the map description of the room and it had been a storeroom that he had imprisoned his enemies in in the darkness, and there were rumors of torture. All I can say is that it left a tangible feeling in there that I could feel.

Back out in the heat of the parking lot, I headed for the border crossing into Ojinaga and found the Aduana booth easily. A cute little Mexican gal took a pic of the bike's VIN plate, smiled and handed me the printed receipt from her handheld mobile VIN receipt printer thingy.

I swung back into the U.S. with the brief questioning of a bitter and tough female BP agent, who approached her job with all the personality of someone who had to give a herd of cattle enemas and wipes. I then headed north on 67 for Marfa, enjoying the high speed and easy sweepers along with some major wind. It was nice to cruise and listen to music and my mind wandered to the early settlers in the region and the difficult conditions they endured.

In fact, I can say that my motorcycle trips over the years, though purposed by me to fulfill my need for speed, and to ride fast and far, have in fact sparked my interest in both humanity and history as never before. I've always enjoyed history, but when riding the areas, terrain and conditions, the past really comes alive. Perspective brings understanding.

The whole history shebang started as I explored Wyoming, Montana and Idaho, and realized the vast distances covered by Chief Joseph and the Nez Perce as they traveled from Oregon and fought their way east to escape. The logistics amazed me. Again, I was captivated by the terrain and desert in Arizona where Geronimo not only led his nation, but fought wars in doing so. A few hours on a bike solo across those wastelands really makes you understand the difficulty of finding food, water and camp in unbelievably harsh terrain.

West Texas' history with the Commanche, on their yearly raids into Mexico is also a fascination. Names like Big Spring have meaning when you realize that it was a main water stop on the way south on the Trace, with names like Fort Stockton and Fort Davis, and the small cavalry post in Marathon coming to life in my mind. These forts were designed to interrupt the Commanche raids into Mexico, where they'd historically split up south of Stockton and entered Mexico through Boquillas and Presidio. Now when I ride those areas, I visualize the parties and the intense conditions in which they thrived. And I bitch about having to ride my Beemer 60 miles to get a Coke.

My thinking was brutally interrupted by a fearful sight, and powerless to do anything about it, I shut my eyes and waited for the worst. I was entering a tight sweeper that wrapped around a large outcropping with steep slopes on either side. As I curled into the turn at 75 mph, a massive black cloud of bees seemed to blow like smoke up from the slope and floated across the road right in front of me, covering the entire lane. It was so close and so wide I could do nothing but shut my eyes instinctively and plow fully into the cloud.

It sounded like rain on my helmet and face shield and I felt the hits on my arms and body like a jelly bean storm. I grimaced in anticipation for the nightmare of stings on my neck and in my helmet...

I popped my eyes open and could barely see through the face shield, which thankfully had been down, but no stings came. I kept waiting and nada. I kept waiting and zilch. I couldn't believe it. I'd plowed through a huge black cloud of bees and didn't get stung once. I opened the face shield so that I could see and just kept rolling along. Amazing.

I purred into Marfa, a bit hungry and definitely thirsty after me mornin' muffin had worn off. Luckily the "Food Shark" van was set up under the pavilion so I pulled in and parked, getting off the bike carefully in case there were live bees hiding and surveyed my situation. My windshield and front facing areas of the bike were splattered with bee goo, and the oil cooler had a bunch packed in it's grid of cooling tunnels. The jacket was covered with bee spats, but I was still amazed.

I walked under the pavilion to get in the shade and take off my jacket and helmet, stopping at one of the huge tables. Behind me I heard "Hallo you!" in a German accent and turned to see the group of Germans I'd seen on the Terlingua porch and taken their pic. The long haired guy gave me a thumbs up and I laughed and waved.

I ordered at the food truck window, then spent the waiting time picking bee parts from under the plethora of tabs and flaps on my Olympia jacket and helmet.

Eric, the half-a-bee…

Food Shark's falafels and middle eastern based food is awesome and not to be missed when you're there. I washed down some pulled pork tacos with a Mexican coke and watched the few tourists wander and peer as I had done.

To die for goodness

But Marfa was not my destination, for I'd not been to Fort Davis in a couple of years and decided to head for the high country. I arrived late in the afternoon, walked the downtown block and snagged an ice cream to cool off and sat outside. An old gentleman came and sat next to me and we talked a bit. His wife showed up and he had orders to follow so he winked at me and followed his boss into the store.

All the hotels were full save the newer one on the outskirts of town, so I ended up there. The room was musty, and the wifi was maddening but I was ready for a shower. I rode back into town and ate at a fancy place on the drag, which was definitely overpriced for the fare. But I went to sleep full.

The next morning I headed for the McDonald Observatory and the great loop road back south. It was a beautiful ride in the morning sunshine, and I zipped up to the observatory and stopped in front and stared at the tourists for a moment, then continued on south until I reached 67 again. Shortly I was back in Marfa, then turned east for Alpine, eventually stopping for gas at a Shell station on the edge of town.

As I was filling up, an old Harley came rumbling in and pulled up for gas as well. I say Harley, but honestly I don't know for sure. It was in fact a semi-homemade rat bike like I've never seen before, built not by it's owner for the current fad genre, but because it was built for himself... and "himself" was the wildest and toughest looking biker I've yet seen. He and the bike looked like a much meaner, older and more badass version of the biker in the movie “Raising Arizona.” It was covered with chunks of chain, pieces of rebar and big bolts that had been sharpened into spikes and God knows what, that had been welded on years before, now old and rusted. This bike was not for show, but a reflection of the man’s inner demons.

His face was dark and leathery with scars, his jacket dirty and his grey bushy hair permanently in a windblown position. His first words to me were "Where's the liquor store in this town? I need a bottle."

I actually hated to tell him I didn't know and said I had just pulled in. He didn't give a shit.

I told him his bike was cool and he said he'd built it himself. He got off the bike to fill up and appeared to have a prosthetic leg, major tattoos from top to bottom and they were definitely old school from before it became the fad. He told me he'd ridden from LA to Phoenix and slept on a concrete sidewalk the night before, then had made it to Alpine today and was now ready to get drunk. Wasn't sure what to say so asked him where he was going. He told me he'd been diagnosed with a major illness a few years before and had just decided to ride until he died. He said he was still alive, so was just gonna keep on riding. End of conversation.

His tank was full and he fired up and rode off east into town.

I've known some real 1%-er's - not the accountant / lawyer pretenders - but this dude was in a league of his own. Had he not been cranky for whiskey I'd have shot a picture, but he wasn’t in the mood to be bothered...

Earlier while riding the McDonald loop, I had made the decision to head back home rather than return to Terlingua, so I headed east. Since it was getting later in the day, I headed north to I-10 instead of my preferred but slower Highway 90, and headed for Kerrville.

It was a damn fine trip indeed and filled with some interesting events.

Adios amigos!