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!