A day of hiking in Big Bend National Park ends most perfectly

The best echoing I’ve ever encountered is in the Santa Elena Canyon in Big Bend National Park in Texas. Mark and I hike 1.7 miles in along the U.S.-side of the Rio Grande. At the end of the trail, the canyon walls are only 25 feet or so apart. I shout “Ruth,” and listen to it bounce back and forth. “Bruce” is another good name for echoing.

The Rio Grande isn’t as grand as we had anticipated, at least not at this time of the year. This area gets about 10 inches of rainfall annually but frequently floods because it lacks soil to soak up the rain. The rainiest months are July, August and September.

A fairly easy hike is across the desert to Mule Ear spring. Appropriately named, the rocks stick up, are pointed at the top and are perfectly spaced and slightly curved in toward one another to resemble the ears of a horse. In my opinion, they are not tall enough for a mule’s ears.

The spring, about the size of a big hot tub, is an invigorating temperature for this desert heat—even in February—and clear. Two frogs sit at the edge, and two jump in. Mark and I wonder how many cowboys stopped to refill and refresh here at this ideal oasis.

Surprisingly, this desert has many springs, or, if not springs, nice, moist areas that the leafy, green trees spotting the desert make evident. Trees require more water than cacti, which is why deserts are not full of trees.

The hike to Mule Ear spring—our third of the day after the hike into Santa Elena Canyon and our early morning, 2 miles round trip to Burro Mesa Pouroff—pushes me to my poop-out point. I sleep the half hour drive to Chisos Basin visitor center plus another 20 minutes in the lot while Mark reads.

Somewhat refreshed, in the visitor center we ask for advice for how to spend our last few hours in the park. I tell a ranger we are thinking of hiking the Window trail. She says that both the upper and lower Window trails are 4–5 miles and asks if that’s what we have in mind. I tell her we’d hiked more than we’d planned that morning, 9-plus miles, but I say yes, that’s about what we were looking to do.

I imagine her sizing us up and deciding we don’t have 4–5 miles left in us; she suggests the Lost Mine trail at 2.4 miles. It’s her favorite hike in the park, she says. To me, 2.4 miles sounds perfect.

Mark drives the mile to the Lost Mine trailhead. He loads the backpack with water while I read the trail guide. “Pack some energy bars too,” I tell him. “It’s 2.4 miles, one way.”

The trail guide suggests the tired attempt the first mile only. I consider this. However, after a mile I feel strong enough for another 1.4-mile climb. We pass a man resting who tells us “It’s worth the effort.”

The trail is steep, and with more than half a mile yet, I am not sure anything could make this effort worthwhile: My lungs are burning and my legs feel as heavy as cinderblocks. Mark tramps ahead, which motivates me to, if not keep up, at least keep him in site.

Finally, at the top the trail flattens and opens to a lookout. I collapse on a rocky outcropping, out of breath and gumption. Looking at my surroundings, I realize the climb was worth it. The panoramic view is spectacular this clear day: the reddish-brown mountains across from us, the views to the left off to distant peaks, huge rocks jutting out all around, the comfortable, refreshingly light breeze. I’ve never been more perfectly rewarded.

This has been the most unique hike for our ultimate day in the park. I understand why it’s the ranger’s favorite. Despite the climb, it’s my favorite now too.

First day in Big Bend National Park is a bust

Hundreds or even thousands of years ago, Native Americans, before trying to conceive, would pray at what is now called Balance Rock at Big Bend National Park in Texas. Well, I don’t know this for fact, but it’s a reasonable assumption. The rock, bigger than a stand-alone freezer, is supported at one end by what looks to be a giant penis. I find no literature to confirm my suspicion about Indians praying for fertility, but the symbolism is hard to miss.

Mark and I almost miss Balance Rock because he zooms past its access road on our way out of the park. “Hold on! Turn around!” The day is still fresh enough as the sun has not yet met the horizon, but Mark is less than excited to witness more of what the park has offered so far: desert, desert plants, and the Rio Grande. This late afternoon, Balance Rock is a welcome change.

Our day starts excitingly. A javelina is rooting roadside as we drive into the park this morning. A javelina looks like a small wild boar but is more closely related to hippopotamus. They are about two feet tall at the shoulders. A roadrunner crosses our path too. Texans call roadrunners paisanos (pie-SAH-nos). Along a trail, Mark sees a snake.

Unexpectedly to us, Big Bend’s desert is loaded with botanicals: prickly pear cactus, yuccas, juniper trees, even patches of grass. More than 1000 species of plant.

We make the customary stops at visitor centers, eat our picnic lunch at a trailhead and take several short hikes.

One hike along the Rio Grande to a slot in a canyon passes a Mexican selling carvings and felt artwork. A ranger told us that we would likely encounter this muchacho. It wasn’t so much a warning, but she encouraged us to ignore him as he should not be on the U.S.-side of the Rio Grande. I look at the man’s wares but buy nothing.

Near the end of the trail, at river’s edge, we are serenaded from the Mexican side by a man we also expected, thanks to the heads-up from the ranger. According to sources, he’s a bit loco. Loco or not, his voice is lovely. The highlight of the day so far.

The Rio Grande here is neither deep nor wide. Mark, in his Gortex boots, wades out atop the rocky bed.

The Rio Grande is absent in other parts of the park where it usually runs during rainy season. The wettest months are July, August and September. Cracks in this February’s dry riverbed are 4–5 inches deep.

Our first day in the park ends with a hike at the Balance Rock area. We hope the southern and western parts of the park, which we’ll explore tomorrow, offer scenery as interesting. The eastern side of Big Bend has been a bust.

Friendliness overcomes desolation in Marathon, Texas

Driving in Texas near the Mexican border, Mark and I are stopped by a uniformed officer with a German shepherd. The dog sniffs around the exterior of our car and the officer visually scans the back seat, which is a mess of snacks, jackets, magazines and sunscreens. Neither finds anything suspicious. We confirm that we’re U.S. citizens when asked, and I suppose we seem rather harmless because he takes our word for it, doesn’t ask for IDs.

Westward ho! Our destination is Big Bend National Park.

At 6:45 p.m. we arrive in Marathon, population 455, the town nearest the north entrance to Big Bend. Neither of the two motels here have vacancies. The next town west is more than 30 miles away, and who knows if it has lodging? The last intersecting road was 55 miles east, and there was a little motel, but we really don’t want to backtrack 55 miles and then in the morning drive it west again plus another 30 miles into the park.

The proprietress at the later motel we check in Marathon must recognize the desperation on our faces and calls a friend. Whew! The friend leases us a place in the little neighborhood for the night.

We’re mighty hungry, and it looks like the only place we can purchase food, besides a small grocery, is a bar packed with locals. Mark and I sit at the bar and order every dish they are serving that night: pulled pork sandwich, wings, and quesadillas. He gets a beer, I get a cranberry juice, and we talk with the twenty-something bartender, Matthew, who’s lived in Marathon for 10 years.

I ask what he does for fun in such a small, isolated place. “Lots,” he says. “The young people meet for game night once a week, I’m in a band.” At this, I wonder what venues they possibly could play, so far removed from anywhere. “We go hunting sometimes.”

“With a gun or bow?” I ask.

“With guns.”

“So you own a gun?”

Matthew shrugs and shakes his head. He stammers as if embarrassed, like he has to hunt with his pump BB gun while his friends blow game away with bazookas: “Well, not…well, just the basics—a rifle, a shotgun and a pistol.”

Someone from the other end of the bar shouts an order, and Matthew busies himself filling it while Mark and I look at each other wide-eyed and grin in disbelief. The basics? I guess it’s true: You don’t mess with Texas.

Remembering the Alamo and other historical places

Remember the Alamo? Neither did I until we visited. We buy audio tours for $5 apiece. I’d have wanted to read everything if we didn’t.

Supporters from many states arrived to help defend the fortification. Even Rhode Island, Vermont, New Jersey and Maryland all sent one man. Ever optimistic, the Alamo defenders never gave up hope that reinforcements would come any day; sadly, every last white man died. But the Mexicans spared most women and children and the few fighting black men.

A woman whose leg had been injured in the battle walked 75 miles to deliver news of the defeat. The Mexicans were defeated soon after the Alamo, and Texas gained its independence—for 10 years until it joined the United States.

In San Antonio Mark and I brush up on our knowledge of the Alamo and attend the rodeo before driving west.

After an early afternoon picnic at Amistad National Recreation Area, we drive halfway across a dam just for the view. We don’t go all the way because the other side is Mexico, complete with border guards. The crossing is not at all busy; no car passes in either direction the few minutes we are on the dam.

I would love to cross the border, just for the experience, but, alas, we did not bring our passports, now required for entry into Mexico.

So on westward. Our destination is Big Bend National Park, smack-dab in the middle of Nowhere, South Texas, but for a diversion we stop at Seminole Canyon State Park and take a guided hike 1 mile into the canyon to a rock shelter with pictographs, dated to 4,000 years ago.

From a park brochure “Seminole Canyon received its name in honor of the U.S. Army’s Seminole-Negro Indian Scouts…. The scouts protected the West Texas frontier from marauding Apache and Comanche bands between 1872 and 1914. Known for their exceptional cunning and toughness, no scout was ever wounded or killed in combat, and four earned the prestigious Medal of Honor.” The four earned their medals after capturing their captain, a white, from his band of about 75 captors. Four vs. 75, and they all survived!

The guide leads us past certain plants and cacti and tells us how the canyon inhabitants made use of them in the exhausting heat, a heat that is obvious on the canyon floor this February afternoon. It’s so hot I find it difficult to concentrate on what the guide is saying. It’s hard to think of anything besides the heat and how to escape it. I consider plopping down and rejoining the tour on their climb out of the canyon, but the shelter with the paintings is only about 100 yards further, and that’s the nearest shade as well.

A line of pictographs runs the entire length of the overhanging rock. They are of a resin of mineral pigment in animal fat or in urine and painted with fibrous plant leaves. Supposedly, these are some of the best examples of rock paintings in the world.

The guide says that scientist continue to learn more about people who lived there. For instance, weather continually unearths petrified poop! Adding a certain chemical to the rock-hard poop brings it back to “live” poop—with the smell and everything, our guide tells us—and the poop gives hints as to what the people ate—seeds and such.

Once we start our climb out of the canyon, we catch a bit of breeze, enough to energize Mark and me to separate from the group and take a side trail for an additional mile or so. Our curiosity of what the other side of the canyon looks like overtakes our thirst but we are, as we say, “bookin’ it” because we don’t have water. I am reminded of the horses I rode when I was young. The horses may have been only limping along and may have sweated through their saddle blankets, foam at the corners of their mouths, yet once reined toward the barn, when they knew their service would be over once they got there, it was tough to hold them back.

I feel like one of those horses now, hurrying to the car and water. When will Mark and I learn to take water with us, even for short hikes?

Catching dinner considered successful day of fishing

Monarch butterflies migrate to Mexico in the fall. Early last October when Mark and I visited Dad, where he lives with my step mom on the coast of Georgia, we took the boat out and anchored at the mouth of a creek right in the monarchs’ southerly path. We pulled whiting from the sea and marveled at the monarchs flitting past. In a band 10 yards wide and from about two feet to eight feet above the water we witnessed a constant stream of butterflies. We estimated 800 to 1,000 butterflies flew by in three hours. Not many, but some, landed in the boat for a couple seconds’ rest. It felt magical being in the midst of the monarchs' natural pattern.

This year I suppose we were too late because there was no definite band of butterflies, just a few here and there flitting across the expanse of the bay.

Other things kept our attention.

Dad says, paraphrasing Forrest Gump’s philosophical aphorism, “When you fish in the ocean, you never know what you’re gonna get,” and that was surely the case on our first day fishing.

Mark fished the bottom while Dad float fished (with a bobber). I chose not to fish until it seemed worth my while. Right away Dad pulled in a trout, and Mark commented on how pretty a fish the trout is, long, thin and silver with dark spots on its upper half.

We were close to a small island rimmed with oyster shells, not much more than a sandbar. We let out enough anchor rope for the tide to carry the boat near, and I hopped out and combed the beach, looking for anything interesting that may have washed up.

Not finding anything out of the ordinary, I returned after 15 minutes and learned that Mark had caught a whiting, and a big one at that. Whiting, a mild, tasty fish, must be at least 10 inches long to keep; anything over 12 inches we consider big. Whiting are silver and not as thin as trout; they have no remarkable spotting or coloring.

Dad had switched to bottom fishing, and since fish were biting, I joined the men and tossed my line in with a shrimp for bait. Within a couple minutes I landed a redfish, also called a sea bass. Redfish are notch fish, meaning they must be bigger than a certain size to keep yet also smaller than another size. The notch for redfish is 14–23 inches. The one I caught was small but not too small.

Dad and I each caught a whiting, and both were too small to keep. Mark reeled in two sting rays, which are the bane of the south sea fisherman. They are fun to catch because they put up a fight, but getting them off the hook without getting stung can be tricky. Dad has suffered two stings, which did draw blood and were most painful. Submerging the stung body part in hot water eases the pain somewhat, but the true healer is time—five or six hours.

The day ended successfully. All-in-all, the three of us brought in eight fish species, a one-day record for us: flounder, croaker, skate, and shark, besides the trout, whiting, redfish and stingray from earlier.

One or two of us pulls in a decent size shark each time Mark and I visit. I caught the one this year: 18 pounds, my biggest catch of anything ever. We froze the filleted shark to bring back to Ohio. Mark’s brother makes a tasty marinade for grilling. Because of the mercury content, we don’t want to eat shark more than once a year.

Besides the shark, the fish we didn’t toss back into the sea were enough for dinner that night. Catching a meal is so satisfying—as is eating fresh-caught fish.

A duck farm in northern Indiana

“That makes it sound like they assemble ducks from pieces,” Mark says because I call the place the Culver Duck Factory. The company’s website gives the name simply as Culver Duck, not Farm, not Factory.

The PR guy, whom I contacted after our visit, says he prefers farm: “The word factory has gained a lot of negative press and is pushed by different groups to spin a bad light on what we do.” Culver Duck doesn’t piece together ducks; the place processes them—15,000 a day.

Tuesday after Memorial Day we arrive for our privately escorted tour with Tim.

On the way to one of several barns on campus, Tim tells us the company sells about 3.5 million ducks a year, mostly to Chinatowns across the United States. Ducks are processed at six weeks, like chickens, but spend less than 24 hours of those on site. The ducklings are sent out to surrounding Amish farms on the day they’re hatched, straight from the hatchery.

Baby ducks are born every workday, and before the tour takes us to the new arrivals, we pass a crate with seven or eight deformed or damaged baby ducks dying. Tim says that they’ve never had a healthy hatch rate better than 80%. Wild eggs hatch near 100% if weasels or another egg lover doesn’t find them and if they receive proper care from the mother duck. The eggs at Culver Duck, Tim tells us, are refrigerated for 3–8 days before they are incubated. Incubation is 28 days, nothing more, nothing less, which makes planning for hatchings quite easy.

In the back of the barn are stacks and stacks of crates, and I don’t even realize they are full of new hatchlings until we’re right up on them. Their quiet cheep, cheep, cheeps don’t give their location away. I hold one as Tim tells us that they are 100 per crate, and the baby jumps onto my chest and, like a kitten might, scoots over my shoulder. Luckily Mark catches it before it falls to the ground. Who knew ducklings could climb?

Ducks have little sharp points on their beaks that, at Culver Duck, get burned off right away when they are born. Tim tells us that ducks are carnivores, and bully ducklings can peck away at a more mellow one causing enough damage that many babies gang up and kill it—and THEN EAT IT!

Ducks at different stages of development are housed in the research barn, where feed and other variables are changed to try to produce a more optimal duck.

In the breeder barn are pens of ducks and fluorescent lighting overhead. Lights come up at 5 a.m., and most of the mommas lay their eggs then. Ducks produce one egg per day, six days per week. “Even ducks take one day a week off,” says Tim. Negotiated by the duck union? I forgot to ask.

We pass a wastewater lagoon, and Tim says all their water is treated on site and is used for field irrigation. The field is cut for hay once a year.

In the egg-sorting barn, lights shine on a tray of 30 eggs, and some are transparent. We see the inside of one is mostly purple, the color of a blood blister. These see-through eggs are infertile and are culled, as are any cracked, double-yolked, small, or imperfect eggs. The whole place carries a general bad smell, but here it’s almost unbearable.

Tim offers to let us see the entire operation: the stunning, killing, bleeding and plucking, but I decline. We do see ducks herded from a truck down a narrow path, at the end of which is the stunner and conveyor line, which carries the ducks, hung upside down, into the plant where they meet their deaths.

The tour took an hour, and before we part, Tim gives us directions on how to prepare duck; I tell him that I have eaten duck once, but it was greasy. He says people don’t know how to prepare them; they cook them like chicken, but that’s not the best way. He also hands us each a stick of duck jerky.

As we pull from the lot, Mark, chewing on his jerky, admits that the tour was interesting. I agree and am happy he thinks so. Picking alluring options for our long weekend up north was challenging.

96 laps, 128 cars, 2 dazed drivers and an ambulance

Before the main event, a couple old beater buses loaded with kids race around the 3/8-mile track at the Kalamazoo Speedway where Mark and I sit high in the grandstands this Sunday of Memorial Day weekend. The MC, high in a tower somewhere, is non-stop talk:

“Lines are short at concessions, get your hotdogs before the race starts.”

“Who out there saw the race today?” meaning the Indy 500. “Who likes Junior? How many Jeff Gordon fans?”

“It’s Shelby Carlisle’s 17th birthday today. Happy birthday, Shelby.” On and on. Very small-town.

The two bus drivers are actually in the first race, so at 7 p.m. they stop to jump in their own speedsters.

Soon the late model cars are lined up, two by two, eight or nine rows.

The cars look much like the race cars that Dale Junior and Gordon drive: sleek and low, all surfaces covered by sponsors’ names. They start circling the track, and after three go-rounds, the flag drops. Wow, it’s loud. A man a couple rows down wears earplugs. Smart.

Oh! There’s a wreck. The yellow flag is waved, and cars must keep their places as they circle. Nobody’s hurt, but a tow truck does have to pull the car away. The checkered flag flies again, and the noise is over the top.

A tower on the other side of the track displays a lap counter, and after 25, we think the race is over, because every car exits the track. But now the lap counter is a timekeeper counting down from 10 minutes.

The MC talks up concessions again, and every couple minutes he announces how much of the 10 minutes remains. He asks, “Who traveled more than 5 miles to get here? 10? Are there people who came from more than 25 miles away? How about 50?” He stops there. At 300+ miles, Mark and I may have come further than anyone.

With a couple minutes left, a car drives onto the track and into pit row for weighing. And before the 10 minutes has expired, all the cars—even one that wrecked—are back on the track. After the weigh-in, they line up in the order that they finished the first 25 laps, and the whole thing starts again.

After 75 total laps the winner is awarded $5000, and the MC climbs down from his tower and interviews him. He’s a local and has won this race several times

The MC announces that the Euro cars will race next: 200 laps at 128 cars on the 3/8-mile track.

Did we hear right?

Yes, he says it again—128 cars at once—and continues with the rules: if cars wreck or stop, they sit where they lie; other cars do not continue their circling but come to a complete halt until the driver of the dead car safely exits the track. It’s almost a demolition derby.

From the opening between turns 1 and 2, a seemingly never-ending caravan of four-cylinder junkers begins to wind around the track. Most are decorated, their numbers spray painted on their sides. One black Toyota has an MIA flag flying from the back window area, one has a tire painted yellow and secured squarely in the middle of its top, a teddy bear rides the back bumper of another.

The cars stack five-wide, and the flag drops. After only a couple laps one jalopy stalls at the inside near turn 3. The officials give the driver a couple minutes to try to resuscitate the car, but eventually call for a stop. Lights placed on the outside fence coming out of each turn and one in the middle of each straight-away flash red, and the 127 remaining cars screech to a stop. Of course there’s some bumping.

This happens again and again, and by lap 96 the track is littered with 10 or 12 cars, and bumpers, tires and various parts from the other 100. Two drivers have walked away dazed, and one needs a stretcher.

As we wait for the ambulance, the MC tells the crowd that the cars will race in the other direction after 100 laps. This is crazy.

As much as we’d like to, we don’t see the remaining 104 laps because we have reservations 50 minutes east on the coast of Lake Michigan and need to be there by midnight. It’s been so much fun; we might be back next year.