SOMEWHERE IN THE LOWER BIG BEND:

Evening was falling in the lonesome country, another day in the desert coming to an end. Soon we would be topping out along a short cut I knew and back to the K-Bar, and the setting sun would be full in our eyes. Even my flat-brimmed Stetson would not be much help by then, so I would have to find my mark quickly to guide us in.

It had been a long haul from there to Banta Shut-In, especially when looping from the more direct route to the old John Rice site above Estufa Spring. The crevice itself was first called Rice’s Canyon, but the name changed after he and his wife moved to the Chilicotal and left their stove there. You see, ‘estufa’ is Mexican for stove.

That was a long time before there was a national park, and a different breed as well as a different sort of life. Most who visit these days have no idea of how tough those people and their kind were, or the work ethic essential to scratching out a living here. When I wander off on my prowls, I try to swing through such spots and locales.

Just to pay my respects, if for anything else.

After following the canyon down and taking another short cut just before you hit the Tornillo, we made Banta Shut-in and took a belayed nooning. The way back would be necessarily faster and as straight a line as I could make it. But there was one other spot to spend a precious minute or two, and it is shown in the photograph.

Among the fading residues of Indian camps is a land mark I call ‘Dos Ventanas,’ or Two Windows. You can see them in the upper left frame. Like most other things in this world those windows are a transitory sight, they burrow through a narrow slice of dirt and gravel along the cliff face. One good frog strangler from the right direction and with the right force, and they won’t be there anymore.

Another prominence is directly front and center, that massive old anchor post with rusting fence wire still attached. It has a mate still standing about fifty yards away, serving as another anchor for a wire gap long since keeled over. Other smaller posts are scattered in between, making up a drift fence to keep livestock from wandering too far. This was probably done about a hundred years ago, as this was mostly open range before then.

Invariably one’s eyes shift to the unforgiving terrain beyond with the McKinney Hills, Alto Relex and the foreboding Dead Horse Mountains stacked haphazardly to the faraway horizon. There’s not an easy mile anywhere among them, and often enough not an easy yard.

It all made for quite a scene, what with the sun going down and the world around slowly morphing into shades of gold. I see such sights which warm my heart and tell myself I shall return again, Good Lord willing.

But for now the shadows were growing long and we still had miles to go. I resettled into the shoulder straps for my ALICE pack and pulled the brim of that Stetson down lower.

And we pushed on…

God bless to all,

Ben

Facebook: Ben H. English
Webpage: benhenglish.com
‘X’: Ben H. English