Moments Of Clarity

Part II: Guadalupe to Big Bend by Phillip Rittmuller

I turned away from the cliff and started back toward the trail. The cloud followed me, keeping its distance at about twenty feet the entire way. What had at first seemed like an enchanted mist now seemed like a windowless prison. Its charm seemed to have worn off with Kenny also.

"Man, I wish we could see. The Bowl is supposed to be beautiful."

"Maybe it'll burn off later in the day," I offered weakly.

"I doubt it. I bet its already past 11:00. If it were going to burn off it probably already would have."

We continued to trudge on for ten or fifteen minutes when I began to wonder if we should have hiked another trail.

No, I thought, the cloud would have been there no matter what mountain we chose.

Soon after, the white mist seemed to become lighter and a breeze began to blow. We stopped hiking and looked out toward where we expected the valley to be. Abruptly, the clouds started to move and quickly raced from the valley and out into the distant north like a jackrabbit that had been lying still but decided to made a break for it. The Bowl was free of clouds in under two minutes, less time than it took to pull a camera out of the backpack to take a picture.

Amazed at our sudden change of fortune, Kenny and I stared out at the newly exposed valley until we were sure it was real. Then we sat down, prepared our lunches and enjoyed the view.

After finishing our lunches and absorbing the newly exposed scenery we resumed our hike. The trail continued to wander through the forest of the Bowl until we reached the crest of the mountains. At the point where the mountains began to drop off back into the Chihuahuan Desert the fog began to roll back in as if it had allowed us to see the views we had come to see and wasn't going to let us see any more. The fog wasn't quite as thick this time though so we could still see even though there wasn't enough light for many pictures to come out. We began our descent through the rock and desert of Bear Canyon towards the trailhead where the car waited.

Upon reaching the car we rested a while and then drove to McKittrick Canyon in another section of the park. Our campsite was at the end of a trail that began in the canyon. When we got to the parking lot we went to the ranger station and asked how long it would take us to get to our campsite.

The ranger looked at us and answered, "With overnight packs, about four hours."

I looked at Kenny. He looked back at me and calmly said, "Blow that."

We both walked out of the station to the car. As we exited the park we looked at a map and chose our next destination: Big Bend.

Big Bend National Park was about four hours from the Guadalupe Mountains and we hoped to find a campsite there that we wouldn't have to hike to. On the way there we stopped in Marfa, Texas, home of the mystery lights. There is some kind of natural phenomenon that occurs outside of Marfa that involves balls of static electricity rising from the ground. For years, people thought they were UFO's. Now they're a tourist attraction. We stopped at a small shop to read some of the postcards for the town and learned that the mystery lights are also called the "spook lights" or the "weird lights." Apparently, the creativity of the Marfans knows no bounds.

As we drove along the main drag in Marfa we passed a sign for the Motel Thunderbird (see To Moo is the Great Affair).

"Look, the Motel Thunderbird!" I exclaimed to Kenny, "We gotta get a picture of that."

Kenny opened the sunroof and stood in the passenger seat to get the picture. As he framed the shot I began to think, "This is a like a sign from the Road Trip God. We have to stay there."

As Kenny turned around to slide back down into the car he caught a glimpse of something on the opposite side of the road.

"Dude, that's a huge cemetery for such a tiny town."

I contemplated his comment for a minute and revised my stance. "Let's get out of here."

We drove on through a thunderstorm until we reached a sign that read "Now entering Big Bend National Park" which was directly above another sign that read "There are no available campsites within the park." A short while later we passed a little section of road intended as a turnaround. The car was stopped, the seats were reclined and the gentle drumming of the desert rain lulled us to sleep.

The next morning we woke up and made our routine trip to the visitor's center to pick a hike. After we settled on a suitable trail we drove toward an area of the park called the Basin which sits in the cradle of a group of Chisos Mountains at an elevation of 5400 feet. The scenery outside the car window was impressive: the red rock that constituted the mountains penetrated the sky in defiance to the rest of the desert ignoring even the cloud line and rising past it. Wisps of clouds were caressing the caps and sides of the mountains like adoring ghosts. The low clouds, the lack of any man made structures and the menacing red rocks gave me the feeling that we were traveling back in time. As we approached the foothills of the mountains I felt as though I was entering the Land of the Lost, half expecting a Tyrannosaurus Rex or Sleeztax to attack from behind a rock. We followed the road as it wound and climbed toward the top of the mountain until we reached our trailhead and continued our ascent on foot.

While the Guadalupe Mountains had a wide variation of terrains, the different types of plants, soil and rock were distinctly clustered in groups. In Big Bend the different types of land and vegetation are widely scattered and seem to be at war with each other. Sand battles with clay trying as if the sand is trying to deny the clay's right to retain moisture. They both formed a confederacy against the rock in attempt to cover it. An alliance of trees with leaves that express all the colors of a New England Fall penetrate the sand and clay with their roots while at the same time resisting the low sharp desert cacti at their base. Each struggles for dominance, forming a spectacular collage of colors, textures, and shapes and giving the mountainside a rugged and unmatched beauty.

Kenny and I had walked and climbed for about ten or fifteen minutes when the thick white clouds returned engulfing us in a dense fog that veiled the canyons and mountains beyond. Once again the view was hidden. I wasn't able to enjoy anything more than ten feet beyond our chosen trail. It suddenly seemed that I had made a bad choice. Maybe we should have taken another trail. The Great White Nothing seemed to be rejoicing in my indecision as it swirled around us while at the same time never seeming to move. I wondered if the cloud were somehow kin to the Los Angeles smog (see To Moo is the Great Affair) or if the smog had somehow mutated and adapted after its last defeat and gained the ability to attack me, not with the failings and misfortunes of others, but with my own lost potential, the consequences of my own decisions.

I tried to shake off the encroaching malaise and began to walk faster. My own thoughts were now attacking me, encouraged by the derisive cloud. When Kenny and I sat at the foothills that morning the view was spectacular. I could look around at all the mountains and decide which I thought was the tallest, the most challenging, the most majestic. At that time the veiling clouds added to the elegance of the mountains making the seem infinitely tall, amazingly wondrous. Taller and more wondrous than they actually could be. All I had to do was chose a peak and define a path. The options, however, were limited by time, the equipment we had, and our ability to climb - but mostly time.

The switchbacks persisted in their winding ascent through the warring terrain. The sand was the first to succumb to the battle - disappearing as we gained altitude - and the cacti and low brush surrendered soon after. The trees seemed to be gaining strength but the clay and rock remained in brash defiance. With each step I hoped to climb high enough to be above the cloudline. I began to question the choices that led me here. One always expects things to be clear when they reach the top of their mountain. I was reaching mine but I could hardly see ten yards in front of me. My legs churned on as if their sole purpose was to spite the insulting fog. As we reached the crest of our mountain the rock seemed to have secured an unconditional surrender. All other forms of earth and plants had retreated and were no where to be seen. Kenny and I found the highest point on the rocks and sat down. Lunch was fished out of the backpack and we stared out into the cloud as we ate. It was beckoning me with leering promises again.

"You can jump and fly forever. You can fly anywhere. All you have to do is try."

The Great White Nothing seemed to close in as if it was trying to choke me. I couldn't see anything other than myself, Kenny, and the cold hard rock we sat on. I narrowed my eyes and stared back into it. There was a time when I believed the promises. There was a time when I believed I could rise to the top of any peak in time. I wasn't completely wrong, I just didn't realize that choosing to go to certain mountains closed the opportunity to go to certain other mountains. Somewhere along the line I came to the conclusion that, if at some point you don't chose a mountain and start climbing, you'll never reach the top of any of them. The trick is not to pick the highest mountain or to try to climb all the mountains. That path will cause anyone to end up trapped in the Great White Nothing of failed expectations and idealizations, wondering what the view looks like on the top of distant mountains.

I looked back down at my lunch disappointed that there wasn't a view when a small breeze began to blow, cooling the back of my neck. It felt good but I elected to keep my eyes on my lunch rather than on the surrounding fog.

"Oh shit!" Kenny suddenly exclaimed, "Look at that!"

I looked up to see the clouds scurrying out of the canyon.

For the second time in as many days we were treated to the view we climbed to see. The two of us hurriedly fumbled with our cameras as if we were being timed in an Olympic event. We wanted to get shots of the rocks and trees intermingling with the straggling clouds. The scene was incredible. The desert floor exploded up in giant reams of red rocks and clay thickly sprinkled with brush and trees tipped with leaves of red, green, yellow and brown. The towering mountains penetrated the sky, surrounded the rock we sat on and framed the desert scene beyond. A few clouds remained, their bright, clean white contrasting the harsh rugged colors and clinging to distant mountains adding to their magnificence the way the potential of accomplishment adorns a challenge.

The two of us sat there gaping at the panorama with open mouths. When it felt as though our eyes had reached saturation we decided to initiate our descent. As we began our hike down, the clouds started to blow back in, once more concealing the surrounding majesty of the Big Bend Basin. At this point it didn't matter though. We had seen what we came to see. The fact that no one else would be allowed to see what we experienced gave us an almost selfish sense of elitism.

The car was waiting for us when we reached the bottom so we dropped ourselves into it and drove through the park's low desert on the way back toward Dallas. We faced a nine or ten hour drive, and, since we couldn't drive 100 miles per hour on the major highways we were taking, we knew it would actually take nine or ten hours. Somewhere between Odessa and Midland I pulled over and let Kenny drive so I could take a nap. As I was drifting off, Kenny put in a Lyle Lovett tape. The last words I heard before I fell into the comforting arms of sleep were from the song Here I Am :

I realize there are things you do and say that you can never take back.
But what would you be if you didn't even try . . .

I awoke just as the sun was beginning to set behind us. I rubbed my eyes and tried to make out a sign ahead in the distance. The glare and long shadows of the low sun made it impossible to read.

"Where are we."

"Outside of Sweetwater. You slept for about twenty minutes."

I grunted to acknowledge Kenny's reply. I wasn't far enough out of my sleep to engage in conversation.

Kenny and I drove in silence for a few minutes as the sun fell closer to the horizon.

"I love the way everything has that golden tint at sunset," Kenny noted.

I squinted out at the countryside, my eyes still dry from sleeping with my contacts in. Our trek would soon be over and I would have to catch a plane to Detroit to interview for a job I wasn't too excited about, but, I wasn't too excited about any of my prospects. None of the jobs I had interviewed for seemed terribly interesting and I was beginning to wonder if I could be happy with a career in engineering. I always pictured myself finding a high powered, low stress job, that was interesting, kept me close to friends and had a lot of opportunities for advancement. I always thought I was going to rule the world. I was beginning to realize that its much more important for me to rule my &nbspworld. And its not possible to do the former until you've accomplished the latter anyway. Still, the fear of stagnation was there. School had always offered something to look forward to: the end of a successful semester, becoming an upperclassman when you're a freshman, getting that senior ring when you're a junior, and, for the duration of the college career there is always the glorious promise of graduation. Graduation isn't so much in itself when you analyze it - but it doesn't have to be. As long as there's a definitive end, a finality - a trophy in the form of a diploma that says "Look what I've accomplished." When the real world captures you there doesn't seem to be nearly as much to look forward to - except possible raises or promotions, but those are incremental- there is no neat and clean conclusion. It's like waiting for the minute hand to come around again so the clock can chime once more. Very anti-climatic when compared to the sunset of graduation.

The trip on the way to graduation had been exciting but I didn't want to end up like the juniper on the sunrise side of the mountain realizing that he was missing out on the sunset. I didn't want to be a man with only the memories of friendships, recklessly sacrificing fellowship for ambition, like Willy Loman in Death of a Salesman, shattered dreams at my feet because I chose the wrong mountain to climb, a once seemingly limitless potential now relentlessly choking me with what could have been. "Dreams make possible the stars in the sky" - but there are an infinite number of stars in that sky. Which dreams do you pull down to the flawed earth and which do you allow to remain immaculate, pure and white? Any idealized concept must be tread upon by the imperfections of truth before it can be realized, losing its purity the way sidewalk snow is stained. The dreams that can withstand the soiling are the ones to follow. I always thought the decisions would be simple to make when the time came. Someday I'll be able to look back and easily evaluate the choices I've made.

I shifted my gaze from the passenger window to the road ahead through the windshield. There was sign marking the roads in upcoming fork in the highway but the long muting shadows of dusk and the piercing glare from the setting sun made it impossible to read.

Its always hardest to see during the twilight.