Rio Grande Trip: Episode II - A Case Study of the Suicidal Tendencies of Mexican Cattle.

This day began early.

Until you've seen a melancholy sun drag its ass out of bed over the West Texas desert with rain clouds on the horizon you really haven't lived.

We started the day a few yards down the road at the diner at the entrance of the Terlingua Ghost Town. We were the second customers of the day. Our hosts were not exactly amiable but they weren't exactly hostile either. They were clearly an old hippy couple who couldn't stand the heavy hand of the man on their shoulders any longer and so slipped away into one of the country's last frontier areas. They found asylum in a town that elected a goat as its mayor. Not because the goat was the most fit person to run the town, but more as a way to give the rest of our button downed society the finger and say, "we're different." I had expected my mohawk hair cut to earn me strange looks in tiny West Texas towns, but strangely I felt it won me acceptance here, which kinda left me with mixed feelings.

Breakfast was fabulous. It nearly got expensive as there is a $20 surcharge for jumping off the porch which Justin did. Something about "insurance." We had pancakes, various meats, and Tang. We sat outside--a wise choice. It had not yet gotten intolerably hot and the inside was so thick with smoke it was overwhelming.

After breakfast we headed to meet our chauffeur. We talked to a lady that gave us departure instructions. Tips on campsites, a warning about the highly dangerous class IV rapid "Rock Slide" that we would encounter a couple miles into Santa Elena Canyon, and the like.

A quick note about Rock Slide. We were originally going to rent canoes from another company, who I wont give publicity in my wildly popular blog. They wouldn't rent us canoes because they were concerned we wouldn't be able to navigate rock slide in them. Its THAT hardcore. So, we took our own kayaks.

Anyway, the last thing the lady said to us was, "we recommend you take a gallon of water per person per day of the trip." We said, "No prob, we have filters and are just going to filter water." The lady told us, "OH NO! You don't wanna do that. The river is so silty it will clog your filter really quick!" I wasn't convinced. I wandered off and let Justin negotiate as I didn't want to run my mouth and embarrass myself. Just conceded we would buy some water down road at the general store, which we suspected gave a cut of the water sales ($2 a gallon) to the outfitter. We bought two gallons apiece to appease them.

So a little about our chauffeur. I road up front and chatted him up on the way to Lajitas, the point where we put in. He told me he spent the spring and fall in Terlingua as a river guide. In the summer he headed to Alaska to guide rivers up there. He said usually during the winter he worked for ski resorts, but last year he lived in Georgia planting trees to help manage the wet lands. Damn hippies. Happily leading the life I wish I could.

By the time we made it to the river is was flippin hot. And the river looked like a muddy run off creek. Hardly the legendary GRANDE river of lore. Before we left we realized we hadn't gotten our chauffeur's name.

"Bobski" he replied.

Brandon shook his hand "Hi Bob, Brandon."

"Bobski" he replied.

Bobski it was.

Our first day was fairly uneventful. Save two incidents.

The first was just minutes after putting in. There is a golf resort thing in Lajitas. Apparently the golf course spans the river into Mexico. On the Mexican side they had some kind of large rock "ruins" constructed. Justin and I were climbing it so Brandon could get a picture. Just as we made it nearly to the top I noticed "the man" coming to get us on a golf cart. That cut short our fun.

On down the river we stopped for lunch. We saw some authentic ruins on the Mexican side. Probably a smugglers den. With No Country for Old Men fresh on our minds we went hacking through the Mesquite thickets to look for our millions of dollars and Mexican bodies. We found neither.

The second incident of note came further down the river. My kayak didn't track nearly as well as Justin and Brandon's, so when we hit flat water I rowed about double the distance they did trying to keep straight. Brandon said this was due to "poor rowing technique" however he declined to prove it by switching kayaks. Cause he knew he was a jack ass. But I digress.

Since I wasn't making forward progress as quickly as Justin and Brandon they soon were just dots on the Horizon. As the river took a bend I saw them pull their kayaks to the bank. I was acutely aware of this happening because on a previous trip under similar circumstances this behavior preceded a mud ambush. As I got closer I realized I was wrong.

See, the banks of the Rio Grande are coated deeply in silt. This makes for a slurry of "quick mud" that sucks your feet in and locks them in place. To my horror I saw a skinny ass Mexican cow stuck in the mud shoulder deep. On the one hand, I thought, "thats what you get for trying to violate the sovereignty of my Country's border." But on the other hand I realized this was bad.

We made a valiant effort to help pull the cow free. We were unsuccessful, but I did manage to get gored in the big toe. I was lucky it wasn't broken. We needed a Bobcat or an F350 or a fucking helicopter. We should have put two rounds through the cows head but none of us really had the stones for it. Instead we laid some foliage in front of it, which it ate, and headed down river. Circle of life, you know.

That night we camped at the mouth of the Santa Elena Canyon. We were beat down after 10 miles of paddling against a strong head wind through the desert heat. Brandon thought his straw cowboy had would protect him from the sun. He was wrong and his face was nicely toasted as was Justin's chest. We stumbled around looking for a campsite and finally found one on the Texas shore in some sparse Bermuda grass and sand that was protected on one side by a rock ledge and by several small Mesquite and Cedars on the other side. Justin and I bedded down under the stars. Brandon pitched his tent, like a woman.

As we watched the sun go down (with glee) we began to notice it appeared the sun was already rising in the east. We could see it shining over the canyon and lighting up the hills on the western side. We soon realized it was just the insanely bright moon coming back up. This made the sky disappointingly sparse of stars, only slightly better than in the city. Nothing like our nights at Caprock Canyon in darkness so oppressive it was palpable.

Despite sleeping in conditions similar to daylight, complete exhaustion coaxed us to sleep and our second day came to an end.

Rio Grande Trip: Episode I - A Case Study of the Suicidal Tendencies of White Tail Deer.

The trip started like any other. Myself and two other full grown men piled in a single cab pickup and embarked on a 10 hour drive. About an hour down the road we stopped at Braum's for burgers. A wise decision. 30 minutes later we were back on the road. About 2 hours after that we stopped for fuel.

FUCKING 3.39 a gallon. Fucking OPEC. They're building fucking islands shaped like the world and I'm paying 70 bucks for a tank of gas.

Since we were already off the road we elected for another stop over at DQ (aka, Texas Stop Sign). These two locations were very important. You see, one of our good friends has moved to some place in the North (one of those states about the size of one of our cities here in Texas). They don't have good food up there, just expensive food with names I can't pronounce. So in order to make sure our friend was still a Texan with good Texas values we had to make sure he remembered vividly why he hated living up north--DQ serves ice cream only. No fucking steak finger or chicken finger baskets. No hunger busters. Also no Braum's. Also no Whataburger. Also, no decent Mexican food. One of the many challenges we presented him with was the consumption of a chicken finger basket followed by a large Snickers blizzard. He passed, but it made him nearly unbearably gassy.

Back on the road. I managed to endure nearly 3 hours riding bitch. For those of you that don't know what "riding bitch" is, its when you have to ride in the middle seat of the truck. You're not the driver, and you're not riding shotgun. You're riding bitch. Its called riding bitch for 2 reasons. 1) If you're bitch was riding with you she'd be snuggled up next to you in the middle. 2) If you're a guy riding in that spot, your just a bitch for not kicking the dude riding shotgun's ass and taking his seat. So after 3 hours I demanded a switch out. Seeing as Brandon, the guy I had allowed to ride shotgun thus far, was a solid 30 pounds lighter than me he didn't have much choice but to yield the seat. In fact, one of the saddest moments of the trip was when this guy pulled his shirt off. He looked like he'd been undergoing chemo. The food up north must be terrible.

Now, the funny part about this was Brandon said he couldn't ride bitch because of his "knees and back." What the fuck. You're 28 man. And you're getting ready to spend 4 nights in the wilderness. Not just any wilderness. The wilderness of the Texas-Mexico border in Brewster County (think, "No Country for Old Men"). In addition to that, just a few months ago we were hiking in Arkansas and pulled 4 20+ mile days back to back (NOTE: I only pulled 2 because I had to return home and work). So, you're knees and back can kiss my ass. Next thing I know you'll be demanding socialized medicine.

Finally, darkness fell. As we turned off the interstate near Monahans Brandon (The Neo-Yankee) was at the wheel. We began to all point at the large rabbits with their ginormous ears hopping across and along the road. Then we began to see deer alongside the road.

Then suddenly, Justin, the other member of our party and the owner of the truck we were driving pointed out a deer entering the road. Brandon proceeded on as if there were no deer. Justin once again pointed out the presence of the deer, this time with more zeal. Brandon sluggishly began maneuvering. He just missed the deer by about the margin of a gnats pubic hair (which isn't very much).

Shortly there after we arrived in Alpine, got fuel and food and took a whizz. Alpine has a school, Sul Ross University. It was amazing to us that the emo look and Holister clothing had infected even this remote town.

Once back on the road I was at the wheel. This was a bit sketchy because I didn't bring my glasses and don't see so well, especially at night, without them. Brandon and Justin complained I was a bit heavy on the break. About 15 miles down the road I showed them what "heavy on the break" was all about as I engaged the anti-lock breaks and executed an aggressive maneuver to avoid a large buck that apparently couldn't take living in West Texas any longer. Damn thing countered my evasive maneuvers by repositioning himself in my path. Luckily, the combination of ABS noise and horn shook him from his suicidal haze and he was able to cut the other direction before I struck him.

At this point I decided it might be better if Justin drove.

About 2 in the A.M. we rolled into Terlingua. A dusty little town run by a goat. We pulled in the parking lot of Desert Sports, the company that would be shuttling our car, and looked for a place to sleep. We bedded down in the back of some of their vehicles. It was difficult to sleep because the full moon illuminated the desert like day light. I've never seen anything like it.

And that completed our first day of the trip.

Where has The Balls been?

So I matched. In a town far, far away. I have been doing such things as house hunting, car buying, and kayaking down the Rio Grande. These will be topics I promise to cover THIS WEEK. Starting with a series about my camping trip.