Night of the Javelinas

The Chisos Mountain Basin came into sight about forty minutes after passing through the gates that announced Big Bend National Park. We'd been driving for almost ten hours, coming from Austin, Texas and we had been warned not to bring any contraband to the park for fear of the dogs at the border check points. Shortly after we passed through the front gate we came upon a lone border patrol officer sans dog who waved us over. It was hot outside and I had the AC cranked in the car, but that didn't stop a single trail of sweat from trickling down my brow. I never listened to anyone, and I had an eighth ounce of marijuana in my guitar case. I had been worrying the entire drive about the border check points and, when we hadn't been forced to pull over at the two we'd passed through I'd gained a heightened sense of security that I was going to get into the park without a problem. And now here it was: we were in the park and here was an officer waving us over to the side of the road.

My companion and I-a good friend of several years named Amir, a crazy bastard who was always willing to risk his neck for some wild adventure-were both of the 'counterculture' sort. We both wore our hair long and he was covered in ink from the neck down. We looked like the sort of people who might be doing a little smuggling.

"What are you boys up to?" The officer asked in a heavy Texan drawl. We were far from being 'boys' at the respective ages of 30 and 31 but that was what you were to the law in this fine state.

"Going camping sir." I said, polite as all living get out and he grimaced at the two of us with a look that implied he wasn't born yesterday.

"Gonna need to look in the trunk." He stated and I nodded.

"I have to turn off the engine and open it with the key." I said, letting him know what I was doing every step of the way. Ya see, I was familiar with Texas law enforcers and knew that they weren't the type to fuck around. Texas is a 'no tolerance' state and that goes for more than just contraband; it covers 'hippies', 'freaks' and 'anyone that doesn't look like us'. The several times I'd been pulled over by cops outside of Austin I was always asked to stop the car and get out to be frisked before my car was thoroughly searched. One time, on my way from Austin to Houston with my buddy and his seven year old daughter, we were detained for almost an hour while a cop searched all of us-including the seven year old girl-for drugs he insisted he'd seen us give her while he was passing us going the other way on the freeway. The reason for stopping us, he'd said, was speeding. Peculiar, seeing as we were in a 65 MPH zone and I'd had my cruise control set for 68. After almost an hour a state trooper pulled up and, after looking at our ID's-which had all come up clean on a warrant search-he told us we could go on our way, much to the local cops chagrin. That bastard was positive there were drugs in the car somewhere and that this would have been an excellent bust. The thing was, there were drugs in the car, his radar was right on the money. But that son of a bitch didn't find them because they were in plain sight, in one of my pants pockets he overlooked. Lucky me.

Now I got out of the car and walked around to the back of the Crown Vic. It was an old police car I bought off a lot for $3000 and another reason why the cops stopped me all the time. They hated seeing a longhaired guy driving around in an old cop car. I think it made them feel I was mocking them. I loved that car though; the speedometer went up to 165 and the stereo was loud and the AC cold. It was roomy and comfy and great for long distance road trips. I drove that car all over Texas, from the east to the west, the north to the south. From South Padre Island to Marathon, from the Pan Handle to Mexico, that big old beast had taken me everywhere.

I opened the trunk and the border patrol officer leaned over and looked inside. All he saw was a tent, backpacks, a cooler, dry goods and other camping supplies. In a trunk like the Vic's, I could have had three bales of weed or four Mexicans.

"You don't have anything I need to know about in there do you?" He asked and I understood: firearms, dope, poaching traps.

"No sir." I said truthfully-except for the dope-and he nodded.

"All right then. Carry on."

We were driving away when Amir commented that it was a good thing that I hadn't brought any weed. He didn't smoke, in fact was completely sober. I'd also brought a case of Miller High Life and a large bottle of Gallo wine.

"Yeah," I said, chuckling. "Good thing."

"You brought some weed?"

"Well yeah," I said, defending myself. "I thought if they were going to search us it would be on the way out."

"Dante told us not to fuck with anything, that you could buy anything you needed in the park."

"Where in the park?" I scoffed. At the time I didn't think too highly of Dante and his opinions. Later I would come to understand his underlying wisdom. "You think there is going to be a place where I can just go and inquire around for some weed?"

"That's what Dante said. Down by the Rio Grande. We might even find Peyote."

It would turn out that Dante was right, more than right in fact. We found that you could buy weed, coke, peyote and heroin-just to name a few of the substances that were available-right across the USA/Mexican border, the Rio Grande. We wound up having quite an experience with the Mexican Militia while making a score, but that is another story. I've never been so scared in all of my life, except for one other experience, one that happened during this same trip. This little vacation to Big Bend National Park was to be full of peril for my friend and I, the danger lurking everywhere from security checks, Mexican cops, wild animals and mountain climbing...but I am getting ahead of myself.

As we drove up into the mountain basin-located 3,500 feet above sea level-the air began to cool off. We were taking our trip in the middle of July, which, for this park, was off-season. The heat in the desert was amazingly hot-one day it even reached 117 degrees Fahrenheit-but up in the mountains it was cooler. If you were going to do some serious hiking the best thing to do was start early so that you were at least five thousand feet up before eleven in the morning.

When you get to the 'top' of the Chisos Basin Camping area, called Panther Junction, there is a gift shop and a gas station. We stopped to fuel up and the gas station attendant was an amazing display of what human life was like where there was very little. He wore thick glasses that sat on the tip of a long, bulbous nose and his face had the strange angles and curves of lineage that may well have been related. He spoke with a funny accent I couldn't place-nothing foreign, some bizarre take on the southern drawl that sounded impeded by a speech impediment-and he had the sort of arrogance that only eccentrics and dweebs of the highest order can convey so well. He looked like he truly belonged there, out in this remote wilderness, where not many had to gaze upon his countenance for very long. We kept the pleasantries to a minimum while he filled the tank. That was another thing: he filled the tank. Where do you see that anymore?

Getting out of the car and stretching, we took in the area around us in silence, tasting the air, smelling the trees, plants and dirt, getting the feel for this new environment. The thing that you see and feel right away with Big Bend is the grandiosity of the wilderness; in it's enormity you feel dwarfed. You instantly understand that you are but a small microcosm in the infinite wonders that teem abundantly in this world. Human's think they have mastered the world, the oceans the wilderness, the elements, the wildlife, and they are so fucking wrong. So dead fucking wrong. There are so many things that can kill a human being in Big Bend National Park that it is a wonder they don't have a higher death toll every year. From the mountain lions, the black bears, the packs of javelinas, the myriad snakes, spiders and scorpions to the harsh extremes of the climate and the deadly mountain peaks-take yer pick man, and it's there.

I could feel the isolation bearing down on me like a large hand from the far stretching sky above, pushing me down. It was an oddly claustrophobic feeling for me, one that is hard to describe. I love the wilderness, have been camping and hiking my whole life, yet this park did something to me, made me feel as if I was surrounded yet entirely alone. I've always been a man who loves his solitude-hence the camping and hiking forays into nature-but this place had me scared like no other place I'd ever been. It was like I could feel the ghosts of the Indians that had lived here from centuries past, their restless spirits crying on the wind at the fucking white men that came and took this beauty away from them and slaughtered their families for good measure. Something about the woods, the desert, the mountains made me feel as if I were trespassing.

Yet I kept this all to myself, didn't breathe a word about it to my buddy. We discussed how awed we were at each turn, at every natural wonder that we saw and during our stay asked many questions of the park rangers, but I don't think Amir felt as I did, that the park was a large, living, breathing, organic monster that's eyes were positioned atop the highest peak and whose great mouth was the swell of the lower peaks and valley's, it's body the entirety of the park, encompassing all the plants, all of the wildlife. I felt this as surely as I felt the hot air on my face, as I felt my own heart beat in my chest. This park was on land that felt intruded upon, and only the most sensitive knew it.

One of the first plants that came to our attention was the Century Plant. These are large plants that live for a hundred years before they bloom, suddenly experiencing tremendous growth spurts, flowering and then dying all within only a few days. They shoot upward so quickly during that time that it's not unusual to actually 'see' it grow. You could pass one on a trail at three o' clock and when you walk by it again at five it's bigger. They can grow over a foot in a few hours. And when they die they turn a ghastly gray color and simply tumble over, their life entirely extinguished as if someone put a gun to its head. And the smell the plant exudes is pungent, as foul as the gas one gets after a night of drinking cheap beer, maybe even worse.

We set up camp in the Chisos Mountain Basin-the primo campsite because of its location-finding that we had our pick of sites. Like I said, we were here off-season; there weren't a lot of other people who were as foolish as we were, braving the extreme heat. One thing we had forgotten, we discovered when our tent was erected, was an air mattress. The ground upon which the tent was set up was rocky terrain; hence we would be sleeping on a very rough surface. It would turn out that sleep would be elusive for the entirety of the trip for several reasons, but the most terrifying one would come two nights later at a different campsite, located at the foot of the mountains. The first and second night's tossing and turning would be considered restful after our experience the third night.

We decided on a short hike the first evening with the intention of getting back to the campsite by sunset. I for one didn't want to be out on the trails after dark, what with all the warning signs about bears and mountain lions. We took a trail that led to 'The Window' a vast and beautiful 'V' shape in between two mountains that allowed an awesome view of the sunset. It also had a waterfall between it, one that looked out over a spectacular view of forest, desert and mountain ranges for hundreds of miles to the south. Again, the enormity was overwhelming. During our hike to the waterfall we stopped several times and took in the forest around us, the trees, the rocks, the plants. That first evening I was a bit fearful of the wild animals. While we'd been setting up the tent we'd seen a couple of javelinas rooting around by the garbage. Of course the garbage cans were all bear proofed, but some of the lesser humans had left some debris scattered around one can and the wild boars were nosing through it. When Javelinas are alone or in ones or twos they act friendly enough and appear as if they offer no threat. I'm not saying they'll come up and give you a high five, but they don't make threatening noises or gestures, they simply go about their business.

After we arrived back at our site-the darkness enveloping us on the last quarter of a mile because we'd stayed so long at the waterfall-we rummaged through our food to see what dinner was going to be. Not knowing what kind of grilling opportunities we would have we'd brought mostly dry goods, things that didn't need any refrigeration. Dinner was going to be canned meat, pudding cups, chips and trail mix-the true staples of camping-but we had the good fortune of making the acquaintance of a kindly older couple who invited us to dine with them. It turned out there were grills a plenty at every site and all you had to do was bring charcoal. These folks served up heaps of delicious marinated beef with tortillas and salsa and grilled onions as well as potato salad and green bean salad and told us some interesting things about the park.

As Dusk left for the day and darkness clocked in for its shift millions of tiny gnats appeared out of nowhere, swarming everything: the meat, the potato salad, the tortillas, our heads. There was nothing you could do about it; as you ate the little buggers flew in your mouth, your eyes, your ears. After a while you got used to it, though I don't know how.

Darkness in the mountains is as dark as it can get, with no light source anywhere but the lanterns and flashlights the campers have brought with them. Amir and I forgot to bring a flashlight, proving how long it had been since either one of us had camped out I guess.

Our hosts pointed out the stars that soon became visible, telling us their general direction in case we should find ourselves in need of their guidance if we got lost-something I hoped like hell wouldn't happen-but they didn't offer much light. And then, miraculously, the moon came out from behind one of the mountain peaks and an ethereal, eerie white light washed down upon us. Suddenly it was extraordinarily luminescent and I felt a peculiar calm fall over the park. Of course that was a fallacy because nighttime was when a lot of the predators and scavengers came out to hunt, but that was how it felt to me. There were signs everywhere about keeping your cooler locked or in your car at night and not making the mistake of leaving any food out as it would definitely attract wildlife of all kinds, from bears to raccoons to javelinas. Nighttime was when the fun was just starting for a lot of the critters in Big Bend.

After we bid our hosts a most grateful good night we went back to our site and I drank five or six bottles of Miller, the two of us sitting there in the dark. You could grill out but you couldn't have a campfire because of the dry conditions and the possibility of wildfires. We discussed our plans for the upcoming day, deciding that we would get up early and take the longest, most strenuous hike of the trip right away, instead of building up to it. I figured I would be pretty burned out after a few days so it would be in my best interest if we tackled that one first. My friend was ambivalent about the whole thing; he was the kind of person who could take that hike one day and do another of similar proportions the next. I wasn't so athletically inclined. If I was going to blow my load on the first full day there, I wanted it to be worthwhile.

The hike would start at the Chisos Basin parking lot near the general store and take us up two thousand feet to the 'South Rim', where one could see for hundreds of miles over a vast plain of desert and mountains that stretched into Mexico. From there you had several options, but the one we wanted was the trail that lead to the peak of Mt. Emory, the highest mountain peak in the park at approximately 8,000 feet above sea level. It was going to be a hike of grand proportions but I felt I was ready for it. At the time I was in the best shape of my life. I didn't smoke much-cigarettes-and moderately drank beer and smoked weed. I had always been an active fellow so the idea of walking ten plus miles in a single day didn't frighten me. What we'd ascertained from park rangers and the pamphlets they'd recommended we read was that we should take plenty of food and water with us and not stray from the path. People that strayed too far from the path could get lost for weeks-sometimes never to be found. The park weighed in at a grand 800,000 miles and was full of exotic creatures that wouldn't be afraid to hunt you if the opportunity were right. Although attacks by mountain lions were rare, there had been several since 1984. There were also stories of people-sometime park rangers-who got lost out on the 'primitive roads'-roads that weren't paved, that were recommended only for four wheel drive vehicles-and had to resort to drinking their own urine lest they succumb to dehydration. The thing was, the rangers told us, that you didn't know you were dehydrated until it was already taking effect. They urged you to drink water even when you weren't thirsty and to carry at least a gallon apiece for the size of the hike we were planning.

So it was, our backpacks weighted down with gallon milk jugs of water and trail mix, chips, granola bars, crackers, canned meat, canned fruit, a camera, extra socks and-in mine-some weed and rolling papers, we headed for the trail. We set off at five in the morning as the sun was just coming up and were almost five thousand feet above sea level by the time it was late morning. Amir was a much taller, broader and stronger person than myself with a strong disposition towards wanting to move at whatever pace he saw fit, so when we hit an area that began a continuous twenty-degree incline I rapidly fell behind him. For hours I would only see him when he stopped and rested, drinking water-maybe eating a granola bar-and I caught up with him. I thought about many things at those times as I admired the view, the woods becoming smaller and smaller below us, the sky ever widening into a blue landscape that seemed more vast than any ocean. The trees a flutter with birds of all kinds, beautiful fauna to approve of as one passed it. I thought about my life in the city and the summer that stretched before me. I had a little money saved and I was on vacation until fall-about the time I figured I would run out-and the world was my oyster. I was going to drink and smoke dope and play my guitar and in general just have a great fucking time. This trip was the prelude to all of that.

Three or four hours into our hike we'd reached the first plateau, the place called the South Rim where we decided to stop and have lunch. The view was astonishing. For hundreds of miles you could see infinite mountain ranges that stretched out into Mexico. We took photos with us in the foreground, that gorgeous view in the background and later, when developed, they accurately conveyed a sense of how it felt that day. The sun getting higher in the sky, the temperatures in the mid to upper seventies as high up as we were, well over a hundred down in the desert below. After we ate my buddy rolled me a monster doob-I was very bad at rolling and he, being an ex-pothead, was very good at it-that I proceeded to smoke, followed by a cigarette and a lot of water. Checking the map, we saw that we still had at least five miles until we made it to the base of Mt. Emory, and from there it was another two miles up. I still felt good at that point; I wasn't tired, my feet weren't sore even though my 'hiking boots' were a pair of maroon Chuck Taylor's. One thing I must say: if you are hiking through the mountains don't wear Chuck Taylor's. I didn't know it then, I certainly know it now.

We ran into very few people that day and didn't see a whole lot of wildlife either. We did see a couple of young girls who were traveling without backpacks and-apparently-water, and more so than admiring them for being cute AND adventurous I felt bad for them because of their obvious lack of provisions. At this point in our hike we had left the most strenuous part-the point where the incline was steep-but now we were in thick woods and the mosquitoes were out. Amir and I were now walking together but the trip was starting to get a touch tedious. I might not feel that way so much now, ten years later, but that was how I felt then. It was after several hours that we came upon a sign with an arrow pointing in the direction of Mt. Emory and, excitedly, we headed in that way. Soon the climb became steep again and I was falling behind. After a while the trees began to fall away and the majestic drop that revealed itself was nothing short of breathtaking. Through gulps of warm air I dazzled in this primitive beauty.

The second to final stretch to the peak of Mt. Emory is a torturously steep hike upon large wooden 'stairs' created by the park staff out of large logs. It was so grueling that even Amir had to stop and rest as much as I did, which was about five times in one mile. At one point the 'stairs' end and then you are on a path again and, rounding a corner, the peak comes in to view. Looking as if it were still miles away, we stopped and sat down in some shade.

"I'm not gonna make it man." I gasped, truly believing that I had reached my endurance limit and that I would just wait right where we were while he went along to the top.

"We're almost there dude, you can't stop now!" He implored and, after a fifteen-minute rest I decided to carry on.

To our surprise, we rounded another bend and there it was, the final leg of the journey. There were two peaks on Mt. Emory, one that looked rather easy to scale and one that looked decidedly more difficult. We picked the easier of the two and rock climbed the rest of the way up. To explain: to get to the peak, you had to climb. Here there were no 'stairs' made by the park staff, there was only a rock wall that, if navigated properly, could safely bring you to the very top of the mountain. The top of the first peak was exciting but, looking over at the other peak, we noticed it to be higher and roomier; the one we stood upon didn't offer much in the way of accommodations. You simply stood up there and looked around. We saw that the other one had some room to move and large boulders to sit on.

We climbed down and made our way over to the other. I found an easy way up and soon found myself gazing upon a view the likes of which I'd never seen. I was struck dumb with awe. I decided to smoke another joint.

Well, that could have been the end of me right there. The pot made me so dizzy that at once I experienced a sort of vertigo that had me clutching frantically on to the rock upon which I was perched, almost afraid that I would be blown off the top and scattered to the four winds. A story we had heard about the peak-again during one of our relentless inquiries of the park rangers-was about a guy who fell off the top of Mt. Emory and his body wasn't found for three weeks. When it was found, of course, he was long dead from the fall and he had to be identified by his dental records because animals had stripped him to the bone. In a nutshell: falling off the top of Mt. Emory meant certain death. I was suddenly in the grip of a strong fear that I would fall and, only after I calmed down somewhat was I able to sit comfortably and enjoy the view.

The fear stole within me again when it was decided that we were to descend. In my stoned confusion I couldn't remember the easy route that I had taken up and, after some struggling, I found myself dangling over an area that was a vertical, smooth shelf of rock that stretched maybe twelve feet below me and offered no hand holds. Moving to my left, I followed along for quite a ways, hoping to find an area that would open up and allow my safe passage when at once Amir cried out for me to stop.

"Stop! Don't go any further! Go back the way you came!" He called and for a moment I froze, clutching the rocks and feeling my heart thud rapidly in my chest. My face tight against the cliff, I began to edge back the other way, not looking down until I was at the point where I had started. Once I was there I saw, just to my right, the way I had originally come up and, with relief, I climbed back down. The dope had made me extremely disoriented. Once I was back on level ground my buddy put an arm around my shoulder and walked me a short distance to the left, pointing upward.

"I want to show you where you were when I stopped you-man you are lucky that I saw you, because I know you couldn't see it from there."

I was laughing, feeling relieved that I made it down, but when I followed his finger up into the bright sky and saw exactly where it was that I had almost stumbled my skin suddenly rose in gooseflesh.

"Two more steps and you woulda been history man." Where he was pointing-where I had been climbing-was a sheer drop off that I couldn't see from my vantage point against the sheer cliff. I would have simply taken another shambling step forward and, finding nothing but air, would have tumbled thousands of feet to my death. "You are fucking lucky I got down here when I did and saw you. You were headed right for it."

My mouth went dry-okay, okay, it was already dry-and my heart pounded a double bass drum riff within my chest. Just like that, game over. Do not pass go; do not collect two hundred dollars. Motherfucker had that been close!

The rest of the hike was much easier now that we were going down; we began making great time. The views had been splendid, the hike invigorating, but now I was getting tired. It was during the last three miles that dark clouds began to cover the once mostly blue sky. The temperature began to drop rapidly and suddenly large raindrops began to fall. At first we just trudged on, until they began falling faster and faster, and then it was pouring the proverbial cats and dogs.

"Every man for themselves!" Amir cried and he took off running, me right after him. I lost him after several minutes but I followed the signs that led to the Chisos Mountain Basin. That was where the car was parked.

But those last two miles were insane; the water falling so hard that the dry ground could no longer soak it up and soon the path was a stream. Splashing through the water it was all I could do to stay on my feet, especially on the steep areas where the water was now rushing quickly down. Soon the ground began to level off and I saw a sign that said it was a quarter of a mile to the parking lot. Gradually I slowed down, my feet starting to feel sore for the first time that day, my calves and ankles starting to feel wobbly as well, my poor body finally crying out that it had been used to the point of exhaustion.

As with all true stories, they are sometimes quite unbelievable. Be that as it may, as I was rounding the final stretch to the parking lot, my clothing soaked, my shoes squishing, the clouds dissipated as quickly as they'd formed and-as I was just leaving the path and stepping onto the blacktop-the sky was blue again and the rain nothing but a memory.

"Do you fucking believe that?" I asked my friend and he shrugged, sitting on a bench, taking his shoes off. At least he'd had the good sense to wear Nike walking shoes.

Reflecting on the rain now I see it as only fitting. The mountain had let us partake of her, but not without some amount of danger and discomfort. The wild was testing us, like it or not.

That night I got wasted on wine and we ate tins of canned meat. My entire body ached and I was sure I wouldn't be able to walk at all the next day. I wanted to anesthetize myself and get a good night of sleep but, lying on that hard, rocky ground, I only got about four hours, and that was with the help of the wine. After its effects wore off I found myself quite awake and staring up at the ceiling of the tent. I couldn't believe it; as tired as I was I thought that surely I would have slept the whole night through but without the comforts of a soft place to lie down, that wasn't happening.

The next morning found me groggy and hung over. We decided that after breakfast-more canned meat, canned fruit, trail mix and so on-that we would venture down to the Rio Grande and look into a little Mexican town called Boquillas Del Carmen. I have detailed what happened in that tiny village already in a story I called 'Boquillas Del Carmen' and won't go into much detail here except to say that it involved peyote, drug smuggling and the Mexican Militia. After my near death experience the day previous on Mt. Emory I had been in the mood for an easy day. Well, we didn't get that-not by a long shot-and that evening I just wanted to drink some beer, smoke some dope and listen to some music. I also wanted a good night of sleep.

So what we decided, after talking to some other campers, was to try a campsite at the bottom of the mountain, near the Rio Grande and a Mexican village called Santa Elena. The reason for this was that it was situated on a large expanse of grass and would be much more comfortable than sleeping on rocks. Little did we know what awaited us, because if we did we would have simply stayed where we were.

On the way to the campsite we stopped at a little store, and there we met a young man who worked the register. He was seated behind the counter playing a guitar and he barely looked up when we came in. Hell, it was off-season. What did he care? He would get to us when he felt like it. There couldn't have been more than 100 people in the entire 800,000 miles of park.

We spoke with him for a while and found out that he'd moved to the park from Houston. I asked him how he dealt with the isolation and he looked at me as if I was crazy. This park was so enlightened compared to that of the civilized world; how could I not understand that? That was ten years ago. Today, I understand that kind of isolation. Back then I thought I did but I was sadly mistaken.

We parted on amicable terms and we made our way to the campsite. We hadn't seen this part of the park yet and wanted to pay a visit to Santa Elena. After the bad experience we'd had with the other earlier that day I was a bit reluctant but, Amir reminded me, we had escaped with our lives so what the hell. This time we would only visit to get some dinner. We wouldn't mess around with any peyote or banditos or Mexican Militia if we could help it.

Crossing the Rio Grande via a rowboat ably oared by an old Mexican man, we were deposited on the other side and we sought out a small restaurant, the only one the village had. The woman made us a wonderful dinner of beef and chicken tacos but apologized for not having any fresh tomatoes. She asked us if we could get her some and bring them back to her this evening. My buddy smiled and told her sure, no problem. I said nothing because I was still gun-shy from what transpired in the other Mexican village earlier that day-sorry to keep referring to it and not describe it, so here is the nutshell version: We went into the village and met a man who told us he could get us peyote. He told us to go have lunch at the café and meet him in the bar when we were done. While we were eating a tank full of armed teenagers-soldiers, Mexican Militia or the Mexican Police-pulled up and several of them got out and came in the restaurant where we were eating and surrounded our table, pointing automatic weapons at us. I was carrying three joints in a cigarette package and was afraid that they had talked to the man who had offered us the peyote and he'd set us up. My face was pouring sweat as I feigned interest in the tortas I was eating, gulping from a bottle of Corona. Two of them guarded us while a third asked the café owners some questions. After a long, painful amount of time they put the guns down and returned back to their tank.

To this day I have no idea what it was about, but at the time I thought I was headed for a Mexican prison for either possession-weed is illegal in Mexico-or the attempt to purchase a controlled substance. After that we headed for the bar-where I wanted to abort the mission-but the guy met us and led us to his truck. We drove over hard packed sand-there were no roads-and we passed the Military compound on our way. We were instructed to duck when we passed it. When we arrived at this man's home we were told to stay in the truck until the coast was clear and then, at his signal, we were to make a run for an adobe shack where we would negotiate our deal. This was a very grueling ordeal that left me mentally exhausted. In the shack the temperature was stifling, and a little boy offered us a large canvas sack of peyote-hallucinogenic cactus-and we bargained a price. We then ran back to the truck and spent the remainder of the time back to the Rio Grande on the floor. Two times tanks went by and the driver waved to them. At the river we had to get back across and get the peyote in my trunk, and at the river's edge we couldn't find a boatman and had to wait a while as tourists in brightly colored shirts and silly hats talked loudly with a man who was going to take them horse back riding. On the other side it was still a half-mile to the car and we had to get there without being seen by park rangers or border patrol. We just made it. Shortly after the peyote was stowed a border patrol Bronco pulled up next to us. The guard asked us what we were doing.

"Camping sir."

"Have you been over the border today?" He asked.

"No sir, we have not." I replied, sweat popping out on my forehead.

"What are you guys doing here?"

"We were going to go there and have lunch but we changed our minds."

He eyed us suspiciously for a moment and for the second time that day I thought it was all over. This time it would be American prison-which would be better-but prison just the same.

At last he said: "All right." And then drove off.

And that is the short, quickie version. The Readers Digest condensed story. The long version is much more interesting.

So we had our dinner and crossed back over to the USA, where I once again heaved a sigh of relief. I always liked going to Mexico but I always liked it a lot better coming back.

We set up camp in the new campsite and saw that we had the whole place to ourselves. There was nobody else camping there at all. We soon found out why, of course, but by then it was too late.

We had our usual supper and I drank a lot of beer. Amir was teasing the turkey vultures-the kind you see in Bugs Bunny cartoons-by leaving food out and then snatching it up when they came to investigate. One thing that must be mentioned was my friend's uncanny relationship with animals. In the world of alpha this and alpha that he was definitely the dominant species no matter what he was dealing with. I'd witnessed him kill various things in the time that I'd known him-never gladly, for I am a true animal lover-and watched as he did it with efficient skill. One hot summer day in Austin he'd slaughtered over twenty water snakes just because it amused him, much to the sickened horror of the hippies that had brought us down to their little swimming hole. It wasn't that they liked snakes; it was just that they'd never seen someone delight in such reckless, wholesale massacre. I think his hunting skills were so honed because not only was he a natural predator but he was also part American Indian.

So here he was, teasing the vultures for amusement while I got bombed. We all have our vices. I smoked some dope and put on headphones, listening to what was the latest Monster Magnet CD at that time, 'Power trip', watching the stars come out and the moon come up over the mountain. It was absolutely beautiful and much later I found my way into the tent for what I hoped would be an uninterrupted slumber. Wrong again.

I don't know how long I'd been sleeping when I suddenly awoke to the sounds of grunting and snorting. I looked over at Amir and saw that he was conked out; it was up to me to investigate. At once I thought of the food that he had been using to tease the birds and with a sickening realization I understood that he'd probably left it out. The fucker had gone and attracted some bears!

The tent we were in was a dome with a screen mesh encircling the top. You could look outside in a complete circle all around the tent. What I saw when I stood up filled me with cold dread, for this was something I had never expected to come across in my life.

I kicked at my friends sleeping form.

"Hey you fucker! Wake up!" I hissed, not wanting to make any more noise than I had to.

He stirred and rolled over. "What?" He asked me with mild irritation.

"We've got company dude." I said and that got him to sit up.

"What is it? A bear?" He asked and I shook my head.

"Take a look." I urged and he got up.

The snorting and grunting got louder as their huge, fat forms came out of the mist. I counted first fifteen, then twenty, then thirty javelinas-wild boars with tusks that I mentioned earlier-and they were surrounding our tent, sniffing at our shoes and the food that dude had left out.

The reason for my fear was thus: In all our conversations with the park rangers we had been warned about a lot of things, and one of them had been the javelinas. We were told that they attacked humans when they were in packs of ten or more and, if you weren't able to stay on your feet, you were a goner. Just a week before our visit to Big Bend a ranger had been badly gored by the wild pigs. The only reason he survived was that he was able to grab hold of a tree and keep himself upright. If he had fallen, the ranger told us, he would be dead instead of recovering in intensive care at a hospital up in Alpine.

So now, here we were, surrounded by what appeared to be over thirty javelinas and we were completely alone. There was no one else in the B campsite to help us, we didn't have a cell phone-who would we have called anyway?-and there was nothing to do but make a run for the car or wait it out in the tent. I was mortified. My hands were shaking as I tried to find my car keys. I was babbling. I think I was near tears. I had survived an almost five thousand foot plunge off of Mt. Emory, avoided going to a Mexican and/or American prison but now I was going to die by being gored to death by wild boars. This vacation had been a little rough on me. If I made it back, I thought, I was going to need a vacation from this vacation.

Amir, however, was calm.

"Relax dude, just relax." He said.

"Relax? How the hell am I supposed to relax? You heard what the ranger told us!"

"Yeah, well he was alone. There are two of us."

"And what the hell do you expect ME to do? Distract them while you get away?"

I couldn't help but think that sometimes my friend was a little self-centered. Like when the rain began falling in the mountains and he yelled 'every man for himself!' Was this to be another one of those situations? Maybe he would just toss me out of the tent and let them start ripping me apart before casually strolling away, whistling a little as he slouched inconspicuously toward the Rio Grande and safety...

But I was being hard on him of course. He had, after all, warned me that I was about to fall off of a sheer cliff and, despite my little tirade, had always looked out for me. He was the big brother I never had. When gang bangers wanted to split my head open with a pipe and toss me in a shallow grave, he had been there for me. When everyone else thought I was a drunken loser, he said I was just misunderstood. The time I almost drowned in Lake Travis, he hauled me back to the shore while I kicked and screamed like a little girl. Ya gotta really love your friends sometimes.

"I see I'm going to have to be the one to get us out of this." He said calmly, surveying the situation. The javelinas were so thick you could toss a stone in any direction and hit one without trying. They were sniffing around the base of the tent, had probably ascertained that there was something interesting inside.

"I guess that makes sense, seeing as you are the one that got us into it."

"How do you figure?"

"You're the one that left the food out on the picnic table."

"Whatever." He said and he reached for the zipper on the front of the tent.

"What the hell are you doing?" I asked, louder than I intended, which drew the attention of a few that had been sniffing close by. Two or three came right up to the door, sniffed for a moment before retreating back over by the picnic table. I now had my car keys in my hand and was thinking the only logical thing to do was to beat a hasty retreat to the car where it was guaranteed they couldn't get in. Hell, if it looked like they COULD I would simply drive away. That is if the engine didn't decide not to start, ya know, in horror movie style.

He unzipped the zipper all the way down and slowly parted the two sides of the door. I repeated my question:

"What the hell are you doing?"

"Showing them who's the boss." He replied and got out.

Now, I think I described Amir already but to reiterate: the man stood six foot one with broad shoulders and the build of a person who has spent a good part of their life doing hard physical work. He used to own his own painting company and could easily tote around forty foot ladders and lift multiple cans of paint or five gallon buckets of thinner up and down ladders. He was the alpha male of his species. So here is what happened and I swear to my dying day that I am not making this shit up. I saw it with my own two eyes:

He got out of the tent and stood still for a second, looking around at all of them. He took his time, turning this way and that, bringing a hand up to stroke his chin as if he were deeply contemplating something. Time stood as still as he did. My heart was racing faster than a jackrabbit's on methamphetamine. I was thinking that this was going to be the last thing I ever saw before everything was turned topsy-turvy by hooves and snouts and jagged tusks. And then he bent over and picked something up. He hefted it in his left hand-he was a lefty-and I saw that it was a large rock. Again he turned back and forth, surveying the pack before him until he stopped, facing one that looked mighty formidable. And then he did something that shocked me so badly I almost screamed. If I'd had a full bladder I might have pissed my pants. He drew his arm back, set his left leg forward and his right leg back to brace himself, and then launched the rock as hard as he could at the biggest boar of the bunch. When the rock struck it's side-dead on, a perfect shot-I think I heard something crunch before the javelina uttered a loud grunt, swayed on its feet and then took off running. The second it ran the entire pack followed, and within a minute or so they were all gone, back into the trees where they had emerged in the first place. Silence ensued.

"Holy fucking shit!" I exclaimed, out of breath, hands trembling, heart still pounding. I dropped to my knees and fished around on the floor of the tent until I found my pack of cigarettes and then exited the tent. With shaky hands I lit a smoke, the tobacco tasting better than it ever had in my life I suspect. "What the hell was that all about?"

Amir smiled and took a seat at the picnic table.

"I just picked the biggest one and hit him as hard as I could. I figured that if I could scare the shit out of him than the rest would follow."

"Damn." I said and sat down at the picnic table as well. "What if it didn't work? What if you had only pissed him off?"

"Then I always had plan 'B'."

"What was that?" I asked, genuinely curious.

"I was going to toss you to them and take off in the car." He laughed and I laughed with him.

"You fucking bastard." I said and he stood up.

"I'm going back to sleep." He said and went back inside the tent. I sat outside and smoked the rest of my cigarette then decided to have another one. It wasn't everyday that you were surrounded by wild boars and lived to tell about it. I looked up into the sky and saw that the moon that I'd watched come out from behind a mountain had long since disappeared. It was either very early or very late, depending on how you looked at it. Tomorrow we would be heading back for Austin, our little vacation over and I wasn't sure how I felt about it. It had been so nice to get out of town for a while but this trip had been one harrowing adventure after another. Not that I didn't feel a certain pride at knowing that I had climbed to the top of the highest peak in the park, smuggled peyote out of Mexico and just had a run in with a pack of wild boars without getting so much as a scratch, but the rest of the summer loomed before me. Not only did I have the summer but I also had enough money to get back home and lounge for the remainder of the time. I'd purchased a quarter pound of weed and was preparing to rent a bunch of recording gear and record a new CD. I knew that every day would find me waking up to a joint and a large cup of coffee. I would record music until I didn't feel like it anymore-probably about six or seven hours-than I would get a tallboy six-pack of Lone Star and drink until I was falling down. Then I would make some monstrous meal like chicken, rice, bean and bacon burritos, pig out like a son of a bitch and then pass out. The next day I would wake up and do it all over again. Let the good times roll.

But the beauty I'd experienced in this park would always stay with me, the memories some that I would cherish for the rest of my life. Here it is, ten years later and I'm still fondly recalling it, longing for it as I go about the drudgery of my every day existence-even though my 'every day existence' isn't all that bad. The months following that trip to Big Bend would at first be wondrously languid, then followed by some of the hardest, most trying times I had ever faced in my life. Through the worst of those times I always though about being on the top of Mt. Emory and looking down on the park from such a high vantage point, seeing everything in miniature. I remember my buddy and I joking that someone was probably looking at the peak of the mountain through a telescope from one of the ranger towers and, laughing, I gave them the finger. While slogging through my later life, depressed, anxiety ridden and some days suicidal, I thought about our plans on smuggling peyote on a regular basis, trying to make a living off of it. (We would find out quickly that peyote was a 'novelty drug', one that no one in his or her right mind would want to do all that often. The shit tasted terrible and you had to eat a lot of it to get really high.) While we were at Big Bend, the world looked open and bountiful, the future nothing but the brightest star. Funny how things turn out, especially when they turn out in ways you never would have dreamed of.

The last day was bittersweet. Amir went for a hike by himself while I sat at the campsite and played my guitar for a while. It felt good to sing at the top of my lungs out there in the wilderness where no one was around to hear me. I could suck as badly as I wanted and no one was any the wiser. When dude got back he told me he had seen a wasp the size of his fist and when he approached it, it made a loud buzzing sound that shook it's whole body. After that we attempted another climb on a small mountain but I was wiped out and fell very far behind. My feet were sore, my legs ached, my back was a mess from sleeping on the ground for three days; I think I'd hiked enough to last me for quite a while. When I finally caught up with Amir I was grouchy and we bickered harmlessly for a while, if only to try and feel a little better. When the hike was over we went and had breakfast at the lodge so we could get some real food: pancakes, eggs, bacon, juice. I was tired of eating canned meat and trail mix. Following that we went back to our campsite and loaded everything up. I still had some pot and I decided to get rid of it. My buddy had an idea for the peyote: instead of going through the border check points with it in tow, we decided we would mail it to our house. We drove up to Panther Junction-where the gas station and gift shop were-and parked. There was a post office there. I went inside and got the biggest box I could find, saying some shit to the lady behind the counter about finding rocks that I wanted to send to some friends of mine up north, which in retrospect she probably thought was bullshit. She knew what could be found on the other side of the Rio Grande, everyone working there did, no doubt. But somehow, a few weeks later, the package arrived at our house, long after we had given up on it.

With everything stowed in the car and the contraband mailed or thrown away (I threw away the rest of my pot), we descended from the mountains and found ourselves back out on the two lane highway that lead to highway 10. We passed an empty checkpoint and were wondering if we would have had any trouble if we decided to just put the peyote in the trunk.

The road was completely empty except for the occasional RV, so it was a surprise to come along a car that was doing twenty miles less than the posted speed limit. Out there, the roads are one lane with a wide shoulder. There are signs that say 'Please Drive Friendly' and someone had explained to us that their meaning was for slower drivers to pull over to the right-onto the wide, paved shoulder-to let passing cars through. The driver in the car in front of us was definitely not friendly, as he chose to hog as much of the lane as possible, not allowing us to pass. We had a long drive ahead of us and wanted to get back to Austin by eight that evening so I must confess that I was a bit put out. Every time I tried to swing around him on either side he would edge over and block our way. Angry and frustrated, I got right on his bumper, put on my Brights and honked the horn, all to no avail. I started screaming at him and waving my middle finger out my open window, hoping he would get the idea and, finally, I simply took my chances and passed him on the right-an illegal maneuver but the only one available to us-greeting him with a hearty "Fuck you!" as we passed. We saw that it was a very old man, and he scowled as we passed.

"What a fucking prick!" I remarked to which my friend agreed.

About ten miles down the road we came upon a large checkpoint, one that we hadn't seen coming from the other way. A guard came out and waved us over.

"Where are you guys headed?" He asked.

"Back to Austin," I said, friendly enough, just wanting to get this over with so that we could continue on our way. "We were camping at Big Bend."

"Do you boys have anything in the car that I need to know about. It would be best if you told me now." He said, serious as a heart attack, his smile left at home for the day.

"No sir." I replied, used to this sort of treatment by now.

"I'm going to have to ask you to pull over there." He said, pointing to where three or four other guards were standing by a little building.

"Sure." I said and pulled over there, turning the car off. I felt no trepidation as this occurred because I knew there was nothing in the car that could get us in trouble. Let the guys do their job and we would be on our way.

The other border guards approached and we were asked to get out of the car. We stepped out into the clear, bright sunshine and the guards packed in around us, forming a circle.

"I'm going to ask you again: Is there anything in the car that we need to know about?" The original guard asked and again I told him 'no'.

"Please open your trunk for me." He said and I nodded.

As they went through the contents of the truck, one of the guards left to stop another approaching car. Amir and I leaned against the Vic nonchalantly, unworried by the search. Let them dig through our dirty socks and drawers, our empty wrappers and water bottles. What the hell did we care?

Suddenly the guard came back, a look of consternation on his face.

"There's something you boys aren't telling us!" He declared and for the first time I felt the tickle of fear in the base of my stomach. His hand was on the butt of his pistol and, seeing this, the other guards reacted in kind.

"What?" I asked. "What is going on?"

"The guy I just stopped told me that you were following him for miles, driving erratically and making threatening gestures at him. He said he'd never been so scared in his whole life! I want to know what the hell is going on here right now!"

The guard actually looked furious, like we were wanted criminals. At once our ID's were confiscated and a guard disappeared inside to call them in, probably to find out if we were wanted felons on the run.

"Where did you get this car?" I was asked.

"What do you do for a living?" Followed that.

"How long have you lived in Austin?" Came next, as well as a bevy of other questions in an attempt to get us to contradict ourselves and be caught in a lie. As casually and carefully as we could we answered their questions, as well as trying to offer an explanation for what we were being accused of. I told them how the other driver had been going twenty miles below the speed limit and had been hogging the lane, blocking our passage. I said we were just trying to get back to Austin because we had to get back to work-a lie, of course, because we were both unemployed, but really the only lie we told.

The guards nodded, taking this in, but the looks on their faces were quite clear in revealing that they didn't believe a word we were saying.

And then the guard who had taken our licenses came back out, this time with a large German Sheppard.

"We're going to have Bessie take a little tour of your car, see if there isn't something you're not telling us." We were informed.

"Go ahead." I said.

The dog was allowed to jump in the car, first the front seat and then the back. When nothing unusual occurred they brought her around to the trunk. She jumped up and sniffed at my guitar case and suddenly her tail started wagging. The guards all took a step back, except for the original guard who unsnapped his holster and took a step forward.

"Please take the guitar case out and set it on the ground." He said, his eyes gleaming but his tone flat. It was funny how polite police always got when they thought they were about to arrest you.

Of course, it goes without saying that I was now scared as all living hell. I had thrown out the pot, I was sure of it, but did I maybe forget a little bit in the guitar case? That was where I'd kept the pot the entire time, except for when I brought it with me hiking, or took it out to roll joints with and put it back. Could it be that I overlooked something? In the sticky heat of the day the sweat began to pour down my face.

I leaned into the trunk and pulled the case out.

"Now set it on the ground right there, open it up and step back."

"Okay."

The border patrol officers had all unsnapped their holsters, their hands on the butts of their guns. They were watching me intently. The silence was so loud you could hear the grass blowing. A car pulled up to the border checkpoint and one of the officers raised a hand to wave them through.

'Lucky bastards.' I thought. 'If that was us we would have sailed right through. Instead, it is us!'

I undid the clasps on the guitar case, opened it up and stepped back. A guard led the dog over and she sniffed at the little pocket where I kept my picks and strings, the pocket where I had kept the weed. She sat down.

"Open up that pocket and show me what's in there." The guard said and, feeling lost and hopeless, I did as I was told. I opened the little hatch and we all peered inside...

There was nothing there, well, there were a couple of picks and some broken strings, but there wasn't any dope. I breathed a sigh of relief. I could tell by my buddy's stance that he had been thinking what I was thinking, that I must have somehow forgotten something in there. Now I could see him lean back comfortably, his swagger returning.

The border guards were at a loss for words. One of them, a guy that looked like Gary Busey-swear to God, an almost exact look alike, big teeth and all-asked if we might have been around anyone who might have had any contraband. Not knowing that saying 'yes' would look good in their eyes, something like: "Yes sir, we were playing our guitars and there were a bunch of hippies hanging around, smoking dope. One of them might have put something in my case and took it out later, I wasn't really paying attention."

But instead I said: "No sir, we mostly kept to ourselves."

He rolled his eyes. He had probably been offering me an explanation and I hadn't been bright enough to pick up on it. At any rate, though, the car was clean. There was nothing concrete that they could bust us for.

After being detained for almost an hour we were finally back on our way. As we drove back to Austin and resuming our 'regular' lives we joked about how we could get away with smuggling all the drugs we could ever want: All we had to do was drive through the checkpoint first, in the Vic, long hair down, looking crazy and, after we had the guards attention, an old man-hired by us of course-would come through in a Toyota Camry or a Civic and complain that the guys in the Vic had been driving like maniacs. In his trunk would be the bails of weed, kilos of coke, burlap sacks of peyote or whatever. He would get waved on through while the two dudes who fit the profile were thoroughly searched. He would then wait a few miles past the checkpoint so that we could get in front of him again, just to keep the diversion going until we were out of the boonies and the 'danger zone' of the redneck, backwoods cops.

I suppose that scenario kept us laughing for a while as the mountains and desert landscape slowly faded into the distance behind us. Long after dark we finally made it back to Austin and, tired, we left the car to be unloaded the next day. I'm sure I procured a six-pack from somewhere and drank it while sitting on our couch in the living room, feeling as if I had just passed through the eye of a storm and had survived.

Since that time I'd gone there again, but the second trip was nothing like that first one. The second time around we ate peyote with Mexicans along the banks of the Rio Grande while tourists passed by, looking at us strangely, and I scored some cocaine which I did while we attempted another hike up Mt. Emory. We didn't even get a quarter of the way up as I was too drugged out to hike.

One night-under the influence of peyote-I thought that the Angel of Death was trying to take our souls and I spent the entire night fighting it off. The following morning I was drained and the weather was cold and windy. Big Bend didn't look like it had to me the first time I was there. All the drugs seemed to rob it of its magic. Maybe the Indian spirits that I had communed with-and that had tried to kill me-the first time just weren't that interested in me anymore. I was a stupid white man with rocks in his heads instead of brains. I wasn't worth sacrificing.

But I long for the day when I can get back there and simply enjoy the view, the mountains, the fauna, the desert, the animals...for that is what it is truly all about. I say with all sincerity in my heart that it is one of the prettiest, most awe-inspiring places that I have ever been so gifted to see. It makes you glad to just be alive, even if you almost have to die to achieve that feeling.