1) Why do airport terminals have grouted tile floors?
A cacophonous display of roll-away suitcases towed by weary travelers, hiccup along the tiled Albuquerque concourse, sending clickety-clack vibrations through telescoped luggage handles during late evening hours. Each bag resonates with a signature “smooth-bump-smooth-bump” beat against an uneven surface–punctuated by a variety of passenger walking tempos–producing a discordant movement with no beginning or end.
But why not a smooth floor without bumps? Would it be any less durable? Would it be so terrible if towing a suitcase didn’t have to be such a “groovy” experience? Or would pulling a bag along a steady line be too disquieting that passengers would run for their Ativan?
2) Why do airlines spend so much time and money guaranteeing that their fleet flies straight, but they neglect replacing the concave cabin seats that passengers have flattened after millions of ass-miles?
What’s more uncomfortable than saddling into a posterior pancake for hours “on end”, knowing that “cramping quarters” within cramped quarters is cruel and unusual punishment? Shouldn’t airlines be required to pad their seats for the privilege of padding their profits?
3) Why would an airline board a red-eye flight at the last terminal gate, when the airport is all but shut down and all the closest gates are empty?
Stay tuned…there are so many more Qs without As down the road.
as we cross several dry river beds…
along the arroyo to Pratt Cabin, a Depression-era structure built entirely of stone.
Rocking chairs under a cool porch provide perfect respite from the simmering sun.
The road continued another 7.5 miles up and down multiple grade changes, curling in and around exposed mountain walls, and mimicking the serpentine lines of the Rio Grande, making it a driver’s delight and a passenger’s revelation. It’s little wonder that El Camino del Rio has consistently ranked as a “ten-best” scenic drive in America.
The signage throughout the State Park suffers because of its immensity (300,000 acres) and limited resources, so having Mike as lead proved advantageous, since it would have been so easy to overshoot the trail head in favor of the surrounding vistas and roadside scenery.
“Anything we should watch for?” I asked.
While the wildlife sighting reanimated us, Leah wasn’t sufficiently satisfied.
Uncertain of Mike’s politics, I lobbed him an ICE-breaker. “Any chance,” I subtly inquired, “we’ll have a Mexican sighting?”
No argument from me. We worked our way further into the slot, scrambling over, around, and down water-polished rock, sometimes stopping to avoid the many tinajas–potholes of jaundiced water of undetermined depths scattered across the canyon bottom.
After an hour on the trail we reached an impasse. At this point, the canyon walls were narrow enough to touch with both arms extended, but the tinaja before us was too deep to ford, and too wide to bypass. All we could do was turnaround and hike out.
And found we had the whole river to ourselves.
It was Mike, our river guide in one boat and us—with Leah at the bow and me at the helm—in the other.
The air temperature was equal to the water temperature at about 75°, and the wind was at our backs. It could not get any better, or be any easier…until we reached the first of three technical skill zones.
“With this one,” Mike warned, “it’s very easy to capsize, so if you feel the boat tipping, just step out onto the rocks.
“I don’t know about this,” Leah yelled.
I zigged when and where I was meant to zig, and zagged at the appropriate time and place, until…
“Is that it?” asked Leah.
The trail ends at a sandbar where eager Mexicans negotiate with Gringos to ferry them across the river by rowboat. Five dollars is generally the agreed upon price.
However, with the Rio Grande water levels so low, Leah and I found it cheaper to wade across fifty feet of knee-deep water to the other side.
Land transportation comes from Uber burros, charging five dollar fares to cover the dusty and shit-laden ¾-mile trip…
…to a white trailer check-point surrounded by cyclone fencing on the edge of the village. It was a treat to sit in Boquillas’s only air conditioning for a few minutes to escape the 100◦ heat, while our identities were checked against a drug cartel database.
…with an overlook of the Boquillas Canyon.
Mama Falcone was sitting on the patio in her kitchen apron working on a future needlepoint tapestry that would soon display in the family curio shop next door, while her nephew Renaldo brought us menus and took our order—chicken quesadilla for Leah, and beef burrito for me. Meanwhile, a family of three from South Carolina sat at a nearby table chatting it up with Mama’s daughter, Lillia.
The town population shrank from three hundred to one hundred adults and children, with many leaving for Muzquiz—the nearest Mexican city, and a seven-hour bus ride away. Eventually, Mama and Lillia found work in the States, but returned home to the restaurant after the crossing officially reopened in April 2013.
They are hopeful for an economic recovery, but the town is in shambles, and it will take many more Americans to salvage Boquillas’s economy.
I have met the enemy face to face and I do not fear them. Their rowboats and mules would be no match against our ships and tanks.
Earlier in the day, border patrol had sped past our campsite from the southern border, causing us to speculate whether an ICE officer had just interdicted an illegal border crosser. And so, with the sun at our backs, and our batteries recharged, I fired up the F-150, turned right on Texas FM (farm-to-market road) 2627, and headed due south in search of bad hombres. The radio god immediately synchronized his playlist with our mission, and delivered David Byrne belting out the lyrics to “We’re on the Road to Nowhere”.
Historically, the bridge was constructed by Dow Chemical in 1964 to transport fluorite from Coahuilan mines across Heath Canyon to America. But U.S. and Mexican authorities shuttered the bridge in 1997, suspecting drug smuggling. Other reports cite the murder of a Mexican customs official as the reason behind the bridge closure.
Across the border stand the remnants of a faded factory.
Broken buildings and slanted warehouses survive in silence against a brown mountain backdrop.
Yet in the distance to the right of the river, La Linda mission stands alone—its double towers dwarfed by nature’s majesty, and its church doors removed for a purpose higher than God.
There are those who would welcome a return to the border crossing.
Committee meetings and feasibility studies on both sides of the river argue the benefits of potential tourism and ease of crossing without traveling to either Del Rio or Presidio. Currently, a legal crossing to La Linda would take nearly 10 hours by car versus 10 minutes by illegal foot path. But there are no travelers today, or at any other times. It’s just too remote.
and into the twilight, fluttering en masse, up and over the trees.
A continuous and frenzied swarm pours from the cave in a procession that could last up to two hours.
With the exception of some rogue bats that fly off in scattered directions, the mother lode hooks right and follows a path 50 miles due east to Uvalde in search of mosquitoes and corn earworms, a tasty moth that wreaks havoc on a number of Southern crops.
Historically, the Sergeant family, who farmed this property from the early 1900’s, protected the cave entrance with fencing in order to mine the accumulated guano, which provided important income to the ranchers until 1957 when sold as premium fertilizer and an explosive constituent.
Having over-nighted for three days in the park, I can testify that there is no shortage of annoying bugs here. Not to be selfish, but I’d like to propose that some of the bats stay behind and clean up inside the park’s perimeter. If the bats only knew that they could dine closer to home–forsaking the 100-mile round-trip–then I could better enjoy my outdoor dinner plans as well.
After listening to Ranger Matt’s presentation, I have a personal theory why natives might have avoided the cave. It seems that during the cold winter months, the cave acts as a warm weather haven for Indiana Jones’ worst nightmare. Only until the weather heats up outside, and all the good snakes wind their way out of their cozy cave den is it safe for humans to explore the inner depths, and that’s where master spelunker Ranger Matt was taking us.
“That explains the bullet hole in the windshield,” I presumed.
Bertha had been given a pardon, only to be reincarnated as a park bus. For some reason, I was reminded of a road sign I spied on the way to Kickapoo that read: DO NOT PICK UP HITCHHIKERS. THEY MAY BE PRISON ESCAPEES.
checking for varmints before allowing us to climb through a small crack in the ground,
where we found ourselves standing on the collapsed ceiling of a limestone rock pile measuring 130 feet thick. The mouth of the room was big enough to park a Cessna if you could figure a way to get it inside.
and more recent remains of an unfortunate sheep or goat littering the floor
From there we dropped approximately 40 feet, scrambling over ledges of flat rock and boulders, on our way to survey the three largest columns (when a stalactite meets a stalagmite) in Texas. How apropos that along the way, we would pass a formation of stalactites that managed to aggregate into the shape of the Lone Star state.
There was no meaningful trail. Every step was a floating rock, see-sawing under our weight. That’s when I heard Leah go down hard behind me. I swung around to see her flat on her back, saved by her fanny pack.
And Matt was there in an instant.
“I’m alright,” she declared. “I just lost my balance on the rocks.” It was good news to my ears. For some reason, Leah and caves are not on equal footing, and rarely without incident (see “A Hole in the Head” post),
We turned the corner and the room opened up. The ceiling vaulted higher to accomodate the caves’s largest column.
“Don’t be afraid to touch anything,” announced Ranger Matt. “We’re not like most of those other parks that have guard rails and ropes, and psychedelic lights with church music playing.” He was preaching to my choir.
“Like this one over here?” suggested a blond coed, pointing to a name scratched into the calcite that dated back to 1887.
“Ah, good ol’ C. Robinson,” Ranger Matt explained, “He was one of the early ones. But there’s older graffiti in this cave that predates Mr. Robinson–written with torch soot–but that’s in a room that’s off limits because it’s still developing.”
We solemnly wove our way around the space, beholding the nascent natural beauty that will one day become a future column.
or find a blanket-sized parcel of grass to relax and watch the sun go down;
or pull up in a boat to wait for showtime.
One fellow standing behind me seems to be mystified by the whole experience. “Are they gonna fly outta that sewer hole over there?” he wonders out loud.
His misconception is immediately corrected by a 10-year old standing nearby. “Hey mister, this isn’t Batman, y’know! They come out from under the bridge where they live,” says Einstein boy.
I too am excited to catch the bats in flight, but I’m also interested in doing something different with my Lumix, which I’m still learning to use. I’m determined to capture the bats in motion!
The moment arrives when the first bats emerge, and the crowd gets giddy.
And moments later, the floodgates open, and the bats streak across the night sky by the thousands–
a migration wave of epic proportions that approaches a feeding frenzy.
I confess that the photos are experimental. However, I understand that there are traditionalists who need to see things as they are, versus my interpretation of the event. So, in fairness to those whose vision is less oblique than mine, I’ve increased the camera’s shutter speed to give a more accurate representation of the bats’ flight path…
such that even Meat Loaf would be impressed.
The other condition is a more common affliction commonly known as drifting-into-ditch-itis.
Streaming thru America 