Cavernous Lows, Oasis Highs

Our West Texas swing covered more ground on Saturday than any other day – hundreds of feet beneath the surface, 5,000 feet above sea level, plentiful water on an arid plain, foul weather and balmy spring sunshine. We started early, just a few hundred yards from our hotel in White's City. The misty start repeated itself, but this time it would hang around most of the day. 

The Museum of Geologic Art
The first elevator down to Carlsbad Caverns on National Park Week carried three tourists and a ranger. Two of them were Nancy and I, the other was a Vancouverite who drove four days to end up in the New Mexico desert.

Our fears about him tagging along on our trip through the cave 700 feet underground were unfounded; minutes after leaving the elevator we had the Big Room and one of the world’s massive cave systems to ourselves.

Someone once told me, “If you’ve seen once cave you’ve seen them all.” Having only seen Mammoth Cave and Carlsbad Caverns, I can’t say I agree. Sure, the big ones all come from limestone, but ages of work required to form such a massive cave gives them an organic feel.

Mmm, popcorn

Stepping into the Big Room, one enters a limestone cathedral carved in trillions of drips spanning millions of years. We felt nothing but awe that we expressed in short whispers to avoid disrupting the cavern's solitude. Rock formations moved in crazy patterns. Stalactites grew downward, stalagmites bulked up. The bulkiest stalagmites eventually stop dripping and a few of the bigger ones along the trail gleamed with moisture.

Through the 1.4-mile path cut through the caverns, we had the cave to ourselves for the first mile. When we did encounter others, their voices gave them up minutes before we spotted them. Every scrape of shoe on the cave floor broke the silence. Here, a spoonful of noise weighed a ton.

The Big Room ceiling rose more than 200 feet above the cavern floor and stretched more than 4,000 feet. We didn’t need words to describe Carlsbad Caverns’ epic formations. Bulbs rose from the cave floor, patches of needles lined the ceiling, and I can’t forget the popcorn or formations that resembled abstract humans standing in the dark.

The cave's evolution continued. Often drops of water from the ceiling were the only noises heard deep in the Big Room. In some spots. water pooled into small ponds, bizarre limestone formations rising on their dark shores.

The Bottomless Pit sat at the Big Room’s far end. Only 140 feet deep, the pit’s sandy bottom muffled the noise of anything dropped into it, deceiving early spelunkers into believing it bottomless.

In other spots old-fashioned rope ladders dangled into unseen depths. Those flimsy ladders seemed barely capable of holding up anyone. Yet that’s how Jim White and the early cave explorers rooted around in this tunnel. Little formations like the Doll Theater look exactly as they sound, with everything made from stone.

When we returned to the surface, the visitor center became considerably crowded. From the canyon drive, cars poured in a steady stream. I almost had to haggle with a ranger to get a map; they had almost run out and were only offering one per party. But we could not leave without keeping our collection complete.

One last pass through the canyon, we picked up our wares at the hotel and split White’s City, which had served as a great two-night base camp for exploring this rugged corner of Texas and New Mexico.

Again crossing the Texas border and reentering Central Time, we went immediately east 40 miles on the wet farm-to-market road to Orla.

Oil trucks were the only other vehicles on the road to Pecos.  There were lots of them. We saw a few small oil facilities near the highway but out int he desert, the there might have been hundreds or thousands of wells just beyond the next ridge. Pecos had a bit of charm, as did every dusty Southwestern town we crossed.

Not a care in the air at Balmorhea State Park

Afternoon Oasis 
At certain points west, storms move differently. A rainstorm churned along to our west. Wisps and tendrils drooped down from the central cloud. Beyond that storm, the first blue sky of this Saturday eased out. The towns of Balmorhea and Toyahvale passed slowly. A smoker ran in a city park, a county sheriff enforced the 25 mph speed limit. Toyahvale can claim an oasis named for the other town.

Balmorhea State Park protects San Solomon Springs, a group of springs from which 22-28 million gallons of water flow every day, providing the lifeblood necessary for farming in bone-dry country. The springs sit at the bottom of a 2-acre swimming pool built by the Civilian Conservation Corps during the Great Depression, along with a Spanish-style motor court.

Nancy swims near the deep-end dropoff.

In the past two decades, wetlands have been reconstructed off the canal that emerges from the pool, offering a glimpse of the springs’ original look. Immediately time slowed down and both of us relaxed. There was nothing else to do but swim.

The pool wasn’t too crowded. People were friendly. One of the Hispanic men in the pool asked us where we came from. Upon hearing Nashville, he remarked that he lived 100 miles away, but this was his first visit.

Even the fish were friendly. Yes, fish. Millions of minnow-sized fish swarmed in the waters. My best attempts to grab one came up empty every time. Occasionally, a black shoe crept on the pool bottom. These catfish were not lazy swimmers, just conserving their energy. They demonstrated how fast they could travel whenever ambitious children attempted to grab them.

Fish swarm in Balmorhea

The pool depth goes from four or five feet to a maximum of 25 feet, where scuba divers and snorkelers explore the springs and the sandy bottom. One arm of the pool ends in a diving board above 20-foot depths.

At a constant 75 degrees Fahrenheit, the spring water felt cold at first, then quickly grew comfortable. A day after reaching the highest point in Texas, these waters that originated from rain that fell on the Davis Mountains recharged our tired muscles.

After about 90 minutes, we cleaned up, dried off and left Balmorhea, even though we really didn’t want to go. Time seemed to stop at San Solomon Springs, worries peeled away and the water was always the right temperature. Soon the oasis in the desert would feel like an oasis of good weather on this stormy spring day.

Waterfowl, turtles in Balmorhea's restored wetlands

Fort in a Storm 
The next 40 minutes we climbed to the Lone Star State’s highest county seat, Fort Davis. Route 17 swerved through mountains and a fair amount of green. From dry riverbeds loomed massive cottonwoods.

Altitude added a lushness to the desert that it lacked at lower elevations. The sun beamed down on Fort Davis as we checked into the Hotel Limpia on the town square. The town’s laidback character was immediately evident.

But black clouds and fierce winds ushered in another rain salvo. We crossed the street to eat at the Blue Mountain Bistro & Bar. Round after round of rain then hail walloped the tin roof. On the patio, the hail began to pile up. Across the street, pea-sized hail fully coasted the back patio at the Limpia West. I napped hard after dinner.

Soon we returned to the road and our final stop of the night. We made reservations at the McDonald Observatory, the University of Texas’ astronomy facility. They picked a mountaintop near Fort Davis because of the clear skies.

As we traced the winding route up to the observatory, the night grew soupier and the prospects for stargazing receded into the fog. When we arrived, we couldn’t see the telescopes, much less the visitor center. We already knew the odds of seeing any stars that night.

The visitor center hummed angrily with the chatter of annoyed tourists. With his wife looking on, one man berated the women at the desk when told she could not issue a refund. He acted as if the clerk caused the nasty weather outside. Eventually they offered a voucher for another visit, and the angry man was first in line. No one missed him.

The remaining crowd placed no emphasis on good behavior. Sitting through a presentation on what we would have seen, we took a quick exit after a handful of bad questions. There would be no star sightings from the observatory this Saturday.

We struck out on the dark mountain road, cruising through darkness until reaching Indian Lodge, the motor court at Fort Davis State Park and first source of light in miles. Our prospects improved as the weather dried up in Fort Davis.

An encore at the Blue Mountain Bistro, Fort Davis’ only bar, was in order. A few tables were still full, and people at the bar swayed in and out of consciousness.

Nancy had a Jameson then some tequila, while I eagerly tried a few cans of Alpine’s Big Bend Brewing Company, West Texas’ lone craft brewery. The hefeweizen hit all the marks, the No. 23 Porter was probably not the best choice after a few wheat beers.

Many hours after the star party concluded in disappointment, we spied a few twinkles above the Davis Mountains from our hotel room. Just don’t ask us which stars broke through the clouds.