One dizzying day in the Davis Mountains

Mitre Peak, Davis Mountains

Morning flared brilliantly in the Davis Mountains, rising from the far end of the canyon and illuminating the lodge’s white walls.

Sunrise hitting rocks above Indian Lodge

We unintentionally set off on a hike, walking the park road through the mostly empty campgrounds and to the park’s bird blind. The blind had relatively few birds this morning. Who needed the blind when birds whizzed around the hills and creek bed? This country was rich with hummingbirds, grosbeaks, swallows and jays.

Sunrise in the canyon

Other wildlife loomed close. Since we arrived, we spotted the healthy herd of mule deer inhabited the park, frequently see along the rocky creed bed. In tune with their desert habitat, their coats were gray and patchy. Mostly we crossed paths with does and fauns, although a few velvet-antlered bucks always stayed near.

We took the rocky Montezuma Quail Trail up to one of the shorter ridgelines, crossing a few switchbacks and rapidly rising above the park road. Ammonia smells stuck with us, signs that either bobcats or mountain lions traversed this ground. On the ridge, the silver domes of the McDonald Observatory’s huge telescopes glinted in the morning sun atop ridges miles away.

Indian Lodge from the trail

We stopped at a restaurant where we ate breakfast on our last trip. They abandoned table service for ordering from a counter manned by as Nancy aptly described him, a Christian bullfrog.

We eased through our lunches before picking an atypical vacation diversion – thrift shopping. The Humane Society Thrift Store deserved a stop. We had a good 20 to 30 years on everyone else shopping that Tuesday.

The store featured items unique and familiar – on a new arrival table, I found a shiny copy of the Readers Digest travel book I stole from my parents’ house, a book of road trips that has governed many of our trips. I contemplated buying a backup to return the original to my parents. The helpful book features several West Texas loops and other regional trips we’ve completed. The store’s resident cat is more than 14 and in ill health, so she did not make an appearance. I bought a T-shirt sporting an embroidered phoenix, while Nancy found a notecard with a hummingbird photo. Had the Fort Worth Audubon Society T-shirt fit, it would have come too.

As we drove around Fort Davis, I thought back to our last visit, remembering a sign for a desert botanical garden in the area. We drove five miles down the road to Marfa before I realized it hid somewhere else.

My favorite gardener in the rare cacti greenhouse

We tried the road to Alpine, where we ran into the Chihuahuan Desert Institute and Botanical Gardens. Most of West Texas constitutes the northern reaches of the Chihuahuan Desert (at no point on this trip did we actually leave this desert).

The institute preserves plans from across the desert, both its “sky island” mountain ranges and its scorching lower elevations. In a greenhouse, it houses one of the best collections of cacti in the world, with many rare specimens unable to survive outside Chihuahuan environs further south in Mexico.

Crazy cacti

More crazy cacti

During our tour, the noon sun blazed intensely. We had not planned on a botanical garden, our suntan lotion back at the lodge. So we moved briskly through the gardens of yucca, cacti and other desert plants. We favored shade all the way to the greenhouse. The institute land hosts several miles of trails, including paths that lead to hidden springs. We wouldn't get there, not with such impromptu planning.

Western rain storm

Hummingbirds cruised everywhere, dressed in feathers seldom seen in Tennessee. They chased each other around the visitor center and gardens, as fierce as expected. Bees flew haphazardly, too busy pollinating to notice us. For all the warnings of rattlesnakes, we saw nothing serpentine around the institute.

Granted, we could not venture far – dark clouds bore down on Fort Davis. The storm rolled in, crossing the high desert terrain as only western storms can. Rather than race the rain to Alpine, we pulled up porch chairs and watch the rains arrived in a steady band reaching down from banks of storm clouds. As we waited, another couple visiting the institute struck up conversation. As the rain drifted past, the husband talked about time in the Texas oil industry in West Texas around Odessa and Midland.

We decided to take the road to Alpine, which wound through some canyonesque vistas. It would provide a wealth of wildlife views, including first sights of West Texas staples. Pillars of rock rise to flattened rims and abrupt peaks. Giant boulders lie at the base of those steep inclines. Mostly igneous rock from the volcano field that formed the range 35 million years ago, the mountains possess a fragility, as if those myriad rock columns could at any time succumb to gravity.

Bull elk, Davis Mountains

A few miles in, we had to pause for an elk break. We had not expected to see a herd, but they grazed in a meadow as the road curled through the mountains. It was hard to tell if the land where they grazed was a ranch or free-range, but any elk could easily leap the fences hemming the highway. We spotted seven or eight cows and younger elk, then a single bull with massive antlers stepped from the shrubbery. We watched through binoculars for a good 10 minutes as they grazed away.

 Alpine was different than Fort Davis – for one, it lacked a silent 150-year-old Army fort on its outskirts. But Alpine did not shed any western feel. This was a working town, where trains cut the town in half while moving a few hundred railroad cars. Set around two one-streets, downtown Alpine was decorated in vibrant murals depicting the regional history and mimicking old postcards.

Alpine murals

Sul Ross State University, which sits on a hill above downtown Alpine, is the college most of us wish we attended (in movie Boyhood, Mason enrolls here). The town doesn’t even have a big-box, just a local grocery store with prices indicative of a remote location.

Had we arrived a little later, we would have stopped at Reata in Alpine for dinner. But we had a good choice awaiting us in Fort Davis. A more vicious storm reached Alpine as we decided to head back to Fort Davis. The skies opened up, drowning the desert town. We pulled into the medical center lot as the rain flooded the highway back to Fort Davis. The rains soon calmed then ceased.

Mitre Peak again

 For a twist, we took Camp Mitre Peak Road toward one of the Alpine area’s most prominent mountains. Mitre Peak boasts rock stronger than those that eroded around it, so it has endured above the plains outside Alpine. From the time we left the institute, Mitre Peak only left the southern horizon in the deepest canyons.

The rains submerged several low points along the road. I balked at one crossing; it wasn’t deep but the flow was strong. Nancy drove through the water with little effort. She stepped into the water to test its depth. We also spotted a turtle in the tall grass, bundled in its carapace. The road ended at a gated Girl Scout camp, where the vantage point of Mitre Peak beat anything from the highway. Other animals were easier to spot – a cow sat abreast of the road.

Roadside cow

Then came the roadrunners. It was as if the rain energized them. Through the rest of our time in Big Bend Country, roadrunners would constantly bounce across the pavement. We didn’t mind watching the speedy birds bound up the road before jumping into the bushes. As we meandered back, a herd of horses broke out of the greenery that shielded them.

Creekside javelina

The elk had disappeared, but more creatures emerged in the Davis Mountains.
I had not noticed it earlier, but a creek followed the road. After the storm, I anticipated that the riparian zone might reveal some unexpected denizens. Minutes later, I shouted “collared peccaries!”

With overcast skies, the hides of the stout, pig-like creatures contrasted more sharply with the vegetative. A little group of javelinas walked along the creek. Three of them us suddenly spotted us and fled for deeper foliage. We crossed them off our must-see animal list.

Back in Fort Davis, we waited out the opening of the Blue Mountain Bistro. We enjoyed every meal and drink on our last visit, so it demand another stop. We were not the first customers; an older couple, dressed for a special occasion, waited at the door until staff pulled the “closed” sign. The bistro did not disappoint. Good wine selections, even better appetizers and entrees followed. Our time in its comfortable environment rushed by. Last time we joined locals and tourists in closing down the bistro bar, the only one in Fort Davis.

Skyline Drive views

This time, we were back at Indian Lodge in time for a trip up Skyline Drive to an overlook. The original fort site, which sat at the bottom of the hill, was impossible to see, but most of modern Fort Davis and its surrounding peaks were visible.

New friends

The rainstorms enlivened creatures other than javelinas. As I unloaded the car, Nancy went to the lodge room. Reaching the steps, I jumped back – a tarantula scurried up the concrete into the lodge complex. Hurrying around him, I ran upstairs and told Nancy she need to come fast. “Is it a bear?”

Given the fate of spiders around our house, we were at the right distance for her to view her first tarantula. He inched up one flight of stairs and to prevent him from inching up the stairs that ended near our room, I stood to encourage his path into a patch of foliage separating the other rooms. She did well in the tarantula’s presence. It was hard to get spooked when the spider seemed too determined to notice human observers.

After minutes of furious scurrying and climbing, the tarantula descended half of the stairs leading to the courtyard and stopped. I felt sorry for the giant spider, which seemed to curl in fear after running on adrenaline. We warned anyone who walked by about his presence. After getting some ice I checked back and he had gone. The rainstorm likely roused the tarantula from his home; males will travel during mating season, and rain is often a catalyst. Hopefully he found a female tarantula to offer safe harbor.

As with sat with an evening cocktail on the porch, we encountered the older couple from the Blue Mountain Bistro. The husband marched by, all smiles. He told us he was working off dinner. After several brisk passes, his wife came by and they both stopped to talk with us briefly.

Encounters with people in travels, people you might never see again, people whose names you will never know, add surprise textures to a trip. The husband’s uncle worked on the Indian Lodge construction. They lived in a town near San Antonio, and this had become their place to escape. They returned every year for their anniversary, and offered us anecdotes from past trips.

This year they marked 64 years of marriage – September 1952. Neither of them looked as if they could be that age. We told them what we had seen (El Paso, White Sands Balmorhea, all the wildlife) and what we planned (Big Bend). They gave advice on Big Bend and talked a lot about the lodge. It was fascinating to see how people of different ages were drawn to Indian Lodge –its solitude, its wildlife, its pristine skies and geology.

Indian Lodge common room

That they returned every year made me want to return as much as possible - No matter how good or bad a year, you could always look forward to Indian Lodge. Soon they excused themselves and we found ourselves wishing we could have stretched the conversation out longer. If we came back to Indian Lodge next year, we would surely see them again.

As the day grew short, chances for a swim in the lodge pool dwindled. But we were determined. Swimsuits back on, we came to the pool deck, empty except for a toad sitting near the water. I jumped in the pool. The waters felt downright icy after Balmorhea’s spring-fed consistency. To combat the temperature I started swimming. Even a few minutes of laps could not generate warmth, so I gave up and dressed.

Before retiring, we decided on one more trip up Skyline Drive – the park was deserted and opportunities for quiet views existed. The night was quiet, the moon had risen and the stars were almost hidden. The last of the day’s wildlife emerged. The swallows that swooped above the pool lights for bugs had been replaced by bats feasting on the same swarms. A skunk lurked around the balconies of Indian Lodge, where we were isolated but never alone, not with wild places just feet away.

Last Davis Mountains sunset