Big Bend National Park is one of the largest, most biologically diverse parks in the country—and you’ve probably never heard of it. Stuck all by its lonesome in the bendy part of southwest Texas, along 118 miles of the Rio Grande river, Big Bend is famously isolated and inaccessible. Out of all the national parks, Big Bend is consistently one of the least visited.
Devon and I experienced that remoteness and isolation for ourselves. We spent a harrowing night in Presidio, Texas, at the Big Bend Inn, which is somehow retaining a 3.8-star rating on Google despite rotting doors and chipped paint. Devon was walking bow-legged in pain through the gravel parking lot, talking on the phone with a family friend/medical expert about whether he was going to die tonight or early next morning.
Eight hours of sleep in room 3 later, Devon was sore but had made nearly a full recovery, and he threw a leg over the saddle like a cavalry veteran. We set out for Terlingua along a two-lane highway that runs next to the Rio Grande. Terlingua is the closest town to Presidio, but it’s 64 miles away, and the road is anything but flat. We climbed nearly 3,000 feet before the day was out, making it one of the toughest days of biking I’ve experienced on this trip.
Technically, the town of Redford lies between Presidio and Terlingua. Don’t blink or you’ll miss it—I almost did. But Devon spotted a beautiful house on the side of the road and suggested we stop to take a look. The owners, Alaine and Robert, were outside working in the gardens, watering and fertilizing an incredible array of rose bushes and fruit trees. Like everyone down here, they were happy to chat and give us the tour. The adobe style, red-tiled house used to belong to Alena’s parents, and its where they raised 10 children. Like a lot of property in Texas, it was divided between the siblings, but it’s Alaine and Robert who spend at least one day a week fixing up the old place. They both have green thumbs, and in the midst of the Chihuahua desert, their property stands out like a sugary oasis.
I don’t know how we got to talking about President Trump’s wall, but Alaine told us she thought the whole idea was pretty silly. “Even Republicans here are against it,” she said, especially because the people in Redford have such good relationships with the townspeople on the other side. (Redford, by the way, is a town of 20 people, and most of them are retired.) Alaine said, in fact, she crosses the Rio Grande to buy groceries. Robert added that in all the time that they’ve spent in Redford, the cartel has never bothered them. I have no idea how Alaine and Robert voted because our conversation about Trump’s wall had little to do with politics—they’re both just unsure why a wall is necessary.
Devon and I went back to climbing hills. As a team we were a bit of a wreck: Devon’s bike didn’t have enough low gears to get him easily to the top, and my rear derailleur had started skipping gears 2-5. The sun was beating down on us, and several times we saw buzzards flapping around and picking at greasy pieces of road meat. In El Paso, the Rio Grande supported farms on both sides, cutting a green swath miles wide through the desert sand. Here, the green had narrowed to just the banks of the river and the water was now knee high at most. We stopped whenever we found shade, and there wasn’t much of it.
We rarely had service on this stretch of road, and ended up asking a number of people “how far is it to Terlingua?” Like kids in car seats we wanted to know “are we there yet?” hoping someone would tell us we already had arrived. This seems like a good place to mention that all drivers, every single of you, are worthless when it comes to such questions. People who drive cars—and I’m including myself in this stereotype—know absolutely nothing about the road. Is there a shoulder? Is there a gas station? How far is it to [x] place? Is the road flat? What is your first name? All of these questions yield the same blank look of hmmm I’m not really sure … and then a wild throw at the dart board. Wives and girlfriends will often consult their lesser-halves, but Frank, Brad, and Dave don’t have a clue, either. Drivers, I’ve learned, always underestimate distances, and they’ll always break your dehydrated heart.
Devon and I finally reached Terlingua as the sun was starting to set. We were so happy to have a motel room and seats at a restaurant that we toasted life itself and ordered appetizers.
