Leave it to 2020 to bring a snowstorm to Big Bend National Park. Boy! Did we find some fun adventures as we adapted to closures and fully-booked campgrounds! Woody asked us to look for parables around us—both in nature and in our interactions with it. Some proved a stretch. Others hit with a profound thud.
On our drive down to Big Bend National Park, we encountered a white rainbow, alternatively called a fogbow, cloudbow, or ghost rainbow. We immediately pulled our vehicles onto the shoulder to capture a picture. None of us had ever previously seen one before December 29, 2020.
We had one priority on our Big Bend National Park trip: to get to Fern Canyon, a slot canyon that empties into Santa Elena Canyon. Our first day in the park would be the only one without dangerously-low temperatures. Due to low flow on the Rio Grande, four of us decided to hike the river and take turns pulling the others through the floatable sections. We made it to our El Dorado with about 45 minutes to scramble and explore before our turnaround time. Thankfully, the upstream wind died, and the current helped our return trip go much faster. You can see a video of this action here.
This wasn’t work. Up until I strained the psoas muscle in my right leg, I enjoyed hiking up the river with friends in tow. As much fun as it is hiking a river, though, I wish I could’ve seen the days when it was a wild, scary ride. Much of Santa Elena Canyon’s flow has been pulled out upstream for irrigation.
My goal was to pull Nan and Mike all the way (about 3 miles) to Fern Canyon. About a half-mile into the upriver trek, I strained my right psoas muscle, the muscle responsible for lifting your leg when you walk. HB saw the pain on my face and pushed me out of my duties. My right hip screamed for the rest of the journey in the water, even though I wasn’t pulling a boat. It hurt for a couple of days after, making it hard even to get my right leg into my Chevy Blazer rental. Still, I’m glad we did this—that I got to contribute. The pain was worth the reward of Fern Canyon.
Woody is a scout through-and-through. I remember when he first started mentoring me in ministry. He told me something along the lines of, “It’s your responsibility to go first, to be the most vulnerable, to give men permission (and no excuse not) to share.” He lives that, and I’ve tried to do the same. He’s shown me that shepherding isn’t pontificating or preaching but quietly, prayerfully, intentionally living an authentic life in front of those in our care and within our sphere of influence. This picture shows just one of the ways he personifies that ministry model. Actually, all of my pastors over the past 15 years have likewise lived that in public and private; and I’m better for it.
I love this shot of Woody pulling Nan up Santa Elena Canyon. They are never afraid to go first. They love to bring others along on their physical, spiritual, and philosophical journeys. They never expect more out of anyone else in the group than they expect of themselves. They earn their wisdom and then freely share it.
Fern Canyon holds Woody’s heart. He’s brought more than a dozen of us to this wild slot canyon, where we’ve all fallen in love with it. It’s uncomfortable to get there on foot. With the Rio Grande’s declining flow, it’s not easy to get there by canoe or kayak, either. There’s an air of exclusivity to it, especially after you get past Birth Canal. I can’t tell you how many conversations I’ve had back in Virginia about what it would take to get past the first 1/4 mile we typically cover before turning around. In this photo, Woody is standing at the entrance of our El Dorado.
Standing in ankle-deep water on your way up Fern Canyon, you come to Birth Canal. With some help from your friends, you can stretch, shimmy, and climb around it. Or you can duck under the suspended boulder and climb up through the narrow, twisting, wet passage as mountain runoff showers you. You can see a video of that wet passage here.
Here, Woody is taking the dry route around “Birth Canal.” (Mike’s guarding the entrance of the route that pours cold water over you from upstream.)
This is how Fern Canyon got its name. These ferns inexplicably grow out of the rock wall at the entrance of the slot canyon. Some of them hang from the curved ceiling of the cave-like entrance.
Fern Canyon and Santa Elena Canyon are both supervised by cougars. As we approached the slot canyon, we found bobcat tracks along the bank. We never saw one, but as Woody says, “They probably saw us.”
The day before the snowstorm hit, we hiked in the Chisos Basin in hopes of getting to the jaw-dropping South Rim Trail from which we could survey the park and watch peregrine falcons (the fastest birds on the planet). The trek turned into a walk in the clouds. As the snowstorm approached, our vistas shrunk, and the temperature dropped. So, we stopped for a snack in Laguna Meadows and then retreated back down the trail we’d just climbed. What had been a bustling, jam-packed parking lot was a sparsely-populated patch of asphalt. Nobody wanted to get stranded in the Chisos Basin. (There are no government snowplows in that part of Texas.) We couldn’t show Todd & Luisa one of our favorite spots, but I got to revel in one of my favorite things: fog. (Photo credit Michael Rosser)
The desert towns around Big Bend National Park don’t see a lot of traffic except for the week between Christmas & New Years and around spring break. With that and with COVID restrictions on occupancy in restaurants, we had to wait 2 hours to get into one of the few restaurants that were open.
With a foot of snow on the way, we drove more than an hour toward the small desert town of Presidio—with a population of 5,000± citizens. We found a few, prized motel rooms (three words I never thought I’d say or write). I snapped this from the door of our motel room. That’s how close we were to the roadblock. Because this area doesn’t see snow, the municipal governments don’t have snowplows. So, they just shut the highways down. This is how close we were from being stranded. This was the margin of our provision.
We drove almost an hour out into the desert for what was supposed to be a selection of a dozen covered/sheltered campsites. We found enough for two of our five tents. So, some of us—including Woody &
Nancy (shown)—had to set up in the parking area (only section plowed). We’re ringing in the new year, snow camping on a 28° night as the almost-full moon makes the mountains around us glow against a desert sky.
Up in the Chisos Basin, where we wanted to camp, a very rare snow storm brought 10-12 inches of snow. That equates to about an inch of rain—roughly a fourth of Big Bend National Park’s annual precipitation. We retreated to a dilapidated campground and camped in about 6 inches of snow. Because this snow wasn’t forecasted when we left Virginia, I didn’t bring my gloves, boots, or HotHands. It was a long, cold night in tents we set up in the dark. But when we woke, we were gifted with this magnificent moonset.
After packing up our tents, we huddled to thank God for supplying a place to camp and getting us through a night with windchill in the teens. These are the smiles of people looking forward to a New Years Day of adventure. Because of the snow in the Chisos Basin, we had to abandon our plans, which including “playing the hits” of Big Bend. That pushed us to try trails none of us had ever tried before, which led us to new wonder.
“Let Ryan take it. He has long arms.”
I never thought I’d see a snowman in a desert, especially in Big Bend National Park. We threw snowballs at each other. (I felt so bad on one throw, when I missed my target and hit Nan in the head.) Photo credit: Michael Rosser
At lower elevations, the snow was just enough to add unique juxtapositions to our hikes—like this cluster of prickly pear, accented with North Pole pixie dust.
For the record, Nan obeyed this sign. Woody, HB, and I discounted it as a recommendation for tourists. Haha.
We made it past the first obstacle behind the sign but had to turn around when we got to this tinaja. Down below this, the guidebooks recommend only experienced climbers attempt to make it to the river and with ropes & climbing gear.
A lot of road and place names in and around Big Bend National Park include the word “ranch” in them. We didn’t see much cattle from the vehicles. Where we ran into these hardy animals in some rugged country. Man! I can’t imagine their living conditions in the unbearably-hot half of the year.
Nan snapped this shot. I love it … barren desert sprinkled with snow and interrupted by the green provided by the river. This is a view I never imagined seeing, especially not in person.
If you snap a photo of me in the wild, there’s a 75% chance that this is how I’ll pose. I love standing in wide expanses, drinking it in and letting my wonder radiate back out.
It was wild to stand here at the Mesa De Anguila and look out over the Rio Grande. It’s not so much that the scenery is impressive or that most of this view is Mexico. Five years ago, I paddled this section of the Rio Grande and looked up at the cliff where I was standing when I snapped this picture. It’s so wild to see a place you know from a different perspective. This moment reminded me of G.K. Chesteron’s proverb: “The whole object of travel is not to set foot on foreign land; it is, at last, to set foot on one’s own country as a foreign land.”
After setting up tents and eating re-hydrated dinners, we hiked down to the Rio Grande River to look at the stars. At first, we used our phone apps to identify constellations, and then we grew enamored with the occasional shooting star. Within a few minutes of when I saw the last one, my brand new niece, Eloise, breathed her first-ever breath on this planet. Magic works that way. It can be in more than one place at a time. There’s enough of it to go around for everyone. It favors those that intentionally put themselves where wonder is welcome.
I skipped the camp-stove breakfast, grabbed a couple granola bars, and stole off for some pre-dawn exploring. I was rewarded with a quiet, beautiful slice of the desert to myself. The mountains behind the fog are in Mexico. The fog in front of them hovered over the Rio Grande River.
Every time I’ve traveled to Big Bend National Park, our arrival synced with that of a full moon. I’ve grown as drawn to moon sets as moon rises, and the desert gave me some great ones. Everything to the left of the river in this picture is Mexico.
Y’all know I love me some fog back home in Virginia. I slipped away before dawn and climbed up to watch this fog slide down the Rio Grande, blanketing both Mexican soil and American dirt. I listened to
Jimmy Needham’s “Clear the Stage” and just exhaled. The desert stole our plans this week but gave us an adventurous, story-filled week. Sometimes, you don’t need words to tell Jesus, “Thank you!”
The next morning, we returned to the same floating dock on the Rio Grande Village nature trail to watch the mist dance around us. We saw a great blue heron glide into a reed-guarded section of still water. It took me back to the mornings of my high school summers at Queenstown Harbor Golf Links, watching the herons in the lakes and Chesapeake Bay inlets as I drove my mower between greens.
Most of this desert looks nothing like the places I’ve lived: New York, Tennessee, Pennsylvania, Maryland, Florida, New Jersey, Indiana, or Virginia. But these quiet minutes, standing behind the reeds along the Rio Grande reminded me of my high school mornings on the Chesapeake Bay. Places so different and so far apart united in that moment.
Woody relayed the advice of an old hiker to us: “In the desert, everything stings, sticks, or stinks.” We found d that pretty much true. We sliced up a prickly pear, though. It tasted good—like a combination of a kiwi and a cucumber.
Nan is the master of the spliced group shot. She took one picture of everyone but her and then handed the camera to me to capture everybody but me. Then, she cut me out of the picture she took and placed me into the picture I took. Voila! A full group shot without a tripod, timer, or kind stranger.
Nan did her group-shot-splice trick on this photo, too. There aren’t a lot of people who make the challenging trek to Fern Canyon. So, we might have waited hours or days for a chance to have someone else take our picture.
HB has a tradition of swimming on New Year’s Day. I introduced him to Drew Holcomb and the Neighbors’ song, “Dragons.” He loved it. So, I cranked the song one more time from my phone after we stripped down to our underwear in Boquillas Canyon.
Then, we jumped into the Rio Grande.
Someday, I’m going to bring a camp chair and a laptop to Boquillas Canyon and spend the day writing. It’s one of several places in the world that make me feel appropriately small—that leverage their size and longevity to crush me with wonder enough to press my ego out of my heart. If only for a few hours.
On this trip, we got to see coyotes and road runners, javelinas and herons, pronghorns and turtles. Big Bend National Park is home to hundreds of bird species, including the world’s fastest animal: the peregrine falcon. But this little dude could run at a good clip. This road runner looks a little bit different from Warner Brothers led me to believe.
For our last night in our tents, Nan made a celebratory strawberry cheesecake for us. It was so cold at our campsite, that she just put it in our bear locker to set up. Even without eating dinner out of a bag with a plastic spoon, this was a yummy treat. Nan always finds a way to bring civilization or beauty to our trips—a softness to experiences with hard edges. She does that back home, too. She just might be the most optimistic person I know.
We explored the Ernst Tinaja trail. (This pool in the rock is called a tinaja in Spanish.) It proved a jungle gym for us kids at heart. I love this shot of the lovebirds who invited us all on this trip. Their love radiates in the desert even more than it does in the familiar environments back home.
Mike leans into every challenge our trips throw at his 72-year-old frame—always with a smile, a wiggle of his eyebrows, or a tilted head with “I don’t know about that.” Here he is, working his way across a tinaja to join us on the other side. I have a picture doing this; but I’m more inspired by seeing Mike doing it and thought you probably would be, too.
And here Mike is, skirting a bigger tinaja like a champ. I’m proud to be Mike’s friend, and I love traveling with him. He leans into hardship like few people I know—not just on our trips but in his everyday life. Get you a friend like
Mike, whose example doesn’t allow you to settle, doesn’t give you permission to get bitter, doesn’t lean anywhere but on Jesus when the going gets rough.
Despite 20± trips to Big Bend National Park, Woody had never explored the Ernst Tinaja canyon trail. With some of our favorite trails unavailable due to closed roads, we decided to give this remote hike a try. It didn’t disappoint! This hanging rock proved one of the many unique and intriguing features of the trail.
The rocks in the Ernst Tinaja canyon showcased colors of purple and mauve, tan and orange, brown and white. I’ve never seen rocks like we saw in there. Woody explained some wild layering in the sedimentary rock that slid down atop the massive slabs of igneous rock.
This sedimentary rock didn’t just settle in smooth waves. In some places, it came to rest (or was disrupted by an earthquake) into hard angles.
The men in this picture are 43, 55, and 74; but the little boy in all of us comes out when we find something wild to climb. Behind HB is a chimney through the sedimentary rock.
Here’s Woody climbing up that chimney. Again: this dude will turn 74 in a couple of weeks. I hope I’m still exploring like he is when I’m his age.
I don’t know what caused us to crane our necks, but I’m thankful Nan caught this moment. Woody and I regularly say to each other, “Did you notice that?” or “Would you look at that!” or “What do you make of this?” or “Why do you think that is?” And we both regularly reply, “I don’t know. That’s a good question.” I read somewhere last year that curiosity requires humility. On my journey to be less arrogant, I’m grateful for the example of someone who doesn’t make up answers, who is willing to sit in the discomfort of “I don’t know.” This morning after the storming of the Capitol, I feel a lot of “I don’t know.” Thankfully, Woody’s been part of a group of people who’ve helped me to embrace that lack of omniscience and control.
I don’t know if this hardware store in Alpine, Texas, holds the last vestiges of Radio Shack, or if they just bought an old sign to hang over their electronics department. Either way, it offered a time machine moment. Until Tuesday, December 29, 2020, I’d never been in a hardware store with a toy section, a women’s clothing section, or an electronics section. This place proved to be a modern-day general store.
We all crawled into one of our vehicles today to get HB to his uncle’s church. Find you a bunch of happy fools like this who embrace that the desert makes the rules and plans are laughable—people who share your wonder and child-like curiosity. This trip left an imprint on me.
