“Alone with the morning burning red
On the canvas in my head
Painting a picture of you
And me driving across country
In a dusty old RV
Just the road and its majesty
And I’m looking at you
With the world in the rear view
You were pretty as can be, sitting in the front seat
Looking at me, telling me you love me
And you’re happy to be with me on the 4th of July”
–Shooter Jennings, “4th of July”
The morning flared awake in hues of pink and red. Our gas station oasis of the dark night before was perched atop a small hill, which revealed sweeping views of the dusty scrublands off to the horizon. The chaos of the night before dissipated into the calm cool blue sky morning. Thin trailing bands of clouds faded into wisps on the horizon. We slowly lumbered to wakefulness, had a snack and some water, and Kristen took the reins and steered us west. Sticking to our original loose plan, we headed towards Guadalupe Mountains National Park without much hope of being able to spend the night. Yet, we plod on across another 400 miles of oil country, derricks puncturing the earth as though performing endless CPR. In reality, they are much more like the skeksis in the ‘Dark Crystal’ draining the earth of its essence and driving us towards climate collapse. As I fade in and out of consciousness in the passenger seat, the Texas heat quickly builds. We turn off the highway and criss cross in and out of oil towns and company housing. Dust cakes everything, the dryness permeates all. We drive for hours on secondary roads. Where signs exist the speed limit is 70, despite being one lane, partially dirt roads for large stretches. The only signs of life are the monotonous oil digging robots rising and falling all around. If I didn’t know better, I’d say I was living in the dystopian future. Am I dreaming or is this reality?
In my sleep deprived haze, I see mountains slowly creep up along the horizon ahead looking like some sort of dark overlord–the eye of Sauron keeping watch over his dominion of oil sucking orcs. Luckily, it is just the towering peaks of the Guadalupe Mountains, the tallest point in Texas at ~8,000 feet, greeting us as we continue our steady rise towards them across the great Chihuahuan Desert. We arrive at the park around noon and find it open for day access, but there is little sign of life in this remote corner of the desert (not surprising given it is one of the least visited parks in the country). We run into a spattering of equally bewildered tourists attempting to figure out how to make the most of their summer road trips in the time of the great pandemic. As we unfold ourselves from the car to stretch our legs–more cracking comes from our joints than seems healthy or feasible–a family does the same from a neighboring minivan, kids yelling and running off down whatever path they can find. The noon heat is oppressive and daunting.
As we stare at the impressive bowl of the surrounding mountains, we decide to pack some water and go for a short walk. Our legs are basically unwieldy stilts after nearly 1700 miles in the car. I am cranky and beyond sleep deprived. Surrounded by the beauty of these barren, but bountiful mountains, I want to be inspired and excited. For years I have been looking forward to coming here. Yet, I just can’t. The walk is enjoyable, but the uncertainty of where we will go next, spend the night–in addition to my lack of sleep and 48 hours in the car–are just too much. My brain is trying to comprehend where I am, how I got here, and where I am going, but it feels like my blood has been replaced with gravy. My muscles aren’t working; is any oxygen getting to my brain? The air seems to be dehydrating me faster than a Finnish sauna. As we climb slowly up one of the mountainsides, I feel woozy and angry. My feet are just dragging and the 6000ft of elevation is not helping anything. Although it felt like we have just driven flat from the Gulf of Mexico to here, we have slowly been climbing with every mile. After about 30min and a decent view of the valley and mountains, a few scrapes with the cacti, and downing over 2L of water, we decide to call it. Back at the car we have more sandwiches and try to create some sort of plan.
With the magical one bar of cell service that faintly appears, we do as much searching and data mining as we can. All the national parks appear to be closing and banning overnight use, including backcountry camping. Although we know that the mixed messages from the top of the federal government are to blame, it is hard not to question the National Park Service’s decision to close down the only areas where human interactions are pretty much guaranteed NOT to take place. All we want to do is take our backpacks and tent and disappear into the mountains, but apparently that is not allowed. And, of course, every state is enacting its own rules (having national guidelines would be too much to ask) and federal lands within each state are utilizing some amalgamation of guidance from both state and federal levels. We almost settle on the Aguirre Springs Campground on Bureau of Land Management (BLM) land in the Organ Mountains outside Las Cruces, NM, but, just as we are packing up, we see a small note saying that all BLM land in NM is closing as of today. In fact, much of the USA is closing again, which is probably for the best, but the lack of notice or cohesion across states is extremely frustrating. New Mexico has reinstated a 14 day mandatory quarantine and is closing almost all campgrounds. However, these regulations appear ass backwards, because what is safer: people quarantined in campgrounds or in dingy motels?
It was somewhat surprising, though, that much of west Texas appeared to be taking COVID relatively seriously. Texas had established mandatory mask protocols and everyone at gas stations and grocery stores appeared to be taking this and social distancing seriously. Given our experiences in FL and the perception of Texas as a ‘keep your government hands off my civil liberties’ type of place, I was surprised to see such obeyance, especially compared to Florida. The question was whether most of the people believed in COVID as a legitimate virus or thought it was implanted by communist China and/or liberal ANTIFA factions. Those were questions that we left unanswered, though we got a glimpse into this thinking a few days later on the edge of the Grand Canyon.
Eventually, we verified that the National Forests in New Mexico were still open, for now, and were allowing dispersed as well as socially distanced camping within established campgrounds. A large green blotch on the map, on the far side of the Guadalupe Mountain range, called the Lincoln National Forest caught our eye. After verifying it was open, had multiple campgrounds, and was within a few hours drive, we made a beeline for it. Along the way we bypassed Carlsbad Caverns, which, much to our dismay, was fully operational. Who was making these rules? You are allowed to take a group tour into an enclosed cavern, home to millions of bats, but no one is allowed to backcountry camp! Really? Well, anyone that wanted to share the fetid, guano tinged air and breathe in the COVID filled breath of their fellow fat tourists, be my guest. I simply felt bad for the poor bats. I envision some Trump-hired NPS bureaucrat sitting at his home in DC drinking a whisky sour throwing darts at a map of national parks to decide which should remain open and which should close. Then, upon hitting Carlsbad Caverns, leaning back in his squeaky leather chair and quoting, to no one but his framed photo of himself shaking hands with Trump, Doc Holliday from the movie ‘Tombstone’: “My hypocrisy knows no bounds”. Then again, I think I give bureaucrats too much credit. My dad seems to think the government conspires against him as a fisherman at certain times, but maybe governments are just so inept they come across as well-designed conspiracists. Hypocrisy requires that they know they are being hypocrital, while also actually doing some planning. I’d be surprised by either level of self-awareness.
After a brief stop at a Wal-Mart (gag) in Carlsbad for some supplies for the weekend (we plan to try and find a nice cool spot in the mountains and not move for a few days), we make the 6000ft climb up into the Lincoln National Forest. For the first time, we luck out and snag the last first come, first serve drive up spot in Silver Lake Campground (technically reserved for handicap access, but the hosts give it to us–maybe they could sense our desperation). At nearly 9,000ft, the air is cool and clean. We nearly collapse out of the car; the scent of pines is just the healing incense that we needed. A few minutes later we are greeted by a somewhat grumpy middle aged camp host who tells us we have to wear our masks everywhere except in our own campsite. She makes some offhand comments about our FL plates and how we are supposed to quarantine, but she can’t do anything to enforce the state rules (i.e., we should be locked in a hotel not the great outdoors, apparently). Eventually she lightens up a bit when we explain our situation. She is just a typical overwound retiree confused and overwhelmed by the ever-changing guidance being passed down regarding COVID. Really, she was just pissed off from dealing with all the July 4th tourists here to get drunk and party and who apparently never paid their camping fees or adhered to any social distancing guidelines. By the end of the three days, she was constantly stopping by our site to gab and unload the latest camp gossip. A couple smiling, rule abiding faces go a long way, I suppose.
After deciding that we would stay put for a few days, we set up our luxury tent and awning, blow up our double thick queen air mattress, and put up our solar array; it feels good to have a sense of permanence no matter how fleeting it is. We go for a short walk, cook up a decent dinner, I down a few beers and we collapse into the luxury of our air mattress enjoying the crisp air and chittering noises of the forest. Not surprisingly, the bliss of our setup is soon disrupted by a hole in the air mattress and we spend much of the night on the ground. No rest for the wicked.
The rest of the weekend is spent exploring empty forest roads, going on random hikes, and just relaxing the 2,000 miles off in our hammocks. Kristen does some actual scientific work utilizing the solar array, while I finally dive into the pile of books that I brought and stuffed into the crevices of the 4runner. We go for a great walk on the western edge of the mountain range, which provides stunning vistas out across the desert to the west–in the distance we can see the white sands of White Sands National Monument. The heat on this sun scorched side of the mountains is unbearable and we retreat back to the high woods. Although the town of Cloudcroft is overrun with weekenders, our campground is like a quiet oasis. Calm and tranquility pervade, as we rejuvenate among the squirrels and chickadees.
A fun fact about the Lincoln NF is that this is where the legend of Smokey the Bear was started. Apparently a black bear cub was rescued during a forest fire in the park in the 1950s and became the real life embodiment of the smokey bear cartoons. They sure love this claim to fame, but who can blame them? Smokey the bear is one creation of the great American advertising industry that I can support.
As we explore the NF, we become aware of the much less strict rules that govern non-National Park federal lands. Unbeknownst to us, there is a strange hierarchy among National Parks, National Forests, and Bureau of Land Management lands. As we are slowly learning, the structure is akin to a dominant matriarch, a rebellious teenager, and a redheaded stepchild, respectively. The NPs are run based on strict rules and regulations that must be obeyed. The NFs have fewer rules and encourage you to really explore, to get off road and off trail, but within reasonable limits. BLM essentially says we are managing this for you, here it is do what you want, but don’t come whining to us if you get stuck or lost; also, we are probably letting the cattle industry run wild and do whatever they want. In terms of visiting, the NPs are like visiting a museum where you wait in line with a bunch of obese tourists to see the outdoors as a finely manicured exhibit; you wait your turn, take your picture, and you leave. The roads are paved and you can ‘see’ the park without leaving the comfort of your car. The NFs are where you go to relax and experience a bit of solitude and be alone. You won’t find any Monet’s or Van Gogh’s–or maybe more accurately Bierstadt’s–but what they lack in awe, they make up in solitude. You may just need to deal with a few cows and logging trucks. BLM land is mostly just cheap knock offs, but there are a few hidden gems that you didn’t even know existed, like some abstract artist that–while not well recognized–somehow hits home and resonates with you. You have to deal with a lot more cows (BLM wasn’t nicknamed the Bureau of Livestock and Mining by Edward Abbey for nothing) and you better have 4wd to find them, but they are out there in the rock and sands of the southwest if you care to explore. Each type of federal land has its perks and pitfalls. However, we are quickly learning that the freedom of exploration and ability to disperse camp anywhere on National Forest roads make up for some of the pitfalls (lack of old growth forests, for one). At the same time, the ability to escape the throngs of tourists and get off the beaten trail a bit (i.e., the freedom to truly backcountry without permit systems and strict regulations) make the National Forests and associated wilderness areas a true treasure of federal lands.
For Kristen’s (and Amurrica’s) birthday, we make a delightful breakfast of pancakes, go for a few hikes, and continue to relax. Just a day enjoying the woods, the way America should be celebrated. As we prepare to head out again at the end of the weekend, Kristen begins to wonder if we should create some sort of backstory to make it seem like we quarantined in case any one else asks. I argue that what we are doing is, in fact, quarantining and that we are clearly not the only ones from out of state (we are surrounded by Texans–did they quarantine at the border before driving up here?). We worry about fundamentally different things, but we make it work. Laying in my hammock beneath the pines with the squealing of children’s laughter from nearby camps and squirrels yelling down at me in anger, I can’t be bothered to worry about the future or COVID. Calm and serenity is all there is as the blue skies fade into a hesitant purple and the first stars begin to approach from afar.
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