A Father's Promise

Prologue

June, 1968

Chisos Basin

The late afternoon sun was setting through the Window as we arrived at our cottage in the Basin.  It had been a long drive.  Bouncing with pent up energy, and ignoring nature’s spectacular light show, my first words were, “I want to climb that!”  I was six years old, and I was pointing at the summit of Casa Grande.

The iconic symbol of Big Bend, this mountain dominates the Basin with towering vertical cliffs that appear unclimbable.  I begged Dad to let me try.  He wisely suggested other, more attainable goals.  We hiked Lost Mine Trail, rode horses to the Window, saw Boquillas, and scrambled into Santa Elena Canyon--all memories that I cherish.  But as we were leaving, I asked again, “What about that big flat-topped mountain?”

“Don’t worry,” he replied. “We’ll be back, and you will climb Casa Grande.”

But fate had a different plan. That early trip was the first of many outdoor adventures from the Rockies to the Blue Ridge, but my father passed away without ever returning to Big Bend.  That big flat-topped mountain remained unclimbed.

February 11, 2010

Late afternoon

South of Marathon

Approaching Persimmon Gap, the mountains have prepared their greeting.  To the east lies a steel-grey cloud mass--a "blue norther"--that is dumping record snow fall across much of north and west Texas.  To the west, accompanied by blue skies and fluffy white clouds, the sun is setting over the Santiago Range.

On this day, we have driven through that blizzard and have emerged safely on the other side.  In a matter of minutes, the temperature has risen twenty degrees.  Our mood changes with the weather, expectations rise.  Winter has turned to spring.

There is no chance of making the Basin before nightfall.  No longer rushed, we are free to soak it all in.  The air is clear, the colors crisp and sharp.  Blue and grey, black and white above mountains set aflame by the setting sun.

Clayton sees it first.  A rainbow, God’s symbol of promise, suspended atop a lone mountain.  On a day like this, it is easy to see why.  This promises to be a very special trip.

February 12, 2010

Casa Grande

High on the slopes of Casa Grande, ice still clings to the shady side of the cliffs.  It has been over forty years since I first saw this mountain with my father.  I am now perched on its flanks with my two sons: Will, eighteen, who carries his grandfather's name; and Clayton, fourteen, who is making his first trip to Big Bend.  In spite of the ice, we are warm from the exertion of climbing, and the cool breezes are a welcome relief.

The walls of Casa Grande rise as an impenetrable fortress, yet on this northeast face there is a breech.  Fractures in the cliff provide access to the summit.  Unfortunately, this approach is guarded by talus slopes, the unstable rock piles that seem to grow under mountain peaks.  From below it may look easy, but Clayton now understands why climbers hate talus--step, slide, step, slide--one step forward, two steps back.  We press on however, and soon reach the saddle at the top of the slope.

At this pass, the secret of Casa Grande is revealed.  What appear as solid cliffs from below are actually granite fins that surround a grassy bowl and shelter a remnant forest of Ponderosa Pine.  From here, it is a relatively easy stroll to the top.  We catch our breath, and marvel at the lush grass.  The boys do not need much rest, so they leap ahead.  The race to the summit is on!  I hustle to catch up, but they are young and strong.  Near the top, they pause, allowing me to join them, and together, the three of us take the last few steps to the summit. 

Under crystal blue skies, the view stretches into Mexico.  Two-thousand feet below us, our tent is a tiny dot. To the west, Burro Mesa is surrounded by the desert.  To the east, volcanic crags keep watch over Juniper Canyon.  And to the south, waves of rumpled mountains roll to Emory Peak and beyond.  This is a day we will remember for the rest of our lives.  My father’s promise has been fulfilled. 

Far to the north, over Green Gulch, a falcon soars on the wind, his feathers flashing in the sun. He glides toward us, cruising directly overhead.  My thoughts drift back to my Dad; this is not the end, but a new beginning.

Our father’s promise has taken us to new heights; a place where falcons soar, and the mountains go on forever.  From here all things are possible.  My eyes follow the falcon, now a distant speck on the horizon; “Yes!  Let’s go there!” 

With the boys’ excited chatter as a backdrop, we make our way back down.  The conversation turns to tonight’s grilled steak dinner.  Fueled by hunger, the descent passes quickly.  Back at camp, tired and full, we grow silent as another timeless sunset drops through the Window.

 

February 12, 2010

10:00 pm

Green Gulch

The stone profile of the Apache chief Alsate looms before us.  He stares silently at the heavens above him.  In the darkness, I have to remind myself that it is just a legend. The stillness is broken by an owl across the arroyo.  I laugh at myself as I nearly knock the camera off the tripod.  I am aware that the owl call was a favorite communication method of the Apache warrior.

This old ghost story only adds to an already perfect day. Filled with steak and blackberry cobbler, the boys and I have come to this dark overlook to photograph the night sky with my new camera.  The results are very promising.

Between exposures, I take advantage of a rare window of cell phone coverage to call my wife, the mother of these two boys.  I hear the love in her voice—she knows what this trip means to me. As I hang up, her unspoken promise remains.  The perfect day just became more perfect! 

February 13, 2010

Cattail Falls

The sun is warm on my face; almost too warm.  This morning I started out with three layers, I am now down to one.  The desert gravel crunches underneath my boots; sweat rolls down my back, and the smell of dust is in the air.  I have to remind myself that it is only February.

As the trail rounds a low shoulder of Carter Peak; the desert changes; I feel the breeze, smell the water, and hear the falls.  A new promise is in the air.  I am soon aware that I am no longer walking on rocks, but on soil--real soil.  A short scramble over boulders brought down by some ancient flash flood brings us to the plunge pool at the foot of Cattail Falls.

We eat lunch in the shade among the ferns and columbines, cooled by the breezes funneled off the Chisos through Cattail Canyon.  Oasis--it's the only word that fits.

February 14, 2010

Apache Canyon

We walk single file underneath a cloudless blue dome.  The view atop Burro Mesa stretches 360 degrees.  Ahead and to the right is the massive uplift of the Christmas Mountains.  Santa Elana Canyon and Mexico lie far off to the left.  And directly behind us, looking closer than they really are, loom the ever-present Chisos.  To a passing hawk we must look like mere specs on the landscape.

The temperature, which has been so wildly variable on this trip, is now absolutely perfect.  The warmth of the sun is balanced by the coolness of the air.  We walk in shirt-sleeves without sweating. 

Our goal on this day is not on the map; it is not well advertised.  The Park would prefer that we stay away.  But of course, that just makes it irresistible.

But Apache Canyon has been well known in these parts for over 12,000 years.  Flint from this quarry has been found on arrow tips throughout the Southwest.  How many Indians have walked this very trail?

At the canyon with flint shards covering the ground, I am once again reminded of my father, and how much he would have loved this spot.  But this is a new generation, and youth will not be denied.  On the return trip, Will finds a higher gear; I cannot keep up.  At one point, I see him crest a ridge nearly a half mile ahead of me.  When I make it back to the van, Will and Clayton are napping in the shade, waiting my arrival.  A third generation is here.  And the promise of Big Bend is before them.