I’ve always hoped I’d do whatever it takes to protect myself and those around me when faced with a fearful or threatening situation, but how would I really know? Its not every day we have the opportunity to evaluate our limits, but on a recent trek in Caprock Canyon Mel and I were given that chance.

A few days before the Thanksgiving break we flipped a coin to determine the location of our next adventure. Heads, Caprock; Tails, Big Bend. With a subtle smirk Mr. Washington watched as we set north.

Over a seven hour drive toward a horizon hungry for even the slightest contour we reminisced about our time in the Grand Canyon which ignited our wanderlust years ago, and watched as red lights began to phase in and out in the darkening west Texas distance. Thoughts of The Matrix came to mind as we were surrounded by the scarlet halftone fields, but the sparks told a far less dystopian tale of an evolving energy industry. Each of the thousand points of light were projected from a towering wind turbine taking full advantage of the oblate countryside and the region’s unobstructed winds to help bolster wind energy production in Texas to number one in the nation.

We entered the park under the cover of darkness and were met by a member of the State Police checking on entrants in leu of park staff who were off for the holiday. He recommended a place to camp, warned of roaming bison (buffalo do not actually roam there), and wished us a Happy Thanksgiving before sending us off. When we woke the next morning it appeared that our reminiscing had manifested a smaller, but nonetheless grand vista of the canyon walls burning red in the rising sun. We were transported to a piece of Texas we hardly recognized; one that unfolded with each bend of the canyon. The gratitude we felt for the opportunity to explore its extents were apt at such a time of year.

After a cup of Boomtown’s finest roast atop a mirador which opened eastward as far as the eye could see, an about-face took us 2 miles into carnelian country where we set camp off the beaten path. This would be our home-base for the next five days and a welcome, but unfamiliar scenario, as we were accustomed to through-hiking on treks gone by. In this case we would hike a section each day and return for dinner and dreaming each night.

The first few days were great. We hiked several courses through the canyon that brought us surprisingly close to herds of bison roaming free in the park, and built our stamina for the more challenging hikes to follow.

It was a still and sunny 65 during the day, but after dark howling winds funneled into the canyon ushering a bitter cold that crept into the crevasses of our tent. Despite the frigid nights, we had all we needed to brave the elements, and we thought, anything else that may come our way.

While brewing the morning coffee on what would become our last day, I bent down and sat on a cactus. “That’s certainly one way to wake up,” I thought. After a big breakfast we climbed a challenging section, through a large stand of Mountain Cedar resting on the edge of a plateau, and back down to a huge rock-face covered in ferns where we stopped to eat lunch.

From there Mel and I split up. She retraced our steps to camp, and I took an extended route to an area we planned to meet later that evening.

Mel was back at camp with plenty of time to inspect native plants of herbal interest in the bioregion; her intended focus for the remainder of the day. During her plant walk she paid special attention to the narrow paths and winding riverbeds that surrounded our primitive site, plotting a mental map over the course of the afternoon.

Instead of taking a marked path, I opted to follow the sinuous arroyos and babbling streams which snaked in and out of the folds of the canyon. Soon the footsteps of fellow hikers disappeared, leaving only the meandering tracks of a coyote to break-trail ahead. As sweeping curves turned to rock halls that pinched at my sides, even the coyote choose an alternate course. The once sandy path morphed into a short, but deep slot canyon whose rocky walls had been eroded by the west Texas wind and turned sharp as coral. Several areas required stemming up and over shallow pools and rock chokes which obstructed the way. In places, large roots grew across the slot, barring the path as if to say, “go no further.” In hindsight, maybe I should have listened.

The riverbed forked near a point on the map depicting a small lake. On one side stood a wide ledge about 10 ft tall which, if water had been flowing, would have produced a decent falls. The other side led to a bramble which displayed signs of having recently been occupied. Bison-sized imprints and deeply rutted tracks were still pressed into the grass all around me. A tall wall of rock standing between the two options supported a wise old mountain cedar whose gnarled roots broke through either side. To avoid the climb over the wall I started into the bramble, but soon found it too thick and a bit anxiety provoking as I considered contact with its previous inhabitants.

In defeat I returned to the wall and noticed that the roots of the cedar stretched down almost far enough to touch. As improvised holds they helped make quick work of the climb which dropped me back into the riverbed and then opened to a sun scorched plain leading to the trail. As I stopped to give thanks for the adventure ever-present in this beautiful but rugged wilderness, I found myself reflecting on an existential conversation Mel and I had a day before. “What will it take to commit to real change in our lives,” I asked her. “One thing is certain, we’re not guaranteed tomorrow.”

To be continued…