Cochise was a famous (or infamous) Apache generally associated with the Chiricahua Apaches. From the time he was born, until he signed a treaty in 1872, with one brief period of peace, his people raided and fought with anyone who was Mexican or white. His motivation was that he and his folks were hanging out in northern Mexico, Southern Arizona and New Mexico (the borders have moved around since then) when first the Spanish, then the Mexicans, then the Americans variously showed up and started setting up camp. Ever the opportunists, the Chiricahua Apaches stopped by and took what they wanted when the mood struck. This included some pretty bloody confrontations at which Cochise was especially gifted. After the Americans tricked his father-in-law and chief of the band into to coming in for treaty and then killed him, Cochise lost some trust and hardened his heart. As one might.
Category: The Edge Trek
From Marfa to the Mountaintop
I don’t quite know what to make of Marfa, Texas. It isn’t on the edge, but it is very edgy. For some reason the Chianti Foundation, founded by artist Donald Judd, decided to make Marfa-middle-of-nowhere Texas a hub of the arts — specifically the minimalist arts. The place used to be a water stop and has a permanent population of 1,981 people. But it has a lot of visitors now. Artsy, minimalist visitors.
Riding the Edge
Sunrise at Chisos Basin was everything I could have hoped for. Since you are down in the crown of the basin, the sun rises in grades of light, first like someone turning up the reostat slowly, then like a movie projector showing morning on the inside of the western walls of the basin, then like a laser show over the the tops of the eastern walls. Since the sun heats everything to the east of the basin rapidly before the basin has a chance to catch up, moisture from the evening dew tries to escape and can’t — some sort of temperature inversion, or dew point thing, or something. The result is that within an hour or so of sunrise, a blanket of fog grabs the basin and the result is otherworldly. This is how to start a day on the edge.
Reaching the Edge
I decided to work my way to the west entrance of Big Bend via Balmorhea State Park, HWY 17, then HWY 118. I would reach the edge today, but I would see some things first.
Crossing Texas
To get to the last spot I spent on the edge, I need to get to Pecos, Tx where I can turn south, and head down to the Rio Grande. To get to Pecos, I have to cross a bunch of Texas. Last night I stayed just east of the Louisiana/Texas border in West Monroe; so today was crossing Texas.
Westward Ho
I’m not a big Interstate guy, and would normally be filling this post with wise cracks about the boring drive due west on I-20 from Atlanta to West Monroe, La that made up my first day on this trip back to the edge. Instead, I’m going to recognize an appreciate the massive federal project that is the interstate highway system.
Another Leg on The Edge
It’s time for another leg of my trip around the edge. I hope you will follow along and offer any comments. If this is your first visit, please scroll to the bottom of the site and read up to see the history of this trip and previous stops.
A New Ride on the Edge
Sometimes you get emotionally attached to objects. Against all reason, a tool, or a thing you use regularly becomes so much a part of you, you begin to think about it as you. It has been that way for me with my 2008 FJ Cruiser. From early trips with my son to National Parks, to various hunting trips across the country, it was my home, my transportation and, on occasion, my savior. We carefully considered each modification, some we built, some we bought. It never ever let us down. After 113,000 miles or so, I can honestly say there wasn’t anything about it I would change. It was my ride for the first leg of my trip around the edge. And it is gone.
Back from the Edge
I dropped Foster at the airport in San Antonio, returned my day pack to the passenger seat so it wouldn’t look so empty and headed in as straight a line as Eisenhower could order, back to Atlanta. From San Antonio to Atlanta is about 16 hours via I-10, to I-65, to I-85. One thing about the great civil defense interstate highway system, it can move volumes of people and goods a long way quickly. What it can’t do is give you any sense of connection to anything other than concrete.
Sharing the edge
Voices. Its’s 2:10 am under a full moon on the edge of the Rio Grande in a tent parked on a bluff overlooking the green delta about 15 miles east of the southwest entrance to Big Bend National Park and I hear voices. They are not mine, not my son’s and they are not in my head. The age old debate about whether humans have instinct falls into tiny pieces as I go from deep sleep to instant awareness and strain to separate the sound of rushing water from whatever – I still think it is voices – triggered my consciousness. I nudge Foster, tell him to stay quiet, that I hear something. He raises up, mumbles something, and promptly goes back to sleep.
Rope and Chain 