Terlingua Ranch, Big Bend Texas

 

Terlingua Ranch, Big Bend Texas…..

For the last hour we have flown over the convoluted landscape west of the Pecos, viewing the terrain carved by wind and water over eons of time. This is a harsh country with almost no surface water, little rain and sparse vegetation that consists mainly of cactus and creosote brush. But it has a desolate beauty reminiscent of southern Utah’s Monument Valley with fantastic carved outcroppings, dry washes and rocky ridges in rusty shades and tones of brown and orange. We fly over scattered small ranch buildings, often with a dirt runway nearby, a few catch pens and old trucks seemingly abandoned. Here and there, we spot wild goats and cattle gathered near the few water tanks. We stop in Terrell County for fuel, calling ahead to be sure the pump was working. The airport featured a concrete block building left unlocked for pilots who might need sudden shelter. Soon, the manager arrives, an old cowboy in jeans and a pearl snap shirt, who drove out to meet us and sell us some 100LL. He saw me trying to make a call on my cell phone and let me know the only hope of finding a signal would require a climb up the rotating beacon tower high enough the hit the tower in Sanderson.

We visited for a while, then with temperature and wind rising, cranked up for the 70-mile flight to Terlingua Ranch. Just northeast of our destination, we cross through Persimmon Gap, a small break in the rocky ridgeline erupting from the desert floor. The wind funnels off Taurus Mesa, kicking up some low-level turbulence as we make the approach to the gravel strip tucked deep in a narrow canyon at almost 4000 feet MSL.

Upon landing and climbing out of the airplane, you can’t help but notice the quiet. Other than the sighing of the warm southwesterly breeze, there are no other sounds. No traffic noise, no voices- human or animal- disturb the afternoon silence. At first it seems odd, almost unsettling, but then we faintly hear the drone of the other incoming aircraft as they make their approach. Jimmy and Sally in the Cessna 180, Chris in his Husky, and finally Russell in the iconic De Havilland DHC-2 Beaver. Soon all our travelling companions are parked, and we shuttle to the cabins where we’ll spend the next couple of days. Our Adventure Flying Group, consisting of a cross-section of General Aviation pilots who share an interest in exploration, has selected Terlingua Ranch for our latest foray. I first became aware of the allure of flying small airplanes in the Big Bend when a small group of Austin area pilots formed the “100 MPH” Club in 1999 and began an annual trek to the area. Gradually, the group grew to include around 30 pilots.

If we had chosen to visit a few decades earlier, we would likely have seen Carroll Shelby’s DC-3 parked here. The famous Ford racing legend and a few friends used to escape from Los Angeles to drive dirt bikes and off-road racers across the desert.

He ended up buying around 190,000 acres in a land development project, the remnants of which are still in operation here at Terlingua Ranch. Shelby loved the austere and remote country where nobody could tell him what to do or to watch what he did. In 1967, he and his buddies established the world-famous annual Chili Cook Off. In keeping with the West Texas weirdness, the town-folk elected a goat as the mayor of Terlingua. Clay Henry was first elected in 1986 after Walter Mischer, owner of the town of Lajitas, and a few friends were enjoying a beverage or two at the saloon decided it was time for the town to have a mayor and Tommy Steele was soon “elected”. A local, Bill Ivey however took exception to Steele as mayor, claiming that if a Houstonian could be mayor, his goat could be mayor. Clay Henry lost the first election to Steele but was subsequently elected in a landslide, defeating Tommy Steele, the trading post wooden Indian and a local ranch dog named Buster. Clay Henry went on to fame as the beer-drinking goat, chugging offerings from the tourists in town.

The timing of our visit is coincidental but significant as Sunday is March 2^nd, Texas Independence Day. Back in 1836 a group of settlers, feeling abused and neglected by the Mexican government, decided to revolt, and take responsibility for their own circumstances. Today, some of their descendants are still searching for freedom from too much government and are turning away from the trappings of modern society to live a simpler, more independent life here in the Big Bend. These are the misfits who are willing and able to take responsibility for their own welfare, who seek solitude and who share the simple pleasures offered here. Many choose to live “off the grid”, collecting power from the sun and wind, gathering water from the seasonal rains, and consuming little along the way. Most don’t have television, air conditioning or much else that most of us consider essential. Many do have access to the internet, using the power of social media to connect to friends and family far away. Things the rest of us would never stop to think about often require a great deal of planning. When it is 80 miles to the hospital and hardware store, you get in the habit of making lists and checking them twice. Neighborliness becomes an essential skill as folks share labor, talent, and equipment to perform basic tasks. And like any group, there are squabbles, outliers, and oddballs but on the main, everyone makes the best of it. Visitors are made welcome; stories are shared and bonds are quickly formed. However, they don’t suffer fools well and you hear stories of those who simply weren’t cut out for life out on the edge and who soon departed for something more suited to their liking.

I spent an hour visiting with the ranch manager about the folks who took root and flourished here. “It’s a tough, brutal environment, blazing hot in summer, where everything tries to stick you or bite you.” Speaking of the summers where temperatures routinely reach 110 degrees, a young Lieutenant Phillip Sheridan who would later rise to prominence as a Civil War General was stationed at Fort Duncan along the Mexican border. Asked about the heat, he replied “If I owned Hell and Texas, I would rent out Texas and live in Hell.” The manager went on to explain “You must recognize that there is a certain amount of luck involved despite all the planning and preparation needed to live here. The vagaries of weather and the remoteness requires an intimate knowledge of the environment, and a sense of humility. You quickly realize that you have to take responsibility for your actions and remember that the consequences of any shortcomings can be severe. But the rewards are commensurate with the risk. The beauty of the night skies, the smell of the desert after a passing rain shower, the satisfaction that comes from meeting the myriad of challenges that arise all are part of the package for those who live here.”

 

Afterward, we settled into the rustic cabins, moved to the porch staying in the shade to avoid the harsh sunshine and simply watched the dust devils swirl along the caliche road leading to the main gate several miles away. As I thought about the manager’s description of his neighbors, it seemed he might have been describing many of the aviators in our small group. They share the same sense of adventure, along with an acceptance of the challenges of flying small airplanes in remote regions. These pilots and passengers enjoy and embrace the freedom of travelling with minimal oversight and maximum flexibility. Accepting the same challenges, depending on their knowledge, skill, and judgment, they represent a rare sense of adventure. As Jimmy Buffett sang, these folks choose not to “swim in a roped off sea”. But when they are gathered up, stories are shared, some even true. Laughter fills the air as friendships are formed or renewed and new adventures are planned. The party ebbs and flows from the porches to the airport and back to the Bad Rabbit Restaurant where adult beverages, Mexican food and live music help us get in sync with the Terlingua timeline. As we retire to the cabins, wading again through the silence, searching for the ghost of Clay Henry along gravel paths where shadows from the nearby peaks are cast from the undiluted starlight above, I can feel why we are drawn to this wild place.