State of Pride

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It is said that no one from West Texas appreciates outsiders telling them what to do or assigning them an identity that has already been well-established for decades. It is the genesis of an inflated pride that covers this mammoth state from El Paso to Texarkana. Many, like me consider such boasting simply naïve delusions of grandeur. Where southeast New Mexico is nonchalantly considered a suburb of the obvious, it is hard to imagine that a single state can be bigger in the minds of its admirers than its geographic parameters. My home state could easily fit into one of its lesser-known counties, but with exponentially more inhabitants. As the South Central plains evolve into the foothills and buttes of the American Southwest, lonely farm windmills pump scarce water. They stand as silent sentinels before rising bumpy mountains, which turn blue and magenta in the fading rays of dusk.
Five hours on the two lanes of a magnificently maintained Interstate 10 West reveal that secular and rigid New England may as well be just a theory or a short drive from Oz. AM radio stations in Spanish come in better on the car radio. When zipping by a small roadside hamlet at eighty miles per hour, the speed limit, oversized yet austere crosses mark the front lawn of a Baptist church. Unsightly windmills that generate electricity flail atop mesas and violently clash with the otherwise uninterrupted scrubby and hilly prairie.
Alpine is the seat of a mostly empty Brewster County. It, like nearby Marfa and Marathon, is among pockets of small-town isolation where a firm civic presence prevents folks from truly feeling lonely. The first eye-catching Alpine landmark is Sul Ross State University, perched upon a hill as you drive into town south on U.S. 67. It keeps Alpine young and energetic, however quiet it is on Christmas night with all shops shut and students away between semesters. Sul Ross State surveys and anchors Alpine’s perpendicular streets, on which emporia, independently owned bookstores, and bakeries still thrive. Neither faceless strip malls nor twenty-four hour mega warehouse stores have tainted its character. Not a single motorist is in a hurry in Alpine. They are too concerned about slowing down enough so to wave hello to me on the sidewalk as I take in a part of my country, which is truly original and even more unabashedly American.

To validate my visit to West Texas is my motel room. Advertised as the most reasonable rate in town (read: really cheap) it is exactly the setting I have sought to bring to light the rustic and sometimes rusty backdrop. The two-tier complex could double for public housing in the rougher parts of Los Angeles. Rooms face its uneven interior parking lot, just a few feet from the sidewalk. It has seen no repairs or renovations probably since the railroad came through here. Rooms are clean, but decorated with cracked molding and peeling paint chips clinging to the plaster coated walls. The bed is rock hard, though I am sure Management sees it as “firm”. The faded wallpaper border reminds me of my grandmother’s house in Greater Boston and is about as old as the linens. The room is painted in a flat powder blue, as is the closet rod for hanging garments. Drilled into a doorless alcove is a closet rod for hanging garments. Lighting in the bathroom is of naked fluorescent bulbs, which fail to fully illuminate the tiny rectangular shower basin. The fractures in the opaque window above the toilet are covered with cartoon bandages for children’s boo-boos. This is the kind of motel built for travelers whose only purpose in Alpine is to get a night’s rest and then make tracks. Nowadays, it still fulfills this function in addition to ensuring that those few who reside here must pay their weekly bill in advance. It is not the place you’d put your parents who have come to visit you for a few days. But it might be, or once was, a place even they would have considered when they needed a spot to lay their heads until dawn.
I love it.

Alpine is Main Street, Texas. Hearty welcomes and genuine cheerfulness permeate its residents, whose sense of community is embodied in the high school football team more than the university. Amtrak comes to town once or twice a day, as do other freight trains. From the passenger window, Alpine looks deceivingly forgettable, particularly if en route between San Antonio and Los Angeles. But, the town’s unpretentious take-it-or-leave-it appeal deflects from rougher back alleys and a sharp aesthetic division between each side of the tracks. To the north, Holland Avenue is a classic scene of shops, the Holland Hotel, a wonderful microbrewery (How happy am I?), and sidewalks protected from the elements by overhangs and sometimes vertical supports from second-floor buildings. Much of the town’s business takes place here. The houses are in better condition.
To the south is literally “the other side of the tracks.” Years ago, it was completely occupied by Hispanics. The sole church, Our Lady of Peace, two blocks from the station, is of typical Mexican architecture. Masses are offered at eight o’clock on Sundays in Spanish. It is the only Catholic church in town, a cultural symbol for those of Mexican origin who decades ago were segregated to their own Alpine, especially at night. In spite of the empty and deteriorating storefronts on Avenue G and shabby exterior of the humble houses, the stark historical divisions no longer exist. Yet, those who drive by or open their front doors are far more brown-skinned than light. It matters little; I still receive a sincere “Good Morning!” or “Howdy!” from so many.

Sam has been connected with the Lobo Bar for five years. A native of Alpine and 1991 graduate of Sul Ross, he acts as manager, counselor for staff, town crier for locals, and welcoming committee to those who pop in the door from out of town. Born Samuel Vega Acosta, a pure Texan by any standard, he is now the general manager of a college bar going through a dormant period between semesters. Sam’s solid build is that of a catcher. Ironically enough, he is a self-appointed historian when it comes to baseball in Alpine.
“You know, Rich, Ernie Banks and Gaylord Perry have played in Alpine and we think Satchell Paige even came barnstorming through here. And the baseball field where our high school team plays is modeled after Wrigley Field.” I drove past the ball field. You’d have to be rather imaginative to see links to Wrigley at this time of year. Though, the outfield brick wall could be covered in ivy during the season.
Sam boasts of his passion for baseball. In a state where football reigns supreme, his stories recalling his childhood and the game he adores differ little from young boys growing up in Brooklyn. “My friends and I used to play sandlot ball. We even brought in the sand to even out the field. We played for hour and hours. We even created our own Field of Dreams.” He continued, “Video games were just coming out, so what else could we do? No MySpace, no iPods, no MTV.”
It was an ideal chance to delve deeper into present-day Alpine through Sam’s eyes. “And today, Sam, what do young folks do in their free time?”
“Just what I mentioned. Alpine has changed a lot because there was little here but a single road and the train. McDonald’s has been here no more than twelve years.” No great feat, I believe, especially given the quality of the Barbecue joint when heading north on 118 out of town. “Youth still strive to leave Alpine and experience the world, but for different reasons than before. Back in the day, we had a plan and did it by steps.” Sam accentuated his words by putting the four fingers of his right hand together and driving them into his open left palm. His family instilled in him structure and purpose. And Sam sees little of any in Alpine’s current stock of teens. “Some who get the grades go off to UT, but just to party and wind up back here in three semesters, kicked out of school. They leave to have a good time, but are ignorant of what’s out there. They’re Alpine kids. Odessa and Midland are big cities to them.” Many back in New England have never heard of either; they are neither Dallas nor Houston. Gorgeous young Adrian behind the bar opened her compact to check her eyeliner. She is not quite ready to move to Odessa, she says. “I do not want to go there alone.” Adrian’s graduating class last year numbered twenty-three.
I provoked him with an obvious follow up, “So, Alpine is sheltered, then?”
“Yes and no. Youth know what is going on in the world. They are more connected than we ever were.” From what I gather in the classroom on a daily basis and when I go online to see what my students are up to, I would have to concur with him. “The University has invested and buildings continue to go up. The campus has expanded and it is better for Alpine’s image.”
Sam speaks resolutely about Sul Ross. It has been good to him, and I do not allude strictly to the business its students bring to the Lobo. Not only the first to graduate high school in his family, he also received his degree from the hometown college. Having been accepted at Notre Dame, his family could not afford to send him far away. He has few regrets.
“Nowadays, kids,” whom he must hire for staff, “they don’t want to work for anything. I had all kinds of jobs. I used to cut cattle, be a store clerk, and wash dishes. Now? They think they’re entitled to what their parents have, but do not understand or appreciate how hard their families had to work for what they have.” Interesting, the story is the same wherever you go.
He excused himself from the lounge chair facing me to attend to two newly-arrived customers. Over at the bar, before the five pool tables patterned on the concrete floor like the points on a domino, there sits a tipping jar. Among the adhesive stickers on the outside are two that read, “Tipping is not a city in China” and “Tippers are better lovers.” Such is one of the frustrations for Adrian to make a few extra dollars when fifty-percent of the clientele is on a limited income when having to deal with tuition, books, and meals.
Sam’s enunciation of Spanish terms suggests he is a native speaker. Spanish does not dominate the linguistic scene in Alpine, but can be heard by restaurant staff and brown-skinned customers at the bar after a hard day’s labor. When he came back to the chair five minutes later, I asked him about his travels, and if he often goes to Mexico.
“I love California. In fact, I almost moved to San José”, in the Bay Area. “But, I think Alpine is where I was meant to be over the long term.”
“And do you go to Mexico?” Meanwhile, a short-haired blonde truck driver ordered a Bud from Adrian. Without making visual contact with him, I would have sworn he was Randy Travis by his voice alone.
Sam speaks perfect Spanish. Yet, this does not necessarily reflect most folks with Spanish surnames. “Not much. Sometimes I go to Ojinaga, across the border at Presidio.” Sam knows Chihuahua well enough, but prefers to spend free time in Texas. “And by the way, you don’t hear as much Spanish around here as you’d think. Most immigrants from Mexico”, and Sam acknowledges their illegality when applicable, “head for Midland, San Angelo, and then Dallas. There is little sense to stay here. They’d stand out and be a target for the Border Patrol.”
Back to the language. It has been spoken here far longer than English. “Are most Hispanics of Alpine fluent in Spanish?”
“No!” The tone is his answer implied that they ought to be ashamed that they could not speak. “Maybe twenty percent can speak the language decently enough.”
Wow, such a low number. “Why so few? The border is right here, Sam. The history, you know.”
He was ready. “Many refuse to speak so as not to be associated with illegals who come through. Parents don’t use it at home all the time. So, Hispanic kids feel embarrassed when they make an error or cannot follow a conversation. At the high school, attempts have been made to establish cultural clubs. But they have not been successful.
“Do you think it has anything to do with an inferiority complex?”
His contorted facial expression revealed that he didn’t care for how I worded the question. “What kids want in this town is to be on equal footing with everyone else. However helpful it is to be bilingual in the United States, down here speaking English distances you from trouble and despair. It’s a mindset. And only we can solve this ourselves.”
“Do any Anglos speak Spanish in town?”
Sam let out a good chuckle. “No, and when they do, it’s just horrible to listen to! The language thing goes back many years, Rich.” He referred back to how Alpine was socio-economically segregated in the years when his parents grew up. In 2007, some with the names of Martínez and Rivera struggle along with their white counterparts to pronounce vocabulary terms in the classroom.

“Sports are a big deal in Texas, especially football,” I quipped. Does the town have a greater passion for the University or high school team?
Sam replied instantly, “The high school without a question.” Adrian, Sam’s distant cousin, confirmed this. Adrian reminded me of the purple letter “A” painted on Holland Avenue’s sidewalks. The same “A” welcomes patrons at the front door of the Lobo. They stand for the Bucks of Alpine High School, not the Sul Ross Lobos. “When the college team is doing well, then they’ll get a better attendance figures. But the high school is the central feature of sports in town.”
“And for the NFL, Sam? There must be a split following between the Texans an-”
“Cowboys, man! Cowboys! We follow the ‘Boys here in Alpine.” Sure enough, the open parlor-like room of the Lobo was decorated with ceiling streamers, every other one was connected by a helmet with a blue star prominently showing.

“You need to check a few other places in town, Rich.” I hope you stay longer. The more you get to know Alpine, the more you’ll like it. We’ve got some really good folks here.”
I offered no rebuttal. Sam must sit at the very top of the list.

Taking Sam up and his offer, I popped into Railroad Blues after dinner at the Edelweiss Brewery. Authentic Bavarian cuisine is the last thing you’d expect in Alpine along with an adjacent beer factory. Welcoming western potpourri hang on the walls of the Blues, considered the most popular nightspot in Alpine. The crowd is about seven to ten years older than the Lobo, a little more intellectual, however just as friendly. Sam had instructed me to have their sangría. It comes with a good kick and a reputation for flavor.
“You look East Coast,” the bartender remarked at my button-down collared shirt in khakis. I scanned the rest of the folks at the bar. I was the only one not in jeans. Flannel shirts at Railroad Blues are all the rage at nine o’clock.
“Hartford, Connecticut,” I said confidently. This raised some eyebrows a few barstools away. The masses took little further concern and returned to their Coors Light drafts.
“Y’know, piped up the young, quiet, confident, slender, and brainy type from Austin, Brewster County is bigger than your whole state.” It was his attempt to measure me up and compensate for some shortcomings of his formative years.
“That may be true,” I replied. “But my state is actually populated with more humans than tumbleweed and the collective IQ of this entire county couldn’t add-” OK, so I didn’t really mention the IQ thing. I like my head connected to my torso. Yet, after I told him it looked as if Alpine had been enjoying the benefits of electricity for at least twenty years, he knew his bragging would be met with unexpected competition.
My state of origin raised the interest of a Big Bend forest ranger, who proceeded to recommend my visiting Terlingua and do the drive from Presidio to the park entrance. Just then, a cultured couple from Houston took a table nearby, glanced at me, and took comfort that they were not the only ones whose attire did not exactly match everyone else’s.
“Just do not drive the road at night! It is very narrow and -” Then the bartender chimed in, “Cars often go over the guardrail because drivers speed on the road. It is twisty and hazardous at night if it is icy. Stay in Terlingua.”
“But I’ll probably base myself in Presidio. What do you think?”
“Do the drive. But don’t go out for a few after dinner in Terlingua and think you can make the trip back OK. It’s not a good idea.”


The scenic West starts at the Davis Mountains in Jeff Davis County. Only a half-hour through classic scenery you’d come to expect from a Clint Eastwood film, the loop formed by state routes 118 and 166 amounts to an unforgettable ninety miles. Dotted with dude ranches and overlooked by the McDonald Observatory, maneuvering the exigent curves takes away from my looking left and right to enjoy the surroundings. An accountant from Houston, who had just completed the loop the day before on his Harley Davidson, cautioned me at breakfast of the drastically changing conditions, above all if on the shady side of the mountains. The gradient, he said, was sharp and temperatures plummet with little or no warning. I must admit I should have paid him more than superficial attention. In fact, while in biker garb and a Confederate soldier cap with a Stars and Bars patch on his jacket, he had done the trip on a motorcycle. I have a car. He knew what he was talking about.
A few minutes into the first significant climb past the shiny white telescopes, the funniest thing happened. My car has a digital thermometer to gauge the outside temperature. Just past the observatory entrance, it read sixty-two degrees. All of a sudden, while alternating my eyes between the road and the display, it began dropping a degree every ten seconds or so. At some intervals, the numbers dipped three degrees at a time. “This must be some mistake,” I said to myself aloud. When it read thirty-four, that’s when I concluded the sensor was malfunctioning. I pulled over and stepped out of the car in only a long-sleeve dress shirt just to check. The biting chill and stiff wind sent me diving back into the driver’s seat instantly. I shut the door in amazement. It was true. The small packs of snow on the far lane were proof indeed.

The remote setting of the Davis Mountains enhances the beauty and the isolation that accompany it. My only companions during the undulating circuit were few. A pair of riders zipped past me on high performance motorcycles. Later on, a UPS truck came from the other direction. Then somewhere in sight of Baldy Peak, a ten point white tail buck darted in front of me. I had to deftly swerve to the right to avoid making instant venison out of it.
The engaging drive cuts through outstanding scenery. Parched and bumpy prairie serves as the foundation for bare mountains and exposed rock face. Beef cattle graze in front of distant dwellings whose tin roofs shine brightly in the sun. The land is dry and the range of color from pale yellow to chocolate brown is a perfect locale for that determined UPS truck to pass me. Yucca plants and mesquite line to roadside. Peering ahead, far-off buttes and mesas must measure at least thirty miles away, with barbed wire fence as the only obstacle worth mentioning. If reaching through clouds from above to stroke the coarse land, it would feel like the rougher side of Velcro.
The State places numerous historic markers along the route. One refers to a self-sufficient Baptist retreat. I can hardly imagine a more appropriate setting with fewer distractions than here to get closer to someone or something you consider bigger than your own being.

Fort Davis’ stature, traffic, and size make Alpine feel like Chicago. No more than an eye-pleasing country road junction and a few side streets, it is the seat for Jeff Davis County. Named after the Confederate president, Davis established this out-of-the-way post as one in a series of fortifications while a general during the Mexican War. During the Civil War, some of the top officials on Davis’ staff were from here. After the Southern defeat, Davis maintained ties with the county.
Timber and pseudo-adobe storefronts and a gift shop or two set the scene for a short, yet suitable visit. It’s the ideal spot for guests from Dallas and Waco to gather after a hard day’s ride at one of the many tourist ranches. I hear their conversations as I walk by. “We’ll need to get home soon, honey. I have to prepare for that staff meeting and get those numbers in before the quarter closes.” No one from Fort Davis would ever utter such words.
Nevertheless, they do ask other questions. A too slender sixty-year old woman keeping to herself on a bench in from of her shop, wished me good morning and asked without introduction or greeting, “Now just why is that flag at half staff today? Wasn’t like that yesterday.” I knelt down to her level to ensure she understood me. As I got closer to answer, I could see the hearing aid beneath her graying uncombed hair.
“President Ford died last night, ma’am.” She took a moment to process this.
“He was a good man.” True, I thought, however accidental his rise was through the Executive Branch. “Maybe I should turn the TV on every once and a while.” I smiled back at her. “Maybe not,” as I looked around. To be a part of the Fort Davis community, a satellite or cable TV connection is not required equipment.


Arrival in Presidio is ominous and forlorn. Sandy, rocky, and grey unpaved streets shoot off from the very few that are properly surfaced. Telephone poles support electrical lines, which lead to the humblest of dwellings. Just before U.S. 67 ends at the Rio Grande, it forms O’Reilly Street, the avenue in Presidio. Downtown Presidio’s bleakness contrasts sharply to the eye-popping snow-sprinkled mountains that rise behind the Mexican town of Ojinaga. Shoppers, some of whom come from Mexico, choose from Family Dollar or Dollar General to pick up supplies. Between shops sit open lots or boarded up structures on the brink of blowing out of town with the tumbleweed. It’s a colorless and bland main drag of tin-roofed, nondescript bock buildings, one of which is the town hall. Off Route Sixty-seven, there are no pedestrians and few cars, just green dumpsters, free standing walls, and rubble that has spilled into the street. After a few days, the rubble intermixes with the loose surface and you can hardly tell it was ever there.
A border town whose economic lifeline depends far more on Ojinaga than it will with San Anonio or El Paso, I keep thinking that Presidio cannot be as desolate and unwelcoming as it appears. El Patio is the only worthwhile restaurant in Presidio. No surprise that the cuisine reflects its next door southern neighbor more than Indiana. Some wait staff understands enough English to take patrons’ orders and deliver dinners hot with fresh tortilla chips, refried beans, and salsa on the side. The posters of the high school basketball teams taped to the walls at the Chamber of Commerce show smiling teenagers, decked out in the uniforms of the Presidio High Blue Devils. Their games must be a rallying cry for a community that has yet to show much life at all outside of filling up their pickups and SUV’s. A Geo Metro would be laughed at in Presidio. At the Phillips 66 station and shopping at the Thriftway behind my modest motel accommodations, a young border officer pushes her cart around the supermarket in search of whatever tickles her fancy. She probably just got off duty; mud has caked on her ankle high black boots. Her youth, bright blonde hair, rather good looks, and the name tag of Jones on her shirt pocket prove further that she has not been part of the community for too many years.
As with many households in Mexico, the Big Bend Inn is in shockingly agreeable condition on the inside. This belies the sore exterior, empty sand pit for a swimming pool, and general despondency of homes behind the parking lot. Expecting the prison cell Steve McQueen got in Papillon, floral decorations, however plastic, pop out of the walls and are suspended from the ceilings in the corner. The TV is better than the one I have at home. Garland adorns a multi-level wicker stand, and the bathroom sprouts no life forms.
Not only is my room shelter from a Presidio that I hope will look better when the sun goes down, it has also protected me from a wild dust storm that has enveloped the whole urban area. The rounded peaks in Chihuahua to which I wake up in the morning have disappeared into silhouette. Tumbleweed and other loose matter crash into the side of my car. The angry wind whistles at a pitch almost out of range of the human ear. The whole strip of rooms to which mine is connected heaves ever so slightly back and forth with each thrust of wind against it. I immediately think of Dorothy’s house in Kansas, dip my neck into my shoulders, and continue to type away. The covering over the duct where the air conditioner rests during warmer weather bellows uncontrollably. Wherever it is I want to go tonight can wait until the storm passes.

Nightlife in Presidio as thumping as you’d find at a Tupperware™ party for octogenarians, I have turned to Ojinaga to entertain me. It is the standard awful border town, many notches above repulsive (Reynosa) and disgusting (Nuevo Laredo). Winter daytime highs soar into the uppers 60’s, forcing the Chihuahuenses to dawn scarves and lined leather coats. I must confess I have visited Ojinaga twice; the first time was an accident when I drove by the parking lot before going over the bridge. There was no way to turn around. I feared some tortuous punishment awaiting me by Mexican authorities. They know very well rented cars cannot leave the United States and enter Mexico. Yet, the customs officer on down slope of the bridge simply waved me through without so much as a single question or peek at my license plate. I took this as permission to do a little exploring. Within five minutes, I was in some state of lost, bored, or unimpressed. I navigated my way back to the crossing, paid the toll to leave Mexico, and explained my situation to the American officer. I was ready for the standard line of questioning I have been accustomed to when entering the country from Canada.
“Sir, good afternoon!” was my opening line.
“Hi there. How long have you been in Mexico?”
“About eight minutes.” Then I went silent. I was curious how he would react. Also, his Texas drawl entranced me more than the content of his questions.
“What was the nature of y- Eight minutes?” Though truthful as I was, the officer immediately was suspicious. I did my best to steer him away from more pointed questions. I handed him my rental contract and explained.
“I missed the parking lot turn over here and,” I indicated where I thought the lot was with my outstretched forefinger, “could not turn around. I came back as quickly as I could because this car is-”
“Not yours.” He finished my sentence. Tension gone, I popped the trunk for a quick inspection and the officer offered a few helpful suggestions to avoid repeating this minor violation. A quick thanks to him, and I was back in the United States.


Presidio at night is creepy. Ojinaga in the dark is not for the inexperienced without a taxi driver at the border. Things get suddenly lost in Mexican border towns, such as wallets, cars, and family members. Ojinaga has a much more calm reputation, though Juan at the Big Bend Inn office glanced at my sleek rental car and then my lighter complexion. When I told him of going across for dinner he said, “You’re not going over there with that, are you?” His point was well taken.
A few minutes passed after opening my daypack for the Mexican customs officer. There were no taxis. Falsely confident of my time before in Mexico, I decided to keep walking into the night past shut taco stands, smashed out street lights and barks from dogs that immediately induce a change of underwear. Ten minutes later and the border crossing out of sight, I dove into a gas station to arrange a taxi. I had been dumb, but not entirely insane. The attendant replied to my question about a nearby taxi stand with a shrug of the shoulders, the kind that said I didn’t belong there. The scruffy and bearded fellow pointed back to the bridge. Thanking him, I briskly walked, almost jogging to the toll crossing. From the gas pumps, the pale yellow customs house was in miniature because of the distance I had already covered. In the opposite direction arrived a beaten up sedan with a taxi light on the roof, I flagged it down straight away. It was full. Though dejected, Raúl, the driver, said he was taking a group to a bus station. It struck me odd; in Mexico it matters little the number of riders in a cab; there’s always room for one more. Perhaps the station was out of the way, it was better for me to wait for him where I stood.
“Don’t worry, I will come back for you.”
“OK. I’ll be right here!” It started to rain and I could see my breath from the chill of the dropping temperatures. I slid under the streetlamp and pulled the hood of my burnt orange Texas Longhorn sweatshirt over my head to stop the raindrops from pelting me. He sped away and left me curbside completely alone. The street lamp was bent forward to the divide at twenty degree angle. Every six or seven seconds, I jerked my head to the left and then right to try to look as inconspicuous as possible. The empty lot behind me was dark and cold. I was alone and hoped to stay that way until Raúl came back for me.
“¡Buenas noches!” He returned the form of courtesy after I jumped in the taxi, ten minutes later. The five men who sell regional artisan products out of a burlap sack, Raúl told me, had been looking for a bus departure to Mexico City. I wondered silently how often those nomadic vendors have made the arduous trip. I have done it twice. A lot of road was ahead of them.

Swallows instinctively return to San Juan Capistrano. Americans within driving distance of Presidio migrate the same way to Los Comales on Ojinaga’s main square for dinner. The best restaurant in town, it is a failsafe option for weekenders from Alpine, Marfa, and Fort Stockton. While out in Alpine, I recall patrons making plans to meet there for an upcoming Saturday night. When Presidio people go out, they choose Ojinaga.
Yolanda Anaya’s family has been managing Los Comales ever since it opened as a sidewalk taco stand in 1976. Soon after taking a seat in the empty lounge, she and her baby-faced assistant from Puebla attended to me with the utmost attention and kindness. Between notations in my notebook and refills of Dos Equis in frosted glasses, Yolanda, a classy woman in her late thirties, kept me entertained for the evening. All the while, she also danced around tables to serve chiles rellenos and tamales. Her kindness to me and dazzling smile ensured that I remain planted at Los Comales into the late evening. She offered me a shrimp cocktail on the house to start off with and then a cream tequila liqueur on ice after I ordered a fantastic hamburger steak in taco spice doused with mushrooms. Yolanda introduced me to local patrons as a friend, and invited me to join a table of dentists and orthodontists from Chihuahua City.
Her routine brought her by the lounge every five minutes or so.
“Yolanda, when do you breathe?”
“When I get to come to talk to my Ricardo.”
Wow, good line. “Are you married?”
“Yes, my husband and three children, we are all very happy.”
“Do you have a sister, then?”
She giggled, poured another Dos Equis, and promised to be right back. I affixed Yolanda and her staff Connecticut lapel pins to their apron straps.
“You’re all official residents of my state.” I explained where I live, between New York and Boston. Most could not grasp where either is on a map. It made little difference.
My bill arrived many items short of what Yolanda brought me. After compensating her in the tip, I accompanied her around the dining room as she closed up, shut the lights off, and locked the front door. A peck on the cheek and hug goodbye, I thanked her for making me want to come back to Ojinaga.


Through my split screen motel room window, I see snow has settled on the cloud enshrouded mountains behind Ojinaga. The overcast morning does not deter me from taking to a ride the length of the Rio Grande to Sturdy Butte, after a breakfast of chorizo, scrambled eggs and steamy flour tortillas at El Patio. No road could be more inappropriately misnamed: Calling Farm Road 170 as such is analogous to saying the New Jersey Turnpike a poorly maintained hiking trail in Idaho. Absent of any noticeable livestock or crops, Farm Road 170 sneaks tightly through canyons passing chasms and cliff face in a real-life roller coaster on asphalt. Unquestionably among the most phenomenal stretches of paved road to drive in the United States, there is no subtle transition on the eyes from riverbed to mountains; one looms right on top of the other. At its most intense between worthless Redford and upscale Lajitas, the treacherous and thrilling two lane paved path surges over sharp inclines, sometimes a stone’s throw away from the river. The Rio Grande, at stages stagnant, shallow and only a few yards across, capriciously squeezes in and out of sight through ravines no subcompact car could ever dare to attempt.
The advice I received to exercise extreme caution on the dives, climbs and turns (seemingly at the same time in places) was spot on. Diverting attention from the road or taking liberties with speed could easily result in a nose dive into a ravine or worse. State of Texas D.O.T. plows, the type New Englanders naturally conclude are built for snow removal, trudge along the inside lane. The pair of vehicles flashes their yellow lights as both deliberately scour the surface in order to scrape up and push aside recently fallen boulders against clusters of pink cactus clinging to the vertical cliff wall.
The Rio Grande is, for most schoolchildren, a thick blue line on a map of the United States that separates Texas from Mexico. Its girth is far more exaggerated on the map than in reality. While its current and the wind have contributed to the landscape above, the river has been relegated to a controlled, moving flow of water toxically abused by the border town it visits. Its importance nowadays for Mexicans and Americans is symbolic, as a toddler can walk across it. In Lajitas, the eighteenth hole of the golf course actually sits in Mexico. Golfers have to trudge through the river to play the final hole and walk back across.

A newly constructed Western style boardwalk welcomes fashionable tourists to Lajitas, Texas. Plenty of room is left in front for weekend guests from San Antonio and Corpus Christi to park their Lincoln Navigators and Nissan Pathfinders. On one side of the well-swept fine pebbled street, “town” rises as an expensive lodge, jewelry store, and folk art gallery. It is Old Sturbridge Village, Texas style, with the local accent thrown in. The makeshift town façade of two by fours Clevon Little and Gene Wilder helped build in Blazing Saddles is more genuine. From the benches on the finely finished promenade, I take a seat on a bench by perfectly manicured cacti to see across from me dazzlingly new condo, ready for occupancy. In front of the storefronts architects have placed posts for horses to be tied up right next to full water troughs. A hopeful realty firm awaits visitors willingly to invest in a piece of reproduced Texas superficiality. Of course, the preferred method of transportation around the boardwalk is either foot or the golf carts that bring guests and hotel staff from the hotel restaurant to the spa. Not a single scrap of trash spoils the boardwalk. I wonder how many of these folks dare stay in my Presidio motel, or even dare drive through town without stopping. Above and secured in to the ceiling are Bose™ speakers from end to end. They evenly dispense some granola talk show about therapeutic organic remedies for house pets. Somehow, I doubt the tractor and combine report will follow.

The first thing that comes to mind about Terlingua is the chili cookoff it hosts every November. In scanning the free-standing yellow stone buildings and little more than a general store, I then consider the contest, which attracts hundreds of participants, and the insufficient toilet facilities on a very sensitive septic system. Is this an ideal setting, or a recipe for disaster? From where are the port-a-potties shipped in? Ouch! Fresh air drives through town thankfully at the end of December in a less refined version of made-for-TV movie ghost town. The chic designer jeans and boutique style shops of Lajitas, just a few miles away, have been replaced by a gift shop of trinkets, hackeysacks for pre-teens, and a beat up hatchback with Vermont license plates in the parking lot.
I actually like Terlingua and Lajitas; their restaurants and galleries do not pretend to be anything else than showpieces for outsiders to come enjoy what they could never get back in suburban Minneapolis. Still, the backdrop of dry mountains and mesas in Chihuahua reminds all that the food court at the Mall of the Americas is nowhere nearby. When a merchant at the gas station in Sturdy Butte commented, “You’re a long way from home,” she wasn’t kidding. In fact, I feel farther from home in Big Bend country than in some parts of the eastern Mediterranean.
Farm Road 170 calls me back to Presidio. What I have absorbed already in one direction, hopes remain high that a different angle will open new vistas and wonders of West Texas.

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Photos

Lonely Highway
Signposts remind motorists of the task at hand...

Movie Set?
No. Alpine's past...

Finally
Someone with proper priorities

A Mid-Winter's Dream
If you like to drive, West Texas is for you...

Water, Anyone?
Where there is water, there is farming...

Penny
after breakfast, I was told I was lucky to have survived the meal here...

Around Fort Davis
Brilliant circuit if you're not in a hurry...

Fort Davis
Remake for visitors...

Presidio, Texas
This is the United States?

Hugging the Rio Grande
To the left: U.S.A. To the right: Mexico

Rio Grande
In U.S...easy to wade into Mexico...

Pink Cactus
I thought this was a fantasy at first...

A Movie Set?
Actually, yes, it is...