HUECO TANKS STATE PARK IN TEXAS

Traveling is a constant learning experience. It is usually very laid back, but on occasion you will run into a situation where your mind had better be on full alert. Such was the case the morning we pulled into Hueco Tanks State Park on the eastern edge of El Paso, Texas. It is a small park with beautiful surroundings and thousands of pictographs adorning the nearby boulder formations. I went into the office to register for camping and it was filled with young college aged rock climbers waiting for permits. When the state park lady finally got to me, I found her very business like, organized and I could tell she had done this a million times by her spiel. I didn’t know anything about this park. It was just another of many Texas State Parks we had camped in. What I didn’t realize was the security involved because of the ancient art. I felt like I was back in the Marine Corp. Instructions were flying and you had better listen up. If I didn’t get them the first time I just knew she was going to tell me to get down and give her 50 pushups. I listened intently and I think I had it. I was told I had to see a short video before I drove into the campground. She said to stop at the next building and watch said video before going to my campsite. Okay, got it! I hope I had it. There were so many new state park rules I had never heard before I was afraid to fart. 

I pulled up to the next building and a guy came out the door and signaled me on to the campground. The gate was open and I went in. Before I could even park the rig, I had a campground host on me like ugly on an ape. He may have been a graduate of Campground Host School, but definitely not Valedictorian. I could tell by his body language he was upset. Luckily he had a radio in his hand and not a weapon. He told me I was supposed to have stopped for a video and I would have to go back. My simple little tourist brain had already figured that out. I then figured out the guy that waved me through must have been trying to point to a parking area where I wouldn't block the road with my rig while I watched the flick. The host lightened up a bit and allowed us to park the motorhome first, since the car was half unhooked and I was already causing a traffic jam worthy of a pictograph. 

Dutifully we got in the car right away and started back to the entrance for our video indoctrination. I was still a bit upset with the hosts attitude but Gaila was counseling me and suggesting I continue to be polite. While I was digesting her advise, I came to the campground gate and it was shut. I would normally get out and push the gate open, but to continue my spousal therapy I decided to go find the host and politely inquire about Hueco Tank State Park protocol when it came to closed gate policy. I knocked on the first RV I came to that said, “Host.” A very nice polite woman came to the door and answered my questions. “Yes, just push the gate open and close it behind you - it's not locked. It’s always supposed to be closed. Someone must have left it open when you arrived.” As I was walking back to my car I ran into my host friend, Judge Roy Bean, dragging his dust mop dog. Knowing my wife was watching me like a hawk I mustard every theatrical cell in my body and said a pleasant, “How ya doin’?”  At that he answered, “What’s your problem now?” Gaila was reading his lips through the car windshield and knew it was too late to keep a cork in me. I blew. By the time I was through dressing him down he and his fufu dog were turned around and heading back to their rig with their tails tucked between their legs. 

Yes, we did finally see the video and met host number two who may have been Valedictorian. It was his rig I had knocked on and his wife who was very polite. He was the kind of campground host we had come to expect and enjoy in all the state and national parks we visit. Gaila thinks my approach was all wrong, but I think I did host #1 a huge favor. I think I gave him an attitude adjustment that might go a long way in tweaking his Emily Post host etiquette.

We didn’t need any more aggravation. We just wanted to do a little hiking, which isn’t easy. Most trails require a guide to protect the pictographs. As we studied the maps, our cat Funny Face bailed. Great, that’s all I need. I was already on the host's scat list and now my pet was loose in the park and heading into the no hiking without a guide area. Gaila literally cut Funny Face off at the pass. I held the door open to the motorhome, determined to deny I had a cat if anyone asked. Gaila scared the schizophrenic little furball back into the rig and I was ready to pull up anchor and leave. Three law enforcement officers with glocks have already walked slowly past our rig peering in. I would not be surprised to find my picture on a poster at the entrance station. 

This park only allows a three day stay, instead of the usual 14, unless you get special compensation, for an additional three, from the Pope. In this case, the campground host. In our case, FAT CHANCE. 

You might think all this camping stuff is easy. Well, let me tell you, it takes a big set of Cojones, as the Mexicans say, to do this. We are the only other rig in the campground besides the two sites the hosts occupy.  They have scared all the other campers with less cojones away.
Never mess with an Irishman!

FROZEN FECES AND POOPCICLES

The RV lifestyle isn’t all fun and games. There are many things to deal with just as owning a home. The refrigerator won’t light, the battery is low, the heater won’t ignite, and here is a new one for me, the waste holding tanks and pipes are frozen! 

This winter has been a record for cold nights in Big Bend National Park, and one still night it reached the single digits. The warming sun rose, not a cloud in the sky. We decided it was time to run the rig over to the dump station, empty and water up for another few days. When we arrived we discovered the park water lines were all still frozen from the night before. The sun was hitting the pipes so I worked on getting a drip started and Gaila and I sat in the motor home and played cards until finally the water was streaming through the pipes at a decent flow. I went out and tried to open the valve on the motor home black water tank----FROZEN. I tried the gray water tank----FROZEN. We played cards for another hour while we waited for the sun to do it’s magic. When I could finally open my sewer valve nothing happened. I was still frozen into the pipe and tank. I took the sewer hose off to inspect, when Murphy’s Law kicked in and the log jam (pun intended) broke loose. Luckily the first wave of frozen feces hit the ground like a slushy snowcone and hesitated long enough for me to get the hose back on. It could have been jump or swim, but the disaster was diverted with action on the part of a master dumper like myself. The solution will be a short wrap of heat tape around my exposed pipes. I can fire it up with the generator when needed and speed the process along. It could also save a lot of misery from cracked pipes if it stayed cold for any length of time. 

LIQUID BORDER

We have always said that entering a National Park gate is like coming home. It doesn’t matter which one, they are all managed in a similar fashion and all have the same feel. We know many of them well and Big Bend is no exception. It is not a pass through park. If you come to Big Bend you made an effort to get here. It is a special natural area secluded in a corner pocket of Texas. Despite the remoteness it has not escaped the geo-political catch-22 of the past decade. There is little illegal trafficking through the park because of its remote location, but the invisible cactus curtain is recognized here as much as any other border section with Mexico. Since the Parks inception in the 30’s the small Mexican villages just across the river have built a meager economy on U.S. tourist trade. On previous visits we used to give a guy a couple bucks for a row boat ride across the river and burro ride into town, have a delicious meal and buy a few trinkets. Today that would cost you five thousand dollars and a year in jail. The Park Service continued the status quo for a while until some tight-ass Bush Bureaucrat heard about all the contraband tortillas that were being eaten in Mexico and deposited in the U.S. The “no crossing” ruling destroyed a unique neighborly economy. If the results of this typical government decision were not so sad it would actually be comical. The people from the two small border towns used to cross the river each day and sell walking sticks, carved and decorated from the sotol plant, and wire sculptures of scorpions and roadrunners. They would sit quietly along the canyon trails and display their wares. Today they are not allowed to cross the river into the U.S. but the crafts are still along the trails with pricing info and money jars. Park brochure warns visitors not to buy these items. You could be charged with illegal importation of goods. I’m no lawyer, but I can’t figure out how we illegally imported a walking stick we bought on the U.S. side of the river. I would also scream entrapment since these beautiful items are everywhere along the river trails and do not seem to be confiscated by the Park Service or the Border Patrol. But the best gig going is Victor the Singing Mexican. Victor sits high on a rock outcropping on his side of the river and sings beautiful love songs that bounce off the canyon walls. He has binoculars and can watch for Border Patrol and Park Service personnel. When we met him, the coast was clear and he climbed down from his perch, crossed the river, and sang a beautiful love song to Gaila. (Click Here To Hear Victor) He truly has a wonderful voice. We do not speak Spanish so he could be singing something mocking but we didn’t care, he was great. Someone was approaching so he went back to his perch, but we could still yell back and forth in English. Victor from the small village of Boquillas, with no electricity, in remote northern Mexico, somehow has his CD’s for sale online.

A better and cheaper solution to this problem might be to man a small border crossing station in the park, where we could all conduct ourselves in a legal fashion and enjoy the experience as we once did. Instead, we spend millions trying to enforce the harmless commerce of a friendly bunch of neighbors, who live across this shallow liquid border, while every hiking visitor in Big Bend is carrying a beautiful ornate sotol walking stick.

We didn’t spend all of our time here breaking the law, paying for contraband musical notes. Big Bend has miles of incredible hiking trails and thousands of panoramic views. From the South Rim of the Chisos Mountains you can see a hundred miles into Mexico and most, if not all, of Big Bend’s 800,000+ surrounding acres.  Keep Smilin’ Dick E. Bird

“Environmental issues are not radical notions by those looking for Utopia; they are the product of an ancient natural process evolving now through the destructive bombardment of intensifying human pressure. In our travels we have met friends on all sides of environmental issues, each with individual perspectives and all without solution, because time holds the solution and only slowly distributes direction.” - Dick Mallery