Earlier this month, my wife and I drove to Terlingua, Texas—a ghost town in the Chihuahuan Desert—to attend our niece's wedding. Terlingua is a two-day drive from our home in Mississippi—about 1,000 miles.
We spent the first night on our journey in San Antonio, where we ate dinner at Mi Tierra, my favorite Mexican restaurant. Beloved by tourists and locals alike, Mi Tierra features roving mariachi bands, a Mexican pastries counter, sturdy margaritas, and old-fashioned Tex-Mex food.
The next morning, we traveled west on Interstate 10 into the northern stretches of the Chihuahuan Desert. When we crossed over the Pecos River, we officially entered the Trans Pecos--the most stark and desolate region of Texas.
We arrived in Fort Stockton in the early afternoon, one of the few substantial towns in West Texas. Founded as an Army post before the Civil War, Fort Stockton owes its existence to Comanche Springs, an aquifer of artesian springs that once produced 60 million gallons of water a day — a desert miracle. The fort's soldiers protected Overland stage coaches from marauding Comanche and Apache Indians.
We turned south at Fort Stockton and ended the day in Alpine, Texas, where we spent the night in the historic Holland Hotel. Had we reached the end of our journey? No, on our third travel day, we drove another 80 miles to the tiny hamlet of Terlingua, the wedding destination.
Our niece was married in Terlingua's St. Joseph's Church, attended by four bridesmaids and groomsmen. No male in attendance wore a traditional necktie, but all were appropriately attired. Some wore open-collared shirts, and some wore bolo ties. A few men wore cowboy hats, and many wore their best western boots.
After the wedding, the guests retired to a sumptuous reception to eat barbecue brisket and drink 'horny toad' margaritas and ice-cold Mexican beer. I couldn't find a shady spot to sit, so I watched the young folks dancing the Texas Two-Step in the late-afternoon sun, amply shaded by my Stetson hat.
Terlingua is just a few miles from the Mexican border, and one can see the mountains of Mexico shimmering in the distance. This region is Cormac McCarthy country, the setting for several of McCarthy's novels, including No Country for Old Men.
For the coastal elites traveling by jet from the West Coast to the East Coast, Far West Texas is Flyover Country--boring to look at from 30,000 feet. For me, however, this region has a mystical quality. Its harsh immensity is achingly beautiful.
Life in the Chihuahuan Desert of the Trans Pecos is stripped to the essentials. Air-conditioning and four-wheel drive vehicles don't change the fact that water is the most basic necessity of life and is always in short supply.
I like and admire the people of West Texas. There is a directness about them and an easy hospitality that is missing in urban America, perhaps most especially in the Blue State cities. Fortunately for West Texans, it's damned hard to get there and mostly unappealing for people who own private jets.
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| Two-stepping in the Chihuahuan Desert |
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