In March of 2017, I sat out on an adventure with my buddy, Jason.
We both have dual-sport motorcycles. Our plan was to trailer our bikes over to Big Bend National Park and then ride off-road around the desert for a couple of days. I think it should be noted that the last time Jason went riding motorcycles in the desert, he broke his neck and back in multiple places. Before our journey began, I made the same promise to Jason as when we went on a 5-day whitewater trip back in 2015; I will buy your wife, Linda, a lifetime subscription to Our Life so she can find a new daddy for the girls should he not make it back. I was just joking.
This trip began just as another one of my trips was ending. I was returning from a business trip to Washington, D.C. It was Thursday night. Since I was flying into DFW, I spent the night at Jason’s house. Jason lives in Dallas.
That night, we got everything packed and ready because the plan was to head out early. We wanted to beat the traffic. Our drive to Big Bend would start by crossing both Dallas and Fort Worth. We made it out of town with no problems.
Whenever I go on an adventure, two things always happen. First, I over pack. Second, the most memorable part of the adventure is not the actual main theme of the adventure, but rather the interesting little coincidences that happen along the way.
The main theme of this adventure was riding motorcycles through the desert. We were only about 100-miles into our trip when the universe revealed its first coincidental encounter.
The winter was mild this year in Texas. A mild winter, combined with warmer than usual temperatures meant everything was in full bloom ahead of schedule. My sinuses were in full bloom as well. I had been taking allergy medicine for weeks, but I took my last pill the day prior in D.C. I was out and needed more quickly. A road sign said, Cisco Exit 1 mile. Jason and I had not eaten breakfast, and I needed sinus medicine on board, pronto. We hit the Cisco exit. There was a Wal-Mart located within eyesight of the interstate. This was our first destination. Unfortunately, the pharmacy was not open. I could have bought some of the regular sinus medicine, but the stuff I needed was behind the counter. The pills that have a “D” in their name. You know, the ones they make meth out of, or at least that is what I’m told. Defeated on the medication front at Wal-Mart, we went ahead and picked up a few more items that we would need on the trip. When we got back in the car, I consulted with the The Google. The Google, said there was an open pharmacy less than a mile away. I pointed the truck and away we went.
It took no time at all to reach the pharmacy. It was not only a pharmacy, but a coffee and sweet shop too. The lady working behind the counter was pretty, and looked to be in her late twenties. When I walked in she smiled big and said, “How can I help you.” I smiled back and said, “I am all out of sinus pills and whatever’s in the air is killing me.” I told her I was looking for the generic version of Claritin D 24-hour. She went to the back and returned only to tell me that she was out. Being a pharmacist, she told me of another brand of medicine that would most definitely take care of my ailment. I told her that would be fine and she returned to the back to fetch the medication. When she returned this time, she asked me if I was just passing through. I said, “Yes, I am. Me and my buddy are going to ride motorcycles in Big Bend.” She said, “Now that sounds like an adventure.” I smiled and said, “It should be.” It took her a few minutes to complete my transaction, because the pills I bought had a D in the name. This means you have to show your driver’s license and information must be entered into a database. Seeing my license, she said, “Oh, you’re from Idaho?” I said, “I am.” She said, “I’ve been to Idaho. The mountains are incredible.” I said, “It’s a pretty awesome place to live.” She replied, “I really enjoy mountains. I love to hike and climb. Someday, I want to climb a real mountain like Kilimanjaro. My aunt climbed Kilimanjaro.” What are the odds? Without hesitation I said, “Well, what’s stopping you?” She looked up and said, “I could never do that. My aunt is a serious climber.” She then went back to typing my info into the computer. I thought about it for a few seconds. I wasn’t going to say anything, but it just came out. I said, “You can do anything you want to if you want it bad enough. Climbing Kilimanjaro is tough, but I bet you could do it. I know. I’ve climbed it.” Her response was as expected. A bit of disbelief combined with uncertainty. I had my phone in my hand, so I showed her the picture of me standing on the summit. We talked for another couple of minutes. She had a lot of questions. Since Jason was waiting in the car, I told her that I really enjoyed meeting her, thanked her for the sinus medicine, and if she really wanted to climb a tall mountain she should just make a plan and do it. With that, I headed to the truck and drove away.
About 4-hours later, we were making a stop in the town of Alpine to get some lunch. This would be the last stop we would make before getting to Big Bend. As we were entering town, the phone rang. It was my accountant. I knew the call was not going to be favorable the second I heard her voice. She asked me if I was sitting down. That’s when she broke the news that she had incorrectly estimated my 2016 tax liability when she did my 2015 taxes. The number she said I now owed, this year, was big. Like go buy a new Suburban big. The news did not come as a complete surprise. Last year, I told her that the number she had come up with had to be incorrect. She insisted it wasn’t. If there is any good news in this, it’s that I had stuck away more than enough cash over the course of the year just in case this happened. Even though I had the money to cover the taxes, this was crappy timing considering I was supposed to be on an adventure having fun. When I got off the phone, Jason knew that I had just received some bad news. He asked if everything was okay. I did what I always do in situations like this. I make a face that is half smile and half disgust and say placating things like, it’s all good, no big deal or piece of cake. On the outside I am trying to keep it all together, but on the inside, I’m being tortured. Determined to not let this news ruin my trip, again, I did what I always do; I ordered a big-ass plate of enchiladas. As I ate my lunch, I stewed on the news. I once had a preacher that said you can curse it, nurse it, rehearse it or disburse it. I opted for the latter and finally I just said screw it, and let it go. Not to get off on a rant, but I pay about half of my income into the government on taxes of one kind or another (picture me screaming obscenities here). Okay, I’m done.
The foulness of the owed taxes was totally gone by the time we got to the edge of Big Bend. Big Bend is a magical place. I say that because it just pops up on the horizon out of nowhere. As you approach Big Bend from the south, you go through an area known as the Permian Basin. The Permian Basin is as flat as a pancake. Millions of years ago it was an inland sea. That’s what made it one of the richest oil and gas deposits on the planet.
It was about 3pm when we rolled into the place we would be camping that night. I say camping, because night one had us staying at Tin Valley Retro Rentals. Tin Valley Retro Rentals is kind of an unusual place to accommodate. The short story is that it’s 90-acres of desert that is owned by a lady named Ronda. Ronda moved to Big Bend from Austin. Her story is very interesting. She describes herself as something of a corporate dropout. Tired of the rat race, she was looking for a simpler lifestyle. She had this wild idea to buy old travel trailers, fix them up, and then rent them out overnight to people who wanted a real “back to nature” place to sleep. If you know me, then you know about something I call The List. In 2014, I added Sleep in a Tipi to The List. A few months back, Ronda posted on her Facebook page that she had bought two genuine Native American tipis for her business. The tipi I had rented was called The Otter because it had an otter painted on the outside.
The Otter Tipi was very nice. It had a king-size bed, a foldout futon, as well as a small table and two chairs. There was a small solar panel outside the tipi that was used to power a lamp inside the tipi. The floor was covered with rugs. Overall, the tipi was everything I had hoped it would be. It would work perfectly.
As we were unpacking Ronda showed up and welcomed us to Tin Valley. Ronda’s a good-looking woman. Not what you would expect in a place like this. She’s a real type-A. In her early 40’s, I’m guessing. Her enthusiasm for the business model she invented was massive. She took a lot of pride in showing us all of the features inside The Otter. On the nightstand beside the bed, Ronda picked up a sheet of paper and what appeared to be a small handful of twigs bound by a short piece of twine. She told us that we should read the story behind this tipi, and then encouraged us to burn some of the twigs because Native Americans believe that doing so rids the room of evil spirits, or something like that. I made sure to keep a very serious look on my face as she told us the story because although I thought her story was a bit out there, Ronda was deadly serious. To do anything other than that would have been rude and would have been in bad form. Ronda also encouraged us to drop pennies around the property because copper has some sort of rejuvenating powers. If I ever start a business like this, I will encourage visitors to drop $20 bills because of their rejuvenating power on my wallet.
When Ronda left, Jason and I unloaded the bikes and went for a ride over to the town of Terlingua. It was about 30-miles south of Tin Valley. While there, we rested for a while at a local joint called the Starlight. We talked about eating dinner, but we ate lunch so late neither of us were hungry. About then, I got a text from Ronda asking us to come over when we got back. She said she was making a brisket and was having some musician friends over later that evening. It sounded like fun, so I hit her back and told her we would be there. We stayed at the Starlight for another half-hour or so, and then rode back over to Tin Valley.
We were back for only about 30-minutes when Ronda drove by to make sure we were coming. She said her place was just up the way a bit and to just look for the campfire. Jason and I grabbed what we needed to make ourselves a few drinks, as well as some snacks, and then made our way over. I wished I would have brought my guitar so I could impress everyone with the 6 chords I know how to play.
The crowd was very eclectic. There was a couple from Ireland, three cowboys who looked like they had just ridden in from working cattle, and then a few other people that I will spare you descriptions because it is not germane to the story. It didn’t take long before people started breaking out musical instruments like guitars, fiddles and flutes. Although the brisket never materialized (Ronda forgot to put it in the oven or something) we sat around the fire for quite a while drinking, snacking and singing. It was a blast. While we were sitting there, we told Ronda that we had only booked the tipi for one night. The plan was to check out the place first. We had not booked the tipi for our second night just in case it was not what as expected. Ronda told us that she thought the tipi was already rented, but that we could just move over to one of her other open trailers. That was cool because sleeping one night in a tipi would allow me to put a check mark next to this item on The List. Having our next night’s lodging problem solved, we returned to fun conversation and singing.
Jason was first to peel off from the action. He was tired, so he made his way back over to the tipi. I sat there a while longer. The party rocked along and others joined in the fun. I decided that it was time for me to bid my fellow party-ers adieu once a couple of latecomers to the party started to pass around the peyote, if you catch my drift. Besides, I had a big day planned for tomorrow.
I slept great that night. I never got cold and the futon was very comfortable. Since Jason was submitting to my silly request to sleep in a tipi, I told him take the bed. I slept on the futon. I woke up the next morning about 7am. The first sound I heard was raindrops hitting the tipi. It was nice. Very peaceful. Jason heard me stirring and woke up a couple of minutes after I did. There was some rain moving in, so we were not in a huge hurry to get moving. Eventually, we loaded up all of or belongings into the truck and hit the trail on our bikes.
That day we rode about 200-miles. Ninety percent of it was off-road, across terrain not fit for a mule. It was rough riding. I put on a real show for Jason. He got to watch me almost wipe-out about a dozen times in the first hour. Yes, I bobbled, swerved and got squirrely on many occasions over the course of the day, but I never went completely down. I was proud of that.
The route we took around Big Bend was scenic. About halfway through the ride, we stopped at a point called Boquillas Crossing. Boquillas is a small town in Mexico that sits right on the other side of the Rio. Although there is no road, or rather bridge, across to Boquillas, the area is an official United States Port of Entry. Jason and I decided to check it out. We pulled up to a building that was marked Customs and Immigration. There was a Hispanic family entering the building at about the same time as us. They went ahead while we asked questions of the officials manning the facility. One of the border patrol agents told us about the small town on the other side of the river. He said there was a guy and a boat that would float us across for $5 each. We both had our passport, so we made the decision to cross over into Mexico. We passed through the checkpoint and made our way down a path to the river. When we got there, we saw the guy with the boat. The Hispanic family ahead of us has already struck a deal with the boatman. The family was busy loading all kinds of things like car tires and batteries, as well as coolers of food, into the boat. If we wanted to cross, it would be a while. We were running behind, so we made the decision to turn back. Because we had passed through the checkpoint, we had to officially re-enter the United States. It was no big deal and took about 5-minutes.
We rode out from Boquillas Crossing and stopped about 15-minutes up the road to fill the tanks of both bike and body. While we were stopped, Jason noticed the license plate on his bike had fallen off. This was bad because we had planned on driving over to Presidio the next day. At Presidio was another official border crossing into Mexico. By this point in the day, we had probably covered 80-miles. Finding that license plate would be akin to finding a needle in a haystack. We made the decision to go forward. Speaking of decisions, the guidebook we were following told us it was decision time; long route or shorter route. The instructions and map we were following were very clear in that it stated that it would not be wise to continue on the longer route if it was past 2pm. It was right at 2pm. Since we had come for adventure, we made the decision to take the longer route. We would just ride a little harder to make up some time.
About 2-hours later we were blasting down this trail that runs along the side of the Rio Grande. We were probably doing 35 miles per hour. I was in the lead and Jason was behind me. When you ride motorcycles over the terrain we were on, it takes a tremendous amount of focus. One wrong move and boom, you would be wrecked out and busted up. Considering that we were 60-miles out in the desert, with no cell service, a wreck would be a terribly bad idea. As I said, we were blasting down this trail when out of the corner of my eye I saw what appeared to be a small book. At first I just ignored it and kept on riding. But then, a voice inside of me said to go back. We were probably a half-mile past the point where I thought I saw the book, when I locked up the brakes on my bike. Jason pulled up beside me and asked if something was wrong. I told him what I had spotted on the road behind us and that I was going to go back and get it. He waited, while I turned around to head back. It took me a few minutes to find the book. I actually drove past it and had to double-back to find it. Eventually, I found it. It was a small brown spiral with some stickers stuck in the between the pages. I tossed the book in my bag and sat back out to catch up with Jason. We finished out the remainder of the ride that day with few problems.
We arrived at Tin Valley about 5pm. Unfortunately, Ronda was nowhere to be found. I called, sent some texts, but never heard anything. We were hungry, so we hit the community showers and headed off to town for dinner. As I mentioned earlier, Tin Valley is about 30-miles north of Terlingua. We left our bikes at Tin Valley, content that we would be able to contact Ronda and secure a place to stay.
We ate that night at La Cava. I had been there before. They serve food, but it’s not that good and expensive. It’s mainly a place to drink. While we ate, we started discussing where we would stay that night because we could not contact Ronda. We called several area hotels and motels, but they were all booked up. We did find one place, but it would require a 60-mile trip to get there. We ultimately made the decision to leave Big Bend that night and stay overnight in Alpine. Besides, all we had planned for day two was going into Mexico, and that was not going to happen due to the lost license plate on Jason’s bike.
We finished up our dinner, drove back out to Tin Valley, loaded the bikes and began the 80-mile drive over to Alpine. As a side note, Ronda did text us the next day. She said she was mistaken about having an availability on the previous night. That’s okay. All’s well that ends well.
Staying in Alpine was great since it was on our way home. Now, instead of getting home on Monday, we would get home on Sunday. That was fine, because I had a ton of work waiting on me back in Waco. The drive from Alpine to Dallas is a little less than 500-miles. The drive home was quiet. We were both sore and exhausted. The ride had really taken a toll on our bodies.
We were right outside of Abilene when Jason said he needed to use the restroom. A few miles later, I spotted a nice rest area. I pulled in. Because I had a trailer, I parked out on the curb. Jason ran in and a couple of minutes returned. As we were about to pull away, an older RV pulling a trailer rolled up and parked on the curb in front of us. It was one of those 1970ish RV’s that was built around a Datsun pickup. A weathered and bearded man, appearing to be in his late 70’s, got out. As we were preparing to pull away, I noticed the guy was making a beeline directly for us. As he approached the side of the truck, Jason lowered his window. The little old man said, “Hey guys. I saw you come around me back a few miles. I noticed your bikes. Do you care if I check them out?” Jason answered and said, “Not at all. Help yourself.” We sat there while the man walked back to the trailer and inspected the machines for a few minutes. Returning to the window, the old fella told us that he really thought our bikes looked sharp and asked us where we had been. Jason was answering all of the man’s questions. Finally, we had reached what most would consider a natural end-point to a conversation of this type, when the fella said, “I have a motorcycle in my trailer. Would ya’ll be interested in checking out my bike.” Before Jason could answer I said, “Sure. Let’s check it out.” We got out of the truck and followed the man to his trailer. As we walked, we introduced ourselves. His name was Lou. We learned he was from California and was traveling to Georgia for a cart race. The trailer had a lock. It took the guy a minute or two to get the doors open. Inside the trailer was a small motorcycle that was sold by Sears and Roebuck in the early 70’s. Lou was proud of his bike and told us all about the bike’s history with a tremendous amount of passion. He also told us about the many years he had been associated with cart racing. We spent about 10-minutes talking to Lou, and then we loaded up and headed to Dallas.
There’s not much more to tell about this adventure story other than I dropped off Jason and his bike at his home in Dallas. I then drove the additional two hours or so to my home, Camp One, in Waco.
Normally this would be where an author would say The End. I’m not going to do it because I have a little bit more to share.
In mountain climbing, I have found that the real stories don’t come from standing on the summit. They come from what happens on the sides of the mountain. The same can be said of this story. Sure, the main plot, or reason, for this story surrounded Jason and I riding our motorcycles in the desert. However, the special moments that make this story memorable had little to do with motorcycle riding. What made for some great memories were the people we met and interacted with along the way. Let me explain.
The pharmacists in Cisco. What if the conversation I had with the young woman actually inspired her to climb Kilimanjaro? Then, there was the call from my accountant. She is a very nice lady and probably spent hours getting up the courage to call and tell me about the mistake. There there’s Ronda and all those people at the campfire. Yes, we could have taken the normal route and done what most people do, which is to stay at some common hotel. However, had we done that, I would not have been able to knock another item off of The List, hear Ronda tell her story, or sit around a campfire in the middle of a desert singing songs with new friends while looking at stars. Lastly, Jason and I had the honor and privilege of meeting a guy named Lou from California. Most people would have said no to his invitation to see his bike. A few years back I would have been in too much of a hurry to waste time with some old man. If I’ve learned anything from past adventures, it is that the world opens when you say Yes. Looking back, I am so glad we spent time with Lou. He was probably just lonely. But then, aren’t we all in one way or another?
I continue to find it interesting the way the universe works to put growth opportunities in front of me. I only started to see them a few years back. I can’t believe it took me so long. Maybe I just wasn’t looking. Or, maybe it’s just a case of you only find that in which you are in search of.
I hope this story inspires you to go out and find your adventure, and Live Your Life.
PS – I saved the best for last.
Remember that book I picked up on the side of the trail in the middle of the desert? The one that the little voice in my head told me to go back and get? Well, it has a story. I’ll now tell it to you.
Below is a picture of the book. It’s a very special book. I have inspected every word in this book trying to find its owner. I have followed every clue. The mystery of its owner remains unsolved. The book, as I said, is a spiral notebook. It’s bound in leather. On the outside, ingrained in the leather, are the words Be the Change. I believe this book was a gift. A gift meant to inspire change. The reason I believe it to be a gift is because on the first page of the book is a quote that is written in handwriting that does not match the other writing in the book. The quote is by Helena Bonham Carter. She is a famous British actress. Here is the quote:
“I think everything in life is art. What you do. How you dress. The way you love, and how you talk. Your smile and your personality. What you believe in and all of your dreams. The way you drink your tea. How you decorate your home. Your grocery list. The food you make. How your writing looks and the way you feel. Life is art.”
As I said, in my quest to locate the book’s owner, I have inspected every word written in the notebook. Here is what I learned. The person to whom this book belongs was riding his motorcycle in the desert just like me and Jason. He lives in or around Tyler, Texas. His views are liberal. He is not a fan of Trump. That’s all surface stuff, though. When I look deeper into his words, I discovered he was on a journey. Actually, he was on several journeys, simultaneously. Even though I will most likely never find the owner of this book, I believe I have an obligation to keep the real details of what is written in the book private. This book is both a journal and a diary containing many private thoughts. However, I will tell you this. He had a lot of struggles in his life; family issues, addiction, and in general, trying to figure out his place in this world. Can’t most of us can find commonality in this man’s struggle? It seemed as if he was trying desperately to find happiness. Again, a common journey for many.
Recently, I read a book called Man’s Search for Meaning, by Viktor E. Frankel. Frankel was a psychologist. He was also a holocaust survivor. Reading Frankel’s book was very timely, because maybe it offers a thought to consider. That thought is this. Don’t aim for happiness. It’s not something to be pursued, but rather ensued. In other words, happiness is a byproduct. It’s not the target. To think, upon seeing that book on the side of the trail I could have just kept on going. I didn’t. Perhaps this book was placed there for a reason. Maybe, it was put there for me to find. Maybe, it was put there for you; my reader.
Folks, the answers are out there. I know they are. Just keep looking. They will reveal themselves if you just stay vigilant, keep looking and most of all don’t give up. Of that, I am sure. Thank you for reading my story.
*When my niece Sarah saw the picture above, she noticed something I noticed too. The handwriting used for the quote looks almost identical to my mother’s handwriting. I am going to have to think on that for a while.