The finish line of the finest adventure on which I have embarked in many years beckoned, at most 300 feet away. A group of us were descending a peak known locally as Big Hill just off the highway in Big Bend Ranch State Park. The peak overlooks the Rio Grande. On this final day of a seven-day voyage from Chihuahua City, Mexico to the Big Bend area, we got up at 4 a.m. to catch sunrise. It was worth the lost sleep. We arrived in the dark to give the two photographers time to set up their spectacular array of equipment. I was the writer on this trip so I took a short nap in the Suburban as they set up.
The night sky in this part of Texas, many miles away from large cities, differs markedly from what is visible in East Texas. Here in the desert, the stars overwhelm a cloudless sky.
As the sky lightened, I roused myself and went outside with my digital point-and-shoot. I take a lot of photos when on assignments like this (which are rare) to remind myself of the details when I begin to write. My artist dad did that as well, photographing scenes he wanted to draw or paint. As I shot and watched, the changing light slowly marched along the mountaintops and down into the canyon walls leading to the Rio Grande several hundred feet below. It was entrancing. This is a wild beautiful place that never fails to inspire and uplift. February is a perfect time, cold in the morning, warm in the afternoons.
After a while, I headed up to the top of Big Hill, where the four other team members had congregated. We had to catch planes in El Paso, four-and-a-half hours away, so it was time to leave, though none of us wanted to. I carried one of the photographer’s high-dollar cameras, his tripod, and was wearing a backpack cinched around my waist.
This is not a well-traveled trail, mainly because it can be a little tricky. The key is to go slowly, watch where your feet are being placed, and try to keep a hand free. I am far from an expert climber but have clambered up and down my share of steep, rocky trails.
I brought up the rear on this final hike, holding on to the camera and tripod while picking my way down. Suddenly I was on my rear end, sliding down the hill— a descent that was quickly stopped by a large boulder that collided with my right foot. I thought I heard something snap and laid there a few seconds. When I tried to get up, it was clear my right ankle was at least sprained, if not broken. The camera and tripod were safe, however, still tightly gripped.
I hollered out to the fellow ahead of me, who ran over quickly when he saw me on the ground. I managed to get back to the van by leaning on him, where someone else quickly fixed up an icepack.
Eight hours later, I was hobbling to my car at DFW airport, praying most of the trip home could be on cruise control. Braking was painful.
The good news is my ankle is badly sprained, not broken. The bad news is it might as well be broken for the lack of mobility I now have. Walking is painful for others to watch, let alone me.
But I did save the camera when I took the fall. And my streak of never fracturing a bone, save the tip of a finger playing softball, is intact. Despite the injury, I wouldn’t trade this experience for anything. It was a small price to pay for such a grand adventure.
