If you've never been to Terlingua, Texas you can't taste the true flavor of the place while browsing  a travel brochure or a few photos.
 
The borderland  locale known as "Terlingua" is disputedly also recognized as Study Butte. Then up the road,  there's Terlingua Ghost Town. Local lore provides numerous arguments as to which is where. It's easier to think of the three as one and the same place. Anyway, the backyard of Terlingua/Study Butte adjoins Big Bend National Park, a land in which vastness takes on a vastly expanded meaning. Things die in the desert, National Park or not.

Deserts intimidate most of us, anyway. Deserts are uncomfortable. Desert life, whether plant or animal implies a definite ruggedness alien to those devoted to air conditioning and lattes.  At first glance, this borderland habitat is also stark, colorless, empty. Summer temperatures are commonly 110 degrees or more, unless there's a heatwave. Nights, you can freeze to death. Terlingua once hosted a large mercury mining industry, so there are those of us who don't feel comfortable rolling around in the white Terlingua dust that coats everything, and winter/spring sandstorms don't make it easy to keep out of that dust. The nearest hospital is a couple of hours away, and WalMart is only a whispered dream spread by those who vacation there.
 
The obvious conclusion is that anything and anyone living in such a place must be touched in the head.

Far from it.  Although there are the usual small town misfits living in isolation because they can't cope in society, the majority of folks living in the area are extremely intelligent, capable and self-reliant. At first glance, you might not be able to tell these two types apart, but never judge a west Texan by his hat. (And during Terlingua summers, staying scantily clothed and frequently wet is the fashion norm. This is not Manhattan. In the desert, shoes are tools, not fashion statements. I suspect you could spend a whole summer down there with less than a backpack full of clothes, and not wear half of what you packed.)

Scattered across the desert you'll find crumbling adobe ruins, discarded tools, broken things that would've cost the users too much energy to carry any further. Tumbled cairns pointing the way to who knows where anymore. Remnants of hard-lived lives. Some were failed lives. Most, I imagine, were not. "Hard" doesn't negate happiness.
 
Residing on the border is still a dramatic life choice. There are, after all, easier places to live. The thing is, many Terlingua residents have lived in those places and wouldn't go back now, not even for all the water in their radiator.

Terlinguans, man and beast alike, regularly enjoy softly painted sunrises and sunsets uninterrupted by the silhouettes of man-made structures. When you've been down there awhile, the colors become more vivid. It's kind of like being in a dark cave - deprived of visual stimulation, your hearing becomes acute. There, in the white vastness of the desert, every speck of color screams for recognition. In the apparent absence of animal life, seeing a line of ants marching in the heat can feel like a wildlife adventure. The cry of a hawk, the yips of coyote pups can send chills of joy down my spine. It means something is out there. Something besides me.

Some animals, like some humans, are more cheerful survivors than others. For that reason, around Far West Texas, we admire burros a lot. They're hardy, kindred souls who've shared the desert with us for generations. We came upon one just at sunset one December evening. At a glance, the lean old burro seemed pathetic. Nothing to graze on, no shelter, no protection from the large scary predators who rule our desert. But as the spotted burrro trotted toward a broken down wagon, I noticed spring in his step. The day was cooling. The sky splashed subtle color over the alkaline hills of dust and tuff and who knew what else. On closer inspection, I saw tufts of green clawing from the ground, purple tumbleweeds, lacy mesquite fronds. The burro saw us. Brayed. Swished his moth-eaten black tail, then trotted on about his evening business. Hard? You bet. Happy?
Who knows. But he's a Far West Texan.  I doubt he'd take kindly to being penned in some green Kentucky pasture about now.  What fun would there be in that?



"HAVING KNOWN BETTER TIMES"    12" x 15" pastel copyright Lindy C Severns 2009
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