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The mission to Big Bend National Park

Three guys on a four day backpacking adventure near Terlingua, Texas.

By Aurimas Adomavicius

April 23^rd, 2024

At 6,000 feet of elevation the temperature has fallen to 35 Fahrenheit and we’re shivering. No amount of tactical layering helps, and we are forced to retreat to our tents and seek shelter from the elements. As the surrounding canyons fade into inky blues, we chidingly question Eimis’ weather forecast accuracy. We’re ten miles deep in the park and this is going to be a rough night.

The seed of trouble to come was planted during a typical, idle phone conversation with Dominic, upon which we decided on the need for a special, boys only mission. The most experience hiker from the group, Eimis, picked Big Bend for exactly this reason: nested on the border of Mexico in the Western part of Texas, the park holds an isolated mountain range in the middle of the desert and is a nightmare to get to by road. The Lone Star state is unapologetically massive, and the closest commercial airport is seven hours away. We, on the other hand, had an idle plane practically clawing its way out of a hanger, a thirst for adventure, and an allowance from our families to bugger off into the wilderness for the next four days.

The Big Bend National Park receives the least number of visitors of any parks in the United States. Named for the kink in the Rio Grande River, it’s unique in that it encloses all of the Chisos mountains within the park boundary, shares a border with Mexico, and is home to a wide range of wildlife, including pumas, black bears, coyotes, and others. The mountains are sky islands – a mountain formation that is completely isolated in the desert from any other formations and rises to an elevation of 7,832 feet. Yeah, I didn’t know it existed, either.

Dominic and Eimis are pilots. I mock their choice of hobby as glorified bus driving, which never fails to rile them up. “It’s not a hobby, it’s a way of life”, crackles a response through my headset. It’s easy to throw stones from the back seat of the Cirrus SR22, as my chauffeurs toil over the screens of the G1000, discussing engine temperatures, approach vectors, and other air balloon terminology that soon blends into a soothing stream of chatter that I don’t understand and fully ignore. Personally, I was a bigger fan of the previous Beechcraft airplane that Dominic owned – it had a table in the back for my drink and I could stretch my legs out. Currently I’m pretzeled together with our hiking gear, but at least I have permission to deploy the parachute, built into the roof of the plane, if both Eimis and Dominic suffer a concurrent stroke induced by sexy cloud formations or whatever else excites pilots these days. My nap is interrupted by the captain, “Do not scratch the window behind your head, it’s made of plastic.” I guess the glass window model was a luxury option.

We don’t have enough fuel for a direct flight from Chicago to Texas’ nether region and, after a freak accident, Dominic has had his bladder replaced with a lady’s purse. Eimis identifies a small private airport in Oklahoma that should alleviate both constraints. We have weather to consider, as well, and I quote, “it’s very unlikely that we’ll have clear skies across half the continental United States”. For the next leg of the trip my logistically gifted friends have mapped multiple airports in case we have to divert due to severe weather. Duplicate rental vehicles are awaiting at both strips. I adjust my position to recover blood flow to a tingling ass cheek and grumble about the economy conditions of these airlines and the pilot’s phobia of a few cumulous clouds.

Dominic and Eimis swoon over the gentleman running the small airport in Oklahoma. Pilot tales are exchanged, and we learn of the time when a couple of Warthogs flew over the small strip during an airshow. Boys are charmed by the good looks of Marlboro man and impressed by his stories. I turn down the volume of my headphones as the fan service continues into seven thousand feet. I observe the landscape fade from greens into yellows as we continue the second leg of our journey and approach Lajitas Airport. It is so remote than even the FAA is confused on the arrival procedure for the airport, there is no radio, nor radar availability. A thin cloud layer obscures the ground, we rely on synthetic vision to navigate the shifting terrain below. Eimis identifies a break in the clouds, and we drop elevation to get a visual on the landing strip.

There’s a charm to Terlingua of a town that is on the precipice of getting investment and being developed into a major attraction, which I imagine what the likes of Telluride or Jackson would have felt like years ago. It has a large private airport which is not yet used by commercial airlines. The National Park sits visibly on the edge of town and is easy to reach. Hip and well-designed hotels and vacation rental properties are cropping up like mushrooms after the rain and a few lively restaurants cater to the hungry appetites of explorers and locals alike.

Staying true to Texas and the self-sufficient attitude of remote and lesser populated states, urban planning does not exist in the town. People line up in front of an ice cream stand while a trailer that has seen much better days adorns the background. A parking lot extends to both sides with vehicles and trees planted in random patterns. Most of the secondary roads in town are gravel and a dusty haze hangs in the air as pickup trucks load up with outstanding breakfast burritos from a TexMex restaurant and pull away. We can’t help but smile and nod in approval as blood circulates through the calcified arteries of this wild, forgotten, resurrected mining town. Once two thousand men strong, Terlingua faded into obscurity in the early 40’s after bankruptcy of a Chicago mining company. From 2017 to 2024 the population of the town has doubled to 154, hopefully a preview of the future growth.

Chicago and Boston are known as the largest expatriate communities of Lithuanians. The Ellis Island Museum estimates that over 600,000 people of Lithuanian descent live in the United States, but nowhere does it say that they find employment at a random BBQ restaurant in Terlingua. It doesn’t take long for the three of us to grow suspicious of the accent that our blonde restaurant attendant is displaying and the next thing we know is she has pulled over a chair to our table and we’re discussing best trails in the park and people we know in the community (does one display or enunciate an accent? You get the point). The weird keeps getting weirder in this remote ghost town. Later the same day the three of us are having dinner at an outdoor cantina of Starlight Theater and a UFC fight plays on a large outdoor monitor. The fighter is Lithuanian, and the fight takes place in Kaunas Arena, Lithuania. We shake our heads in disbelief, shrug, and order another round of beers.

We drive out for a short hike by the Rio Grande river before turning down for the night. The trail we’re taking is in the Santa Elena Canyon – a massive scar carved out by water in a wall of stone. The Rio Grande is the 4thlongest river in in North America, spanning 1,900 miles and acting as a water source for seven states in the US and Mexico. The river is also the geographic border that separates the land of the free from the land of the churro, which we playfully invade a few times. We plot a few routes for smuggling illegal narcotics, but locals tell us there are easier places to cross the border that “have roads and don’t require hiking through 50 miles of mountainous terrain of a national park”.

We retreat to the safety of Texas, discuss the fashion of cowboy boots, pick up bottled drinking water for our hike tomorrow, and fold in for the night.

Eimis shuffles in predawn light and starts making coffee, reflecting that we’re civilized company and have not kept him up by snoring. Chilled overnight, we siphon the water into our packs and, for the first time on this trip, weight the full burden of gear that will sit on our backs for the next 36 hours. To me the three packs weight the same, but naturally we compete on who’s got the heaviest load. I brought the smallest pack by volume that traces its roots to our backpacking adventures in Vietnam a lifetime ago. It’s possible that I’ve packed too few things were I to compare my pack to the bottomless satchels my colleagues will be hauling through the park, but I also know my friends tend to err on the side of worry and overpacking. Time will tell.

A large portion of weight comes from water. The park is dry this season – we will not have an opportunity to top off our reserves and need to bring with us all the water that we’ll need. Three liters of primary storage is tucked by the spine of the backpack in a hydration bladder with a straw, another three liters divided between neoprene bottles resting like cowboy pistols on hips of the backpack. The general rule is around one liter per five miles of hiking, but it does vary by weather and hike intensity.

We break fast and drink coffee at a small Mexican restaurant while watching the sun rise. Shielding his eyes from the intense southern sun, Eimis knowingly states that weather conditions are ideal and we’re going to have a pleasant hike in low 60’s. We jump into our aging Chevy SUV. It somehow manages to feel sluggish and underpowered with a V8 engine that has a larger carbon footprint than most European nations.

The hiking trails start at the park’s mountain lodge which is nested at 5,400 feet within the Chisos Basin. The green LED temperature gauge in our truck slowly ticks in an unfavorable direction as our elevation increases. Morning mist obscures visibility and soon Dominic is flicking our windshield wipers to clear off rain drops. Fog thick as soup swirls around the Chevy’s tires and visibility is so poor we slow down unless we want to risk running into a vehicle ahead. Headlight beams fruitlessly hunt for signs of the road markers ahead as we arrive at the lodge.

We chat up a ranger at the visitor’s center to find out the conditions on the trail – “rain is on the menu, and the park needs it”, she tells us. We give Eimis a sideways look and Dominic convinces me to pack one of his sweaters in my backpack, just in case. It’s a heavy sweater. I will end up not using it. Thanks Dominic. Our last order of business is to buy a deck of playing cards in case we need to entertain ourselves at camp upon early arrival. The store is all out of regular cards, so we’re forced to buy a little ornamental native American purse that has two decks in it. The team then forces me to carry two blocks of dead tree in my “light” pack.

We pass a sign warning visitors of large wildlife in the park that includes black bears and mountain lions. Eimis and I riff that Dominic is the heaviest of us and is the slowest runner, so countermeasures such as bear spray are unnecessary. All of two hundred feet into the hike Dominic stops the procession due to a drip. We blame his small and faulty bladder and we’re not entirely wrong, although it’s the one in the pack that’s sprung a leak this time. You can tell how far we’ve made it by the paved trail in the picture. Dominic’s little accident entertains us for a good hour on the trail, our step is light, our packs – comfortable.

Eimis is the navigator on the trip, briefs us on the mileage and waypoints. We have a reserved primitive site as this is a National park and dispersed camping is now allowed (our preferred method, as I’ve shared in the overlanding stories). We should be able to make it to the site with plenty of daylight left. The weather is cold, wet, miserable, and visibility is south of 100 feet. We’re supposed to be hiking with incredible views on all sides but all we can see is scraggy trees poking their vile looking bare limbs through the soupy fog. On the upside, we have a good laugh as Dominic starts peeling off his layers as soon as we start hiking uphill. The temperature now is in mid-forties – with packs on our backs we’re generating enough heat to strip down to the base layer.

A couple of hours later we find ourselves on a rim of one of the canyons, a vista opening in front of us from beneath layers of fog. We decide this is as good a time as any to stop for lunch and drink a cup of coffee. Since we have a few minutes and the packs are not weighing us down, why don’t we review the gear we’re lugging into this hike and opportunities for improvement for the next trip. While Eimis’ delicate fingers are operating the Jetboil, here are the main categories and items within them:

Water: essential, not much room for improvement. Light carrying containers are a must – e.g., collapsible bladders, “Vytautas” mineral water bottles (I’m serious), Neoprene bottles for sipping. 6 liters for two days of hiking, this includes drinking and cooking water. A few packs of hydrating salts to maximize uptake.
Camping: lightweight tent, sleeping bag, insulated sleeping pad/mattress, inflatable pillow, lightweight chair. The chair is a bit of a luxury, but it’s worth it after a day of hiking.
Clothing: Waterproof compression bag with secondary set of base layers for backup – Smartwool underwear, Smartwool socks, long sleeve base layer shirt. Wearing a pair of G1000 hiking pants, thin long sleeve base layer, fleece, and a waterproof shell for those moments when it rains. A pair of hiking boots - amateur move to wear them for the first time on the hike but did not have any issues and the wide toe box is a must. A pair of thin running gloves, beanie, sunglasses.
Utility: a single jetboil for the group, flashlight, fork, lightweight cup, small knife, a single med kit. Each of us is carrying walking sticks. I’m hauling the Sony Alpha 7R v with two prime lenses – a 24mm F2.8 and 85mm F1.8, compact and lightweight.
Consumables: two dried food packs (dinner/breakfast), a couple of energy gels, a couple of nutritionally dense snack bars, a couple of dried sausages, candy, a flask with booze to dull the pain at the end of the day. Coffee. A bag of creamer in Dominic’s pack that looks like an amateur smuggle operation. We’re hoping it will get flagged by a local ranger and bump this trip to the next level.

An iridescent blue bird, the Mexican Jay, watches us from a branch as crumbs tumble from our greasy, well-nourished lips. To reduce the likelihood of a bear encounter, Eimis has broken out his secret haul of Lithuanian smoked bacon and black bread. We chase it down with coffee and attempt to woo the Jay with small pieces of a cookie, but the Mexican does not trust white man so close to the border. Waves of creamy fog break in the distance allowing the rusty cliffs to peek through, soon to be washed again by another wave. This weather is giving the park a mystical vibe, showing us only what’s a few hundred feet around. Several times throughout the hike Eimis stops, looks at his GPS map, points into the fog, looks at us with a serious expression, and tells us that this “is the best view from the whole trail”. We take his word for it.

We reach camp around four o’clock. We assemble the tents and plant them too close together, forgetting that the rain shields need extra room to tension properly. Innovators at heart, we discuss that this is for the best – we can open the sides and play cards from within the tents. We also can’t be bothered to re-stake them. Eimis consults the map and tell us that we can complete a full loop on the trail before it gets dark, so we ditch the packs at camp and, light of foot, frolic onto the trail to collect a few extra steps for our Garmins.

Eleven miles is logged for the day, but a critical disparity has surfaced within the group. Dominic’s watch is showing a significantly higher number of steps, to the tune of ~7,000 more than Eimis’ or mine. Eimis and I decide that extra bathroom stops could not have amounted to this large of a deviation. We analyze the length of Dominic’s stride, suspicious of some Lisan al Gaib wizardry, and finally discover that his Garmin is using a custom stride length setting. Vindicated of our inferiority, we call Dominic a cheater and drop the subject in its entirety, to much frustration and sputtering from Dominic. Pro tip: if you want to energize Dominic, bring up the topic of warfare (any current global conflict will do) or challenge his physical capabilities. He’s chirping like the Mexican Jay all the way back to camp.

We’re losing light fast now, so without further delay the jetboil is spitting concentrated plasma onto our canister of water in preparation for a dinner feast. The watch has clocked in ~2,500 calories burned, and Eimis’ bacon is a distant memory. For the multicourse dining experience tonight I have a selection of Pad Thai with chicken and a delicious, fatty almond butter cup paired with fifteen year old Macallan, courtesy of Dominic. A tobacco product may have also found its way into the kisser, sealing the freezing night with a romantic whisp of smoke, quickly to be dispersed into the inky blues of our canyon. Smacking our lips after the most delicious meal in our lives we recognize that even with all the layering deployed we are starting to freeze. Temperatures have dropped into mid 30’s, wind is up, and even Dominic’s tactical mittens fail to hold back the cold of this desolate night. The playing cards I carried all this way hang, unopened, on a dry tree branch as we crawl into our tents and out of the elements. It’s only 8pm.

I’ve angered Dominic many a time in the past, sharing a tent during overlanding and proceeding to fall asleep within all of two minutes. You see, Dominic has an odd fear of the unnatural, which I assume includes witches, goblins, ghosts, long dead people, and so forth. Spending a night alone in the forest would kill him, Dominic has said, more than once. He’s in a tent with Eimis on this trip, presumably because I’ve let him down in the past with my reckless abandon. Unfortunately my streak of good sleep ends this trip and I roll around on my squeaky inflatable mattress, unable to find comfort, plugging holes that allow cold outside air to seep in. I hear a satisfied snicker from the other tent and mocking commentary as I drift between wakefulness and sleep.

Our ill secured tents flap as the wind picks up. I can hear the familiar splattering of rain drops. The ranger must be happy, “the park needs it”. I try not to think about breaking down camp in this weather. Groggy from lack of sleep I peek at my watch and realize it’s 6am, still dark out, heavy rain washing out all other sounds. I hear muffled moans from the other tent – Dominic has survived another night in the forest as his deteriorating body releases pent up gasses and creaks.

It's too early and too wet to get up. Dominic and Eimis discuss what movie to watch while we wait for sunrise, soon realize the only choice is Aladdin – it’s downloaded locally on Dominic’s phone. They watch, I listen. Robin Williams is incredible as the genie; I don’t have to watch the animation to see the characters in my mind. Ah yes, good times when Disney was in the business of entertainment and not political ideology. Sun comes up and the rain stops as we travel back memory lane.

I should probably reflect on what hiking is like, seeing as this is my first time with an overnight pack. It’s easier than I thought, but I give credit to Eimis for selecting a reasonable trail and a strategic way to approach it. We’ve slowly worked ourselves up to the current elevation, but our return trail is a constant climb (downward, luckily) to get back to the lodge. Had we attempted the hike in reverse order I may now be using profane language to decorate my colleague’s choices. Garmin recorded total hike time per day at around six hours, with a steady 100 to 120 bpm heartrate. Estimated sweat loss showed around 3.5L, so our two-day total sounds reasonable.

As we eat breakfast and break down our tents we are greeted with blue skies and sunshine. Fog is still swirling around the peaks, but we have a chance of seeing these views Eimis promised us. Today the hike will take us by Emery peak – the highest elevation point in the park, and then back out to the lodge where our vehicle is parked. For the first few hours low clouds and fog obscure the edges of the canyon but as the fusion reaction from the sun burns away the humidity the park starts opening up. We perch ourselves on a scenic cliff to have a midday snack. We’re down to our t-shirts now and Dominic may have taken off his mittens.

The trail that leads to Emery peak is a one-way trail with promises of steeper climbs and a technical finish. We dump our packs into designated bear-proof boxes at the fork in the trail and pick up the pace on the ascent. It’s a picturesque climb, the red and dusty Texan desert opening as far as the eye can see. Soon the dirt trail turns into solid rock, occasionally carved out by rangers to accommodate an easier climb. Now the trail ends and we see other hikers scrambling up large boulders that are held together with gnarly pines that grow at odd angles.

The way up is unmarked and drops on all sides are ... uncomfortable. Dominic scouts ahead, trying to find the ledges for footing, while Eimis and I calculate the probability of mortal failure, sharing uneasy glances and sweaty palms. I’m the first in line to give my friend Dominic a hard time, but here I am, frozen in place with my back to the cool rock, camera dangling around my neck, hands and knees shaking slightly. Say what you will about his irrational fear of the forest, but the manbear scampers up the face of the rock and we can hear his gleeful cheers as he informs us that we’re “missing the best views of the whole hike”. Eimis and I admit defeat and text Dominic’s wife that he’s being reckless, and we’re just reasonable friends, trying to look out for him.

I should wrap up the story on this high note as the remaining of the hike is uneventful. Climbing downwards with a heavy weight loads up a different set of muscles and our shins are screaming. We’re properly loathing our packs by the time we’re close to the parking lot. As we shake off our burdens in the back of the ever-unattractive white Chevy, we decide the first order of business is to buy three cold Mexican Cokes and a sixpack of cold beer.

The cokes taste sublime.

So, about that high note. As we are about to fly out of the cute little Terligua airport the next day, we manage to clog up one of their toilets. With no plunger in sight, we ask for help from the staff. A stocky young man rolls up his sleeves and, tools in hand, disappears behind the bathroom doors. He survives, but we see him outside a few minutes later, eyes cast down, cigarette in his mouth. We creep back into our plane, avoid eye contact, and take off for a six-hour flight back home.

As we’re landing, a flock of geese scatters to all sides of the runway. One of them kamikazes right into the nose of our plane, causing a prop strike and cracking the plastic engine cover below. Dominic’s wife films the landing and the vaporization of the goose. A cloud of feathers scatters in slow motion like unexpected snow on a sunny spring evening.