The Tailor and I bought two new pairs of binoculars for our trip to Big Bend last year, because we knew we could expect to do some serious birdwatching there. What we didn’t find out until the ungodly hours of our first morning in the tent: the birdlistening was every bit as intense.
Oh, sure. I love a fall full of pumpkins, bright gold trees, crisp air—all the usual stuff. But thanks to a few years spent living in southern Colorado, shiny-waxy-red chili ristras are also a sure sign of autumn in my mind. They’re not something you see around my neck of the woods, but a bright slash of red would go a long way toward keeping the grey pall of a Northwestern November at bay.
At the time of this posting, I’ll be away on a new sketching adventure (for clues as to where, check out the Facebook page—or you can wait until I post a few sketches here in two weeks!). At this time of year, my destination is known for unpredictable weather that can be all over the map. I’m just crossing my fingers that it won’t be quite so crazy as the day I drove across New Mexico in a freaking sandstorm. Just sayin’.
What’s the craziest weather you’ve ever encountered on your travels? (I’m hoping that by sharing stories online, the weather gods will be distracted from dishing it out on me during my trip…) For you fellow sketchers out there, what’s the worst weather you’ve ever sketched in?
I’ve talked before about being on Island Time—and in a weird way, this is kind of the same thing. You see, islands don’t just exist in water; you can find them in the middle of the desert, too.
The Chisos Mountains, in the heart of Big Bend National Park, rise 4,000 feet above the parched desert floor below. The elevation gain gives them a dramatically different climate than their surroundings. The name they call these types of mountains just melts my heart: sky islands.
I don’t know about you, but that reminds me of the sort of things I used to dream up when I was a kid. Of Shangri-la and castles in the air. Of quests and secrets. Of dirigibles and airships.
Who says park rangers aren’t romantics?
The Tailor and I make for an odd pair on a road trip. I’m likely to put enormous thought into the road tunes, to cue up the exact perfect song to play as we pass through certain landscapes (I am also usually the only one who notices or cares, no matter who’s with me on a trip). He, on the other hand, is likely to have one half of his mind in the present moment, and the other half somewhere in the Annals of Random History.
For instance, on this day, I was all wrapped up in how the weather seemed to shift with the music, when the Tailor turned to me and said, “Did you know that considering today’s date and our current time zone, the Titanic was sinking precisely one hundred years ago?!?”
So of course I had to add that to the sketchbook. Doesn’t the desert remind everyone of maritime disasters?
The Tailor and I visited Big Bend in mid-April, our best chance to catch the cacti in bloom. When we got there, a park ranger warned us not to get our hopes up. He told us they’d been experiencing a record drought—the park had only received about three inches of rain, total, over the past two years.
And then, that night, the wind picked up and the skies opened.
It absolutely poured on our tiny two-man tent (which miraculously stayed dry). Half an inch in four hours. Now, if you live in a naturally stormy place, you’re probably thinking, “That’s nothing!” But in the Chihuahuan Desert, after a prolonged drought, that storm gave us just cause to worry about washed-out roads and flash flooding.
The next morning, we thought our best reward might be cooler temperatures—until we went on a hike, and discovered what was waiting for us:
These guys wasted absolutely no time. Nearly every plant in the park went from zero to peak bloom in just a few short hours. I have never seen anything like it.
That day the phrase “painted desert” had a whole new meaning.
This place really felt like an oasis, after driving for over sixteen hours—the last three in a raging West-Texas lightning storm—to get here. When the Tailor and I pulled in after one in the morning (an interesting quirk about Van Horn, TX: it’s lies about one mile inside the Central time zone, so we lost yet another hour at the finish line) and collapsed face-down in our room, we didn’t get a chance to really appreciate the “Capitan.” But in the morning, in the cool shade of the courtyard, surrounded by blazing desert color and the understated 1930s opulence of the hotel, I realized we’d found a real gem. Maybe a grueling trek is required to gain admittance to (or at least appreciate) a place so lovely as this.