Eliot Hall

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Published on Monday, 19 July 2010 09:59

Summer 2010 Writing Contest Entry

Eliot Hall

The van that stopped for us was heading all the way to the Big Bend. My roommate, Terry, and I had
started the cross state hitchhike from Sherman just the day before. Now, late afternoon, we swept along
the long road from Marathon quickly to be enveloped by the shadows of Chisos Mountains.

The summer of '81 was a turning point for me, and the trip to the Big Bend was a turning point for that
summer. I imagined I could recreate memories of childhood summers spent camping in the Basin. In
my mind a tow headed 12 year old, is cavalierly prancing, precariously close to the window looking out
from the Chisos basin.

That afternoon found our ride stopping in a lonely spot. A bickering married couple, their kindness was
offset by the dentist-drill birdsong of their endless argument. When the van stopped, I scrambled to get
out and walked a steady clip until the drone of their conflict was rebuked by silence.
The mountains were draped in orange and titian by the light of the dying day. A battered volume of
Castaneda in hand I was determined to use the last rays of the sun to re-read a well thumbed chapter.
Instead I found myself facing the wall of mountains. The falling sun dragged sharp lines across their
faces and I fell entranced at the magic lantern show of sunset.

I'm not sure what started it. The spectacle of light and shadow, the recent loss of my parents, the loss of
what I thought was the love of my life, any of a thousand imagined affronts. I felt an unfamiliar sting
and, unbidden, my eyes flooded with tears. Never a pretty crier, I gasped and gagged and swallowed
hard against the tears. I don't know for how long, but I wept like a child.  

The angry couple had parked near the dilapidated ruins of an ancient hotel. At the foot of the modest
hill, hot springs bubbled up through the a long neglected masonry bath. I threw my sleeping bag
alongside the van and soon found myself staring at a high afternoon moon.

As the horizon swallowed the sun Terry and I picked our way down to the hot springs. A few other
campers were already in the steamy waters. We met awkwardly in the well worn spot. In memory that
night becomes mystic and those strangers, old friends. We talked for hours. Wet bodies released
columns of steam that softened the light of a disinterested moon.   

Later exhausted, wet and grimy I laid down on top of my sleeping bag and stared at the myriad stars as
I span on the planet beneath them. I was content at the center of the universe, yet the interests of my
heart seemed far away. With a modest surprise I remembered that the stroke of midnight had ushered in
my birthday, I was 21 years old.

The spectacular dawn hammered into the campsite and I woke up knowing what I would do. I found
Terry already making coffee. I gave him my second canteen, and half the jerky I had. The angry couple,
quiet in repose, still slept as I picked my way out of the campsite.   

I put my thumb out on the long road to Marathon, the morning sun at my back. I had no idea then, that I
would never see Terry again. No notion that I would never return to College. Never see the girl I lost.
Moments lost to me, like my parents, like my new friends from the hot spring. Yet now, the sun across
my shoulders and the Chisos behind me, I felt I was slipping from the loving embrace of home.
Most years I bring my family to the mountains. Driving a sleek automobile I dwell on my loved ones
lost in the fabric of time while the Big Bend stands apparently unchanged. The fluid lives of the
mountains, measured in eons, hardly note our puny, flickering flame. I know there is no constant but
change but I also know the Big Bend will be there for me. All my days, and all the days of Texas. The
Big Bend remains, resolute.