Pine Canyon
I like hiking. It’s where my body tells my mind, “Look, I’ve got this. You’re just along for the ride, head boy. Take a break. Look around.” So, I do. As I trudge along, I watch the trail, the plants, the mountains, the sky, the hikers ahead. It’s one foot in front of the other. A walk. A long walk. A slow walk.
I took a good one this past week in the Pine Canyon Caldera of Big Bend and the Chisos Mountains. It was a long drive to the trail head over a rough, rocky road. There were five of us. I’d been on the trail before with a friend one summer during a visit to Marathon. We walked halfway in just to see what was up, but the heat drove us back. This was that hike again, with more people, but this time we went all the way to the end to see the canyon wall where the water drops over the edge in torrents if the rain’s been good.
It was dry, however, with the rocks painted black by no telling how many years of falling water. We sat in the shade of the cliff and the big rocks to marvel and rest and eat. Thinking of what it must have been like when the big rocks sheared off the cliff face to sit at its base in their solemn silence. Then we left, leaving the canyon and the mountain to its memories of the days when it roared and belched fire and smoke and all around trembled when it spoke.