Then and Now
Went on a walk yesterday in the hills of Big Bend. The landscape where we walked was all ancient ash and lava flows, sculpted over 40 million years by the wind and rain. It was a stark, rugged beauty. We were at the Mules Ears, heading toward the spring that lies midway down the trail. We were almost there when travelers returning from that direction stopped to tell us site was dry. It was a hot day and a dry spring held little appeal, so we turned around and made our way back.
Toward the end of the hike, I lagged behind and eventually the footfalls of my companions disappeared up the trail. I stopped. I wanted to be alone in this place with the wind in my face and the hills all around and think back to what it must have been like when volcanoes ruled and two hundred foot thick ash flows covered the land, followed by lava flows of nearly the same depth. I wanted to feel the long sweep of time that made that hellscape into this, the place where I stood. And I wanted to imagine how it might look in another 40 million years.
Lot of hubris there to think I could imagine all that. But I tried, and it was a fun exercise. And it was a nice place to rest and catch my breath. And when the little interlude passed, I resumed the walk, caught up to my companions, and drove with them to the lodge in the Chisos Mountains. There we cooled our feet, drank a beer or two, and rested in the belly of the volcano that had once ruled the land over which we had just walked. And I’m sure the volcano thought little of our presence and cared even less. We were just another touch in 40 million years of touches.
John W. Wilson is the author of The Long Goodbye: A Caregiver's Tale