If you drive to the far west tip of Texas, if you brave Interstate 10 and unending desert highways, you will be rewarded with views of pecan orchards and flooded plains, of jagged ridges and deep chasms, of border cities woven together like the colorful strands of a handmade potholder along the Rio Grande.
The westward mountains cannot hold these cities in.
The sky is striped today and it’s hard to separate the clouds from the jet streams. Dust rises with each step to settle in the crevices of my jeans and boots, hitching a ride however far we will take it. A groundcover of impalement flanks the trail on either side. The curved serrated edges of Lechuguilla, needle-like spines of prickly pear, the occasional yucca permanently bent by the wind.
A black dot grows to the north and eventually two fat-tired bicycles approach. I lead the horse off trail to give space, they politely stop for us instead and ask, “Is this your range?” An indicator of how rarely a horse is seen in these parts perhaps. How wonderful to be able to say “yes!”
After photos are taken we move on. My ride is much more beer friendly than theirs and I make a mental note to take advantage of that on our return.
But we are still on the first leg of this ride and the dogs and horse are fresh. The younger dog runs ahead, the older follows behind. There is a stillness in the air now; a view of flat expanses framed by sawtooth edges - the craggy pipes of the Organs are watching us, I think.
These mountains remember the old city, I’m sure of it. Before it was renamed El Paso. Before we made the Rio our own. Before we replaced foot and horse with four wheels and a roaring engine.
I have a home base. I love my home base. But sometimes it clings to me like a sticky residue and I forget who I am. Comfort sneaks in and becomes my master. Entrapping me. I get stuck in the mud of it all. Weighted down.
These trips are a freedom, and like a first kiss they breathe new life into my veins. Each time I rein the horse around and boot him forward along another unridden trail there is a cleansin
Just short of Webb’s Gap we ride up on a guzzler for the Big Horn sheep, they will arrive soon from Elephant Mountain near Alpine. The guzzler is dry – or turned off – either way it provides a good rest stop and a place to tie the horse for a minute.
I reach around to scratch my neck and chest, look down at dirty fingernails, smile, and slowly, like a damp cloud cover dissolving in the rising sun, the remaining shreds of “real life” fade into the day.
The Sierra Vista Trail is a 29 mile through trail connecting the Franklin Mtns in El Paso to the Organ Mtns in Las Cruces and maintained by the BLM. Learn more here: https://www.blm.gov/visit/sierra-vista-trail
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