by Cliff Morris
copyright 2000
*****
Forty days may be a bit too long, but then again, maybe not. In either case, there's excellent reason to go wandering in the desert. There's magic in them thar sand dunes, and if you're lucky, it'll get ya. In southwest Texas there is a relatively obscure National Park. At least sixty miles across, the park takes its name from its location on a sharp bend in the Rio Grande river. It's a long haul to southwest Texas for most of us, but Big Bend National Park is a must-do journey.
Big Bend is gorgeous, in a most spectacular way, with mountains, craggy escarpments, deep canyons, the Rio Grande river, hot springs, history, even quicksand...and a heavenly silence that surpasses all understanding. It's within this silence that the truly spectacular awaits. The mystical---by far the desert's most insidious appeal---is but a few steps away in that marvelous landscape.
We've often heard it said, but until personally experienced it remains so many words: Time stands still in the desert. It's true, and it's a riveting experience. Time's utter dismissal by the higher order becomes direct experience in the desert, and you'll find something of far greater value in its place: Yourself.
A clear, immediate connection with spirit is available to you in the desert; all you have to do is pay attention and wait for it to show. For instance: While seated against a shady rock face one day, alone with the sky and that magnificent silence, the intuition came to me that the desert was sucking the garbage out of me. The refuse of burned-out experience, bad food, bad attitude--junk that interferes with our feeling one with ourselves and with the universe--was being quietly extracted by dutiful desert energies. And all I had to do was sit there.
That night, a dream confirmed the revelation: Floating suspended in the darkness of space, chunks of refuse flew out from me into the dark cosmos--crumpled paper, old food tins, etc. A dream/vision/affirmation of the power of the desert to cleanse. Such is the potential of that silent, mystical world, filled with timeless life and revelation.
The river itself, the Rio Grande, isn't particularly wide nor deep at that point, not in January. I was told, though, that during the rainy season the level might rise by as much as fifty feet in the canyons. Difficult to imagine. In January the current is swift at spots but overall the river seems benign, cool, and friendly.
Mexico is but 75 feet away in some locations. I found a camping spot at such a place, not ten feet from the river. There wasn't another soul within sight or sound--thank God for small favors. After unpacking the necessary gear and levelling my trusty VW camper, I set about fixing supper.
Soft whistling floated over from the Mexican side. A slim, middle-aged Mexican man on horseback worked his way down a gentle slope to the river, his whistling an intentional kindness to me, to announce himself that we might acknowledge one another's presence, then each proceed with his own business.
Exchanging a wave and a "Buenos Tardes," he then pointed at something immediate to him and shouted to me, "Agua calliente." He was telling me that there was a hot spring over there. I couldn't see it from my side of the river but it became an instant attraction; I knew that I must soak in that remote Mexican spring.
In half an hour or so the man remounted his trusty steed, waved 'adios,' and rode off into his Chihuahuan world.
That was my cue. I guaged that there was an hour and a half of daylight remaining, enough for a warm soak, so I slipped into my bathing suit and waded into the river. For some reason (ignorance) I thought it was probably shallow enough to walk across. And the current wasn't threatening at all at that location, or so it seemed to my inexperienced eye.
What I didn't know was that a sharp bend in the river slightly upstream produced a centrifugal effect, speeding the current near the Mexican shore. It was undetectable from where I stood...but I'd learn of it soon enough. Leaving the security of my campsite I waded into the cold river--a little worried about the risk of wild water but enthused about a relaxing soak in a Mexican hot spring, with no one for company but the river and the desert solitude.
Now, here's where experience counts: I didn't have any...so it came as a nasty surprise about 3/4 of the way across to find the riverbottom disappear beneath my feet. The centrifugal effect of that curve upriver caused the current to quicken on the far side, which, with its increased power, carved a sharp trench in the riverbottom. And since my swimming chops are somewhat rock-like, the appearance of these new circumstances put a hell of a crimp in my plan!
The choice: Go back to the Texas side of the river, perhaps to sit with the gringos in the Park's hot spring downriver, or proceed courageously and enjoy my solitude in a cozy Mexican hot spring. It seemed worth the risk to plunge ahead; a split-second decision.
The bottom disappeared beneath my soles, then the balls of my feet, then my toes scratched frantically for purchase on the pebbly bottom, then nothing was left but the river's seriously unrelenting current. I was at that point flailing for my life, literally, a depressingly familiar situation since I'd almost drowned on three previous occasions...once in a swimming pool!
Furious paddling seemed the right thing to do, like Tarzan trying to save Boy from a crocodile. I found that it helped to lean into the current. Mind straight ahead! Swim hard! Where's Tarzan when you need him?
With steely determination and frantic paddling, I finally passed the danger point and gratefully felt the safety of Mexican pebbles--mother earth--rise to meet my feet. I'd lost about 50 yards of shoreline to the current.
Whew! Chihuahua!! That's where I was, the Mexican State of Chihuahua. Standing on Mexican soil, the tiny hot spring was now visible. Ten inches deep and six feet across, it was especially inviting after the cold, frantic swim. Relieved that the scary adventure was over, I stepped into the warm water and settled onto the soft sandy bottom, alone with the mountains and the desert silence, soon in Heaven on earth, up to my neck in bliss.
And so it remained, until the realization struck: I had to go back! Holy Moley. And so, after a long, comforting, mineral-rich soak, I necessarily girded my loins (I had nice loins in those days) and focused on the Texas shore...so near and yet so far. Stepping again into the cold, threatening water, with the sun rapidly setting, I reflected that at least I knew what to expect this time across.
Wrong again. I found instead that leaning left to counteract the current was an entirely different story; it was more difficult than leaning to the right; I haven't a clue why. It sounds like a small thing but it was frighteningly significant; the current was a stronger opponent this time. So, I had no choice but to paddle like Tarzan with a crocodile after HIM!
In the midst of my flailing, I remember glancing nervously downstream at what might be in store for me. I saw the possibility of my death, though I didn't really believe it would happen. But I considered the remote location, how my body could be found tangled in a clump of river refuse, how lonely my little VW camper would be without me, waiting forlornly at the water's edge, thinking to itself, "What an asshole!"
As the Texas side of the riverbottom rose to meet my feet, I shook off the possibility of my imminent expiration and enthusiastically praised the Great Spirit. The Water-devil had been beaten back once again. With fist raised against the river upstream, I let loose a loud victory scream. Yaaaaaaaa! Yaaaaa! at the unrelenting, indifferent river, and Yaaaa! at Grim Death himself. My knees have never looked so good to me.
One cannot help but note the indifference of nature in such circumstances. My little drama had been lived alone, in a still, timeless place. No sympathy from the Rio Grande. But as a gentle dusk fell over that powerful landscape, none was needed.
My cozy camper's comfortable bed was especially snug that evening. The experience had left me with an exquisite sense of oneness with the river. My friendly companion in sleep that night was the burbling Rio Grande, no longer coldly indifferent, but speaking kindly to me of the greatness of Nature. We were one. Through the screened window, the brilliant night sky even had a twinkle in its eye. I slept like a log.
At daybreak, this dream awakened me: Sitting in the Mexican hot spring, a thousand tiny golden fish swam about my legs. They were delivering to me the cosmic wisdom that the health benefits of natural mineralized water is no matter of pop psychology. It is real, it is golden, and in that lofty spiritual space, gold is Divine. The precarious trip across was well worth it.
As I write this, my Big Bend experience is some twenty years past, but it remains with me as immediate as if it were yesterday. The experience of that landscape is among the most profound I've had. Try it yourself. Make the long trip; you will not regret it. You will find your Self there, amongst the rocks, the mountains, the flowers, the cacti, and the mysteries. Just don't go swimming alone in the Rio Grande. Take a friend, flotation, and a long rope.
Other stuff:
Bad Poetry
Idiots in Space
The Beat
Letters to Hopalong Cassidy
Tribal Progress
Stop the Madness! (under construction)
