Essays

Moseying: Exploring the Natural World

Flashflood in the Davis Mountains
May 25, 2005

“I am always happy to have folks from Midland and Odessa come to Alpine,” said Carla McFarland, owner of the Holland Hotel. My wife Deborah and I spent two nights at the historic hotel in late April, while in the area for a Big Bend Chapter of the Native Plant Society of Texas Saturday field trip. “The temperature is always cooler here in the summer, and people need to look at mountains, sometimes, if they live in a flatter environment.”

Yes, indeedy, it is wonderful to see hills and rocks and running streams! And it is so close to Midland – less than three hours drive. Deborah and I also drove the Marfa, Fort Davis, and Alpine triangle, and came home via Marathon.

The “spring green” had begun to fade, but we still found beautiful wildflowers. We also enjoyed the company of old friends, some fine dining, and bought a bunch of books. And, as we always do when in the area, we stopped in Paisano Pass and picked up one beautiful multi-colored rock for a keepsake. There are so many wonderful attractions in the area that two nights and days are not enough time to see everything.

Have you been to McDonald Observatory? Fort Davis National Historic Park? Prude Ranch? The Chihuahuan Desert Research Institute? Have you shopped in the many galleries, gift shops, bookstores in the area’s towns? Have you stayed in one of the region’s bed and breakfast establishments? Have you stayed in the region’s historic hotels -- the Holland Hotel in Alpine, or the Gage Hotel in Marathon, or the Paisano Hotel in Marfa? Have you seen the Marfa Lights? Have you participated in a group visit to the Texas Nature Conservancy Preserve in highest part of the mountains? Have you been to either the Girl Scout Ranch or the Boy Scout Ranch? Have you been to the Balmorhea State Park and splashed around in its crystal clear spring fed pool? Have you camped in the Davis Mountains State Park?

I love the area! I have gone to the region every year of my life (except for a few years spent in college and my early working years in a number of western states.) I have volunteered at the Davis Mountains State Park, given programs at several of the facilities in the region, and participated in dozens of Christmas Bird Counts in the region. I have spent days in the libraries at Sul Ross and at the Fort Davis National Historical Park. And I have been fortunate when several landowners gave me permission to hike some of the privately owned rugged terrain. It is a very special and wonderful region.

A number of the area’s merchants and staff at the public attractions have told me that the region is very popular with folks from Houston and Austin, but that we Midlanders do not visit as much as they would hope. Just because it is close does not make it a great place to visit – it is perfect for a quick, short getaway.

I even take day trips there, especially on hot summer days, just to breathe in the pine and cedar scented cool air. During dry years, I have gone there just to see a thunderstorm and feel rain pounding down and soaking my parched skin! Late summer monsoon rains often occur daily, so it is worth the gamble of the long drive.

A number of years ago I hit the jackpot. When I left Midland in mid-morning in temperatures nudging the century mark, I could see a line of huge thunderheads in the southwestern sky. I did not get under a cloud, however, until I began the approach to Wild Rose Pass. A ferocious downdraft wind slammed into my old GMC three-quarter ton work truck, catching me by surprise and almost pushed me off the road. I noticed a long cylindrical white cloud far beneath the dark purple-gray bottom of the thunderheads. The white cloud stretched across the wide canyon, just below the top of its walls.

I have chased thunderstorms since the day I first got my driver’s license, seeking the thrill of the rapid-fire lightning and buffeting winds, always hoping to see St. Elmo’s fire or ball lightning, or even the twisty tail of a tornado. When the downdraft wind hit me this time I began hooting and hollering, yelling “This is gonna be good! Yes! Yeee-haw!” I drove a little faster, rushing to meet the storm.

I could see that three separate anvil shaped thunderheads surely reaching 50,000 feet high were about to come together. As I neared the top of the pass, abnormally wide lightning bolts began slamming into the peaks above me. Every half-dozen seconds 100+ decibel thunder made my ears ache as I cruised down the slope towards Frazier Canyon. As I neared the roadside park another of the thunderbolts hit a massive oak nearby. A third of the tree slowly toppled, moving in slow motion as it slowly peeled bark from the tree trunk below where it had broken.

The rain descended. What had been a smattering of large drops spattering the windshield became a torrent, a veritable waterfall, sheets of water my windshield wipers could not shed quickly enough for any visibility at all. I pulled over to the side of the road, just a hundred feet to the north side of the bridge of the normally dry creek bottom of Frazier Canyon. The rain pounded non-stop, the truck rocked back and forth in the wind, and the thunder and lightning became continuous. I began getting a little scared.

To bolster my courage I put Wagner’s “Ride of the Valkyries” into the tapedeck and turned it up, way up. The music and the storm combined to raise a million goosebumps on my skin. My heart filled with indescribable emotion – the best I can describe it is “I am in the presence of the Lord.” A combination of awe, fear, ecstatic joy and unparalleled expectancy brought tears to my eyes. The moment seemed to last forever, but as the music reached a quiet passage, the rain and lightning acted in concert.

I peered out in every direction. Running rivulets of rainwater coursed down the side of the hills, and a big expanse of water oozed slowly across the parking lot of the rest stop. I turned off the music. The rain became a pitter-patter and the lightning stopped, and the thunder became the more familiar rumble in the distance. I rolled down the window to feel the super-cooled air, and as I did I heard a new noise. The distant grumble puzzled me, so I stepped from the truck, shivering.

I did a quick 360 survey – what was that sound and where was it coming from? I got my answer in less than a minute. Upstream from the bridge and several hundred yards away I could see the tops of the seepwillow jerking in the bottom of the watercourse, and then the seepwillows began disappearing, toppling down like dominos. The proverbial wall of water appeared – a frothy tumbling debris-laden brownish torrent coursing towards the bridge. Holy Murgatroyd!

Folks that have been around awhile might remember what happened to some of the bridges along that road that day… Ay-yi-yi!