A weyr of white Chinese dragons languished in the skies above Big Bend National park with a single vapor trail grooved down its puffy center line, slashing through them across the great aqua dome, the high altitude winds smudging and dragging it west. The smoke blue haze to the south hung like a sheet of phantom rain between the Chisos and the lower valleys through which the dirty river snaked and deposited refuse and drift wood along the banks. Even as the sun found its mid-morning patrol, the air fought to retain the cold that clung to every molecule. Ricky Buckney woke to breathing vapor in the rear bench of his dead brother's Suburban, a chattering in his mouth. Every inch of his clothing and the vinyl upholstery had hardened in the night. He struggled to work his joints to life. His hand throbbed the same way it had been throbbing for days. He wondered why he hadn't left the motor running and the heater blowing. He clawed to the driver’s seat and sparked the engine and spun the heater dials to full then breathed his hot breath into his good hand. He caught a brief glimpse of his swollen face in the mirror, the amateur stitch job he had performed on himself. He slapped the mirror askew.
The foot of Chilicotal lay only yards away from him with a single crazy limbed anodized red prickly pear perched on the mountain's lowest rocky spur at the edge of Camp Site #2. Ricky had arrived at Panther Junction Headquarters early in the afternoon of the day prior. He had made the tour of the main roads and the Basin, asking questions of all the employees and rangers about a man in a white Ford Ranger. You might as well be describing a fish in the sea, a waitress said with a panicky grin. His bandages and missing front teeth unnerved people. He had loomed godlike over the diorama relief map of the park that monopolized the foyer of the headquarters while he interrogated a tall burly ranger about the restrictions on crossing the river. He had asked if it were possible that someone could hide in the vast wilderness nested between the backroads and the mountains. The ranger conceded it possible but not forever, not before someone reported the person or park officials discovered him. We have planes, the ranger told him. Ricky had asked if a campsite at Rice Tank was available and he paid his fees and filled out the forms then rambled his way through the eighteen miles of rough Glenn Springs Road that lead him to camp.
Ricky felt a pang in his gut and realized he hadn't prepared for actual camping. He scanned the area. The nose on his face was useless. His heavy mouth-breathing fogged the windows. As the rising sun greenhoused the cab and heater blew, he finally found comfort enough to study a park map he had taken from the headquarters the previous night. Topography suggested there were many places to cross the river no matter how illegal. A warning in the legend reminded him that entering the little town of Boquillas through an old park entrance was unlawful and could result in a fine and/or detention or incarceration. He conducted an internal debate and concluded the only course of action was scouting out a shallow place to ford.
He retrieved a bag of Cheetos and beer from the passenger seat with his good hand and stepped out of the vehicle. He found a small patch of ash near the rear of the timber bordered area flattened and pulverized by many tires and booted feet. He found bottle caps and animal scat and random pieces of plastic dinnerware. Tiny birds flitted past him with hardly a sound and the wind, though not strong, worked hard enough to give the silence a voice in his ears. Only when his phone rang in his pocket did he realize just how faint that voice.
The foot of Chilicotal lay only yards away from him with a single crazy limbed anodized red prickly pear perched on the mountain's lowest rocky spur at the edge of Camp Site #2. Ricky had arrived at Panther Junction Headquarters early in the afternoon of the day prior. He had made the tour of the main roads and the Basin, asking questions of all the employees and rangers about a man in a white Ford Ranger. You might as well be describing a fish in the sea, a waitress said with a panicky grin. His bandages and missing front teeth unnerved people. He had loomed godlike over the diorama relief map of the park that monopolized the foyer of the headquarters while he interrogated a tall burly ranger about the restrictions on crossing the river. He had asked if it were possible that someone could hide in the vast wilderness nested between the backroads and the mountains. The ranger conceded it possible but not forever, not before someone reported the person or park officials discovered him. We have planes, the ranger told him. Ricky had asked if a campsite at Rice Tank was available and he paid his fees and filled out the forms then rambled his way through the eighteen miles of rough Glenn Springs Road that lead him to camp.
Ricky felt a pang in his gut and realized he hadn't prepared for actual camping. He scanned the area. The nose on his face was useless. His heavy mouth-breathing fogged the windows. As the rising sun greenhoused the cab and heater blew, he finally found comfort enough to study a park map he had taken from the headquarters the previous night. Topography suggested there were many places to cross the river no matter how illegal. A warning in the legend reminded him that entering the little town of Boquillas through an old park entrance was unlawful and could result in a fine and/or detention or incarceration. He conducted an internal debate and concluded the only course of action was scouting out a shallow place to ford.
He retrieved a bag of Cheetos and beer from the passenger seat with his good hand and stepped out of the vehicle. He found a small patch of ash near the rear of the timber bordered area flattened and pulverized by many tires and booted feet. He found bottle caps and animal scat and random pieces of plastic dinnerware. Tiny birds flitted past him with hardly a sound and the wind, though not strong, worked hard enough to give the silence a voice in his ears. Only when his phone rang in his pocket did he realize just how faint that voice.
Edit 12.11.2018