Near Texas’s Big Bend National Park, Rio Grande trip can slow currents of life

We stayed on the water, minus one lunch break of sandwiches and brownies, until late afternoon. At about 4:30 p.m., the canoes started to land on the shore, one by one. The guides had scouted out a campsite with two tiers, a beach area where they’d set up the kitchen and dining table, and higher ground, where we’d pitch our tents. We built our nests in a cozy hollow between the cliffs and the river, with a thick quilt of stars covering us from above.

“Play ‘Jessie’s Girl,’ ” we shouted at Brian Merrill and Chip Broyles, who were strumming their guitars around the campfire.

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Flushed from wine and champagne, which we sipped from metal camping mugs, we weren’t very creative in our requests. Our friend’s name was Jesse. Yeah, that’s the way our minds were working as the magnums emptied out and the clock ticked toward midnight.

Hours before, we’d gathered like an extended family for a feast of grilled bacon-wrapped steak, mashed potatoes, green beans and salad. The conversation bounced around frenetically as we pieced together fragments of personal histories to create some semblance of a whole life.

Guide Tony Flint, a part grizzly/part Teddy bear of a man who was our head chef, served dessert by the fire. We sang with our mouths full of chocolaty goodness.

Slowly, members of the group started to peel off to tuck themselves into their sleeping bags. I stayed for a little while longer, because I had one wish as yet unfulfilled: I wanted to see a falling star.

Tony joined me at the shoreline, where the river flowed by without a whisper.

“Stand here 10 minutes,” he said, “and you’ll see one.”
I stared at the sky as directed. Within seconds, a sparkle of light shot across the heavens and disappeared into the darkness. I was now ready for bed.

The final leg of the journey was kind to us. Wide strips of river, with only a few ripples to shake the boat. The water seemed deeper and bluer and the vegetation less pushy.

We paddled a few effortless miles before pausing for lunch. As we ate by the river’s edge, I asked Mark Williams, a supervisory Border Patrol agent and co-traveler, about the park’s landscape, trying to understand its unexpected appeal. With poetic grace, he described what some locals call sky islands, the Sierra del Carmen mountains appearing as islands in the desert ocean. Hawaii adrift in the Lone Star State.

The crew packed up the meal, and we shoved off for the last two miles. The take-out point was tricky. The opening was narrow and the shore was hilly, so we had to space ourselves out. When it was our turn, Mary and I moved toward the bull’s-eye.

For a split second, I wanted to touch Mexico again, a final farewell from its north-of-the-border neighbor. But instead we coasted right into the big ol’ arms of Texas.

Big Bend National Park, Tex.: How to get there, where to stay, what to do