Last year, we visited the Big Bend region of west Texas for the first time. Though we only managed one hike due to health circumstances, we were desperate to return. Last year, the region was at the peak of drought. Every day was over 100 degrees, and the nights took their time cooling off. The stars made up for it, though. We felt peace. We felt awe. As we left, there was a black dog out in the desert. We called to it, tried to leave food. Our fear was we were leaving it to die. A sober way to end such a transformative experience.
This year, we came with more people in tow, my sister and one of her sons. No drought this time. There were thunderstorms every day, and from our perspective …amazing. This truly feels like the edge of the world, and to see three separate thunderstorms brewing over it was something I will cherish.
We hiked further, saw more. On the way out of Big Bend on our second day, we were stopped by a flash flood. Truly a different experience than the first time. Big Bend was greener. Breathing. The mountains were alive.
We are, if you didn’t know, crunchy folk. We pay attention to moon cycles. We have crystals even though we don’t understand their function on a clinical level. The land is old, and our aim is to honor it. On a DNA level, 30% of my heritage ranges from here to the Texas coast going back millenia. I feel connected in a way outside of language. My wife does too for her own reasons. So, we placed crystals charged with our energy around the property, and made an offering of fruit. We made these offerings expecting nothing in return.
On our last full day, Miranda (my wife) got up early to watch the sunrise. She woke me up a little later, and I joined her on the patio after debating how sleepy I was. We talked for a while, about esoteric things as the clouds turned blue and gray and pink. We heard a noise at the same time. Miranda thought it was a bird. I thought it was a dog or coyote. Soon, we saw.
The area we were staying in was halfway up a mesa of sorts. Below it, down a steep incline, were the stargazing domes owned by the same people who managed our vacation house. Suffice it to say, the journey from the desert floor with the domes to our house was arduous. Additionally, there was a ridge between us and the slope. We couldn’t see it directly. I think it was part of an old mining operation as there was a rusted pipe running across the top of the ridge.
Coyote or dog, we weren’t sure. It was too far away and passed too quickly. But the sound persisted. Then we saw the second animal on top of the ridge. Much smaller. Miranda and I wondered if the first animal could have been the black dog from the first trip. I shuffled over to the ridge, took a step but the ground gave away. The recent storms had made the already shifty ground unstable. Miranda went inside and I saw my opportunity.
I swapped my Crocs for hiking boots and went around the side of the ridge. Every step was an avalanche. There was a cable running over the ridge and I thought it would support my weight across. The first time I attempted to shift my weight to it, though, the cable came with me. I made it across the ridge and stood where I last saw the small, yipping animal. There, I saw nothing. To my right was the steep slope leading to the stargazing domes. To the left was the road that led to our house.
Then I looked down. In a leafless, dead patch of bramble, the animal sat motionless, watching me. Silent as it was trained to be. I scooped him up, not knowing it was a him at the time, and reversed course with one less free hand.
Not a coyote. And an hour after I plucked him from the wild, one of the many hawks circling alit right next to that spot.
He shook almost uncontrollably, but there was already something civilized about him. He peed outside, not in. Days later, that trend has mostly continued. On our final day, as we packed to leave, the black dog from the ridge showed up. The dog from our first visit? Maybe. It makes sense. We named the puppy Chisos for the mountain range contained within Big Bend National Park. It was almost like she, the black dog, led him to us. This was a magical experience, but the magic didn’t end there.
On our way back home, we stopped in the ghost town of Terlingua. It’s a blip on the map but so worth visiting. Our goal was breakfast tacos. While we waited for the order, Miranda, my sister, and two of the kids wandered over to the art gallery. Miranda is a talker, if I didn’t mention before. In the gallery there was a blue nose pit bull chasing his toy. Miranda spoke with the artist in residence and owner of the dog. The dog’s name is … Chisos. And, the artist is from San Antonio, where we live. And, at home they have a Great Pyrenees same as us.
Chisos has a clean bill of health from our vet. He is learning how to be a dog. As I write this, he is asleep on the couch beside me. As I review the tapestry of this story, I can pluck several strands. We made an offering of life as a way of communicating gratitude. The desert sent an emissary in response, one that will anchor us to the place we love beyond explanation. Chisos has many meanings, both Spanish and Native. All of them match the puppy we are getting to know. We are grateful and accept the responsibility of this life.
Horror Stories by LP Hernandez 