Godspeed, friend
After battling an illness, Gene McCalmont passed away in January, 2014. Gene has been writing and riding with us since the second year of publication, 2000. Gene, in his press club awards winning column ‘Being There’ spoke to the soul of motorcycle riding, that common thread we share, how our experiences in life are tied together by two lanes of asphalt, and the horizon you never reach.
We’ve lost a great friend, and Texas has lost a great voice of someone who loved her very much. Every mountain, curve, straightaway, small town, and person Gene met along the way were all colors on the palette he painted with. He was an incredibly gifted writer, adventurer, loving husband, father, granddad, and he is missed by everyone whose lives he touched.
Godspeed, Gene. Now you can open up that Ducati 916 and ride on without ever getting another ticket.
We promised to publish some of our favorites among his work to the website. We hope you’ll find his writing as moving and unforgettable as we do. This is one of his fine works we published in the October/November issue of RIDE TEXAS® in 2006.
On his fiftieth birthday, Gene McCalmont rode his Ducati 900 SS on a race track. He wrote an article called, “Turning 50,” about the experience which we published in the May/June 2000 issue of RTM’s precursor, TEXMOTO. When Gene invited us to join him in celebrating his sixtieth, we had no idea what he had planned for his Big Bend adventure ride, but we knew we wanted to be there. The riders who joined Gene were Wayne Roth, Miguel F. Asensio, and Valerie Asensio.
Still (Mostly) Durable: Big Bend dual-sport adventure
By Gene McCalmont
I tried pulling the bike from the gravel embankment, but it wouldn’t budge. My heart was pounding from the exertion and it was difficult breathing in the hot desert air. I sat down hard next to the embedded handlebars and reached for the last bottle of water in my tank bag. The tepid water went down quickly and my head began to clear. Overheated and sweating profusely, I was beginning to think that I might have overreached my ability.
Glenn Springs Road had taken from me all that I had to give. These last few miles of deep loose gravel on the heavily rutted two track back country road, had been far worse than expected. A moment’s loss of concentration had tossed me wildly into the air and out of control. However, nothing was broken and I was still alive in one of the most beautifully desolate and isolated places in North America.
I pulled off my jacket, draped it over a nearby Creosote bush, and crawled under it for protection from the glaring sun. My breathing grew less labored and I began to cool in the shade as sweat evaporated quickly in the dry air. So far, this adventure tour had lived up to expectations, but I hadn’t counted on this. I wondered if my sixty year old body could take all of the punishment this road had yet to give. I took another drink. It had all begun innocently enough.
We stood at the entrance to the Pinto Canyon road, southwest of Marfa. FM 2810 had dumped us unceremoniously at the edge of deep sun-drenched canyons, ringed by rugged brown and ocher mountains. The white caliche road that bisected the parched land was our gateway into the Chihuahuan Desert. Our route would lead us across sun-spilled arroyo and desert sand to Chinati Hot Springs, where we would spend the night and bask in the lithium rich hot springs water. I rolled forward and down into the canyon. Val, Miguel and Wayne followed in a loose caravan.
Softball size chunks of dirt and rock spun from beneath my tires as I negotiated the deeply rutted road. I glanced back to see the other riders slowly descending behind me. We were dirt experienced and well equipped to handle the terrain, but it was slow going at best. The steep descending switchbacks dropped us deeper into the canyons. We emerged into magnificent Pinto Canyon and a better maintained road just after crossing Prospect Creek. The Chihuahuan is a high desert and even in this canyon, we were more than four thousand feet above sea level. Still, that was of little consolation as the arid conditions reminded me that a desert is still a desert. I found the cutoff to Chinati Hot Springs at Arroyo Escondido and turned toward the central basin area south of the Chinati Mountains. We crossed Tijeras Arroyo and the thinly flowing Tijeras Spring Creek to start our climb out of the canyon to the desert floor.
I was at first struck by the whiteness of the desert. Everywhere, sun-baked earth looked as if it had been sprinkled with caliche flour. Light winds tossed dust high into the air and coated everything in a fine white power. Everywhere, it was the same. I glanced into the mirror. Ghostly shapes emerged from my bike’s dust plume. I pulled to the right to let Val and Miguel pass. Their dust covered black jackets gave them a wraith like appearance, as if from some mystic desert legend.
Chinati Hot Springs was at once more primitive than I had thought, and yet well suited for our purpose. It was located in a small arroyo beside Hot Springs Creek and shaded by tall cottonwood trees. We were greeted by the howls of bloodhound Jubilation T. Cornpone and by his owners Dave and Krissy Sines; Chinati’s caretakers. Dave showed us around and pointed out our cabins. We unloaded our bikes and settled in. Low on supplies, Miguel, Wayne and I headed for Presidio. Six miles out and in the middle of nowhere, my rear tire was punctured by a horseshoe nail. Miguel tossed me his air pump and Wayne, his bottle of green sealer. They wished me luck and rode away on contrails of white dust. It would be hours before I made it back to Chinati – but that’s another story.
The coolness of the evening was a welcome relief from the desert heat. A nice long soak in the hot springs water had relieved the soreness in my back and rinsed away the gritty desert dust. We all sat by the group pool beneath the desert sky, and savored hand rolled cigars and cool cerveza in the bright moonlight. A couple of cowboys joined in and livened the evening with tails of growing up in west Texas. I’ll never forget their well lubed whoops and hollers as the two headed back to Marfa in their pickup – through Pinto Canyon. It would be no problem for them. This was their home.
The next morning, Miguel and I worked on my flat rear tire. The slimy green sealer had seeped into the tire carcass and made the job particularly messy, but I found the leak. Miguel suggested I just replace the tube with his spare and be done with it. “Macho Men don’t replace tubes,” I said, “They fix them.” The Village People played and I sang, “Hey, Hey, Hey, macho, macho man. I’ve got be – a macho man.” I would later regret having done that.
I crawled out from under my makeshift shade and put on my hat to shield my balding head from blistering sun. A large black insect buzzed around me, no doubt disappointed at finding me utterly uneatable. My bike still lay on its side, half buried in the loose sand. The others were well ahead of me by now. I tugged once again at the embedded handlebars, but the bike wouldn’t budge. Next time I’ll bring a shovel. I noticed a prickly pear in full bloom just yards away. Its bright yellow flowers were buzzing with life. It was a sharp contrast to these stark surroundings. I wondered if I’d be missed.
Ranch Road 170 has been a perennial favorite with Ride Texas readers, but few venture this far out to Ruidosa. The road from here to Presidio is a virtual roller coaster of a ride. Following the Rio Grande River southeast, we rose and fell in a well choreographed ballet as our dual-purpose bikes occasionally became airborne. It was great fun. We passed a Border Patrol vehicle looking for tracks in the soft sand alongside the highway. It reminded me of the hardships some endure looking for a better life and of the bitter struggles in this country over border security. There were no easy answers.
El Patio in Presidio was a welcomed site and busy as usual, but I didn’t mind the wait. It was the first air conditioning I’d experienced in several days and the iced tea was particularly sweet. After lunch, I went outside to check the bikes and discovered, to my disbelief, that my rear tire was flat once again. Miguel had been right. I should have replaced the tube. We rolled the bike across the street and in back of a local gas station. The attendant graciously lent us the use of his supplies. Miguel and I had the tube replaced and the rear tire remounted in 15 minutes. I tossed the slimy tube in the trash. Ready to roll, Miguel eased over a bit and said softly, “After you, Macho Man.” The Village People haunted me the rest of the day.
Running late, we decided to take a faster pace to Terlingua Ranch, our jump point into the Big Bend National Park. We moved out into the magnificent red rock canyon lands that are El Camino Del Río. We traveled southeast with the sun at our backs, lost in a desert melody that morphed color into color, laced by the lush green vegetation of the Rio Grande. It was spectacular. We left our fast pace somewhere beside the road, at a particularly beautiful spot, and traveled outside of time.
We stopped in Terlingua just long enough to buy supplies, knowing we would arrive at the ranch too late for any food. We found TX 118 in the evening twilight and turned north toward the ranch. The sun hung low on the horizon and bathed everything in a golden red glow. We traveled north in search of the home of the Mad Rabbit, Terlingua Ranch.
Distance in West Texas had a way of deceiving the unaware. What appeared as a short line on a map could take hours to reach. Leading the way, I became disoriented in darkness, looking for some sign to point the way. Wayne moved ahead of me, following a thin white line on his GPS and motioned me forward. I was happy to give up the lead.
Wayne guided us directly to the Terlingua Ranch Road cutoff and motioned me forward. I reluctantly took the lead, guided by a feeble headlight, along the unfamiliar sun-bleached ribbon of asphalt. Everywhere was darkness – desert darkness – the kind of darkness that swallows light and reveals nothing. Grays blended with whites, browns melted into the sand; I couldn’t distinguish between the road and the desert. Furry balls of hazy light darted across the road in front of me. Fatigued, I dared not look away. The creeping cold chilled my aching muscles and ripped away body heat. I was miserable. We pressed on.
Nearing the distant horizon, a primeval vision unfolded in front of me, as the full moon rose between the Twin Peaks Mountains. It was all so familiar and yet entirely alien. I had seen this before – perhaps in a movie about some mysterious island ruled by a giant ape. A furry bolt of greased lightning darted in front of my bike. I swerved sharply to avoid a collision, running wide and off the road. I plowed through loose sand back to the pavement. My racing heart pumped warm blood to my extremities, along with a healthy dose of adrenalin. Wide awake and cold no longer, I had met and survived the Mad Rabbit.
We traversed the final few miles of gravel road to Terlingua Ranch and found our cabins up on the hill overlooking the ranch. We were tired, hungry and thirsty, but relieved to be off the road. Miguel made a makeshift beer cooler and iced down a few brews. Val set up the buns and hotdogs. Wayne and I built a pitifully small fire in the fire pit with pieces of dried brush. We huddled around it, scorched hotdogs in the flames, and giggled at the absurdity of our condition. It was just another evening in paradise.
We left the ranch in the morning and enjoyed a pleasant breakfast at Ms. Tracy’s in Terlingua. Refreshed, we headed to the park. Once inside, we took the Maverick Road toward Santa Elena Canyon. No matter how many times I’ve travel this well maintained gravel road, the site of that magnificent canyon in the distance was still inspiring. The canyon appeared rather small at first, and then grew in grandeur as we approached. We spent the rest of the afternoon hiking the 1.5 mile canyon trail and wading in the waters of the Rio Grande. If this were all we did in the park, it would have been enough. But the back country called to our sense of adventure. That evening, while dinning at the Starlight Theater in Terlingua, we planned our assault on Glenn Springs Road.
I’ve been coming to the Big Bend for many years, mostly by motorcycle. I’ve ridden these roads on a ‘67 Bonneville and slept by the river in the wet sand. I’ve watched intense storms boil out of the desert riding plumbs of Baja moisture, spilling bolts of lightning over the land. I’ve seen snow dust the high basin and fire ravage the parched desert. I’ve watched the desert hawk glide over red rock cathedrals cut by countless centuries of wind and rain. This seemed a fitting place to celebrate a benchmark birthday. That these friends would come with me was remarkable. That they would endure this desolate area by my side – was humbling. We decided to take the shortest route to pavement we could find. My arms and legs felt heavy with fatigue, but the promise of shade was enough to motivate me to mount the bike once again and face the sand traps of the River Road.
We arrived at Rio Grande Village in a little more than an hour. Wayne helped me slide my unresponsive body off the bike and walk it to a shaded bench. He shoved a big bottle of Gatorade in my hand. It disappeared in a few aggressive gulps. Eventually, signals from my brain had some effect on my legs and I could move with better coordination. We walked to a tree shaded area and lay in the green grass. A gentle breeze cooled our bodies as we talked about our adventure in the desert.
With fading strength, the two sand traps on the River Road had proven difficult for me. I had the distinct pleasure of examining both of them up close and personal. I had fallen four times this day; each in dramatic fashion. My bike suffered bent handlebars, scrapped plastic and bent pegs, but I was okay and none the worse for the experience.
Wayne said he couldn’t believe that I’d fallen so many times and that I was still okay. Frankly, I couldn’t believe it myself. A silence drifted over the conversation. Val looked at me and pronounced me – mostly durable. It was the nicest complement I’d heard in a long while. Someone said “Happy Birthday.” Nothing else was required. RTM
GO | Parks & Resources
Brewster County Tourism Council
www.visitbigbend.com
Good resource for the Big Bend area. You can request a free brochure online. Sorry, no phone number available.
Big Bend National Park
TX 118 South to Study Butte or US 385 South ends at the park’s main entrance
(432)477-2251
www.nps.gov/bibe
Words aren’t big enough to capture the awe-inspiring beauty here. Paved park roads and off-road trails are all spectacular. Park busy-ish during spring (Feb-Apr). Camping, motel-style lodging, restaurant, park stores. There are two gas stations within the park boundaries. Pick up off road maps and instructions for off-road vehicles at the park headquarters or stores.
Big Bend Ranch State Park
Two entrances on FM 170: At Fort Leaton 4 miles southeast of Presidio, or a mile east of Lajitas.
(432)229-3416
www.tpwd.state.tx.us
Fewer amenities than the National Park, but a great destination for well-prepared desert wanderers. Camping. Lodging at the old Big Bend Ranch headquarters complex. Reserve early. State budget cuts may close this lightly-visited park.
GO | EATS
Starlight Theater
Terlingua Ghost Town
(432) 371-2326
www.starlighttheatre.com
A varied menu and a favorite with the locals, dinner is served from 5pm until 10pm and a Sunday Brunch is available. It’s always crowded but the food is good and the beer is cold. You can wait outside and listen to local musicians pick’n and grin’n. Many music and theater events are held throughout the year, often featuring national talent. Moderate prices, exceptional atmosphere and a Wi-Fi hotspot. It’s worth the trip.
El Patio Restaurant
513 O’Reilly Street, downtown Presidio
(432) 229-4409
Perhaps some of the best Mexican food in West Texas, it’s always busy and worth the trip. The breakfast tacos are fantastic and the deserts are splendid. Moderate prices, fast service.
