earlier. Long since then, the park had constructed an amphitheater around the caves’ mouth, allowing visitors to sit comfortably and watch the show unfold. At first, what seems like a few dozen bats whirl around the hole; then, as darkness thickens in the New Mexico sky, so does the bat cloud. They come out in waves of tens of thousands, the buzzing of their wings incessant as the streams grow denser and denser. Finally, they become so concentrated that individual bats lose all identity within the whole, fading into what seems to be a long, giant serpent, winding its way to the southeast, where the bats disperse to spend the night feasting on the insect blooms of the Pecos and Black Rivers.
Unfortunately, hanging around for the bat flight didn’t mesh with David and Raffi’s plan. Sometimes the exodus could last over two hours, and by the time it was over, it would be too dark to make camp. When their turn in line finally came, they asked the bearded ranger, a twenty-three-year-old student from Purdue University named Kenton Eash, what they needed to do in order to camp.
“The nearest place is Rattlesnake Canyon,” Eash explained, pulling out a map of the park’s main roads and trails. To get there, they’d have to drive about five miles down a nearby dirt road, park at the trailhead, then hike about a mile downhill into the canyon, where they could pitch a tent. The friends talked it over. So far, they’d slept in the tent only one time, outside Nashville, and theywere now more than halfway to California. They wouldn’t have many more opportunities to rough it. After a fast consideration, the friends agreed: they were game.
Eash gave them a camping permit to fill out, and Raffi wrote down the make and license number of their car, the number of campers, and both their names. In the box entitled “length of stay” he listed one day. When he was finished, the ranger removed the carbon copy and filed it in a nearby drawer.
The last thing Eash did was read off a list of guidelines for backcountry camping. Most of them were self-explanatory, the kind of rules posted at national park trailheads across America: Lock your car, don’t build any fires (use a gas cooking stove), pack out what you pack in, don’t disturb any plants and animals, buy a topographical map. One of the rules, however, was emphasized above all others. It appeared in a typeface that was italicized, capitalized, and underlined: “There is no water in the backcountry. So you must carry what you need. A minimum of one gallon per person per day is recommended.”
After Eash was done, the pair prepared to head off and make camp. According to the list Eash had just read them, there were two things they needed: water and a topographical map. While Coughlin waited, Kodikian picked up the topo map at the cavern bookstore, then went over to the gift shop to buy water. All they had at the display shelf were pints, which meant that he’d have to buy sixteen bottles to satisfy the advisory.
He pulled three bottles from the rack.
6
J ust past the visitor center’s west parking lot, a swinging cattle gate marks the beginning of Desert Loop Drive, the dirt road that leads to the Rattlesnake Canyon trailhead. Next to the gate is a brown park service billboard, covered by Plexiglas, with a brief description of the local ecology, a map of the road, and the same list of camping guidelines that Eash had read off earlier. Raffi and David passed this point sometime close to six P.M. Eager to make camp, they likely paid little attention to the sign, but it’s there to remind anyone passing it that they are entering an unmitigated wilderness of Chihuahuan Desert.
A “hot, sandy place” is what the word
Chihuahuan
means in the language of the native Tarahumara Indians. It is not only the largest, but probably the least understood desert in North America. Unlike the Sonoran and Mojave Deserts to the west, it doesn’t look like what everyone expects a desert to
Unfortunately, hanging around for the bat flight didn’t mesh with David and Raffi’s plan. Sometimes the exodus could last over two hours, and by the time it was over, it would be too dark to make camp. When their turn in line finally came, they asked the bearded ranger, a twenty-three-year-old student from Purdue University named Kenton Eash, what they needed to do in order to camp.
“The nearest place is Rattlesnake Canyon,” Eash explained, pulling out a map of the park’s main roads and trails. To get there, they’d have to drive about five miles down a nearby dirt road, park at the trailhead, then hike about a mile downhill into the canyon, where they could pitch a tent. The friends talked it over. So far, they’d slept in the tent only one time, outside Nashville, and theywere now more than halfway to California. They wouldn’t have many more opportunities to rough it. After a fast consideration, the friends agreed: they were game.
Eash gave them a camping permit to fill out, and Raffi wrote down the make and license number of their car, the number of campers, and both their names. In the box entitled “length of stay” he listed one day. When he was finished, the ranger removed the carbon copy and filed it in a nearby drawer.
The last thing Eash did was read off a list of guidelines for backcountry camping. Most of them were self-explanatory, the kind of rules posted at national park trailheads across America: Lock your car, don’t build any fires (use a gas cooking stove), pack out what you pack in, don’t disturb any plants and animals, buy a topographical map. One of the rules, however, was emphasized above all others. It appeared in a typeface that was italicized, capitalized, and underlined: “There is no water in the backcountry. So you must carry what you need. A minimum of one gallon per person per day is recommended.”
After Eash was done, the pair prepared to head off and make camp. According to the list Eash had just read them, there were two things they needed: water and a topographical map. While Coughlin waited, Kodikian picked up the topo map at the cavern bookstore, then went over to the gift shop to buy water. All they had at the display shelf were pints, which meant that he’d have to buy sixteen bottles to satisfy the advisory.
He pulled three bottles from the rack.
6
J ust past the visitor center’s west parking lot, a swinging cattle gate marks the beginning of Desert Loop Drive, the dirt road that leads to the Rattlesnake Canyon trailhead. Next to the gate is a brown park service billboard, covered by Plexiglas, with a brief description of the local ecology, a map of the road, and the same list of camping guidelines that Eash had read off earlier. Raffi and David passed this point sometime close to six P.M. Eager to make camp, they likely paid little attention to the sign, but it’s there to remind anyone passing it that they are entering an unmitigated wilderness of Chihuahuan Desert.
A “hot, sandy place” is what the word
Chihuahuan
means in the language of the native Tarahumara Indians. It is not only the largest, but probably the least understood desert in North America. Unlike the Sonoran and Mojave Deserts to the west, it doesn’t look like what everyone expects a desert to
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