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| Sam at Upstairs at the Mansion. |
Twice while in West Texas I made overnight trips to Terlingua, a ghost town on the Texas-Mexico border that flourished in the early 1900s as a mercury mining town. (Gee, I wonder why most of the population ended up six feet under?)
Both times in Terlingua, I stayed at a place called Upstairs at the Mansion, a ruin of a structure (literally) that stood abandoned for many years until Kaci Fullwood, a visionary Alaskan with Texas roots, transformed it into a charming boutique hotel. Well, to call it a hotel is a bit of an exaggeration, as the mansion offers only two bedrooms that share a full bathroom, a kitchen and a library. However, I guarantee in Terlingua you won't find a more personable proprietor or rooms with such charm. Moreover, the beds are dressed in cozy linens (no nasty motel bedspreads here!), and the whole place is thoughtfully appointed with antiques, found objects and curiosities. Another fun factoid: the town's underground radio station operates out of the mansion. And by "radio station," I mean a marathon-long iTunes playlist that's overseen and broadcast by some locals.
Terlingua: Take One
On the first overnight trip, I was with my friend Samantha ("Sam"), an Australian-born, part-time Marfan by way of NYC. Ya got that? Sam and I had signed up for a full-day canoe trip through the Santa Elena Canyon in Big Bend and we wanted to get down near the park a day early since the river outfitters required a 7 a.m. start time.
We got to Terlingua around 4 in the afternoon to find Miss Kaci relaxing on the mansion's veranda, which overlooks the entire ghost town. She greeted us like we were old friends, gave us a quick tour of the mansion and then showed us to our room upstairs. We took the opportunity to freshen up a bit and then we moseyed over to the
Starlight Theatre for $2 margaritas and $2 tacos. In Terlingua, it's always
a happy hour, whether the drinks are on special or not.
Somewhere between margaritas No. 2 and No. 4, the power went out. Our bearded and pierced bartender was quick to explain that this happened sometimes -- and by "sometimes," I'm sure he meant "frequently." Seconds later, a generator kicked in, bringing the ceiling fans, music and frozen margarita machine back to life.
Arribe!
Having had our fill of food and libations, Sam and I drove down the road to the neighboring town of Study Butte (that's pronounced
Stoody Butte, by the way) to
La Kiva, where the locals were putting on a play in the restaurant's outdoor theater. Sure, the actors occasionally forgot their lines, a gal playing a guy kept losing her fake mustache, and someone's dog sauntered onto the set and momentarily stole the spotlight, but it was still entertaining nonetheless -- if not specifically for those very reasons.
By the time the play was over, a nocturnal dome of stars and planets had closed over the Chihuahuan Desert, reminding me of childhood field trips to the planetarium. The gravel parking lot glowed a silvery-blue under the light of a full moon. I felt like we were two astronauts traversing a barren planet.
As Sam and I drove back into Terlingua, we discovered that most every building was still operating on generators or by candlelight. At the mansion, Kaci had left at the foot of the stairs several candles in brass candle holders and a Bic lighter. These we lit before making our way up the stairwell to our room, each step eliciting its telltale squeak along the way.
Kaci also had opened all the windows in our room, but it was still quite stuffy. Even the gauzy window drapes hung motionless, as if frozen in time. Sam and I dressed for bed in the dark and settled in for the night; she graciously took the twin and gave me the double bed. I stretched out on my back above the covers, arms and legs spread wide like I was about to make a snow angel in the sheets. Minutes later I heard Sam's breathing change to that relaxed rhythm of someone fast asleep.
"It's hot," I whimpered to no one in particular.
I looked at the motionless ceiling fan above me and sat up with a start to turn it on before cursing my stupidity. Then I remembered a trick someone once told me. I walked over to the wash basin, turned on the faucet, soaked a wash rag and then wiped down my arms and legs. I returned to my bed, sufficiently cooler and so pleased with my survivalist thinking. Until I was bone dry and hot a minute later.
Somewhere in the midst of intermittent tossing and wash-ragging, I realized that I needed to use the bathroom, which was downstairs. I pictured negotiating a pitch-black stairwell by candlelight and pretended really hard that I didn't have to go. But when nature's call started yelling, I sighed with resignation and reached for the candle holder on the nightstand. I flicked my Bic and made my way to the door.
I paused on the first stair, holding the candle at various angles, trying to figure out which one gave me the best visibility. I discovered that if I bent forward and low to the ground, I could see the stairs and my feet, so this is how I descended -- hunched over and limping forward, one stair at a time, like some kind of modern-day Igor. All I needed were Marty Feldman's buggy eyes.
As I approached the bottom of the stairs, my hand and foot suddenly felt like they were on fire. I looked down to see hot wax pouring over the saucer onto my fingers and my bare foot. Not wanting to wake Sam or Kaci, I dropped a series of silent F-bombs into the night, like a raving mad mime. I managed to do this two more times (spill wax and wildly curse-mime) before making it to the bathroom and back to bed.
Back in bed, I rolled onto my side and fixed my gaze on the full moon that peered back at me through the window. I realized that it wasn't hot anymore -- the air was quite pleasant, actually, and the silence that surrounded me was almost palpable. I don't remember much after that.
At 6:45 a.m., the alarm on my phone went off, marking the beginning of our big day on the river. Sam and I stumbled to our feet and began gathering our things. Precisely three minutes later, all the lights in our room flickered on, the swamp cooler kicked in with a guttural hum, and the ceiling fan wound up to full throttle like the propeller of a prop plane.
Terlingua: We have power.
Sam and I had to laugh. What else could we do?
Terlingua: Take Two
The second time I headed down to Terlingua, it was just Martha Dog and me. We once again stayed at the mansion. It was a Monday, which is 2-fer-1 Burger Night at the Starlight. Kaci had a couple of friends coming in town for it, and she kindly invited me to join them. My "burger buddy" was Alpine City Council Member Mike Davidson. What a great guy. Back in the 1970s, he and a friend started
Far Flung Outdoor Center, which operates out of Terlingua and offers all kinds of excursions in the Big Bend area. Kaci, Mike and I were joined by a husband-wife couple from Terlingua and a river guide who makes his home somewhere between Terlingua and Fort Davis, I believe. We sat around the table, enjoying homemade burgers and $2 margaritas. We talked about water rights, small town culture and several other topics that have become blurry with time. It was a perfect way to spend an evening in Terlingua.
After dinner, I went out on Starlight's famous front porch to retrieve Martha Dog, who was passing the time by charming all the passersby -- one of whom apparently fed her her first deep-fried, oversized onion ring. She was working it, I'm sure. "I'm soooo excited to see you."
lick lick wag wag "I love you, in fact."
lick lick sniff sniff "Spare a ring for the poor dog?"
Martha Dog and I spent the rest of the evening on the veranda up at the mansion. I stretched out on the futon and rested my head on the festively embroidered pillows. The night air was cool this time, dipping into the lower 60s, because rainy season had come. Martha curled up on the floor beside me, and we watched the lights in the town blink out, one by one, until all that shone were the stars above.
I slept so soundly that night. No candles. No Bic. Just Martha, the moon, and me.
Next morning I walked around the town and took photos of the Terlingua Cemetery and other odds and ends. I stumbled upon a health food store that serves hot tea and espresso. Score! A British woman owns the place, but that day a river guide was minding the store. I bought a latte and some Carr's Ginger Lemon Creme tea cookies and then made my way to the Chile Pepper Cafe for breakfast.
It continued to be a morning of curious discoveries. I found an 11-year-old train ticket stub on the porch of the cafe -- a trip from Philly to NYC. Then the legendary Butch Hancock walked up to the cafe with his son in search of breakfast. I nerded out and asked for a photo with them, and they kindly obliged. I ordered huevos rancheros and did a little reading and journaling. But mostly, I just sat on the porch and stared out into the distance, acutely aware of where I was and simply noticing.
I had to smile. What else could I do?
Saturday night I went over to my friend Ellen's house. She's half Jewish, so she hosted a potluck dinner and Hanukkah bush decorating party. A Hanukkah bush looks mysteriously like a Christmas tree. And by mysteriously, I mean exactly. The evening started off with a feast to die for -- a savory roast, yams, green beans with sliced almonds, gratuitous assortments of fine cheeses, potato latkes, a salad with roasted brussel sprouts and beets. It was YUM-MY. After dinner we decorated the "Christmas Tree I mean Hanukkah Bush" and commenced to oohing and aahing once the last ornament was placed. It occurred to me that every year there's a specific moment when the holiday spirit hits me, and this year it hit me at Ellen's potluck. Thanks, Ellen! You're the best. 
