Davis Mountains of West Texas

Last week was spring break. I took advantage of it by driving out to West Texas to catch my breath in the solitude of the state's rugged desertlands. I'd been this way before back in July when I visited Guadalupe Mountains National Park. This time, I wanted to see the Davis Mountains and Big Bend National Park.

On Thursday, I visited San Solomon Spring, the centerpiece of Balmorhea (pronounced Bal-more-ray) State Park. In the 1930s the Civilian Conservation Core turned the mountain springs into a two acre swimming hole. Natural minerals make people more buoyant in the fish-filled waters, reaching a depth of 25-feet.

After spending Friday night in Fort Stockton, the biggest city in the region with just 8,000 residents, I woke up before dawn on Saturday with a packed day ahead. The darkness heading east along Interstate 10 was pricked by starry oil wells on the horizon. It reminded me of the U2 song ("...see the oil fields at first light...").

When I turned off the interstate, night grudgingly gave way to a pastel sunrise that I raced through the gliding, low-lying peaks. The subtle beauty of the Davis Mountains is even more apparent in Davis Mountains State Park just outside of Fort Davis, the highest town in Texas. I got some coffee at the park's Indian Lodge, then hiked a five-mile loop to the top of the mountains, which overlook an old military outpost. My favorite sites were the far off peaks and flock of buzzards circling overhead.

Next on my journey was the McDonald Observatory, part of the University of Texas astronomy department. I listened to a presentation about the sun that included live views of solar flares through the observatory's telescopes and toured one of the giant-domed mountain lookouts. I learned that in about 100 million years the sun will heat up, boiling the ocean and destroying life as we know it. In about five billion years, the sun will become a red giant and consume the solar system.

The observatory grounds struck me as somewhat cultish--definitely a hive of scientific activity. A community of about 80 astronomers, engineers, support staff, and spouses live in the remote peaks that are home to some of the darkest, driest skies in the United States.

Turning south, I descended from the mountains to the arid art community of Marfa. I spent a couple hours in the town known for modern art and minimalist design, visiting the Marfa Prada, a hilarious sculpture installation in the middle of the desert, the town's dusty main street, and its coral, presidio-style courthouse.

I stayed the night in the small town of Alpine, about an hour and a half north of Big Bend National Park, which I was positioning myself to reach early the next morning.