Rare and Remote
“There’s no law west of Dodge and no God west of the Pecos.” As I crossed the Pecos River just beyond Del Rio, Tex., the land certainly looked like the old western aphorism could be true. A thread of patched tarmac ran across an arid sheep and cattle range where the soil was little better than crumbled limestone. Aside from the scattered creosote bushes and smaller scrub brush, which somehow persisted despite the climate, I had an entire 160 km of highway to myself. More than once I had to swerve – or duck! – for vultures that were reluctant to leave their coveted roadkill breakfast.
As if to bring me back to the 21st century, a white pickup with green lettering stating “U.S. Border Patrol” appeared on the horizon, and traffic (I was the only one on the road) was being funnelled through a checkpoint on Highway 90. The guard, upon learning I was Canadian and after seeing the gear strapped on my Suzuki V-Strom 650, asked if I was heading to Big Bend, then wished me a safe trip. At Sanderson, the self-described Cactus Capital of Texas, a gas station attendant commented on the overcast morning. When I asked about the forecast, she said,
