Finding Solitude

At 9:25 a.m. we set out for The Grotto, a 3.4-mile hike into McKittrick Canyon of Guadalupe Mountains National Park, 48 miles southwest of Carlsbad. Bundled for the 35-degree weather, we signed in and welcomed some intermittent sun that almost peeked through the layers of grey.

Only one car besides ours had stopped in the parking lot. It was lonely, isolated parking lots like this one that concerned Andy most when it came to protecting the laptop, our only really valuable travel possession, and today it was in the car, not safely tucked away at a motel. But the other car was still there when we returned. "That someone probably hiked the ridge over the course of a couple days," said Andy.

The trail led to Pratt Lodge, 2.4 miles along the stream bed through desert, transition and canyon woodland zones. "I didn't think any place could be rockier than Connecticut," said Andy, as we stepped over javelina, raccoon and coyote droppings, crisscrossed the river three or four times, and traversed sections of gravel and loose stone.

Wallace Pratt, the geologist hired by Humble Oil and Refining Company, donated his "lodge" and much of the canyon to the National Park Service in 1960. He had purchased a quarter interest in the area when Judge Drane of Pecos convinced him it was "the most beautiful spot in Texas." Pratt later bought out his partners when the Stock Market crashed in 1929.

A mile beyond the cabin, nature carved The Grotto into the limestone hillside. Like a cavern cross-sectioned, The Grotto exposed stalactites and stalagmites of twisted limestone. I stood on the slate benches of a stone picnic table to take pictures, but the sun had already abandoned us, and the breeze picked up.

"Do you think we could get snow?" I asked Andy. The Northeast had recorded 20 inches overnight.

"No," he said. "The clouds aren't thick enough, but the low tonight is supposed to be 9 degrees."
A tenth mile farther, tucked into the side canyon, we found Hunter Cabin and remains of the work shed, a stone lodging built in 1924. We peeked in the windows of the little cottage. The ceiling, propped up inside, had decayed and the rooms looked empty.

As we headed back the 3.5 miles, we observed the nature around us. "I'll bet the water comes over that ridge in the spring," said Andy, pointing to a black streak high on the cliff edge.

I remembered from the cave tour how manganese turns the rocks black. Clouds drifted in tiny cold wisps over the mountain tops, stark against the grey sky. Occasionally a bird twittered or the river gurgled as it surfaced from under the gravel bed. But the predominant sound in this chilly world was the rhythmical tread of our sneakers, usually in sync, against the gravel path and the clunk every four steps of my walking stick hitting the dirt. For four hours--seven miles--McKittrick Canyon, "the most beautiful spot in Texas," was ours alone.
"Do you want to go back to Carlsbad?" asked Andy, when we got back to the car. "We probably won't ever be back here, and our admission is good for three days."

"Sure," I agreed. "We could at least walk the Big Room."

Hurrying down the outdoor path to the Natural Entrance, we slipped through the gate before the 2:00 p.m. closing and started down the 800-foot switchback descent. At 56 degrees, the cave felt warm and welcoming.

Along the next two and a half miles of cave pathway, we passed only five visitors and two rangers. Speaking in whispers, we owned the magnificent wonderland.

"Isn't it darker than yesterday?" asked Andy.

"And quieter," I added. "We are alone in a strange and fascinating world. And not for a minute had I felt uncomfortable or claustrophobic so far underground. It's truly a journey to the center of the earth."

The silence... the aloneness... overpowered everything.

Then we headed to Walmart for an oil change.