Cottonwood Springs

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I grew up in El Paso, Texas, in a neighborhood at the foothills of the Franklin Mountains. Far west Texas doesn’t get much rain so the mountains are dry and rocky with frail mesquite bushes all over the place. The dry air and blasting sun suck whatever life there is out of the mesquite bushes just before a strong wind comes by to whisk them clean out of the ground. At this point they have evolved into lifeless tumbleweeds. Tumbleweeds are a nuisance. They blow down the street and collect in front yards. They are good, however, to see how strong the wind is blowing when there’s not a flag nearby. The Franklins are also breeding grounds for rattlesnakes: diamondbacks and sidewinders that blend in easily with the leather brown, scaly rocks and the dry, gagging sand.

With all this pleasant west Texas sunshine and arid climate, one would wonder how a spring manages to survive in the Franklin Mountains. Cottonwood Springs is a place my high school friends introduced me to. We went on camping ventures and hikes. The greatest trips, however, were the ones I took my own children on twenty years later. Patricia, Jenny, and Daniel—ages twelve, nine, and eight—were my new partners in crime. We packed cold-cut sandwiches, cold (to begin with) sodas, Baby Ruth candy bars and plenty of cool canteen water. We didn’t worry about the good-for-nothing snakes, though they hovered over the rocks and gravel. Our journey back would leave me physically exhausted, showered with dust, and filled with a sense of connection to each of the three young individuals I called my children.

The drive up Trans Mountain Road was liberating as we left the wake of asphalt behind us. Our plan was to get to the cave where we would stop for lunch. It was about a one and a half hour hike. About a quarter mile from the road, the trail splits. To the left was a flattened path, frequently traveled. To the right was no path but a steady climb across loose melon-sized rocks. This route took us up what appeared to be an old dried up stream about six to eight feet wide. Following the bed would ensure passage to the highpoint that marked the first quarter of the hike. If we chose the fork to the left, we’d have easy sailing on the main path. There were only two exceptions to the easy part. The first was some tall bushes (or scrawny trees) with flexible branches that needed to be held back for clearance to pass. The other obstacle was an eight-foot, almost straight up, cliff. Fortunately, we knew where a thin, protruding edge was to use as the first step. One of those flexible branches that got in our way earlier now extended us a hand up.  Finally, we scooted and crawled to level terrain. At any sign of discouragement, I would play the part of a human ladder.

Most of the remaining trail was uphill and rocky. On our first hike, we saw a cave on a plateau that we wanted to get to. Near the final ascent was an enormous flat earth formation on a sharp angle of about sixty degrees. We thought we had hit the end of the trail when looking at what appeared to be an impassable cliff. Its span was as wide as a house and as tall as a three-story building. Using our better judgment, we decided to take a detour around the cliff. After ensuing some pretty hairy climbing on hands and knees, and pasting our backs to the side of a hill just to keep from looking down, we arrived at our trusty cave. It was lunchtime, as soon as our stomachs settled down. The steep rock formation was now an option for the return trip.

That first trip was a colonial affair. Getting to lunch felt like a great accomplishment. After a few visits, lunch was a relaxing, halftime break. We would sit and eat and look over the mountain valley. Once, we saw some people at a larger plateau on a distant crest. That was their colony and this was ours. We experimented with our echoes. I flattened our Furr’s Brand soda cans and crammed them into crevices in the cave to see if they would be there the next trip up. They were. Jenny and Daniel would navigate around the backside of the cave to the narrow path, close to the edge. They had stronger stomachs than I did. If their mother had seen them, she would have hollered at them to get away from the edge and then. . . It’s a good thing for me, they made it back in one piece every time.

With all the activities my kids had at school and with their friends, I seldom got directly involved with them. I could sit in the stands and cheer them on at their basketball, volleyball, and football games. I would do things “behind the scenes” to make sure they had what they needed. Sitting down on a big rock in our sneakers and jeans, drinking warm store-brand sodas, and eating cold-cut sandwiches with dirty hands was my greatest opportunity to spend some quality time with my children.

The last hike we made to Cottonwood Springs ended up being a memorable one. We made it to the cave and took our lunch break. I had decided I was going back down via the narrow, stomach turning path while the kids went down the steep slope. “Scoot down on your butts,” I told them. “Don’t stand up.” So I went my way and they went theirs. What’s the first thing that Daniel did? Yup. He stood up to walk. Nature and pride joined forces to send him speeding downhill, headed towards a gigantic, flesh gouging mesquite bush. I missed the whole thing. I met up with them to see Daniel limping around and sweeping himself off, and Jenny staggering insanely with gut wrenching laughter. She could only stop laughing long enough to say, “You shoulda seen the look on his face, Dad. You shoulda seen his face!”

I didn’t see it happen, but I heard the story—hundreds of times—on the way back to Trans Mountain Road. They made absolutely certain that I knew just exactly how it happened. They made absolutely certain that I would never forget our hikes to Cottonwood Springs.