When Harry Dean Stanton, as Travis, came out of the desert with that red baseball cap pulled down tight on his head, dressed in a brown pin-stripe suit, dusty and hanging off him like a scarecrow, eyes blazing with fever staring straight ahead, walking like a wind-up doll along the ties of the railroad track, half crazy, driven on by a thought-dream of Natassja Kinski as Jane, turning around in her pink sweater with a look that could stop time itself and cause all who saw it to melt, it was here; somewhere close to where I now stand; somewhere between me and the blue distant hills, pale in the midday sun’s glare.

With Ry Cooder’s soundtrack playing in my head and echoing in my heart, I walk off the road for a way, the low scrub viciously clawing and scratching through the thin protection of my denim jeans. Some of the cactus is in spring flower, flaming bright red against the azure sky. I take photographs, knowing that I won’t capture it. Instead I stand, quite still, in the silence, my imagination empty of any picture except the one I’m seeing. The moment, remembered, will last longer than any photograph.

I catch up with the Harley riders at the gates of the park. They’re gathered in the parking lot the other side of the pay booth; dismounted and taking a break before setting out to explore the back roads and trails. I pay for a pass and get my welcome pack from the ranger, cheery and polite in her crisp uniform, pressed and creased along the regulation folds. I stick my receipt to the windscreen with the strip of sellotape provided and move on.

The day is heating up now, so I drive with the window open. Insects drift in and out, buzzing around the cabin, but with nothing to keep them, they soon move on. Buzzards ride the thermals overhead, scanning the ground for road kill or the remains of a fresh carcass left after the coyotes have had their fill. Occasionally I catch a mass of them in my path, pulling and tearing at broken bundles of bloody fur until I get so close I can’t miss, but then they take off, just high enough so they don’t get hit before settling about their work once more.

I drive down to Hot Springs Village, which lies at the bottom of a valley, hidden away in the verdant strip that plots the course of the Rio Grande. There’s not much more than a store, restrooms and an RV park. I stock up with water and move on. Taking my time, with frequent stops, I skirt the Chisos Mountains and head towards a wall of cliffs that tower like a huge fortress, the river a moat at its base. With the sun behind, the rock face is in deep, dark shadow, brooding and formidable. Even natural defences as seemingly indestructible as this are no match for the power of water; the Rio Grande has breached the battlements, cutting the deep groove that is the Santa Elena Canyon, mysterious and misty in the afternoon light.

Leaving the park on a rock-strewn dirt road, I traverse its twenty mile length cursing my decision, in fear of a blow-out with every jagged stone and criss-crossing streambed. This hired Chrysler saloon is not built for such punishment. My head pounding from the concentration I finally reach a two-lane blacktop.

My third and last encounter with the bikers is in a resettled ghost town just off TX118 close to Study Butte. The abandoned settlement has been brought back from the dead by people looking to start anew, out here, surrounded by desert, three hundred miles from the nearest large city. Making good the crumbling adobe foundations, homes are rising on the brown slopes, knocked together with nails from recycled wood and corrugated iron; inspired and driven with the desire for an alternative lifestyle that is rooted in the hippy ideals of the sixties.

The Harleys are lined up in front of the general store like horses at a hitching post. The riders, spread out on benches and chairs along the length of the raised veranda, are tipping back bottles of ice-cold Bud to wash the dust from the their dry throats, the setting sun glinting on the brown glass. Here they sit, taking the last pleasures from what the day has left to offer. With this scene playing out to its close, I turn the car around and head up the 118 to the sound of a slide-guitar.

‘Farq for short. That’s what I should have said’, I think, as I step off the boardwalk and press the remote button on the key fob. The indicators blink twice as the car unlocks itself. I’m still grinning as I slide in behind the wheel. The joke belongs to an age that should be far behind me, but the juvenile is still alive and well in my life; except now I’m selective about when I choose to let it loose. This occasion has not been one of those times. I mean, I plan to see more of Hilde, at least once, later at the gallery and who knows when I might bump into her again someplace else? This town is a size where it‘s inevitable that if a person sticks around for a while, to meet someone only once is against all the odds.

I put the key in the ignition and start the engine. With my foot on the brake, I move the automatic shift from ‘park’ to ‘reverse’ and check over my right shoulder. I lift my foot and the car eases back silently into the road. Straightening up, I turn and check the mirror before I engage ‘drive’ and switch my foot to the accelerator.

Today my plan is to drive into Big Bend National Park. Due to its location, tucked away down here in southwest Texas, far from major interstate routes, it’s one of the least visited parks in the United States. This bears out: once I’m out of town I drive down there on an empty road.

It stays this way until I’ve done about twenty miles. Then, appearing in my rear-view mirror, I catch sight of blazing headlights; ten or twelve in number but still a way back.
Motorcycles. And coming on at speed. For today is Saturday and this is the time when men and women answer the call of the pioneering spirit of yesteryear and get on the road to feel the wind blow through their hair. Hair that has grown white with life’s experience; allowed to grow long, swept back in a ponytail; or not shaved and worn as a full beard. With fringed black leather jackets, bright bandanas, cowboy chaps, they ride the trail like the James Gang in search of a train or the Clanton Boys heading into Tombstone for a showdown with the Earps. They’ve traded their horses for Harleys: old outlaws out on a spree; out for a spin.

They’re right behind me now: Caution, things seen in your mirror are closer than they appear. I indicate right, slow and pull over close to the verge. The leader sweeps past, raising a hand in thanks as he accelerates away. His gang follow; two, three, four-five-six, seven, eight-nine and then ten; chrome flashing, engines growling.

I watch them go as I pull back into my lane. Like a mirage, their shape breaks up and the road turns into a river, rippling in the heat as the day warms. Then they’re gone and I envy their easy maverick ways, their old-fashioned manners and the men’s deep voices that rumble from somewhere deep inside. For these are not the wild ones, not the devil’s angels riding out from hell to ravage and plunder. They come from the suburbs, every weekend, to chase the American dream before it’s swallowed up forever, buried under concrete, corporate conformity, apathy and federal meddling.

Long may they live. Long may they ride.

I wake to the brightness of a new morning. The darkness of the previous night is gone, replaced by joyous birdsong. Returning to the Burnt Biscuit, I am ready to start the day with the finest breakfast Jerry has to offer. Finding the table in the window occupied, I take a seat in the rear, next to the counter.

From the conversations I catch around me, the other diners are mostly locals, fuelling up for the day ahead. The talk is accompanied by cutlery scraping on thick china plates, a whirring fan and Jerry’s low bass chuckle as he exchanges wise-cracks with a couple of working men while he refills their mugs with steaming black coffee. A country music station plays soft through two battered speakers positioned on a high shelf over an old bleached-out photograph of a Union Pacific freight train crossing a silver girder bridge. Funny how the reds always fade first, leaving mostly blue.

‘What’ll it be?’ asks Jerry, his large frame blocking out the florescent light that burns above me. I order two eggs, sunny side up, hash browns, two links and bacon, done burnt and crispy in the American way. Wheat toast will come on the side with jelly. That’s jam to me. ‘And to drink?’ adds Jerry, already in motion towards the counter. I ask for orange juice and coffee. Jerry brings these over directly then returns to set the griddle sizzling.

I look around the room, conscious that my accent has caused a ripple of curiosity, but not enough to raise a conversation directed at me. This I don’t mind. I’m more of a listener than a talker at this time of day, or at any time come to think of it. The younger of the two working men, a kid of around eighteen years dressed in jeans and t-shirt baring the word GIANT, is talking to a woman, fifteen years or so his senior. His words are delivered with the easy familiarity of knowing her well. He’s asking after the whereabouts of someone called Ed, who, it soon becomes clear, is his partner: both of them players in a local band. He needs to get in touch with Ed as they’re due to perform this weekend in some bar called Poison Ivy’s in Alpine.

The older guy stands up to go, reaches a sunburnt hand into his shirt pocket and brings out a couple of crumpled bills, a ten and a five, tossing them down amongst the wreckage of smeared plates and empty mugs. He tips the brim of his cowboy hat in the direction of the woman and in three steps is through the door into the sunlight outside. The kid looks up and pushes back his chair.

‘OK, we’re on around ten, but come early, we’ll catch up some more then’. Thanks Jerry, take care y’here’.

Jerry waves a free hand while the other tends my order, not stopping to look around as the screen door clatters shut. I flash a glance at the table opposite and intercept a look from two clear green eyes coming back my way. I nod a silent greeting.

‘Morning’, she replies, through a broad smile, the kind that lights up the whole face using every muscle, not just those around the mouth, ‘ looks like the start of a beautiful spring day’.

Before I can get out a reply Jerry presents my breakfast with a clatter of plates,

‘More coffee?’

‘Oh yes please’, I say sounding more English than ever.

‘I guess you’re not from Texas’, says the woman, taking a sip of iced water.

‘No, I’m from England’, I answer, somewhat unnecessarily to my mind, but American ears are not always as fine-tuned as those of us Brits when it comes to pinpointing foreign accents. I’ve frequently been identified as Australian, sometimes Canadian, once, a little bizarrely, as Icelandic. Jerry reappears with the glass coffee pot and refills my mug, the interruption giving me time to take in a wide, strong face, medium length light brown hair brushed back off the forehead, a white shirt open at the neck to reveal a discreet gold pendant, black slacks, flat shoes: the dress of a business woman ready for a day’s work.

‘What brings you to Marathon all the way from England?’ It’s a little off the usual tourist track’, she says, eyebrows raised as if to invite an answer.

‘Well, to be totally accurate, the real answer to that is Wim Wenders’, I say smiling, ‘ It was the opening scenes of his movie Paris Texas, shot around Big Bend, that first brought the area to my attention. And as I’m a complete sucker for dusty desert locations, here I am’.

‘Did you go up to Paris?’

‘No. I thought about it, but when I did some research I found out that they never actually filmed in Paris and to be honest, there doesn’t seem to be a whole lot going on there. Maybe it would have been nice to get a shot of the town sign, you know, population 3,542 or whatever, but it would have meant quite a detour just for one photograph’.

‘So, what is it about the desert?’ she says, folding her paper napkin and smoothing it flat.

‘Oh, I guess it’s the contrast from my usual surroundings. The quiet. The isolation. And the space. It’s hard to find in the crowded little island I come from. I mean, yesterday I drove for thirty minutes and didn’t catch site of one vehicle in my rear view mirror. I just couldn’t do that at home, probably not even in the wilds of Scotland, not anymore’.

‘Well, if it’s isolation and space you want, you’ve come to the right place. Oh and by the way, I’m Hilde Cunningham,’ she says, offering her hand. ‘I run a gallery here in town. If you’re into photography drop by. I’m exhibiting work by a local photographer right now, you may find it interesting. Hang on, I’ve got a card here somewhere.

She lets go of my hand and flips open a leather wallet that lies on her table, pulling out a business card. I reach across and take it. Big Sky Galleries. Paintings, Prints,
Photographs. 110 Highway 90 West. Marathon. Texas.

‘Thanks, I’ll definitely call in. Oh and I’m Farquhar’, I say, placing my hand flat against my chest as if the gesture will help to convince myself, ‘Just call me Farquhar’.

The day is starting to fade. With everything beyond the dark shadows turning blood-red in the evening light, I take a slow walk back to the car. As I open the driver’s door the stored afternoon heat pours out into the cooler air like a blast from hell’s kitchen.

I head out of town across the railway tracks with no destination in mind. The road takes me past scattered dwellings, their yards littered with unwanted family possessions: fluorescent kid’s toys, broke-backed sofas, rusted vehicles with flat tyres sunken on busted springs, obsolete refrigerators with no doors. Three kids, in baggy raggedy clothes, shout out as they bounce a ball around a basketball court, brown weeds, running to seed, pushing up through cracks in the concrete. At the place where the buildings run out, a pale track leads to the town cemetery, neat and trimmed through the arch holding white wrought-iron gates. Then there’s just fenced-in fields of scrub and stunted trees. A windmill stands next to a water tank. With no wind to move them, the iron blades flash bars of reflected sunlight across the hood of the car and into my eyes as I drive.

A half a mile on I see a half-grown javelina - mistakenly called a wild pig by some –rooting around in the vegetation on the verge. It doesn’t look up as I coast past. I fear for its life out here within the range of humankind. The road runs out two miles ahead, leading me into a community park by a small lake of blue clear water. I park the car in the empty parking lot and walk past brown painted picnic tables and blackened barbecues to the water’s edge. Swallows swoop and dive, taking unseen insects on the wing. A white dog - some kind of crossbred miniature curly haired poodle, out of place in this harsh country setting - gives me a wide berth as it takes itself for a walk, sniffing out its territory.

The words on a stone monument mark this place as the site of a fort, built in the 1850’s to block the old Comanche War Trail into Mexico. Each spring, warriors would leave their hunting grounds on The Salt Plains in the Texas panhandle and travel south to reap a grim and bloody harvest, their trail a mile wide, beaten flat and shiny by the hooves of their painted ponies. The Comanche would return four months later, thirty miles to the west to avoid Mexican army blockades on the south bank of the Rio Grande. They came baring dripping trophies, driving hundreds of stolen horses before them and dragging their captives behind, destined for a life of human bondage as slaves.

Then the US Department of War erected a string of forts out here in the wilderness and the annual Comanche migration was ended forever. Thirty years later, in a canyon to the west of present day Amarillo, Quanah Parker, the last Comanche war chief, surrendered his people into the hands of the Federal authorities. To demonstrate their power, the army of the United States left the Comanche pony herd screaming and dying in the dust, their throats cut. Their fate sealed, warriors described as the best light cavalry the world led their families to Fort Sill, Oklahoma, on foot.

Returning to town, I draw close to the spot where I’d seen the javelina. A pickup is drawn up in the brown grass at the side of the road, parked askew, the driver’s door left open wide. The gun rack in the rear of the cab is empty. As I draw alongside, I hear the pig-like squeal of a wounded animal and the thrashing sounds of pursuit in the undergrowth over the wire fence. My earlier fears for the wild creature have been realised and the hunter is moving in for the kill. The peace of the day’s closing is haunted by thoughts of painful death as I drive towards the darkness falling at the edge of town.

That feeling in the late afternoon, when the sun is low and hot, burning my arm that's draped along the open car window as I blow into town, dust drifting across the railroad tracks, long shadows pointing into the east, that's when I know I'm somewhere else, lost in the vast spaces of the West. The dirt and gravel crunches under the weight of the tyres as I bring the journey to a pause, the car rocking gently to a stop as I pull on the handbrake. Silence is complete with a turn of the key that kills the engine. Then a dog barks, someplace in a far off yard, a warning to the new stranger in town. The hood pings as the metal, hot from the 350 miles that brought me here, starts to cool.

Time to get out, stretch, yawn, take a look around. Nothing much is moving in this place, except for the flag, the stars and bars, 'Old Glory', flapping from its pole outside the post office. I take off my hat and pass the back of my hand across a creased brow before tipping it back on with a flick of the wrist, pulling it low to make a shadow for my eyes.

I walk past some working pickups, parked and angled into the wooden sidewalk. The boards creak and moan as I step up and move toward the sign that says Shirley's Burnt Biscuit Bakery. The menu outside says, 'read before you enter'. I make sure this is done and pull open the screen door to pass into the darkness within. Before the door can slap shut behind me, the old guy with the red baseball cap who had been sitting outside follows me in. There's no need for greetings as he's already nodded hello, working a match from the corner of his mouth. It's still there when he asks 'What can I get you?', as he eases himself past me to take his place behind the counter. I order from memory and take a seat close to the window.

The chef, who I would later know as Jerry but never call him that, busies himself with my order, working fast, doing something that he'd done a million times for people like me that come in tired and in need of short time renewal, served up on a plate, hot and plentiful with a mug of coffee to wash it down. As Jerry chops, slices, spreads and pats, the griddle spitting into life, I stretch out and watch the dust falling through the sunlight's beams around the legs of the tables and chairs that surround me. Dust that had been sand blasted from the rocks of ages in the desert beyond and carried on the wayward wind to settle on the floor under my feet for a while, before a breeze through the open door, or some movement inside sweeps it up and carries it on till the very end of time itself. That's how I feel right now. As small as a speck, broken off from the world, to be taken wherever fate should decide.