Ernst Ridge Trail, Big Bend Nat'l Park, Tx

In the morning, trying to catch the springs in solitude, I am the only one on this rocky, caliche road and as such can move freely – adapting to her contours, her corduroy ridges, shifting from side to side then leaning in close. This is not a road to be sped down; she makes you take your time, look around, pay attention.

Along the Rio Bravo, the sun is just now welcoming the world, tidying up from the night before, rippling along with the river current. I hear the hot springs before I see them. But springs, hot or otherwise, are not my first stop today. My plans go further, go higher, so onward I go.

Langford Hot Springs, Big Bend National Park

At the water’s edge four horses stand grazing - a paint, a gray, a sorrel with four white socks, a baby, also a paint. A cowbell rings from deep across the Rio Bravo; a calf rises from his nap under a willow and makes his way back home. A perfect start to the day.

I trace the edge of the canyon, its uphill side studded with every variety of rock, every shape and size possible. In places, chopped, like natural building blocks or bricks littering the ground. In others, worn smooth and round by wind and water. In still others, crushed shale, flat and narrow - a swirling blend of earth tones with burnt red veins, hints of thistle, of gold bleached by the sun. The Maderas del Carmen tall to the southeast, pastel layers above a soft ribbon of green.

The land here has seen much.

The cowbell, more distant now, drifts through the river channel and up to the ridge. It comforts me. I follow a northward bend into a small pour-off, the hard limestone floor of which is marked with a series of smooth ovals and dips, almond shaped indentions – a masterpiece of waterscape. And the horses have been here too, perhaps resting in shade of these upright rocky cliffs, navigating the slick floor one slow step at a time.

Somewhere along the way my phone switches into Mexican time; my mind follows suit.

Occasionally I spot the faint tracks of another lone hiker, someone here days ago. Otherwise, this trail seems little used except by the horses whose hoofprints bring me home every time I see them.

This is new for me, this hiking-alone-thing. When I ride, the horse is my partner, my companion. We talk without words. Planning, navigation - vigilance on his behalf comes easy.

Rio Grande (Rio Bravo) overlooking Hot Springs Canyon

Ah! But to be vigilant on one’s own behalf!

To turn that effort inward - necessarily, justifiably, and even more so, expectedly - brings forth an emotion previously cloaked. An unveiling of brimming tears and goosebumps.

In hiking alone I find safety in myself - it’s been a long time coming.