The Indian Lodge

At the end of another long drive, during which we passed fewer than half a dozen cars in the last sixty miles, the light is fading and the wildlife venturing out. I have watched Buzzards gliding – seemingly effortlessly – above the still dry, though slightly more plant friendly landscape. Fleeting glimpses of a few deer and antelope suggest that the land is not quite devoid of wild life. Time now to introduce a new species – the Havelina. Kids books in the Lodge store tell me that this is not a pig – as much as it may look like one. Just to confuse the matter further there are wild pigs in the area that look pretty much like the Havelina, which is in fact a Peccary. The shape is like a cut down version of a buffalo and a rather endearing feature is the round pink end of the long pig like snout. Otherwise, these critters are wiry black with a ridge of stand up hair down the middle of the back and not at all cute by temperament. Think buffalo and miniature bulldog cross with wild pig hair in a mowhawk and you might get the picture. They have no road sense and although they take off pretty fast when they realize they are not alone, this seems to take a while to dawn sometimes, so driving at dusk can be hazardous. Better to meet them in the car than on foot though, so I am told.

The Lodge is a beautiful circa 1930s adobe construction nestled into the side of a hill overlooking what seems to have been a wide expanse of river bed in some far distant age. Its all dried up now, apart from a tiny creek that is marked by a line of green growth in a mainly brown scrubby landscape. A hike up the hill in an already hot (maybe 85-90F) and typically dry (this area does not know humid) morning offers spectacular views and gives rise to the ancient river bed idea. The shape of the land suggests hills rising to about 500 feet either side of a broad river bed snaking its way through various bends then opening out for a straight run off into the eastern horizon. That must have bee thousands, if not millions of years ago and the river bed now hosts the camping round and various marked out hiking tracks.

Over the ridge on the far side is one of the slightly (!) strange communities that have grown out of the 'republic of Texas' idea. This group apparently lives cut off from the 'evils' of society, is God fearing and very heavily armed. An advert says an 18 acres block is for sale at just $1K per acre. The neighbours might be a challenge and visitors are not welcome. I didn't see the sign but understand that it reads along the lines of 'don't come up here unless you have very good reason to be here.' Not sure who would want to with an 'invitation' like that.

Any slight temptation to take a look is quickly dismissed in favour of a visit to the old railroad car ice cream shop and next door antique store. The girl selling ice cream is impossibly slim and pretty (think walking talking Barbie). The ice cream is plausibly delicious and the shop tells fascinating tales of past life in a remote corner of far west Texas. The reason for the name Fort Davis still stands on a site opposite the shops, as one of many historical efforts to protect the border area from infiltrators. Some stone buildings have only the foundations left standing. Others are more or less intact, as is the 'wild west movie set' aura of the place. The rest of the small town is orderly and attractive with churches of every description, long verandahed villas set against a backdrop of tall columns of rock set into sandy hills. A rock shop with a knowledgeable owner helps to explain the geology of the area which was once at sea level. This day in a very different paradise rounds off with a 'star party' at the local observatory where the 'everything big' theme continues on another beautiful clear, full moonlit night.