This last week my group of coworkers and I ran a GPS/GIS field school at Carlsbad Caverns National Park. We spent 8 hours a day with our students mapping park resources with satellites and learning how to translate the data into useful information for park management. It was hard work, good exercise, but also a helluva lot of fun. We flew into El Paso (to save the guv'ment mucho denero, about a $1,000 per person) and drove two hours to reach Carlsbad NM. The Chihuahuan Desert is an austere landscape. At first those of us used to eastern greenery found it monotonous. But, as they say out there, if you find the desert boring you're just not looking closely enough. After a few days working with these folks, we all came away with a new appreciation of the desert. Our students were great, but we also came to appreciate the locals. And then there was Johnny Cash. And then there were the bats ... Follow me along a little bit and we'll get to the edible underwear.
This is a travel story about descending from DC into a different culture and ultimately into the bowels of the earth. As it is apparent that I work with or for the park service in some capacity, here is the disclaimer. [Disclaimer: all names have been changed to protect the guilty as well as the innocent. I certainly, being a mere cubicle peon, would never deign to speak for the service. Although I have heard more outlandish travel stories from compatriots, you should not infer anything about the typical park service employee from this piece, nor should you extrapolate to the park itself. They're just good folks.]
Our students (as is true of most national park enlistees) were dedicated and eager to learn any new tool that will make their increasingly more difficult jobs easier. I worked with Barney and Kevin. Barney was born and raised in the area, worked for BLM for ten years, trained as a surveyor, and returned to federal service because he liked the job security, which is important in that corner of New Mexico. He is in some ways over-qualified but now plies his trade at the park as Chief Maintenance Guy. I like maintenance guys. They tend to be very down-to-earth.
Barney's assistant, Kevin, was one of the brightest kids I've ever met. He took over the handheld GPS computer and mastered every function in record time. Before the week was out, he was teaching me. He is leaving New Mexico next year to attend the United States Military Academy at West Point. Barney has voted Democratic all his life. Kevin comes from a military and Republican family but was disturbed that the current administration has made mistakes that jeopardize our soldiers. We had a long conversation about Iraq and counterinsurgency warfare. Believe me he will make a fine officer, no matter how he votes in the next election.
Our field school combines computer and hands-on fieldwork. When I suggested to Barney that we collect data that he could actually use, I saw the light bulb turn on in his head. He faced a deadline for a large trail maintenance project and needed to know the length of the trail, where vegetation needed trimming, where water bars were needed to reduce erosion, and how many feet of trail needed to be cleared of loose rubble to improve footing. You get the picture. So we set off into Rattlesnake Canyon.
It was a strenuous hike with a switchback descent of several hundred feet. It was hot, but being desert, the humidity was tolerable compared to what we left behind us in DC. The satellites cooperated, and the rhythmic beep beep beep of the GPS unit informed us that we were indeed mapping as we walked. Some may remember a bizarre news story from a few years back about two backcountry hikers who ran out of water and went delusional. One supposedly begged his friend to put him out of his misery, and his friend obliged--with a knife. That happened in Rattlesnake Canyon. We collected longitude and latitude at the spot where the rangers found the body. They were exactly 1,738 meters from the trailhead and civilization. The knife wielder eventually made it out with a story that did not convince everyone. In fact, there is now an entire book on the tragedy which is sold at the visitor center. The predominant theory on the ground is that the two men were part of a love triangle or even (gasp) lovers themselves. I have no opinion on the subject.
In about seven hours, we collected all the information that Barney wanted for his proposal, and by the end of the week he had the statistics he needed and a map of the project area to guide his work. He was able to estimate manpower and man hours and put a price tag on the project. I like these kinds of practical results.
Our group stayed at the Ocotillo Inn in Carlsbad, which, by the way, we all would recommend. The staff was friendly, the rooms clean. There was a restaurant with a $4 steak special (heavy on the meat tenderizer) and, of course, the bar. That is where (after a satisfying day's work) we met Lenny, the bartender. Lenny was raised in Carlsbad but had spent thirty years in southern California before returning home. Lenny was, how shall I say, more flamboyant than his typical cowboy hatted and booted clientele. Lenny was also an evangelist for boutique 100% agave tequilas of which he had 140 varieties. Being fresh fish, we were immediately put on the Lenny program which began with a $5 brand and quickly escalated. He was particularly eager to share with us the joys of a tequila that cost $42 a shot! It was apparent that we might easily exceed our per diem on Lenny's program, perhaps in a single night, perhaps with a single drink since per diem was $39.
Most bars and restaurants in Carlsbad close by 9 pm, but the Ocotillo stays open until midnight and thus attracts a tenacious and colorful crowd of local residents. We learned that Wednesday was karaoke night and immediately began to prepare. We selected "Ring of Fire" by Johnny Cash deeming it appropriate. I was to be the vocalist but I had backup--my three doo-wop gurls, Denise, Julie, and Bruce. They worked out an elaborate dance routine complete with interpretive signs of the "humptyback camels and chimpanzee" variety. For example, the ring of fire sign was wrapping your arms around an imaginary barrel in front of you, then twitching your fingers upward to suggest combustion. We rehearsed sitting around the pool after work, and that is where we met Clara who worked the front desk. Clara was also a Carlsbad native and it was apparent that she had been around the block a few times. I think she had probably worked at most of the hotels and restaurants in town at one time or another. She had opinions (and held grudges) against many. After watching our performance, she announced that "most singers around here just tap their foot. This is a bit unusual."
The next evening, having decided that we were relatively harmless, Clara invited us all to a sex toys party in a nearby hotel and got a few takers. Bruce helped her pick out leopard patterned lingerie and got a free gift of edible underwear just for showing up. He chose pina colada flavor. "Do not expose to too much moisture," read the directions. The girls were particularly disturbed by some sort of gyrating, rotating device that they could not stop trying to describe. Leon, an announced Texan, had dropped down at our table for a beer. I think the "device" put him over the edge and he called it a night.
Karaoke night arrived but we were soon disillusioned. There was a large crowd but no stage or lights (which my Doo Wops demanded). The Ocotillo singers typically lounged against the railing in the dark and strained to stay on key with one exception. She (we think) strutted back and forth on the dance floor railing a raspy heavy metal song with a suspiciously husky voice. The capper for us was that the DJ did not have "Ring of Fire." How could he not have Ring of Fire? We flirted with the idea of doing "I Walk the Line," but we had not rehearsed and ultimately repaired to the patio, I with a beer because the Lenny program was no longer working for me. We discovered that the real entertainment was on the patio.
Ocotillo is a desert plant that looks like a cluster of seven-foot long slightly twisted pipe cleaners bristling with tiny leaves. It looks fairly harmless from afar but the leaves disguise fierce thorns. On our hike, Barney pointed to a barrel cactus and then to an ocotillo. "If you're going to fall into one," he said, "don't fall into the ocotillo. You'll come out shredded." It was an apt metaphor for karaoke night at the Ocotillo.
First, a couple burst out the door, yelling and cursing. They moved to the parking lot, eventually quieted down, and started making out with vigor. The argument was evidently some kind of foreplay and they moved to the bushes. Another woman came out shouting into her cell phone at her husband or boyfriend. "You WILL stay there and mind the kids gawd dammit. [pause] I'll stay out as long as I want to gawd dammit. [pause] I may not come home til daylight gawd dammit. [pause] You went out with YOUR sleezy pals last night gawd dammit."
Then the bouncer, a veritable mesa of a man, escorted two would-be pugilists outside--the one had looked a little too longingly at the other's girlfriend--but then they tried to make up and begged to get back inside. I could see that the bouncer was starting to relent when bantam rooster Lenny burst onto the scene with a tongue lashing for all three. "Those two WILL NOT come back into my bar. Do you UNDERSTAND ME?" Grande Mesa man immediately wilted and escorted the hang-dog cowboys off the property. They left together like old friends. Then to our shock Clara came out in a huff. She had just quit her job at the front desk because the manager "always had it in for me." Under the leafy surface, desert relationships are thorny. You have to learn to recognize the plant so that you don't fall into it.
The next night after work we stayed at the park until dusk to watch the emergence of the bats. There is a nifty amphitheatre at the cave entrance where we settled in (maybe) on the stone benches to learn about the bats from a park ranger. Surprisingly, bats account for 1,000 of about 5,000 species of mammals on the earth. Who would have known? The Carlsbad bats are described in all the literature as Mexican freetail bats, but--and you hear it here first--recent DNA research has proved conclusively that they are Brazilian freetail bats. The Brazilians were named first, thus the Mexicans have ceased to exist.
Shadows lengthened, a hush fell over the audience, and soon there was a fluttering at the mouth of the cave. The bats came out a few at a time at first and spiraled around to gain altitude before heading off toward the Pecos River to devour their weight in mosquitoes. The pace quickened into a steady stream. Soon a horde of 321,000 of the little guys were fluttering past our heads and rising high into the darkening sky like black stars on a clear night. They occasionally brushed into one another with a little "thwunk" and a squeak of irritation--the bat version of road rage. The night took over and the bright stars came out. It was akin to a religious experience. I "adopted" two bats at $5 a head to support research. I must give these creatures names and am seeking suggestions. Please help.
On the last day, we passed out certificates to our students as they hummed "Pomp and Circumstance." I shook hands with Barney and wished Kevin all the luck at West Point. He said, "Thanks for coming to the desert, sir."
As reward, the park gave us VIP tickets to the cavern. I asked what the "VIP" entitled us to and was told "entrance to the cavern." It was a mile-long walk down the natural entrance which descends 750 feet into a beautiful and alien world. The path is paved, the cave features artfully backlit. "I went down, down, down, and the flames got higher" played over and over in my head as I trudged. I have no words to describe Carlsbad Caverns. The Big Room, Hall of Giants, Bottomless Pit. You must go see for yourselves. It is a World Heritage Site for a reason. Once you've traversed the desert from El Paso or Albuquerque to reach the park, it takes about three hours to tour underground. Say hello to Barney for me. He'll be working on the trail. Get on Lenny's program. (I recommend the 48 hour truncated course and avoid the $42 shot unless you're wealthy.) Don't miss karaoke night at the Ocotillo (but view it from a safe distance). By the way, try to get into Tina's restaurant. She's only open four hours a day, four days a week. Best Mexican food I ever ate.
It was a one-minute elevator ride from the depths of the cavern back to the surface, and we set off for a night in El Paso to catch a very early flight the next morning. As fate would have it, it was karaoke night at our El Paso hotel, and the DJ had not one but three different versions of "Ring of Fire." We chose number 126, performed as DC and the Doo Wops, and all our rehearsal was repaid with a healthy round of applause. The very attractive Border Patrol agent that I attempted to enlist as an additional Doo Wop said afterwards, "I should have helped. I'm a fast learner. You sounded just like Johnny Cash." She looked at me as though I weren't twice her age, and I bought her a beer. As an added bonus, my boss sang "Wild Thing" (by the Troggs for all you youngsters out there) with a twist. He used the Chicktawauga New York accent of his youth and brought down the house. "Wild Ting, dere. I tink you mooooove me. butiwaanaknowfursure, dere" The DJ for the next hour said "dere" after every introduction, as in "now we have El Paso Dan, who's gonna sing `Dream dee Impossible Dream' dere." And she laughed as did everyone else. Perhaps we were idiots. Perhaps we were ambassadors.
I fell into a burnin' ring of faher
I went down, down, down, and the flames went haher
And it burns, burns, burns, the ring of faher, the ring of faher.