The road goes straight as far as the eye can see. Here in the Texas plains, the eye can see very far.
The miles of asphalt pass by, unwavering, as the sun travels to the horizon. The land is flat, with the occasional hill the unfazed engineers cut right through, leaving walls of brown and grey strata that would delight any passing geologist.
It has been at least an hour since we last passed a town, or a hamlet, or even a single house. Other vehicles are few and far between. Brush, small trees, yuccas and Joshua trees follow each other in a patchwork over an endless sea of dry grass and cacti. Only the barbed wire delineating some ranch property and the occasional wooden poles relaying wires attest to the passage of humans.
We've been traveling for three hours, and we are not even halfway there.
Suddenly, Man In Charge points out a radio antenna a few miles in the distance. "Civilization!" someone yells. Not quite, but it is the first--and last--semblance of a town between here and the end of our drive.
An hour later, replete with somewhat questionable Mexican food, we board the bus again. Night has fallen. The perfect half moon hangs in the sky, the reddish black remnants of the sunset outlines the hills in the distance.
***
The hotel is a quaint little spot, founded in 1884 and seemingly untouched ever since. Comfortable armchairs, lampshades, drapes, and lace curtains: you could expect Humphrey Bogart to be standing there, a whiskey in one hand and a swooning woman in the other, a world of steamer trunks and telegrams, intrigue and beauty.
I can see why the Observatory was built here: I don't remember ever seeing so many stars in my life. Absolutely no light emanates from the town aside from a scant few streetlamps. We stand on the balcony, both elated and awed, breathing in the cold night air after nearly nine hours confined in a bus. This is what the sky looked like to those astronomers of long ago, before lights and cities ruined the sky. In the City, you are lucky if you can find a dozen stars on any given night.
We are lucky, the hotel offers wireless internet. But, slowly, as error windows appear on everyone's screens, various people, familiar and unfamiliar, congregate in our room. We are the room at the end of the hallway, right where the stairs end. Our door is open and the room is big. For nearly an hour, computer geeks, mathematicians, physicists, chemists, biologists tap away at their keyboards and spout series of letters and numbers, attempting to catch the elusive signal. Alas, to no avail. A church bell tolls across the street to mark two in the morning.
We go to bed.
The miles of asphalt pass by, unwavering, as the sun travels to the horizon. The land is flat, with the occasional hill the unfazed engineers cut right through, leaving walls of brown and grey strata that would delight any passing geologist.
It has been at least an hour since we last passed a town, or a hamlet, or even a single house. Other vehicles are few and far between. Brush, small trees, yuccas and Joshua trees follow each other in a patchwork over an endless sea of dry grass and cacti. Only the barbed wire delineating some ranch property and the occasional wooden poles relaying wires attest to the passage of humans.
We've been traveling for three hours, and we are not even halfway there.
Suddenly, Man In Charge points out a radio antenna a few miles in the distance. "Civilization!" someone yells. Not quite, but it is the first--and last--semblance of a town between here and the end of our drive.
An hour later, replete with somewhat questionable Mexican food, we board the bus again. Night has fallen. The perfect half moon hangs in the sky, the reddish black remnants of the sunset outlines the hills in the distance.
***
The hotel is a quaint little spot, founded in 1884 and seemingly untouched ever since. Comfortable armchairs, lampshades, drapes, and lace curtains: you could expect Humphrey Bogart to be standing there, a whiskey in one hand and a swooning woman in the other, a world of steamer trunks and telegrams, intrigue and beauty.
I can see why the Observatory was built here: I don't remember ever seeing so many stars in my life. Absolutely no light emanates from the town aside from a scant few streetlamps. We stand on the balcony, both elated and awed, breathing in the cold night air after nearly nine hours confined in a bus. This is what the sky looked like to those astronomers of long ago, before lights and cities ruined the sky. In the City, you are lucky if you can find a dozen stars on any given night.
We are lucky, the hotel offers wireless internet. But, slowly, as error windows appear on everyone's screens, various people, familiar and unfamiliar, congregate in our room. We are the room at the end of the hallway, right where the stairs end. Our door is open and the room is big. For nearly an hour, computer geeks, mathematicians, physicists, chemists, biologists tap away at their keyboards and spout series of letters and numbers, attempting to catch the elusive signal. Alas, to no avail. A church bell tolls across the street to mark two in the morning.
We go to bed.
2 comments:
Everything is relative. In Eagleton on a clear night (we do have them, honest) I can see many stars. When I am in my New Zealand home I realise how much light pollution there is even on my part of the Isle of Lewis. We sit in the spar at midnight and watch the stars, the satelites, the moon and the comets and I realise how awesome it all is and how insignificant we are.
I have to drive over Yosemite's Tioga pass when I go to visit the town I grew up in. There is one spot where I stop on the road, at about 10k feet, and no civilization. Absolutely incredible.
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