West Texas Teardrops

We awoke in Kent after a fitful night of rain and wind. The tent had some drops still but the ground was dry, one of many indicators that it's been a while since anything useful fell from the sky. We bade farewell to Dick and Sue and headed once again into the mountains. The empty road climbed gradually, deceptively into the scrubby hills, and for the most part we kept quietly to ourselves and let thoughts take over. Many cows watched us hum steadily past, spooked but still curious. Pathetic though it was, the little rain of the previous night was not lost on the desert plants, nor any drop wasted. Shoots of yellow flowers were already sprouting atop the yuccas, and the occasional neon green bush jumped sharply out of the brown backdrop in a scream of life and color. Of course as the climb got steeper I saw less of the sidelines and concentrated on the game, which was breathing, spinning, and controlling the mental and physical burn. When I finally saw the geodesic dome of the observatory on a distant hill, I knew the peak was near. With instantly lighter legs I coasted to the visitors center where lunch and rest were waiting.
After a terrific meal we cruised downhill (one of the benefits of going so far up) into Ft. Davis where we found camp. Even though our host insisted on being a crotchety bastard it was a good deal and a nice place to stay actually. Another rainstorm and a cloud-covered sky kept us from our eagerly anticipated star party, but we made do. Ice cream sundaes, two-handed Euchre and some oldies on the radio make for a pretty nice end to any day. As we tuck in, the dark sky above warns that there may be a few more west Texas teardrops before the morning. But that's okay, our tents are well-sealed, and they really need the rain.
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