The road drops 1500 feet in elevation from the mile-high plateau of Marfa on route south toward Two Rivers Camp. You might pass a car or two and sometimes none at all on the 41 mile drive toward the Rio Grande. Creosote Bush, a few mesquite, a long horn, no fences and mountains, the Sierra Ricos in the Mexican distance, Chinati to the east and San Jacinto a 5000 foot peak, 7 miles from camp, stands aloof, jagged, a beacon that has been known by humans for 12,000 years.
January at camp was cold. Nearly every night saw temps drop to freezing or below. But the hearty souls that live there and those that come out for the weekend, carry on, because in many ways that is what the camp is about – to carry on.
The drums beat. Sunrise. We gather in a circle near the sweat lodge as the native led ritual begins. A ceremony to the great spirit. A sprinkling of tobacco. A smudge. Another day. A new day.
Donations have been generous. Food is plenty. We eat. We plan. How better to use the gray water? The compost needs more heat. When can we plant the watermelon seeds?
We talk of a day when the rich humble and the poor rise, a day when who we are as a people reflects across borders and the world is at peace.
The temp rises. Its 70. A Border Patrol helicopter circles overhead.
We gather firewood and stoke the flame of the sacred fire.
We carry on.
