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The Lower Falls
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A couple of miles down a dirt road outside of Bandera, I see a small white wooden building, a shack, really, perched atop a deck. The door, white with a large window, reminds me of something familiar and inviting. An old dentist’s office, maybe. The park ranger with a British or Australian accent hands me a map and tells me where to go. More dirt road, and I park my car in a dirt lot. And with a bathroom break and a deep breath, I grab my backpack and food bag and get on the trail. It’s about 2 miles to my campsite. Not too bad, but I overestimate myself and consider climbing one of the highest points on the map, West Peak, with all my gear on me. It’s a bad idea, and I stop at the base. My detour adds a mile of steep, rocky trails I have to traverse in the scorching midday sun, but after stopping under the shade of a tree for a plum and some water, and a few more stops after that, I make it to camp.
The view from West Peak
The site is secluded, a good 100 feet off the main trail, and surrounded by trees, but to my north, I have a clear view of Vista Ridge. Exhausted, I put down my pack and take it all in. I read the first few chapters of The Grapes of Wrath, and I plan out my hike. I will take the Ice Cream Hill Trail that night, with a bigger hike planned for the morning. A couple of hours before sunset, I set out.
The Ice Cream Hill trailhead is a rocky bluff, with a clear view of the hill about a half mile ahead, and the valley before it densely wooded, excepting the sun-baked remains of a small pond. The first leg of the hike goes downhill through the forest, followed by an ascent of some 300 feet up the exposed, craggy hill. I stop near the top to take a breather, and then, after a few more steps, I see an unobscured view of the hill before me, and, to my even greater delight, nothing but downhill trail ahead. After circling around to get the full view and snapping a photo, I begin the second half of the hike. This portion is less physically demanding – and less scenic. Where there’s shade, the surrounding trees block my sight, and where there isn’t, I’m too distracted by the overgrown yuccas scratching at my legs. I march forward, and before I know it, I’m back where I started. On the way back to camp, I stop to check out that desiccated pond I saw earlier. What once was its bottom is now cracked earth, but it still has some give to it, a hint of moisture, like Play-Doh. Texas needs rain.
Back at camp, I pitch my tent and cook a sort of stew of rice and sardines. It’s pretty good. As I finish up, it begins to get dark. I get in my tent, but I’m not tired yet, so I do some more reading. Then I am tired, but it’s too hot outside to get any decent sleep. I strip down, roll around and around, and finally, a few hours before sunrise, it comes to me.
At dawn, I groggily sift through my discarded clothes and get dressed. I have a breakfast of oatmeal, smoked sausage, another plum, and a cup of instant coffee. With that out of the way, I pack a gallon of water, put everything else in the tent, and start down the main artery of the park, the Wilderness Trail. My plan is to ascend both West Peak and Vista Ridge before checking out of the campsite at noon.
Roughly a mile from the campground, the Wilderness Trail intersects the Spring Branch Trail, the longest in Hill Country SNA. 6.4 miles long, it starts at the parking lot, snakes westward to the Ice Cream Hill trailhead 3+ miles away, and loops back around. I take a left onto it to put myself on a direct course to West Peak. This leg of the trail is familiar to me, actually; it’s the one I struggled with so much on the circuitous route I took to get to camp. This time, however, I have the cool morning and the reduced load to my advantage. I figure it’ll be a ball. But my first time on the trail, I was so worn down by its sparse uphill portions that I neglected to note that it was mostly downhill. Now, it’s mostly uphill. Already out of breath, and sweating bullets, the sight of West Peak towering hundreds of feet above me to my right is a daunting one. I enjoy the exertion, though, and off to my left, the rolling hills in the distance, dotted with shrubs like massive moss-covered boulders, inspire an emotion that only nature can. The panorama afforded by reaching the top of West Peak would be too invigorating to pass up.
Thirty minutes into the hike, I finally reach the 0.18-mile section of trail leading to the summit. It’s part of the West Peak Overlook Trail, which the trail map calls the hardest in the park. Tired but eager, I set out on the dirt incline ahead of me. It’s open on both sides and scarcely interrupted by a couple of rocky hurdles. Looks easy enough so far, but a turn into the woods to my left reveals a staircase of several dozen jagged steps. What I feel is a mix of discouragement and awe. It’s a wonder that man could pave such a path. It’ll also be a wonder if I make it to the top anytime soon. Looking ahead, taking it step by step, about halfway up I encounter a trail runner descending from the peak. A quick hello, and she’s gone in a flash. Again, I’m amazed at the possibilities of human strength and endurance. I also remember that I’m not climbing Everest here, but an 1892-foot-tall hill. These thoughts push me onward, and before I know it, I’m at the top. A bench to my left overlooks the southeastern quadrant of the park. I rest here and study the landscape before me. Thousands of trees in thousands of shades of green, plains of golden-brown grass, hills of all sizes in the distance, some barely recognizable among the foliage, others breaking over the horizon line, and the dusty footpaths below looking small and insignificant. Gray clouds cover most of the sky, but a few gaps let in the sun, and where its rays strike, the hills are radiant with gold and lime. I take some pictures and continue on the trail which loops around the top of West Peak. Another bench faces the southwest, another the north, and I stop briefly for a few more photos. Then, with the loop complete, I begin the descent and journey to my next target, Vista Ridge.
Compared to what I’d just completed, getting to the Vista Ridge trailhead is a breeze. It’s a little under a mile of relatively flat trail, despite a section on the trail map labeled steep. I have another problem, though. I’m running low on water, and don’t know exactly where I am. From what I can tell, it’s still at least a mile and a half to the Vista Ridge Overlook, and from there, three and a half miles back to camp, and from there, two miles to my car and more water. I consider whether the additional three miles to the top of Vista Ridge and back are worth it, and ultimately decide I won’t be back here for a while. To hell with it, I say, hydration can wait, I have another hill to climb. In a little while, I see a landmark that makes me officially unlost, the sign for the Madrone Trail, and about half a mile later, the Vista Ridge Trail.
From the start of the trail, it’s about 250 vertical feet to the overlook, but spread out over a mile, it’s an easier challenge than West Peak. I’m not saying it’s a cakewalk, though. The steep switchbacks at the beginning of the climb feel endless to me, and I feel the burn in my legs and chest. Admittedly, I’m not in the best of shape. Eventually, the uphill yields to steady trail, and I begin to see why they call this a ridge instead of a hill or peak. I keep thinking I’ll reach the overlook any second now, but I just keep going and going across flat terrain. It’s nothing but tall trees to my left and right, and no apparent viewing spot in sight. At some point, I see a clearing with a radio tower at its center. Maybe it’s over there, I wonder. I go to it. Nothing. Getting back on the trail, I notice it’s starting to curve off to the right, and I determine that if I don’t see something that looks like an overlook in five minutes I’ll give up and turn around. I hate to do this, but my lack of water and the fact that I have to be out of my campsite by noon prevail. Then, to my left, a fence replaces the trees, and a view of the park lies beyond it. I decide that this will suffice. It’s a wonderful view, though much like the one I got at West Peak. Sometimes, I wish these points of interest weren’t labeled on the trail map so I could go in with no expectations and discover everything myself. Maybe I should just ditch the map.
On the return trip to the campsite, I see the first signs of life since the trail runner some two hours ago. Still on the Vista Ridge Trail, I hear the crunch of leaves to my left, and camouflaged among the dead trees bumble two armadillos. Then, back near the trail’s start, I greet a couple on horseback. Besides the runner, those were the only people I saw on the trails. Hill Country SNA is the largest and most secluded of all the parks I’ve been to, so if that kind of solitude is your thing, this is the place to be.
As I near West Peak again, I decide I want one last challenge. I plan to take the southern branch of the Spring Branch Trail instead of the more direct northern one, just to get some different scenery, get on the Wilderness Trail from there, and then return to the northern part of the Spring Branch loop on a section that traverses a couple of smaller hills and will drop me off right by camp. This later proves to be a mistake in several ways. First, more yuccas with long leaves stretching over the trail renew my regret of wearing shorts instead of pants. Then, I somehow miss my turn, where the Wilderness Trail intersects with the Spring Branch Trail, and continue down a 0.42-mile length of the Spring Branch Trail which meets up again with the Wilderness Trail. (If this sounds confusing, that’s because it is. I invite you to consult the trail map.) Completely oblivious to my mistake, I head down a 0.78-mile portion of the Wilderness Trail instead of the 0.38-mile one I was shooting for. With aching feet, I wonder why these 0.38 miles feel so long until I end up near the dry pond by Ice Cream Hill and realize what I’ve done. Luckily, I’m right by camp, with just enough time to break down my tent and pack up before the noon deadline. With that done, I put on my backpack and head down the Wilderness Trail one last time.
2 miles to go. High noon. The clouds have dissipated, and the sun hangs right over my head. And I only have a couple of cups of water left. I take one small gulp half a mile in, and one big gulp after another half-mile. And that’s the last of it. It’s a pretty flat trail, though, and I keep moving despite the aching of my shoulders and blistering of my feet. I keep moving for what feels like forever, and after turning one last corner, the sight of the parking lot is a huge relief. Not that I was in any real danger, but the deadline I had to meet made for a rather unpleasant experience. If I had had more time – gotten up earlier, or camped out for another night – and more water, it would’ve been great. I could have seen more trails and paced myself better. Now back at my car, I recall the ranger I checked in with telling me there was water at the trailhead. I find a hose sitting on the ground next to a trough of stagnant water and use it to fill my bottle. After one swallow that tastes of dirt, I realize I’m not a horse. Searching around, I find a water source more suited to human consumption, a faucet. And with that, I take one last look around, get in my car, and drive down the same dirt road I came in on. The dust crawls from under the wheels up to my window, offering me a final farewell.
