Scavenged by the Buzzard God

We were standin' on a mountaintop
Where the cactus flowers grow
I was wishin' that the world would stop
When you said we'd better go
-Robert Earl Keen

I finally realized that the reason I started writing again was so that I could tell some funny stories. That's what I like to read at least, so let's skip the pleasantries and get down to brass tacks.
Mike, Kurt, Texas Bill and I were gorging on a Tuesday night pre-Thanksgiving feast in an Austin apartment built to shelter people that were younger than we were in 1995. It had been agreed upon on the night before the previous Super Bowl that we would all quit our jobs and move to Austin, and now we were celebrating the bounty of fading youth.
Filled and fattened, we turned to see Bill stride into the post-turkey and Natty Light haze to announce that we were all getting in the car and driving to Big Bend National Park to hike 27 miles through the backcountry. Now, this trip had been planned for the approaching long holiday weekend, so don't count that as crazy, but departure was technically scheduled for the following morning.
Nonetheless, the Fandango set off into the darkness. The car was running on not only gas refined from the fields of Arabia, but also that created by the sweet potatoes and green bean casserole. The air rushing in from the repeatedly opened windows offered a taste of West Texas Desert Dust.
Eight hours later we were fully stocked by the general store in Marathon, the last town for ninety miles in the wilderness north of the remote Big Bend of the Rio Grande.
We pulled in and hit the trail that morning, the back way. Anyone bothering to consult a park map can see that the loop is designed to go up into the mountains gradually, but our way was five straight miles of vertical switchbacks. I'm sure the peanut gallery will have something to say about this, but I think a rest stop every five minutes isn't too excessive when there's fifty pounds strapped to the back of the average fast-food eating American that I know myself to be.
At any rate, we spent the days gawking across the Santa Elena Canyon and the evenings under shooting stars so big we could hear them breaking up in the atmosphere. We dodged enormous piles of Black Bear muffins and jumped at every crunch of leaves, and finally finished the trail after four days. We set up camp in the desert before taking Robert Earl Keen's 'rowboat across the Rio Grande' to Boquillas, Mejico. We ate outside and bellied up to a bar that had horses lashed to a hitching post outside. As the sun was swallowed into the Mexican peaks in the distance, we smuggled aboard the leaky rowboat our contraband, 750 milliliters of undeclared Cuervo Gold.
As a point of order, I should say that at this juncture, the story takes on a color no more racy than your average George Jones drinking song, but definitely saltier than your average Boquillas margarita. Maybe put the kids to bed before you go on.

Descent into madness

As the stars started popping out and the crescent moon slipped toward those gluttonous mountains, the flu bug that had been nagging at the once-zealous Texas Bill dragged him gently into that goodnight. With all due sympathy to his weak system, this created an even bigger problem for the rest of us in that the campfire spot he had vacated instigated a new rationing system from Señor José. What was going to be divided by cuatro was absorbed with a number of canned peach chasers by the tres remaining caballeros.
The walk from the campsite to the Hot Springs on the shores of the Rio was confused enough itself, but after sinking into the magic waters, everything simply took on a new hue. There were escape swims across the border, and laughs that rang into the night; and all the while the figurative worm at the bottom of the bottle (Tom Robbins' buzzard god) was chewing his way into our hearts as our personal defenses crumbled like the walls of this ancient magic spring that had so seductively absorbed us.
And then the peace was broken.
A busload of interlopers descended upon the waters. By the hundreds of thousands they invaded, Southern Baptist by the looks of their hair and conservative swimwear--not a bikini among them. The tiny pool was suddenly filled with Holy Spirits--a swirling cocktail of Hay-Seuss and José. That's one they don't serve after Saturday midnight at my local watering hole, I can promise you that.
Now, it would be funny enough, except I forgot to mention that we left every square centimeter of our clothing on the riverbank. For us this meant sweatshirt, sweatpants, sandals...and boxers. Our pile was up there somewhere, somewhere on the far side of the Blessed Flock.
There were no options. They weren't leaving and we were already parboiled. Overcooked, in more ways than one, we could no longer maintain our stabs at polite conversation. Our stumbled mumbles of apology were followed by our surprising revelation that the Pagan Desert Underwear Fairy must have dived in and absconded with our lingerie, but we was gonna have to go anyhow. And off we glided like the sculpted Greek nudes of old, Kurt leading the way with a splash. He went straight to the pile of clothes, put on more than he brought and, as we would determine later, packed everything up in the nearest backpack and took off into the desert night. I soon followed, in even less admirable fashion, to the pile. My boxers were still there at least, and my sandals, but there were no sweats to be found. Mike and I wove back toward the campsite amidst final farewells to the faithful, and I landed promptly in some sort of coyote waller of a mudpit. After struggling for what seemed like ages while Mike looked for Kurt, I gave myself up for dead and drifted off to what I was sure was going to be the miserable afterlife to which those folks back at the springs knew I was doomed. Fortunately for those of you who want to hear the ending, I woke seconds later to Mike dragging me to my clay-encrusted feet.
We made it back to the campsite ahead of Kurt and were able to watch him emerge from the darkness. Our campsite flashlight revealed his attire slowly. It was the funniest thing I ever saw.
Kurt was wedged into a purple, flowered windbreaker. Size Youth Petite. His arms were pinned further back by a backpack--a backpack he was convinced was his.
"Take off the backpack Kurt, it's not yours," Mike yelled.
"Iss too, iss my bagpack."
"Show us what's in it!" We couldn't wait.
Assuming a smug grin, Kurt slowly pulled out my sweatshirt, and then my sweatpants, and then a pair of little girl's jeans with flowers on them. In fact, they looked strangely similar to the ones on the windbreaker. The image burned into a flash in front of my eyes just as someone turned out the lights. When my eyes reopened, I was halfway down in my sleeping bag with the sun seeping in through a tiny hole at the other end.
I woke up dirtier than I have ever been as an adult. I was picking clay from my calves as Kurt emerged from the tent in a far worse condition. It was a long ride home to Austin that Sunday. You don't have to know much about Karma to know that Kurt spent the better part of the morning reliving the wrath of José from the inside out. It was probably almost enough to pay back the 10 year-old that had to ride the bus back to her campsite in her wet bathing suit with no windbreaker to keep her warm. God bless her and let's hope her faith helped her process the horrifying sight she had endured the night before.
Like you said, I better go. Adios Amigos.