Some stand out like a Ferrari in a speed trap, every leaf glowinga cop-stopping red. Others blaze a more subtle bonfire orange orshimmer Fort Knox gold. A handful, still clogged with summer'schlorophyll, splash dollops of cool green into the firestorm offlaming hues.
Maples ignited by autumn - it could be Vermont at its fierybest.
But this isn't New England. It's West Texas, a vast, empty,parched, barren wasteland that's generally about as colorful asmilitia fatigues.Out here, cattle wander, windmills whirl and pumps suck oil fromthe earth. Few towns survive between Pecos and El Paso, and signswarn motorists of the monotonous distance to the next gas station.Only the Guadalupe Mountains interrupt the topographical boredom.A remnant of an ancient limestone reef, the broad plateau of theGuadalupes juts like Gibraltar from the desert floor. Long bands ofnaked cliffs buttress its gently rolling cap.Breaching the palisades, a scattering of chasms slice down fromthe high country. Some tout one of them, McKittrick Canyon, as themost beautiful spot in Texas.Two thousand feet deep, the gorge winds through the mountains'eastern escarpment. Along its final few miles, a small creekemerges, providing moisture to satiate luxuriant growth. In thisoasis, geologist Wallace Pratt built a home where he and his wiferecurrently resided for several decades. He ultimately deeded thehouse and much of his land to the U.S. government, a gift thatlaunched Guadalupe Mountains National Park.Roads barely penetrate the massive preserve, but 80 miles ofwalking trails allow visitors access to its interior. Some peopleenjoy challenging the steep track that snakes to the highest summitin Texas, 8,749-foot-high Guadalupe Peak. More, however, prefersimpler endeavors, like strolling up McKittrick Canyon, especially inthe depths of autumn.The walk begins at McKittrick Canyon Visitor Center, whererangers advise hikers of park rules. It then heads up the flatcanyon bottom, eventually crossing the dry creek on a pathwayoutlined with stones. A Texas madrone towers beside the trail.The tree, common in the Guadalupes, stands 20 feet high.Cinnamon-colored bark, which peels away like paint on an old barn,covers its twisted and gnarled, multiple trunks. Shiny jade-greenleaves cap upper branches, sheltering clusters of vivid red berries.It's McKittrick's first touch of Technicolor magic.After a 20-minute ramble, the route again intersects the streambed, which now gushes with water. Rich in calcite, the peek-a-boocreek lines its base with the white cementlike substance. Wherefloods have erased the coating, the flow may dip below ground, onlyto reappear farther downstream.Ahead, the canyon narrows and deepens, and vegetation grows moredense. Maples appear, providing the first splashes of autumn yellow.Around one corner, a rock wall lines the path, and a short side trailleads to Pratt's Lodge.Frequently called Stone Cabin, the structure features floors,walls and even a roof made from native rock. Forest-green woodenshutters add a homey feel. Surrounded by trees, the site exudes anaura of sequestered tranquillity. It's easy to understand why thePratts delighted in dwelling deep in their canyon, and why ParkService volunteers love living here now. One temporary caretakerspends the season residing here with her husband.``Over 400 people hiked up Saturday and another 250 on Sunday,''she says. ``We're here to help protect the resource.''The volunteer shows guests around the one-bedroom structure andrelates a bit of its history. A pot of simmering soup fills thecabin with a tomato and basil bouquet. The aroma attracts more thanhungry humans.``Some mornings when I'm cooking,'' she says, ``I glance up andsee a deer peering at me through the window.''By day, the Peeping Bambi retreats, driven off by incominghikers. Pratt Lodge lies about 2 1/2 miles from the trailhead, andfor many, it marks an ideal destination and turn-around point.Others stride beyond.The route continues up-canyon, generally staying away fromwater's edge. In the slightly higher, cooler altitude, autumnintensifies. Fallen leaves speckle the trail. Trees rustle. Theair smells fresh, faintly perfumed with the woody scent of dryingleaves.Chinquapin oaks, a species common in the East, grow to 80-footheights. As the season advances, their toothy, oval leaves fade limegreen, then lemon yellow, providing the valley with splashes of juicycolor.More gaudy are McKittrick's bigtooth maples. These are closerelatives of the eastern sugar maples, and local Texans use the sapto make syrup.Like their Vermont cousins, the bigtooths erupt in shades ofyellow and orange, the result of chlorophyll disintegrating to exposeblond pigments from xanthophyll and carotin (the same agent thatcolors carrots).Others blush from anthocyanin, the pigment found in beets andred cabbage. Plant sugars produced in daylight become trapped atnight. Unable to circulate, they linger, tinting leaves deepcrimson.In a canyon brimming with vegetation, a patrolling rangerexpresses his worries about wildfire. ``A few years ago, we had abig burn in Dog Canyon that threatened McKittrick. If a blazestarted here on a windy day, it would devastate this enclave.''The main trail, which proceeds toward Dog Canyon, eventuallyclimbs from the valley floor. A lower spur leads to the Grotto, adamp, limestone cavity perhaps 20 feet wide and 10 feet deep.Around the corner sits a picnic area. Tables and benches madefrom stone slabs rest beneath a canopy of gilded boughs. Severalfeasting and frolicking families share the site.Shortly beyond, the route ends at a cattleman's line shack.Crudely constructed, its walls consist of rough-cut rock, chinkedwith gravel and mortared with mud. The Park Service has screenedthe building closed and posted it as being unsafe.The structure may be crude, but its grassy setting is exquisite.McKittrick Canyon veers leftward, and a lofty ridge looms ahead.Thin ribbons of dull orange highlight arroyos that plunge down thevalley's gray walls. Although a breeze barely blows at ground level,the wind pulsates high overhead. It starts softly, builds to aneerie howl, then mysteriously calms, only to repeat the pattern aminute later.A sign advises that the territory beyond is closed to all entry,and the ranger reminds everyone that he locks the parking lot gate at6 p.m. Out of trail and out of time, the walk back begins.The creek seems to gurgle louder on the return. The rangerclaims trout live here. ``They only grow to be four to six inches inlength, hardly pan sized,'' he says. ``Since much of the year, thestream intermittently dips underground, fish are confined topermanent wet sections like this one.''The journey out goes slowly. Trees warmed by afternoon lightappear to glow with more fervent intensity. It's as if autumn hasaccelerated during the day. Reds seem more lucent; golds morevivid; oranges more Sunkist.Although encircled by radiant hues, the hikers ahead stop for adrab-brown object beside the trail. They stare down. Ahairy-legged tarantula stares back.This isn't Vermont. It's West Texas.
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