Pedaling in the Desert: A Tale of Heat Exhaustion and Recovery
I recently came across a Facebook post by a man who announced “I bought an ENTIRE town 50 miles east of El Paso called Cornudas, TX.” It caught my attention because 26 years ago, that “town” — which consists entirely of a restaurant with an attached store, motel and RV camping sites — was an oasis for me when I was dangerously close to being overcome by heat exhaustion and dehydration while pedaling across the desert in West Texas.
But that day, which was the second-to-last-day of my bicycle ride on US Route 62 — from Niagara Falls, NY, to El Paso, TX — sticks in my mind more for the happy ending than the threat to my well-being.
The day before, two truckers I met while eating breakfast told me about the Cornudas Café, which gave me some assurance that I’d find a water source in the upcoming dry stretch. That night I camped in the Guadalupe Mountains National Park, with its majestic El Capitan mountain lookout.
Here, from my book, Playing in Traffic, is my narration of the journey that took me from Guadalupe Mountains National Park through Cornudas and finally to my final night on the road for that trip:
I was up early … I cooked my breakfast and packed up. The air was warm even then. A park ranger who asked about my journey told me that in addition to the Cornudas Café [which was about 50 miles away], I’d also find a place to eat at Salt Flats, about halfway between the park and Cornudas.
The first 10 miles of the day’s ride was downhill, and I hit speeds as high as 37 mph. This side of the pass was even more barren than the north side [which I’d ascended the day before], but also provided grandly majestic views of the mountains. The road here was also considerably steeper than the approach from the north had been, so I was glad I was not riding this journey in the opposite direction.
Throughout the trip downhill and for at least another 10 miles after that, El Capitan remained fully visible from one and then another and then another perspective. In fact, the headland dominated the landscape like a sentinel in every direction. El Capitan was one powerful piece of geography.
A sign beside the highway declared that 62 now possessed an additional name: the Texas Mountain Trail. The reason was evident all around me. In addition to the Guadalupes behind me, there were also mountain ranges in the distance on both my left and right.
From a vantage point partway down the mountain, I had been able to see the desert stretched out ahead, between these ranges. Also visible in the far distance as a white band across the land were the salt flats. Once I was down on level ground, I lost sight of them for a while, but eventually I spied them again, spread across the terrain ahead, a stark irregularity on an already stark land. They appeared to be close at hand, but that was another desert illusion. I did finally come to them, and followed 62 across them, but only after several more miles of pedaling.
For centuries, native peoples of the surrounding area had taken salt from the flats as needed, but in 1877, one Charles Howard filed claim to the flats and imposed a fee for the salt. This invoked bitter resentment from villagers who said the salt had always been theirs, and they threatened to take the salt without payment. The resulting conflict, known as the El Paso Salt War, cost several lives. It ended when Howard and two companions were shot to death by an armed mob.
By noon, I had crossed the salty band and come to the spot that bore the name, Salt Flat. The entire place consisted of a café with a couple of houses behind it, and a little farther on, an RV park, which was little more than a parking lot in the desert. A sign on the café door reminded all who entered that restrooms were for customers only. No problem; I fully intended to be a customer.
A young woman operated the place, assisted by an older woman who spoke mostly in Spanish. This was a good arrangement, for while I was there, a customer came in who spoke only Spanish. Both women were pleasant, and the meal was excellent. A girl of about 11, apparently the younger woman’s daughter, was also behind the counter. I asked her if she lived in one of the houses behind the café. She did. How did she like living way out there so far from everything? She liked it just fine, she said.
The little café had been air conditioned, though it wasn’t cooling the place very well, but when I stepped outside after eating, the heat hit me like a fist. After my experience with the afternoon heat the previous day, I was tempted to go back inside and wait out the midday sun. But today, I wasn’t facing a climb, and I had a slight tailwind. Besides, I didn’t relish spending six hours in the café, no matter how congenial the staff. Still, I was surprised how much the day had heated up while I’d been eating.
It was 28 miles farther to the Cornudas Café, and for the first 10 or so, things went smoothly despite the heat. I even found another café no one had mentioned. It was tiny and shabby, but the cold drink I purchased there from a man who reminded me of Popeye in both appearance and speech tasted good. Before I left, he warned me not to die in the heat. He even followed me outside to say, “If you kill yourself, I’ll never forgive you,” and sauntered back inside yuk, yuk, yukking at his own strange humor.
Cycling through this inhospitable land, I was surprised to come upon mile after mile of signs announcing 10-acre lots available for sale. Additional signage advised that the property could be had for $95 down, $105 a month. Electric and telephone service was also available, the signs said. I noticed, however, that none said anything about water. Who would settle out here? I wondered. Not many, apparently, for none of the parcels were homesteaded.
Soon after my cold drink stop, the wind reversed and strengthened, and I found myself battling a headwind. Having to work against that in the heat soon had me feeling unwell, and when, despite the temperature, I started shivering, I knew I was headed for heat exhaustion. I needed to get out of the sun. The only problem was, there was nowhere to do that, and nothing tall enough to cast shade. I still had water, but it was so warm that it offered no refreshment.
Having no other choice, I pushed on through what became the longest couple of hours in my cycling experience. As I became weaker, my progress slowed to a crawl, and I began to think I could not go on. Just as I felt near the end of my resources, I crested a small upgrade. There, a downhill mile ahead, was the Cornudas Café. I pushed on the pedals to start the bike in motion, and coasted down to it as eagerly as if I were a crusader and it were the Holy Grail.
Arriving at last, I limped in, headed straight for the cold case, and grabbed an icy drink. Then I wobbled toward a table, gulping the beverage as I dropped into the chair. Finally, my initial thirst slaked, I looked around.
The place was a unique sanctuary. Several hundred hats, each bearing the name of a different farm implement dealer, trucking firm or other industry hung from the ceiling — gifts from customers, I later learned. The walls were covered with correspondence the café staff had received from people who had written after visiting the restaurant. The legs of the tables had been covered with the pantlegs from blue jeans, each ending in a western boot. The table tops were covered with clear plastic tablecloths, and under these, satisfied customers had shoved napkins on which they’d written complimentary notes about the food and service of the café, or other thoughts of the moment. An adjoining room was a gift shop, stocked with high-quality crafts and mementos. The building also included some motel rooms, and there was an RV park out back. The compound comprised all there was of Cornudas, so the woman who owned the place was known as “Mayor May.” She was also the cook.
When I entered the cafe, I noticed a Walmart semi on the highway shoulder outside. The driver, easily recognizable in his official Walmart shirt, was seated at a table eating a sandwich. I had seen Walmart tractor-trailers on 62 frequently across Oklahoma, but all across Texas, it seemed as if every third 18-wheeler in either direction bore the Walmart name. I struck up a conversation with the driver, who invited me to join him at his table. He told me that the discount store giant had 6,000 trucks in its fleet. Most of the big rigs were busy shuttling goods from Walmart warehouses to regional distribution centers. From there, local trucks disbursed the products to the area Walmart stores.
I gathered he ate at Cornudas often. “The food is great and the atmosphere is friendly,” he said. “Also, it’s one of the few places where there’s room to park the truck. There are a lot of places I can’t get into.”
In addition to May, who appeared to be in her 60s, there was another woman of similar age working there. When I mentioned to the driver the 10-acre desert lots I’d seen for sale, he pointed to this second woman and said, “There’s the person you should ask. She runs cattle on some of that land.”
The woman overheard the comment and came over. She was Mary Foster. She and her husband had been ranchers, and when he died, she continued to run the ranch, working in the café in the afternoons. Her daughter and grandson helped with the ranch. I repeated my comment about the land for sale. “It’s a scam,” Mary said vehemently. “A lot of Mexican immigrants get caught in it. They hear they can have a homestead out there with easy financing. When they finally figure out what a bad deal it is, they give it up, and the same land gets sold again.”
“I noticed the signs said there was electric and telephone, but none mentioned water,” I said.
“Yes, but a lot of people don’t notice that until too late. And even the business about electric is deceptive. Unless your land happens to be right under where the power line crosses, it costs thousands of dollars to run it to where you are.”
“I didn’t notice any houses at all. Does anyone stay?”
“Oh, a few do. They’ll put up a shack. And then they have to have water hauled in. Most who try don’t stick it out too long. The only reason we’ve been able to live at the ranch is because we drilled an 800-foot well. And the well here,” she said, indicating the café, “is 1000 feet deep. Few people starting out can afford that type of investment. These people end up paying $175 an acre for land we wouldn’t pay more than $5 an acre for. There’s so little grass on the land that you need lots of acres for each cow out here, so you can’t pay more than that.”
“How many acres do you need per cow?”
“It takes 640 acres to feed 10 cows. Between owning and leasing, I have 70,000 acres, and I’m running 400 cows.”
“Longhorns?” I asked.
“No, we have to raise what beef buyers are looking for, and that changes from time to time. Nobody wants longhorns now. I’m currently raising Angus, Limousines and Charolais.”
“With that much land, how do you roundup your cattle?”
“We do it in sections. My grandson brings some of his high school friends. They’ve all been raised on ranches and know what to do.”
I spent three hours at the café, sitting at a table, catching up on my notes, and finally, eating an excellent dinner — or at least part of an excellent dinner. The servings were Texas sized, and though I made a heroic attempt, there was no way I could finish them. Neither May nor Mary seemed bothered in the least that I hung around so long. …
A little after 6, I decided to resume riding. According to the café’s thermometer, the air had only dropped to 91 degrees, but the sun was no longer directly overhead and the air would cool more as the sun set. Mary told me of a picnic shelter about 20 miles farther on, and I decided to make for it.
It was a good plan. The day cooled quickly, making twilight riding very comfortable. My progress was still slow, thanks to the constant headwind, but I felt good. My only concern came when the sun had fully set. There was no visible moon, and the night became very dark, so black that I envisioned riding right past the picnic area without knowing it. The traffic was light, so only occasionally was I helped by the headlights of a passing vehicle. Once I could no longer see more than a few feet ahead, I got out my flashlight, and at every highway sign I passed, I flicked it on to read what the sign said. The first several signs merely confirmed that I was indeed traveling 62 and that the speed limit was 65, but just as I was beginning to think I was going to have to camp on the hardscrabble at roadside, I came to a sign announcing the picnic area one mile ahead. Even with this advance notice, I could easily have missed the rest area had it not been for the glowing amber lights of a semi idling in the parking lot. I aimed for the truck, and as I drew near, my flashlight beam illuminated a picnic shelter. In minutes I had my air mattress and sleeping bag unrolled next to the table, and I settled down to sleep. …
Occasionally throughout the night, I awoke momentarily as trucks pulled in or out of the area, but the sounds were not bothersome, and I had a restful sleep.
Stan Purdum has ridden several long-distance bike trips, including an across-America ride recounted in his book Roll Around Heaven All Day, and a trek on U.S. 62, from Niagara Falls, New York, to El Paso, Texas, the subject of his book Playing in Traffic. Stan, a freelance writer and editor, lives in Ohio. See more at www.StanPurdum.com.
