Charred
Root of
Meaning
Story and photographs
by Philipp W. Rosemann
I
first traveled to the Big Bend in the
spring of 2011, having lived in
Texas for 14 years without discov-
ering its most extraordinary part. It
was articles in the New York Times on
Marfa and Marathon that had sparked
my curiosity, making me Google and
read more about those remote and
mythical places in the desert, a mere
seven hours’ drive from Dallas.
In Europe, seven hours lets you cross
the boundaries of three or four
countries—well, certain countries, like
the Netherlands, Belgium, and
Luxemburg. But still, Texas is big, by
any standards. It is larger than France
and almost twice the size of Germany,
my native country.
I went with my partner. It was a
brief vacation, just to get away from
Dallas for a few days during spring
break. We flew into Midland/Odessa,
rented a small car, and headed south,
via Fort Stockton and Alpine toward
Marfa, our first stop. My partner, who
was born in Odessa, had at first not
been thrilled about this trip. I certainly
understood why. Odessa is, sad to say,
a singularly ugly place, and the monot-
onous steppe that surrounds it, with the
oil rigs and the gas smell that reminds
you of a leak in your kitchen stove, is
hardly much better. As we drove fur-
ther south, however, and the dusty
prairie gradually opened up to the
mountains, the sight dispelled any
doubts about the wisdom of our trip.
Over the next few days, we explored
Marfa, where we learned about
12
Cenizo
Third Quarter 2017
Donald Judd, drove on FM 170 to the
National Park (trying not to veer off the
road and right down the bluff into the
Rio Grande), hiked to the Window,
were scared of Mexican riders who
had, it seemed, taken possession of
Boquillas, and finally returned by way
of Marathon. It was a short time, but
full of memorable impressions. Neither
of us had ever been to a place as
ruggedly beautiful as the Big Bend.
I returned almost exactly a year
later. In March 2012, I came alone,
however, since in the meantime my
partner had committed suicide. I came
to weep and pray, shaken to the core
and still not quite sure what had hap-
pened. This is the kind of thing one
reads about, but does not expect in
one’s own life—until it hits you, brutal-
ly and without warning, one night
when you come home. Then, sudden-
ly, you see the truth: there are no guar-
antees in life, anything can happen; the
idea that you can control your fate is
pathetically naïve.
I had a reservation—made long in
advance, and hence for two—in the
historic section of the Indian Lodge.
On my very first afternoon, right after
getting there, I climbed up the path
behind the lodge, into the stillness of
the hills. The landscape still bore the
scars of the Rock House fire, which had
devastated Presidio and Jeff Davis
counties in April of the previous year.
In particular, I noticed that all the
sotols had been reduced to charred
stumps, whose ashen blackness dotted