My Visit to Sierra Blanca

It was the summer of 1982, and we were going on a road trip to a family reunion in Wimberley, Texas, some 560 miles east of our home in El Paso. Our family car at the time was a 1966 Chevelle Malibu Sports Coupe. Elaine’s dad had given it to us as a wedding present. It was a great car, with a standard shift and a V-8 engine, and it ran like a scalded cat, but after 16 years we really did need a new car.

We decided to buy a Mercury Grand Marquis. At the time, we figured it might be the only new car we would see for many years to come, so we splurged and ordered it with some extras – for example, wing vents (remember those?), a towing package, and a premium sound system that even played audio cassette tapes.

For some reason I never understood, the car was to be delivered in Fort Stockton, and I would have to drive over there to get it. Since Fort Stockton was some 250 miles east of El Paso, I thought that arrangement sucked big time (although at the time I probably had not heard that expression). Worse yet, it wouldn’t be delivered in time for us to drive it on the trip to Wimberley. I worried over that some but soon quit thinking about it as the day approached for us to leave.

Neal and Glen were thirteen and ten at the time and Ellen was only one. The Chevelle was crowded with all of us in it, but worse yet; the AC crapped out about half way to Wimberley. Ellen overheated easily; besides being that it was a typical Texas summer, hot as hell, so you didn’t need to be a baby to suffer from the heat. We were all miserably hot, and then things got downright scary when Ellen got sick from it and started throwing up, and her body got all hot to the touch. We got really worried, and when we got to Wimberley we gave a huge sigh of relief.

When the reunion was over, we drove another 180 miles eastward to Houston to visit Elaine’s parents, with the AC still not working. We worried all the way about Ellen and kept wiping her forehead with a wet rag. We decided that after a day or two in Houston, Elaine would fly back to El Paso with Neal and Glen and Ellen, whereas I would drive back myself in the Chevelle. And so it came to pass.

Somewhere on the western edge of San Antonio, I spotted a hitch-hiker down the road. Now, I was a hitch-hiker from way back, and despite having read In Cold Blood, I still had a hard time passing a hitch-hiker by without experiencing a tinge of guilt, given the thousands of miles that other folks had hauled me back in the day. So, I slowed down and looked at him closely. He looked to be about halfway between a hippie and an oil-patch roughneck. I decided I might give him a ride. I rolled to a stop next to him and let down my window some. Asked him who he was and where he was going and so on. Asked him was he carrying any weapons. He said not unless you counted his pocket knife.

He told me his name was Clive (or maybe it was Carl), and that he was headed to Oregon to get a logging job. Said he knew somebody who knew somebody who could get him on with a logging crew. This was a good thing, since he had just lost his job in Louisiana. After a few minutes I decided, what the hell, and told him to get in. Off we went, and after awhile we got to talking, and after a couple hours of that we had become pretty good friends. Then I had one of those great ideas on which fate turns. I told him I had a new car waiting for me in Fort Stockton (it had been delivered to the dealer while we were in Wimberley). I asked him if I picked up the Grand Marquis when we got to Fort Stockton, would he be willing to follow me in the Chevelle from there to El Paso. He said, oh yeah, sure, so the deal was struck, and we continued on down the road.

Now at that period in time, the entire nation suffered under a speed limit of 55 miles per hour, which was imposed during the Nixon administration, ostensibly to save gasoline. I always said that every Congressman who voted for the 55-mph limit should be required to drive at 55 mph from Houston to El Paso. Anybody who’s ever driven over that stretch knows how nearly impossible that is. Me, I think I’m congenitally incapable of driving only 55 mph on stretches like that. What I am trying to say is, that Clive and I were haulin’ ass across the desert at about 85 miles an hour, me in front in the Grand Marquis and Clive behind me in the Chevelle. Oh, by the way, did I say I was really enjoying my new car?

Eventually, we approached Sierra Blanca, a little bitty place in the Guadalupe Mountains about 88 miles east of El Paso. By that time we were fairly flying across the desert; we were on the home stretch. That’s when the Sierra Blanca Sheriff caught me in a speed trap. (Later on, my friends would say things like, “Wow! You didn’t know Sierra Blanca was a notorious speed trap?!” And “Oh yeah, that’s the speed trap from hell!” But had any one of them ever mentioned a word to me about this before I got caught? Not on your life! Forget about it! No way, Jose’!) Anyway, Clive stopped too, about 100 feet behind me.

The Sheriff checked my license and proof of insurance and wrote me a speeding ticket, and then he wanted to know why “that guy in the Chevelle” was sitting back there. I told him how Clive was doing me a favor by following me in my old car so I could drive my new one home, and he promptly walked back there and asked Clive for his driver’s license and proof of insurance. That’s when we learned that Clive’s Louisiana license had expired two weeks before.

Well, the Sheriff arrested Clive and hauled him off to jail, and he (the Sheriff, not Clive) confiscated my Chevelle. After awhile, I followed them over to the jailhouse in the Grand Marquis. It was getting dark now. I started knocking on the door to the jailhouse and hollering questions like, when could I get my car back, and when could I get Clive out, and eventually a big, mean looking sheriff’s deputy came outside with a big gun. He told me I would have to pay my fine and Clive’s fine and a car impoundment fee, which in total naturally amounted to some outrageous amount of money. Then he said if I didn’t have the money on me, I’d better get my butt off the property, or he would lock me up alongside my friend.

Nowadays, ATM machines are commonplace. You can get your hands on some cash in a hurry if you need to. But back in 1982 I had never even seen an ATM machine, and if I had seen one, it certainly wouldn’t have been in Sierra Blanca. Consequently, having no other alternative, I drove the Grand Marquis on home to El Paso. I told the whole story to Elaine, and I said that we would have to go to the bank the next day and get enough cash to get Clive out of jail and get the Chevelle back, and then we would have to drive back to Sierra Blanca and do that.

I knew that if I had not asked Clive to drive the Chevelle, or if I had not been driving 90 miles an hour, he wouldn’t be in jail, so I felt like the right thing to do was to get him out. Besides, I wanted my car back. However, the mean looking deputy with the big gun had scared me a little. So, we left Neal and Glen and Ellen home, and when we got to Sierra Blanca, Elaine parked about 300 yards away, and I walked on up there alone. We had agreed that if I didn’t reappear within an hour, she would drive back home without me and call our lawyer.

The precaution turned out to be unnecessary. I paid the money and got Clive out of jail and got my car back. Clive and I took the Chevelle back to El Paso, with me driving it, and Elaine following us in the Grand Marquis. Clive spent the night with us, and the next day I took him to a big truck stop on IH-10 West, not too far from where we lived. We got a call from him a few weeks later. Said he had gotten to Oregon okay and that he had gotten the logging job and found a place to live. We have not heard from Clive since that day, but I hope he has stayed well and prospered. And I have never returned to Sierra Blanca.