This was soon to become one of my biggest humps through the western desert of Texas. You see, "Lobo" isn't really so much a town as an area. A huge area.
When I arrived in Van Horn (thanks for the lift, deputy CK!) it was after midnight on the cold,very blustery night of the 11th. After nosing around abit, I naively decided to head for this really cool sounding place on the map called Lobo.
I bed down for the night under a bridge (I am SUCH a troglodyte) because the winds were gusting at least 50-75 miles an hour and a very wet, dense fog had rushed upon the valley.
It was fantastic,terrible, beautiful weather. I began walking early the next day and quickly realized I had bit off more than I could chew. I pushed that damn cart, loaded with water for several miles. Several MORE miles.
I finally spotted a road sign ahead, and beyond that, bare desert stretching over the horizon, not a structure to be seen.
"Lobo Rd." Veering into the hills.
I must however press on, for surely there must be a store, gas station, or other meager vestige of civilization. It was not to be.
I managed to keep the feet moving convinced this would just be another 15 mile day, until just near dark I spotted a ranch, or what used to be a ranch, and I quickly surveilled and trespassed the property. To my near delirious relief, there was an empty house, easily breached, and to my surprise still had electricity. Now bear in mind, this emergency squatting tactic is not without its' drawbacks and dangers, but this place was near perfect (I say that alot).
Not only had it not been touched in ages, due to the usual indicators of squat theory and practice, but there was abundant salvageable materials in the outlying buildings and scrap yard. PLUS I had a neat companion join me, a beautiful black and white husky with ice blue eyes.
So the next day we farted around abit, and I decided to dump my cart and ditch a couple gallons of water, surely today would be the day I would reach Lobo.
Nope. Two more days of hiking, and my buddy the dog ("Skunk Bud", so-named for the distinct odor of an animal that had been sprayed by the nefarious creatures) bailed out on me. I had gone to leave a poop near spot called Van Horn Wells (to my horror I discovered I had only covered a mere 12 miles) and when I returned, my little buddy had disappeared. Oh well.
All dogs and animals are mine, so no need for sentimental attachments, just love them and play, enjoy the time we share, like the sickly little guy in Fabens, who lay in my lap for hours luxuriating in the human touch, as I picked the ticks out of his ears and shared my food and water with him. As for the indiginous critters and beasts, I love being able to observe them as they go about their lives, often just as curious about me as I am them.