PRESIDIO, TEX. -- When Canadian mountaineers Jamie Clarke and Bruce Kirkby began planning their monumental 1,200-kilometre trek across Arabia's Empty Quarter in 1998, it proved to be a challenge even for the seasoned adventurers.
After all, how do a couple of guys from Calgary learn about conquering the sand and sun, not to mention everything they needed to know about co-existing with camels? The answer is: with a couple of equally insane guys in southern Texas. Clarke and Kirkby went to the remote Big Bend Ranch State Park in Presidio, deep in the parched wilderness of western Texas, to find naturalist David Alloway and camel-handler Doug Baum. The two Texans were both making their livings in this stretch of the Chihuahuan Desert, Alloway teaching state border-patrollers, customs officers and Air Force pilots how to survive the harsh desert environment; Baum using his menagerie of friendly dromedaries to teach school kids about the historic Texas Camel Corps that carried surveyors into this remote part of the state in the 1850s.
It was only after the Canadian adventurers came to Alloway and Baum for a desert primer that the latter pair pooled their skills and designed a similar soft-adventure program for the general public. Soft being the operative word, it seemed like a good choice for a city girl like me.
Camels might be considered domestic animals, but they are very large and unpredictable: 900 kilograms of massive body and elongated neck and head atop spindly legs with leathery knees that fold at will. The six smelly steeds in our gangly group are no exception.
My mount is Chewbacca, a mature and once-feral camel from the Australian outback that Baum rescued from an exotic-animal dealer. Chewy (a.k.a. Robert E.) carried Martin Sheen in his recent film A Texas Funeral, so I'm feeling both privileged and safe. That is, until he peers at me with one big brown eye and tries to pin my leg against the corral fence.
It's just a test. I yank my knee up and he takes the steel crossbar in his own ribs. It's enough to resign him to the fact that we're going out for a walk, and I'm riding.
Baum gives us all the standard safety spiel, explaining that camels like Chewy, Sam and Chug can get nasty -- but not before they warn you with a regurgitated spew of slimy cud. "Camels don't spit, they puke," he explains, clearly enjoying our reactions of revulsion.
Perched precariously atop Chewy (a camel's hump is a dizzying 2.4 metres off the ground), I'm hanging on for dear life to the wide handle across the front of the customized saddle that rests on his massive hump. Baum has determined that I will lead the pack of six riders, our camels tied together in two strings. It seems mad until I realize that he will be on the ground, a firm hand on Chewbacca's lead. This, I surmise, is likely the best place to be: closest to the boss.
Like the Bedu guides that led the Canadian trek through Arabia, both Baum and Alloway are on foot as we head out toward the natural pools carved out of the rock at Cinco Tinajas. In this environment, the camels seem right at home, stopping to strip the small leaves from a scraggly stem of ocotillo with their big, yellow teeth, vocalizing their opinions with low, guttural growls. "They're not angry, just chatty," explains Baum, using the kind of baby talk I reserve for my spoiled house cats to address the big, rangy beasts. Baum is a former zoo-keeper who clearly loves these camels, many of which he's bottle-fed from birth.
Chewbacca seems calm, and I soon get used to his rolling gait. The trickiest motion to master is his bouncy downhill trot. "They're not really given to running," says Baum with a smirk, "but it is a little nippy today and camels can become a little spirited in the cold."
I'm prepared for the worst but the ride is actually calming, with its rhythmic swaying motion and the spare but dramatic scenery going by.
8