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A half-hour later, they were back in the truck, heading south along the Ross Maxwell Scenic Drive.
“Mule Ears Viewpoint.” Reading the signpost, she peered at the twin mountaintops rising from the chaparral.
“Want to stop?”
“Absolutely.”
He parked facing the two peaks, then tilted his head left and right. “If you get the right angle, you can see a mule’s head and ears.”
“I think some of us read more into scenes and situations than others…” Her lips twitched.
The shared water bottle came to mind. Busted. He swallowed a sheepish smile before pulling back onto the road. “Next stop—the old homestead.”
“When did Marianna and Ramon’s ranch become part of Big Bend?”
“The government began buying land for the park during the thirties. From what I heard, they had mixed feelings about selling, but the Depression and Dust Bowl decided for them.” He parked near the trailhead. “What’s left of their farmhouse is less than a half mile from here.”
As the dusty trail descended into a narrow valley between the foothills, the flora changed from Spanish dagger and yucca to spindly trees and native grass punching through the rocky soil.
“Is that a chokecherry?”
“Yeah, they say Marianna planted the first tree, and it’s reseeded itself.”
“To think this is the offshoot of something she planted, and it’s still going…still growing.” She lightly drew her fingers along a branch. “It’s almost like touching her, physically connecting.”
He reached for her hand. “Now you’re touching the offshoot of something she planted.”
She pulled away, stiffening. “Let’s see the homestead.”
Chastened, he led the way to the adobe ruins, then stepped inside the roofless cottage. “The door’s long gone. These walls are all that’s left.”
“Imagine living here…” She caressed the crumbling adobe. “I love reaching through time and connecting with the past.” She spun toward him. “Just think. We’re standing where they did…why, Marianna could’ve touched this brick, right here…”
“Never thought of rubble that way.” Impressed by his cousin’s fresh perspective, he recalled the reason for their journey. “Think their initials are still here?”
“Maybe. Wouldn’t it be great to find them?” Her eyes lit up like green fire. “The journal said Ramon carved them in a cottonwood near the spring. Where’s the spring?”
“This way.” He led her along a narrow path lined with trees and teeming with birds, then paused. “Listen.”
Songbirds trilled and sang as they flitted among the branches.
He turned toward a tall ashe juniper and crooked his head. “That slurred whistle is from a Say’s phoebe, and that single chirp is from an ash-throated flycatcher.” He pointed out the golden-breasted bird as it took flight. “In the desert, water is life. This spring’s created an oasis in a wilderness.”
Stepping toward a mature tree, he estimated its width with his hands and shook his head. “This one’s not old enough.”
He searched from tree to tree until he found a granddaddy of a cottonwood. “This one might’ve been here in Marianna’s time.”
“How can you tell?
“Look at its width.” He tried spreading his arms around it, estimating its girth. “It has to be eighteen, maybe nineteen feet in diameter. This tree’s well over a hundred years old.” Stepping over a mud puddle, he walked around the tree but saw no initials. “Do you see anything?”
“Nope.”
Then his gaze followed the trunk to the upper branches. “What’s that?” He pointed to a slight deviation in the bark’s pattern. “Maybe forty or fifty feet up…see it?”
“I see something.” She squinted. “But I can’t make it out.”
“Give me a sec.” He hoisted himself to the nearest branch, and climbed, limb from limb, until he got a clear view. Grinning, he gave a thumb’s up and snapped a photo with his phone. Five minutes later, he swung down from the lowest bough.
