Keith T. Bishop
Shed No Light
Shed No Light
Shed No Light
Mesquite Campground; Palo Duro Canyon State Park; Canyon, Texas; Monday, November 12, 2012; 11:45 A.M.
Kenny and Lance pulled into the Palo Duro Canyon State Park just before noon.
The three days spent at Caprock Canyons had exceeded their expectations. Not only was the landscape diverse and inspiring, but the abundance of wildlife made for a number of memorable moments. Lance was fascinated by coming within just a few feet of a nest of rattlesnakes basking in the warm sunshine, a rare sight this time of year. Being yin to yang, Kenny was petrified. Observing the park’s famed bison herd, the two did agree that the enormity of the bison reminded them of their eternal drive across the heart of Texas. Until you’ve seen it or experienced it, you just couldn’t appreciate it. The animals’ mass was as astounding as the breadth of Texas. Numerous antelope, deer, roadrunners, and a Barbary sheep stole their attention. Seeing the rare sheep only intensified Kenny’s desire to spot a bobcat, but that never came to pass. Nevertheless, the countless prairie dogs, lizards, birds, and insects kept them intrigued. The three-day outing had been an unforgettable experience.
Studying the Palo Duro Canyon map when they checked in to the state park, Kenny and Lance decided to camp at the Mesquite Campground located at the far end of the premises. The park ranger told them only one other camper was there, so they were welcome to choose any of the available slots.
As they pulled into the campground, they passed the lone visitor parked nearest the restroom and shower facilities. Kenny drove to the far end of the oval-shaped drive and selected the site farthest from the entrance. Not only was the location the most private, but it had the best views of the canyon. The two couldn’t have been more pleased.
Once the motorhome was leveled and stabilized, their routine setting up camp never varied. Lance removed the bikes from their racks and set up the workbench while Kenny hooked up the water and electricity, and then rolled out the canopy on the passenger side. Together they unloaded the barbeque grill and a small blue table along with two matching folding chairs. Lance invariably centered the table and chairs perfectly under the canopy. This neurotic habit drove Kenny crazy, and watching it reminded him of a cat circling in one spot before finally curling up to nap.
Lance looked up at the seam in the center of the canopy then back down at the hole in the middle of the circular table before setting it in place. He carefully gauged the distances between the table and the motorhome versus the edge of the canopy. As if he were steadily focusing to line up a putt, he moved the table a few inches to the right before adjusting it an inch or so to the left. After observing this compulsive habit numerous times, Kenny suggested placing a small mark on the canopy to denote the exact center for future set-ups. But Lance would have none of that. He couldn’t bear the thought of looking up and seeing even a tiny blemish on the fabric. The same ritual played out at every new campsite. In time, Kenny grew fond of the habit just as he had with Lance’s insistence of rechecking his bike before every ride.
Most everything Kenny and Lance did was carefully planned and coordinated. It may have been a little odd that they scripted out much of their daily lives, completely unaware of just how much time they devoted to planning instead of the actual doing. They often set out with good intentions of accomplishing three or more activities in a day and never even completed the first goal. Neither wore a watch to track their day; they simply didn’t care. There was always the next day. It was a huge component of what they deemed as their personal freedom, not having to be bound by time. They were always conscious about what day of the week it was, but specific days were irrelevant to them. A Tuesday was every bit as good as a Friday. Now more than four hours after their arrival, with their residence for the next few days established, and their bikes checked and rechecked, they eagerly began their initial ride in the canyon. Their only goal for that day was to view the sunset from the famed Lighthouse Rock Formation.
The mountain-bike trail system at Palo Duro was a simple network comprised of five interconnecting trails, offering various levels of difficulty: Givens, Spicer and Lowry (GSL), Capital Peak, Lighthouse, Cottonwood Flats, and Little Fox Canyon trails. Combined, there were more than thirty miles of world-class rugged trails. Being late in the day, the couple anxiously headed out of the Mesquite Campground at a pace that would provide them plenty of time to bike Palo Duro’s signature Lighthouse Trail. Then they would hike the final steep climb to the Lighthouse Formation before sunset. They figured if they left there by dusk, they would still have enough light to ride their bikes at least halfway back down the trail before dark. Then with the assistance of their high-powered lights, they could walk the rest of the trail if necessary then ride back to camp on the main roadway. It was one of the few instances where “time” was actually dictating their schedule. However, neither were the least bit concerned about the imminent darkness. In past excursions, Kenny and Lance had often found themselves on a trail well after dark.
Riding in synch, they moved through the rugged terrain in spurts. They pedaled with great force one minute then suddenly came to an abrupt halt the next to take in an immense panoramic view or to spy an animal off in the distance. Their synergies and the ability to know what the other was thinking were truly extraordinary.
Both marveled at the scenery. The canyon was spectacular, stretching twenty miles wide at some points. The vibrant layers of red claystone and gypsum, spattered with green foliage and wind-weathered rocks, provided endless opportunities to stop and gaze, take pictures, and consume the wonder of it all. It was apparent to both why the Lighthouse Trail was the most popular route, as its indescribable beauty was breathtaking.
Kenny and Lance encountered only a few other bikers and one lone hiker heading back down the trail. As always, they were cordial, yet kept moving. During peak season, there would have been far more visitors, but as it was a Monday in early November, few roamed the canyon. The conditions couldn’t have been better for the blissful couple.
They reached the end of the bike trail about forty-five minutes before sunset. The base of the Lighthouse Rock Formation, however, was still about a third of a mile up a steep, winding slope. To access it, mountain bikers could lock their bicycles at the bike rack located to the left of the rugged incline. At the time, there were no other bikes there, enabling Kenny and Lance to clearly view how previous visitors had painted six of the ten vertical bars in red, white, and blue stripes. They parked their bikes in two of the three patriotic slots.
Glancing just to the right of the bike stand, Lance said, “Wow! Look at those arrows! That’s really neat how someone arranged those rocks. That must be the way to the Lighthouse formation.” He strolled toward the two indicators formed out of rocks: arrows that pointed toward a channel that curved to the right.
Kenny agreed, “That was so sweet of someone to do that. There are no park signs anywhere. Without the arrows, I would have taken the path over there by the picnic table.”
“Hey, why don’t we sit down there for a minute and catch our breaths before we head up to the base,” Lance suggested referring to the table near the clearing’s edge.
“OK, fine by me,” Kenny agreed as they walked over to the table to rest and sip from their water bottles. Both in heaven, they flamboyantly continued discussing the “cuteness” of the bike rack and the makeshift arrows. Needing only a few minutes of rest, they were ready to proceed.
“Let’s lock up our bikes and get up there before sunset,” said Kenny.
To adequately secure their bikes, Kenny moved his to one end of the rack while Lance took the opposite side. Using the rack’s end bars allowed them to secure the frame and both wheels of each bike. They had just unfastened their TiGr titanium long bow locks from the frames when three young men descended from the last few steps of the hiking trail. They had been lurking just around a bend close to the path’s entrance, eavesdropping on Kenny and Lance’s playful discussion about the bike rack and the arrows formed with rocks.
As they came closer, the tallest of the three greeted Kenny and Lance. Both smiled and said, hello. Impressed with the exquisite bikes, the second man complimented their fine cycles in a condescending tone. Questions about their durability, costs, and “Did they like them a lot?” ensued. Kenny and Lance were pleasant but brief in their responses. The first man asked them where they were from, and again the two were vague.
“From the East Coast,” Kenny answered. He and Lance were becoming a little uncomfortable with the intrusive interrogation.
Kenny and Lance finished locking up their bikes, curiously noting that the other men had not secured theirs, but instead had stashed them several feet away in the brush just beyond the metal table.
Kenny placed his helmet on top of his seat and began to walk away. “Kenny, I’m taking my helmet with me. Don’t you think you should get yours?” advised Lance.
“Umm . . . sure . . . OK,” Kenny responded as he turned to retrieve his helmet. The three men looked on.
Apprehensively, Kenny and Lance wished the men a good evening and then quickly proceeded up the boulder-strewn path that lead to the Lighthouse Rock Formation.
The climb was often steep and at times a little treacherous. Both, however, were in tremendous shape, and the rugged conditions proved to be of little challenge.
Once they reached the base of the tower, they marveled at the spectacular vast scenery. Few sights were as stunning and powerful as this interior view. Celebrating their achievement, the two embraced. Everything was perfect. The sun setting beyond the canyon created a spectrum of incredible colorations for them to appreciate. All around them, the power of the wind and rain was vividly displayed in the rock formations, crevices, and ruts throughout the massive gorge. Kenny picked up a piece of gypsum and gave it to Lance as a memento of their exhilarating experience.
Then the sun set.
“Fucking faggots! I’m telling you those two are gay as hell!” said the tallest of the three men as they watched Kenny and Lance disappear up the slope and around the bend.
“I think they are too. Did you hear the guy in the dark blue shirt say how cute those red, white, and blue stripes are on the bike stand?” The second man mocked them in a feminine voice. “He talked like a mouse. A fucking mouse! How the hell do they afford those bikes? Damn, look at them! I’m riding this piece of crap, and those faggots have those bikes?”
“How about when they started getting all giddy and shit over those damn arrows? Like a bunch of girls talking about shoes!” said the third.
“Those arrows were probably made by a couple of other faggots! Shit, look at that pink sticker on his seat post. That’s a fucking gay symbol! Don’t know what it’s called, but I know it’s some kind of gay pride sticker or something. Positive!” said the first man.
The third agreed, “I think it is too. Fuck ‘em!” And before the first two could even respond, he picked up the largest rock from one of the arrows, lifted it over his head with both hands, and slammed it into the nearest bike.
The bike remained upright, firmly secured to the stand as its crank shaft and sprockets bore the brunt of the nine-pound rock. Following suit, the other two were locked and loaded and positioned themselves to take direct aim at the second bike. Hooting and hollering, in a matter of moments, the men had trashed both bikes, leaving spokes jutting out, rims mangled, chains knocked off, and the lights smashed. The final insult occurred when the first man picked up a small, sharp stone and scratched the Lambda sticker off Kenny’s bike. Without further delay, the three culprits were hightailing it down the trail, laughing, screaming, and mocking the two faggots, who in their minds got what they deserved.
With the sun cresting over the horizon, Kenny and Lance headed back down the trail toward the bike rack. As the lighting quickly diminished, they took caution on the steep slope where loose rock was sliding beneath their feet. It took more than ten minutes to reach their bikes. Or rather what was left of their prized possessions.
“Oh, my god!” screamed Kenny.
Lance froze, speechless; his heart racing, his stomach in knots.
Tears began to roll down Kenny’s face. “Who? . . . Why would someone do this? . . . Why? . . . Oh, my god!” he screamed again, his voice resonating throughout the canyon.
“Those three guys we met just before going to the Lighthouse. That’s who did it,” Lance said solemnly. He trembled, not believing the mangled mess that stood before them.
Shock, horror, and outrage began to escalate in both of them. They stood next to their bikes, glaring at the wreckage. The rocks that once had formed the neatly arranged arrows now lay scattered around the bike rack.
Lance bent down and touched his prized asset. Both bikes were demolished. Everything but the frames and handlebars would have to be replaced. The spokes and rims were complete losses. The sprockets were bent, and the brake handles and cables were destroyed. The elite front and rear Shimano derailleurs were crushed, no longer even resembling a functional part.
It took nearly ten minutes to regain their composure. Lance reached out and put his arms around Kenny’s shoulders. This time they held each other much differently than their tender embrace standing before the Lighthouse Rock Formation. They both looked up at the 300-foot tower that now loomed over them, shedding no light. A pair of vultures circled above them.