One Fish, Two Fish...

 I always encourage people to get out of their houses.  I do this because I look back on the first several places we lived and realize how much I missed out on.  I used to tell myself that it was because we were busy, but it was really because of two things: I didn’t know where to go, and I was worried about the excursion being a dreadful failure and everyone having a miserable time.  As I’ve gotten older, I’ve learned that those are terrible excuses for missing out.  There are really cool things in even the most boring places.  You just have to look and be willing to risk a dud—and even duds beat staying at home watching Adventure Time on repeat.

Everyone in El Paso knows about Balmorhea State Park.  It isn’t exactly a hidden gem, but a two-and-a-half-hour drive on I-10 through flat scrubland in the middle of nowhere discourages most travelers.  It was one of the Civilian Conservation Corps projects in the 1930s; a pool was built around San Solomon Springs, with the overflow going into a protected cienega, an alkaline freshwater wetland unique to the southwest.  Several small adobe buildings flank the main pool, which covers almost 2 acres and is 25 feet deep at its deepest point. Between 22 and 28 MILLION gallons flow through the pool every day, keeping the water fresh, cool, and providing a natural habitat for the various water plants, fish, and turtles that live there.

Frelling awesome.

Several stone staircases descend into the pool at various points, shaded by massive sprawling trees.  The red adobe and white concrete lend the park the feel of a Roman bath.  The shallow end of the pool looks generic and familiar, but then the floor plunges suddenly to a deep, translucent sapphire with a natural rocky bottom carpeted with algae and small water plants.  Fish nibble your toes around the steps and trail you through the water, your own personal entourage.  In the deepest sections, larger fish are quick shadows rippling below you.

Rick and the older girls slapped on sunscreen, snapped their goggles into place, and splashed in.  I barely saw them for the next two hours.  The smalls weren’t released until their life jackets were begrudgingly adjusted and securely clicked.  Echo immediately dog paddled off to the deep end to join her sisters, but Claudia was happiest bobbing in the shallows where her toes could still touch.

Even in the shallows, it took me a good 10 minutes to convince myself to go all the way in.  The water is approximately 78 degrees year round, but I’ve been in Texas long enough that that qualifies as kinda cold.  I got there…eventually. 

For the most part I wallowed in the shallows with Claudia, but I stole away long enough to take a quick swim over the deep section.  I regretted my choice almost immediately for two reasons—first, because I’m neither in shape nor a good swimmer, and I had grossly underestimated the size of the pool; and second, because the small primate part of my brain doesn’t trust any water deeper than waist-high and constantly expects to be hauled under and eaten by some terrible aquatic predator that is always just at the very edge of being seen.  Despite irrational expectations of pool monsters, I made it to the other side (perhaps puffing a little more than I want to admit). After a break, I pulled myself out and walked around the edge back to the shallow end.  Rick was very good and didn’t judge me too loudly.

After a couple hours we called our protesting daughters to shore, roughly toweled them off, and started the drive home.  Courtesy of SPF 70, nobody was burned, and despite drinking a bunch of water that fish had crapped in, Claudia felt fine.  It had been a good day.

I’ve said it before, but it keeps proving to be true so I’ll say it again—listen to the locals, be willing to drive a little, and just get out of your house.  You won’t regret it.  And if you do, well, that’s still a story, too…and often a better one than everything going right.