One hot summer night in August of 1954, two of my buddies, Ben Sturgeon and Bill “Cro-Magnon” Culpepper, and I were sitting at our local teen hangout, a drive-in by the name of Caldwell’s. Every parking space was filled with the classic cars of the 1940s and 1950s. The three of us were in Cro’s white ‘38 Plymouth sedan. He had it accented with red rims he painted and wide white-wall tires.
Many autos were filled with guys checking out the chicks and vice versa. The parking lot always had groups of guys sitting out on their cars, discussing the day’s events, but always conscious of the opposite sex who might be driving by. Somehow, we got sidetracked from our regular stretching and manipulating the truth about our conquests and switched our conversation from girls to fishing. Naturally, as male egos go, Cro and Ben got into a hot argument over who was the best fisherman. I had only been fishing twice, and that was with a cane pole and a bobber, using a minnow. My fishing experience was not one about which I could brag.
Then, Ben said those magic words, “Why don’t we go fishing? I know the perfect place.” Being in the Panhandle of Texas, where lakes are non-existent, I think of our local “lake,” a muddy pond called Lake McClellan. Cro and I both ask at the same time…”Where’s that?” Ben replied to his captive audience, ”Lake Cabestro, just the other side of Red River, New Mexico. It’s a beautiful lake on top of this mountain. Like those you see on a calendar.” That was all we needed to hear. Then, the outstanding research questions began to flow…. when, what, where, and how. We could already imagine the thrill of catching our own fish and the satisfaction of cooking and eating them by the lake.
When would we go? Where is Red River? How long would it take? And what are we waiting for?
Texas was where I had spent my entire life; I had never seen a clear water lake or a mountain. What an adventure…I could hardly wait!
Over the next few weeks, we collected the necessary gear for the great adventure. As with all great outdoorsmen, the one thing we felt we didn’t need was a lot of food. Ben said we would eat all the fish we wanted because this was fishing heaven.
Cro and I reasoned with each other, “Well if we don’t catch fish, we could always run into town for a meal. No big deal!” We each had about $20.00 in our wallets, which was plenty of money since gasoline was twenty-five cents per gallon and hamburgers, fries, and Coke would run seventy-five cents.
So, the three amigos strike out for the great beyond. The Sturgeons let us use their new Dodge station wagon. Five hours passed, and I began believing that Ben had been pulling my leg about this lake atop a mountain. The terrain was still as flat as the Texas Panhandle. It was dark outside when we pulled over to the side of the road to set up camp for the night. The state had small camping sites to use back then. I decided that Nature was calling me to the bushes, so I took off to hide behind a big bush. Ben hollered, “Watch out for the rattlesnakes,” and I decided I could wait until morning! After a baloney sandwich and some small talk about girls, we curled up in our sleeping bags and called it a day.
The next morning, I received the surprise of my life. Ben and Bill, realizing they had a greenhorn along, had planned our arrival after dark so that I couldn’t see the mountains at the entrance to Cimarron Canyon.
I woke up the next morning to see the Rocky Mountains set before me. WHOA, they were beautiful! The mountains were covered with pine and aspen trees, and large, craggy boulders and cliffs surrounded them. In the meadow to the right, tall green grass grew, and deer drank from a mountain stream that ran right down the middle. The deer were watching our every move.
After breakfast of coffee, an egg sandwich, and crispy bacon alongside the two-lane highway, we loaded up and excitedly headed out. Cro and I flipped a coin to see who got to ride shotgun. The drive through the canyon was unforgettable. A high point of the canyon ride was taking a drink from a fallen log with a natural trough running down its length, fed by a natural bubbling spring. Next was a stop in a small town called Eagle’s Nest. It looked to be right out of the 1800s with its rough cedar-board buildings, boardwalks, and dirt streets. Then it was on to Red River by way of Bobcat Pass, a gravel-winding road with a ghost town and boot hill cemetery along the way.
The tall pine and aspen trees rustled in the light breeze, and the sunshine made the aspen leaves sparkle like silver. As we drove, we gradually climbed higher and higher into the mountains.
Finally, we topped out, and there, in the valley, was the early morning view of Red River, New Mexico! It looked like Paradise. We meandered down the switchback road into the valley and spent an hour looking around this small, old gold mining town. I made a mental note that there were only two places to eat and one grocery store. So, we stopped at the store and bought a dozen eggs and another pound of bacon. Ben told us we had best eat lunch now because once we reached the lake, we wouldn’t return to town for four days. So the three amigos pigged out on chicken-fried steak and trimmings, then headed out on another two-lane road about 20 miles to Cabestro Lake.
The first twelve miles were through the valley on a flat but winding road. An old wooden aqueduct was attached high up on the mountain ledge to transport water for the gold mines in the 1800s. Then we turned onto a gravel road and started up a mountain. The first couple of miles seemed uneventful, but then the road began to creep steeper, bumpier, and narrower. Several times, we dragged the bottom as the road continued to get worse. It was becoming a white-knuckle ride!
That’s when Ben and Cro turned chicken, removed themselves from the wagon, and left me, the greenhorn, to either get the car up the mountain or ride it down the side of the cliff. I drove at two or three miles an hour, gradually crawling up the old, washed-out, pothole-ridden road. It was a scary drive; I wondered what to do if I met another car on that road. It took an hour to go, two or three miles. My two brave compadres followed bravely behind. I recall hearing shouting, wailing, and gnashing of teeth each time the gravel gave way under the weight of the tires. Finally, after reaching our destination, big brave Cro commented, “That was a piece of cake!”
The camping area was sparsely populated, with only three other autos there.
After what we had just endured, I could understand why. We definitely had our pick of campsites. To be continued…
