The writer had been eagerly looking forward to a day of hiking with her spouse in the picturesque expanse of a Texas state park. However, four days later, she found herself ravaged by hunger, severe dehydration, and profound isolation.
My fascination with the Chihuahuan Desert in West Texas began in 1996 when I worked as a journalist for the Odessa American. The Big Bend region, named for the dramatic curve of the Rio Grande, was part of my reporting area. I was captivated by the serenity, the pristine and vivid night skies, and the delightful surprise of tiny, vibrant flowers scattered across the desert. My husband, Rick McFarland, a photographer, shared my love for this place—we got married in 2001 on a trail within Big Bend National Park. (By the way, have you discovered these hidden treasures among national parks?)
Twelve years later, Rick and I returned to the area to hike the Fresno West Rim trails in the nearby Big Bend Ranch State Park, affectionately known as “The Other Side of Nowhere.” The ten-mile trek to and from the West Rim Overlook promised breathtaking views of the Solitario flatirons, sharply tilted rocks shaped like an inverted ‘V.’ Beyond the overlook, the path meanders past an abandoned ranch and loops back to the Puerta Chilicote Trailhead, offering a full day’s hike. We were eager for our journey, enticed by the desert’s promise of tranquility and serenity.
DAY 1: Wednesday, October 2
By 10:15 a.m., we reached the parking spot, located a mile from the trailhead. With the temperature at a pleasant 73 degrees, expected to rise to 91 degrees, we equipped ourselves with two canteens and eight water bottles from our cooler, and packed granola bars and bananas into my fanny pack. The air buzzed with bees around clusters of yellow flowers, and the desert was dotted with pink blossoms. I mused that this trail might just become a new favorite.
As we began our descent into Fresno Canyon, the trail turned steep and rocky. Each step required me to brace myself with my wooden hiking stick, and I skidded and slid, voicing my frustration the entire way down.
At the canyon floor, we followed a jeep trail alongside the dry bed of Fresno Creek. There, we encountered a second creek bed intersecting it. Unsure whether to stay on the left side of the Fresno creek bed or follow the branch to the right, we initially chose the right side. However, there were no signs or cairns indicating the ranch’s location. “Let’s go the other way,” Rick suggested.
We changed direction and eventually located the ranch, rejoining our intended trail. A parked Jeep provided much-needed shade, and we were already very thirsty. After downing three bottles of water each, we drank deeply from our canteens.
As the clock approached 1:30 p.m., the hottest part of the day, we faced a dilemma. The descent into the canyon had taken a considerable amount of time, and climbing back up would be even more challenging. We worried about running out of daylight before reaching the trailhead. Rick consulted our map and noted that we had covered nearly half of the loop. His suggestion: “We could just keep going.”
Over the next several hours, the relentless sun beat down on us. We stopped frequently, lying on our backs and shaking our canteens to extract the last drops. Desperate for hydration, we even stuck our tongues inside the bottles to lick the interiors.
Our journey seemed endless. The trail markers were frequently obscured by the overgrowth, and we spent considerable time retracing our steps, dodging cacti, only to reach a canyon’s edge at a dead end. “Oh my God,” I gasped, realizing it was already 8 p.m., and we had covered eight and a half miles to no avail.
Rick’s cry for help echoed through the canyon, but no one answered. With no phone signal, we used the device’s light to survey our surroundings, wary of the wildlife that might be lurking. We settled on a rocky area to rest, anticipating the night’s chill. In our light attire, we huddled together for warmth and attempted to rest.
DAY 2: HOPE
With the break of dawn, we faced the reality of 13 hours without water. We returned to the last visible cairn, realizing our mistake: we had followed the path to an overlook instead of the main trail. The map showed five miles remaining to our pickup point.
Our initial optimism waned as we once again lost sight of the trail markers. The desert was relentless, with numerous arroyos forcing us into exhausting climbs and descents.
Exasperated, I cried out, “When will this end?”
“Never,” Rick replied grimly, as we pushed through the harsh terrain.
The thought of our children, Amanda and Ethan, back home with my parents in North Little Rock, spurred us on despite our parched throats.
After four more hours of trekking in the 91-degree heat, I urged us to seek shade.
Recalling a survival tactic from a book, ‘Death in Big Bend,’ I found solace in a shaded rock formation with a refreshing breeze. Nearby, a prickly pear cactus caught my eye, its potential for hydration outweighing the risk of its needles.
I managed to extract some moisture and pulp from the cactus, ignoring the discomfort of the needles. Rick, repulsed by the taste, spat it out, but I reminded him of the need to conserve our fluids.
We rested in the shade, the signs of severe dehydration evident on our bodies.
Fearing the worst, I expressed my concern for our survival, which Rick shared.
As the day waned, Rick urged us to continue. Spotting cottonwood trees in the canyon below, a sign of water, he hastened towards them.
“Water!” Rick’s voice reverberated through the barren landscape. He sprinted across a dry creek bed and disappeared into a grove of cottonwood trees.
“Bring it to me!” I begged, my legs aching as I scrambled over a rocky ridge.
There, I found Rick crouched beside a tiny triangular spring, hidden under a massive limestone boulder. He quickly filled my canteen with water, and I drank it eagerly, the cool liquid soothing my parched throat.
As night fell, we braced for another cold night on the hard ground. But our joy at finding water outweighed any discomfort.
DAY 3: SEPARATION
“Let’s head back to the path,” Rick urged as we woke up.
The spring had been a lifesaver, but it wasn’t enough to sustain us, and hunger was taking its toll. We were alone, unnoticed and unsearched for, with no choice but to keep moving.
After refilling our canteens, we climbed out of the canyon and found the trail, only to lose it again, as we had before.
“Enough!” Rick exclaimed. “I know my truck is that way!” He gestured emphatically with his hiking stick, disregarding the elusive markers.
With that, we left the trail behind, trusting our chosen direction would intersect with our original path. We did find the trail again, but it was unrecognizable. We crossed it, continuing onward.
Rick watched the time carefully; we had until 2 p.m. to find the trailhead or seek shelter from the intense sun.
By 12:30 p.m., I collapsed under a mesquite tree in a ravine. “I can’t go on,” I admitted. “I’m slowing you down.”
Rick faced a difficult decision. Leaving me was unthinkable, yet he believed he could reach help if he went alone.
“I’ll wait,” I reassured him. “I’ll survive.”
He shared his remaining water with me, and we exchanged declarations of love.
“Need anything when I return?” he joked.
“Just two waters and a beer,” I replied.
After he left, I finished my last drops of water.
Hours passed, and the heat lessened slightly. Rick, driven by sheer will, hadn’t eaten in days and was surviving on a sip of water. Despite the uncertainty of his direction, he kept going, motivated by the thought of me waiting under the mesquite tree. His survival meant mine.
A distant glint caught his eye—a truck, parked at the lot near the trailhead. This meant our SUV was just a mile away.
Later, Rick reached the park’s main office, honking and shouting. His desperate actions caught the attention of the assistant park superintendent, David Dotter.
“We got lost in the desert,” Rick said urgently. “My wife is still out there.”
Dotter accompanied Rick to the trailhead. Exhausted, Rick entrusted the ranger with finding me. After nearly two hours, Dotter returned alone and immediately contacted the Texas Department of Public Safety for help.
I was jolted awake from a fitful sleep by the sound of a helicopter. Its searchlight cut through the night, filling me with immense relief.
“Rick!” I screamed. Then, inexplicably, I shouted, “Mommy! Daddy! Please, help me!”
The helicopter moved methodically across the horizon, its searchlight slicing through the darkness. Too weak to stand, I crab-walked up a slight incline, yelling, “I’m here! I’m here!”
But it was futile. The helicopter’s spotlight never reached the deep ravine where I lay.
DAY 4: ALONE
My wedding ring slipped off my shriveled finger, and I searched the nearby twigs and rocks in vain. The desert had taken so much from me, and now it claimed my ring. As the heat intensified, hallucinations began. In one, I imagined myself as a babysitter caring for a disabled child—except that child was me, struggling to move limbs that no longer obeyed.
My physical state worsened. Fluid leaked from my body as my kidneys, heart, liver, and lungs suffered from the harsh temperature fluctuations, exertion, and severe dehydration. My organs began shutting down, one by one.
Meanwhile, Rick, now rested, returned to the trail with two dozen rescuers. As he pushed through the cacti, park superintendent Barrett Durst jogged to keep up. “Wait! Wait!” Durst called after Rick.
Rick’s determination drove his search: “I’m going to find her. I’m going to bring her back.”
Throughout the day, they retraced their steps to the point of separation. Rick scanned the landscape for familiar landmarks, especially the pair of boulders near the mesquite tree where he had left me. But nothing looked familiar, and frustration gnawed at him. Where was she? Why couldn’t he remember?
DAY 5: THE LAST DAY
By 6 a.m. on Sunday, nearly 40 searchers had joined the effort. Most feared that this mission would end in recovery rather than rescue. To spare Rick from seeing my remains, Dotter convinced him to stay at headquarters.
As the searchers crisscrossed the desert, volunteers Shawn Hohnstreiter and Andy Anthony repeatedly called out my name. Meanwhile, state park police officer Fernie Rincon and game warden Isaac Ruiz descended into a deep valley. In the distance, they heard Hohnstreiter’s team shouting, “Cathy, can you hear us?”
“Help!” I cried out.
Rincon turned to Ruiz.
“Help me!”
Driven by my cries, Rincon and Ruiz rushed to the edge of the ravine. “We’ve found her!” Rincon exclaimed as they scrambled down. “She’s alive!”
When they arrived, I was trembling, looking wild, and reminiscing about my wedding with Rick at Big Bend National Park a dozen years earlier. Rincon’s question brought me back to the present.
“Cathy,” I whispered hoarsely. “How’s my husband?”
“He’s the reason we’re here,” Rincon replied.
At the University Medical Center of El Paso, the medical team informed me that I had been close to death. My kidneys were acutely failing, and my heart, lungs, and liver had sustained damage. They diagnosed me with rhabdomyolysis, a serious condition where muscle fibers break down and release their contents into the blood, posing a risk to the kidneys. My body temperature was erratic, and cactus needles were embedded throughout my skin.
I was a mess, but I felt a wave of relief when Rick arrived at the hospital. He was really OK. We talked about the children and how the search had unfolded. As Rick prepared to leave for the night, a nurse asked if he wanted to take any of my valuables with him. “Maybe her wedding ring,” Rick said. Then he noticed my stricken expression.
“It fell off my finger, and I couldn’t find it,” I told him.
Rick clasped my hands long and hard, just as he had in the desert when I’d told him to leave me. The desert had taken my ring, but it hadn’t claimed us.