Hidden Mexican Contraband

January 10-13, 2026: 

Today came with more High Wind Advisories, specifically calling out RVers and low-flying aircraft, which felt pointed. Regardless, we decided 7 a.m. was the correct time to flee toward New Mexico, with our sights set on Big Bend National Park. Actually—correction—we didn’t decide anything. We were forced to leave because the weather was turning and it was going to freeze that night. And while a toilet pump that won’t work because of dead batteries is annoying-but-manageable, a cracked black tank is a whole different sport. One you don’t want to play. Ever. Two days ago, in this same area, I was biking in a T-shirt. Today, as we pulled out, it was snowing. 

This would be our longest drive yet: six hours south to Presidio. Overnight low? A balmy 34 degrees. Just warm enough to keep our plumbing alive, which is the bar we’re operating under. 

First stop: back to El Paso to return the hydrogen-producing batteries that were actively plotting our demise. I stayed in the car so George could throw me under the bus in peace. He opened with, “You’re married, right? So you know how when your wife…”

Reader, I took the hit. I blog about him constantly and he doesn’t complain. Though I do usually let him preview the particularly inflammatory posts and veto them if he wants. This was apparently payback.

Oh, and we fixed our second windshield chip of the trip. The first time we went with a big company and paid $175. This time, a small local place charged $55. Same windshield, same kind of chip. Lesson learned: when it comes to rock chips, national chains are rip offs.

After errands, we rolled into our $10 campsite outside Presidio. This marks the second weird campground of the trip. You know the type: someone owns land, decides to make a campground, but declines to invest in infrastructure. The vibe is very “figure it out yourself.” 

Presidio bills itself as the oldest continuously cultivated farmland in North America, proudly sporting a sign that reads “Established 1683.” Small towns really have to reach deep into history to feel special. Respect.

We hit Presidio’s one tourist attraction: Fort Leaton. It was the worst docent-led tour we’ve ever had…until it became the sweetest. The guide was a high-school kid with a thick Mexican accent who barely spoke English and was clearly doing his best. The fort itself is basically an old ruin once occupied by terrible white guys. The guy who built it got killed by another white guy, who then kicked out the dead guy’s wife and kids and moved in. Then he got killed. Rinse and repeat. History!

After that, we continued toward Big Bend, but first driving through Big Bend Ranch State Park. Everything out here hugs the Mexican border. Interestingly, there’s no wall—just the Rio Grande, which is neither particularly grand nor particularly intimidating anymore, thanks to agriculture siphoning off most of the water. Anyone could stroll across. 

 

Big Bend Ranch State Park was beautiful in its own way—lots of pink. Pink prickly pear, pink rocks, pink dirt. I like pink. Nature knows this.

We’ve also been seeing a surprising number of very tiny “international airports.” Apparently, if you fly between here and Mexico, congratulations—you’re international.

We ended the day at another paid campground outside Big Bend. Another one that was trying its best. We made meatball subs for dinner and then jumped in the car to do a preview of the scenic drive through Big Bend National Park in the waning twilight before bedtime. 

The next morning we got up before the sun. Our destination: Santa Elena Canyon. The canyon walls rise about 1,500 feet straight up on either side of the Rio Grande. One wall is Mexico. The other is the United States. It’s dramatic and beautiful.

After that we did the scenic drive again, this time in daylight, and stopped at everything. Every exhibit. Every short hike. Every viewpoint. Every ruin. The park has a surprisingly cool history of farming, ranching, mining, and military activity. It’s quiet and remote now, but in the early 1900s it was apparently hopping. One of the ruins had a really cool chimney made of petrified wood. We also spent some time playing amateur sleuths, confidently misidentifying animal tracks and congratulating ourselves anyway.

At one point, we had fun straddling the border between Mexico and the United States and taking silly pictures. 

Big Bend was not what I expected. I always imagined mountains and pine trees. There are mountains, but trees? Not really. It’s another flavor of desert. Still beautiful. Just…less Christmas card.

Then it rained. All night. And all the next day. Which was unfortunate, because we were planning a very unique Mexico crossing. Apparently, on a good day, you can wade across the river or pay a guy to row you over to the tiny town of Boquillas, which exists solely for tourists. From there, you pay for a burro to take you into town, eat tacos, and buy trinkets. The National Park Service runs the crossing, so passports are required, which feels both official and slightly absurd given the boat and burro situation.

We didn’t go. One, rainy days are good work days. Two, the camp host came by to warn us we might not be able to get our camper out of the campground. Remember how the campground was “rustic”? Turns out the roads are dirt mixed with bentonite clay. When it gets wet, it sticks to everything and turns into industrial-grade slime. The exit involves a steep dirt hill leading up to a two-lane highway. Confidence was low. So we stayed an extra night, hoping things would dry out. 

The rain stopped that evening, and the next morning we made our escape. The ground was still muddy and sticky, so to get up the hill we had to absolutely gun it. I stood on the highway scouting traffic while George prepared to launch the camper like a rocket. I yelled when to go. He trusted me. That’s marriage.

Once we hit pavement, the two inches of mud caked onto our tires spun off immediately—right onto the front of the camper. Art.

We’d actually reserved a campsite on the other side of the park but couldn’t use it because we were trapped in Mudtopia. Still, we drove over to use the dump because we’d paid for it and dang if we’re getting our money’s worth. We hosed off as much mud as possible, whether that was allowed or not. The camper still looked like it had lost a fight with the earth.

After that, we drove to the border crossing we’d missed, just to see it. It’s only open Friday through Monday, and of course it was Tuesday. We still got the flavor of it because Mexicans cross the river and set up little “stores” on the U.S. side. No one mans them. It’s all honor system—goods sitting on the ground, prices taped on, cans for money. Shockingly wholesome for something that is technically contraband and explicitly mentioned as such in the park newsletter with the threat of confiscation if you buy anything. I hid our contraband in our clothes buckets. Shhh, don't tell. 

At the overlook above Boquillas, there were several of these "stores." A guy sitting on the Mexican side of the river saw George browsing and hollered over, directing him to his store. George respects hustle, so he bought something from Carlos. Capitalism wins again.

We then walked the Boquillas Canyon trail, which also featured plenty of contraband, plus Mexican guys on horseback selling tamales, empanadas, and tortillas. George bought some which he will have to eat all by himself. Because I, on the other hand, am deeply self-aware and know that I struggle at potlucks—so trailside food with zero quality control was never going to be my moment.

On the way out, we pulled out the binoculars to look at the town and noticed a bunch of burros grazing on the U.S. side. No idea if they were wild or just freelancing.

Next stop: the hot springs. The road was closed due to flooding, so most people hiked in. We biked it. A ranger had told us we couldn’t bike to the hot springs, but the newsletter and website said bikes were allowed on roads. This was technically a road, even though it was being treated like a trail. That's how we justified our decision with confidence.

We soaked in the hot springs—thankfully bathing suits are required, according to the newsletter—and read about the historic ruins. Then we headed out of the park toward our next destination.

Since Texas doesn’t have BLM land, we were prepared to try our first-ever rest stop camping. It was late when we rolled into Langtry, a very small town in the middle of nowhere, and pulled into the Travel Center. There was no parking spots to fit an RV. None. Zero. Plan A died immediately.

As I frantically studied the map to avert a full meltdown—because it was dark, late, and we were tired and hungry—I clicked on the local community center. Reviews popped up: $5 dry camping in the vacant lot.

Reader, I have never loved a community center more.

We drove two blocks and parked for the night in a big dirt field that also served as the center's parking lot and a shortcut for locals. The Langtry Community Center saved our bacon. And possibly our marriage.