It’s a mostly mild day in mid April, though the wind is always present. My dad and I drove 130 miles to Caprock Canyon so he could fish. The man turns 70 this year, and between sciatic and a bad knee, he can no longer make these kinds of trips alone. I tag along, packing my journal and a book about the Internet of Nature. There is no internet where we are --- not even cellular service. We unload and walk to the small lake where Dad can fish and where the protected bison of the canyons drink water. I set him up near the water, with his camping chair, a cooler, three fishing rods, and his bait. My dog came with us, so we stroll around the lake. The shoreline is sandy with the red clay soil common here, and I find a few seashells near the water, scattered between rocks. I sometimes wonder what this area looked like millions of years ago, imagining an ocean.
Last night I stayed up after work reading about the bombings on Israeli settlements in Occupied Palestine by Iranian drones. Some days ago, Israel bombed buildings in Damascus, and hit the Iranian embassy. I mentioned it to my coworker last night, who did not know we live within 70-mile radius of a nuclear power plant. She’s originally from Guanajuato but grew up in the Panhandle. She shook her head and wondered why the US likes to make bombs. I’ve been going to bed late most nights, catching up on news – mostly through friends, mutuals and Palestinian journalists in Gaza.
We return to where my dad sits, his three rods set up. He hasn’t caught anything, the wind has picked up, and the day has gotten hotter. I set up my own camping chair and start to read The Nature of Our Cities. It was written by a Dutch Canadian ecologist whose main argument is that technology and nature can coexist together. I find it hard to read since she mostly avoids mentioning colonialism or capitalism as direct causes of these types of issues.
Which is why I prefer Pollution is Colonialism by Max Liboiron, a framework that uses anticolonial practice and Indigenous knowledge to think about plastics and pollution.
After a few hours in the direct sun, we pack up to return home. But I insist we go eat (yall know I am a foodie). We drive into the nearest small town, Quitaque, which local villain Charles Goodnight allegedly named because he believed it was the Indigenous word for “end of trail.” The town even has a sign telling visitors how to pronounce the word (Kitty Qway). Fittingly, we end up at a place called the Bison Cafe, which only services hamburgers and salads. Its dry country, so I can’t even have a margarita. Instead my dad tells me about the different roads leading up to the park. One of these days I want to write about these particular small towns that look antiquated and abandoned, but attract visitors interested in nostalgia and Manifest Destiny.
But not today.
I saw a bison roaming across the road as we left the canyons, eating grass, unbothered by us. I hope we are watching the empire fall. I hope the bison continues to take back their land.