Palo Duro Canyon is the site of a massacre of women, children and horses. I don't have any reference or historical backing to this, except for what I have heard over the years living in the area. I am too lazy to look up any facts right now, so for the unsubstantiated rumor: the Indian fighters waited for the men/braves/warriors to leave the women and children alone, and once alone... well you get the picture. It is said that you can hear horses at night in the canyon. People on hikes have heard people talking (mostly women and children's voices) (not in English). Scary stuff right? Anyway if you are interested look it up.
I went on a solo road trip to PDC to ride mountain bikes and I encountered ghosts. Ghosts of my past, and of my past "self". There is something powerful about being in a place that you have history, history all around, around every corner, over every hill. My parents brought me to PDC before I can remember. We would come down after church for lunch and stay until we would have to go back for church that night. I spent many hours exploring, hiking, and playing. These ghosts flow in and out passing through me when I see the picnic grounds, the old slide and playground. There on the right is the creek we used to wade in. There is the small knol that was used as a fort for capture the flag.
Driving down into the canyon one of the first landmarks is the amphitheater where they have the musical Texas. I can see the people dancing and singing, and all those Texas flags blowing in the ample Panhandle plains wind. I remember some of the friends and family that we would take with us to the play. We once saw a cougar walking on the foothills behind the actors on the stage during a performance. Bits and pieces of memory come to me as if changing channels in my brain, not staying on one long enough before the next one and then another.
Here is the area where the Sad Monkey Scenic Railroad once ran it's tiny train. My grandmother would buy me some soft serve and a ticket. I would try to finish the ice cream before the summer heat laid it to rest at my feet dripping down my forearms. We would sit on the picnic tables waiting for the train to come into the station for our turn to ride around, see the sights and hear the stories of the conductor.
Fast forward a few years and I'm with the high school marching band on a Saturday afternoon chasing girls (no, really chasing girls). Going on misadventures with testosterone charged teenage boys looking for thrills and adrenalin. We tried our hand at caving and when we got far enough in and had no flashlight, we opted for rock climbing. The whole time trying to impress the lovely girls in the band. It is a surprise that no one was killed, maimed, injured or arrested. Oh, someone broke a finger playing Frisbee with the lid to a 5 gallon bucket. Frisbee, football, and other activities were outlawed shortly thereafter by the band director.
I've spent hours and hours in this canyon, lunches, meals, picnics and several breakfasts. The memories that are in these walls of the canyon, in the small streams, rocks and trees that I have compiled over the years. Some more recent than others. Some more prominent like the "romantic" make-out sessions watching the sunset over the rim of the canyon. Oh, the brilliance of a amorous teenage boy. Then there are the memories that I can't remember like that time...
