Texas is a long, big state, no matter which way you slice it, but this year I crossed it differently — trading I‑10 for I‑20. The miles didn’t shrink, but the views shifted, and sometimes that’s enough to make the familiar feel new again.
My timing was different, too. I arrived right in the middle of cotton harvest season. Seeing cotton not as fabric on my back but as a living plant stretching across acres of fields was unexpectedly moving. Bales sat like giant marshmallows waiting for their next life, and the old line — “Jump down, pick a bale of cotton, pick a bale of hay” — kept looping in my mind. It made me think about our ancestors, the people who worked these lands long before highways carved them up, and how much of their labor still echoes across these plains.
Driving across West Texas is like watching America’s entire energy story unfold in real time. Oil wells still nod their slow, stubborn rhythm in the fields, the same way they have for generations. But now they share the landscape with towering windmills spinning against the sky, long lines of high‑voltage power lines marching toward the horizon, and vast grids of solar panels soaking up the desert sun. Every so often, a natural gas plant appears — tanks, pipes, and a flare stack burning off excess gas like a tiny industrial lighthouse. It’s a strange, fascinating blend of old and new energy, all working side by side. Out there, you can almost feel the country shifting under your tires, one mile at a time.
Eventually, I peeled off I‑20 and slipped into New Mexico, landing once again in Roswell. That town has embraced its 1940s alien‑invasion lore with such gusto that many of the chain and franchise businesses incorporate the fun into its advertising.
From Roswell, I continued to Las Cruces, returning to the same campground I stayed in the year before — only this time, it was Christmas.
My friend Deb happened to be in town visiting her son, and we spent a wonderful day wandering Mesilla’s plaza and catching up. She told me about a nativity exhibit at the historic Blank House, so after she flew back to Pittsburgh, I went to see it. More than 200 nativity scenes from around the world filled the rooms. What struck me most was how each one reflected its creators. God may have made us in His image, but we certainly make our nativity scenes in ours.
While I was there, they mentioned a Christmas festival at Fort Selden featuring a thousand luminarias. Fort Selden sits quietly along the Rio Grande, its soft adobe walls holding centuries of stories — Mogollon farmers, frontier families, and Buffalo Soldiers. By day, the ruins feel like a pause in the landscape, a place where the desert exhales. But during the luminaria festival, the whole fort shifts into something almost tender: more than nine hundred small lights tracing the old parade grounds and walkways. It’s simple and beautiful. The wind was fierce that night, and the poor volunteers were fighting a losing battle to keep the candles lit, but they tried valiantly. The local choral group sang beautifully, and even with the gusts, the glow of the luminarias felt magical.
On my way back, I stopped to photograph Christmas lights, including the downtown Las Cruces tree. A couple of nights later, I returned to Mesilla for their Christmas Eve ceremonies. The Catholic church threw open its doors so everyone — inside or out — could hear the mass. Luminarias lined the plaza, and the whole evening had that mix of reverence and celebration that only Christmas Eve can hold. Later, the city’s entertainment kicked in, and it was a little surreal hearing Christmas carols on one side of the park and Christmas hymns on the other, but somehow it worked.
After Christmas, I caught a rare rainbow — a treat in a place that doesn’t get much rain. I chased the full moon one night too, watching it rise over the mountains in that slow, majestic way the desert does best.
The Organ Mountains looked like the perfect backdrop for the first full moon of the year, with all its sharp ridgelines and soft winter color, waiting for the sky to do something magical. I’d scouted a spot the day before and found an empty parking lot near the university — nothing fancy, just a clear view straight to the mountains. It turned out to be exactly what I needed. From there, I could watch the moon lift itself over the peaks, slow and steady, like it had been rehearsing this entrance for weeks.
