Essays
Moseying: History of the Southern Llano Estacado
The history of one playa -- from Comanchero days to today
August 29, 2007
Darting flashes of red and green sparkled as the fairy shrimp scooted upside down below the water’s surface. Spires of arrowhead’s white blossoms poked a foot above the water. In the shallows the deep blue blossoms of water plantain nestled in dark green leaves adorned with blue and red damselflies. Giant green dragonflies chased red ones, while black dragonflies dipped their tails into the water to lay eggs. A hot pink dragonfly performed a figure eight aerial display over deeper water.
A black and white stilt stood on the shore, its red legs too long for its slender body. Several of the gawky birds were scattered along the shore, and more were wading purposefully in the water, rhythmically jabbing their beaks down at the fairy shrimp, dragonfly larvae and aquatic beetles. Several immature black terns swooped low, skimming sparkling surface of the playa. At times they hovered, beating their wings furiously, then darting down for another morsel. A group of coots dabbled, dipping into the water with their short beaks.
“When the lagunas are full, the llano celebrates with color,” Jose Piedad Tafoya grandly swept his arm as if to encompass the spectacular view in front of the wagons he led. “The grasses are so green this year. This is the most lush I’ve ever seen the llano in the twenty years I’ve come to trade with the Comanches. I’ve never seen this particular playa full of water, for its watershed is limited. Let’s call a halt for today – we do not have to push ourselves to find water this year.”
The glories of the landscape inspired an unusual verbosity in the veteran plainsman. “The Comanches might not be in Canon Rescate as they are when the grasses are dry and crunchy. Like all life on the llano, they exult in the rainy times. Buffalo, antelope, and mustangs are reveling in the good times, too. Everything – animal, plant, and human get giddy and frisky, gamboling and laying with abandon. We will have a fiesta tonight, ourselves. We’ll break out the guitars and whiskey and sing. Carpe diem – this is a time to enjoy the blessings bestowed upon us.”
The men formed a square with the wagons, linking them together with long ropes to form a corral for the livestock. The men scattered across the prairie, filling sacks with dried buffalo dung for the night’s campfires. After the camp gained a semblance of order, Tafoya “took his leisure.” He carried his saddle near the shore of the playa, then leaned against it. A foot long black and yellow salamander emerged from the water as the sun neared the horizon. A huge thunderstorm to the northeast, its anvil shape red, orange, and a dozen other colors was reflected in the water in front of him. The salamander ignored Tafoya as it plodded along in the bright green buffalo grass, searching for earthworms and juicy insects beginning to emerge for their nocturnal activities.
A yellow mud turtle waded in the shallow. Its brown carapace gave no hint of its yellow belly. Tafoya knew better than to pick it up – it releases a fetid odor if bothered. Dozen of tiny toads hopped along the shore, too. Millions of tiny flies swarmed on the vegetation. They did not fly or bite, just crawled on everything. Tafoya did not know their origin, but at times billions of flies would carpet the ground and then be gone a few days later. Only a few mosquitoes bothered Tafoya. The prolific explosion of life generated in the playa produced many predators of their larvae. The strong southwestern breeze that fed the thunderstorm did not quite reach where Tafoya sat in the slight depression that held the water of the playa.
“This will be the last year for our way of life,” Tafoya mused to himself. “Mackenzie will soon convince his superiors to mount an all out effort to confine the Comanches to the reservation in Oklahoma. Then the buffalo hunters will come down from Kansas to remove the buffalo. Texas cattlemen will claim the land. Mackenzie is no longer leery of the llano, not after his tussle with Quanah near Blanco Canyon and the wild goose chase out on the llano. He’s gonna make the Comanches pay for his embarrasments.”
The smoke from the campfires swirled over the camp and to the playa. As night fell, the air above the water filled with smoke, a three-foot thick “fogbank,” its top sheared off by the wind. The men joined Tafoya with kettles full of food. Tafoya opened a keg of whiskey and poured cupful after cupful. The men took turns singing a cappella the stanzas of a ballad about the death of a young cibolero (buffalo hunter). All joined in on the final stanza.
As the song ended, a small herd of buffalo came from the east, with an attendant pack of wolves loafing behind. After the guitarists finished their meal they tuned up and began one of the hymns from their home “morada” (Penitente church). The wolves howled in concert. The Comancheros remained awake until after midnight. In the morning, Tafoya sent three veterans of his operation in different directions to seek out the scattered Comanche bands.
A few years later, “Nolan’s Lost Expedition” would cross this same playa. Tafoya would be with them. He attempted to tell the story of its beauty, but no one believed him. Nolan would kick the clay soil and watch a swirl of dust lift away. “This is God-forsaken desert. This place was never a lake. It is another one of your lies.”
On a recent trip north of Midland I saw dozens of playas full of water. Some had no life in them, while others teamed with the life mentioned above. Today the playa of our story is farmed. Earlier this year it again held water, drowning out seedling cotton plants. Not one fairy shrimp, toad, stilt, or dragonfly is present, for the agricultural chemicals and lack of appropriate vegetation do not encourage their return.
For pictures of the life of playas, visit this page in the Habitats section, and scroll down the playa index to the photoessays.