Enchanted Rock — Kelly Ramsey

“What's that thing you have in Texas,” a California park ranger asked me recently. “That…magic rock thing?”

Yes, that magic rock thing. Amid the rolling hills and cedar-forested valleys of Central Texas, we have this one standout geological feature. It’s neither a mountain nor a canyon nor a cave. It sports no water feature or miraculous sand field. It’s just a pretty cool, really big…well, rock.

And as many times as I’ve visited Enchanted Rock State Natural Area and hiked to the top of the iconic granite dome, it never gets old. The rock retains its mystique, its strangely appealing aura of specialness. It feels, you might say, enchanted? Little wonder, then, that the Tonkawa and Apache who called this place home ascribed mystical powers to the exfoliated mound.

One Saturday in mid-February we set off. My friend Nick was visiting from Portland, and an out-of-town guest is always a reason to check out the rock, an easy hike to pair with some bumming around the hill country (and, in the warmer months of March/April, a stop at the orchards for fresh fruit and peach ice cream. Yes, peach ice cream). It had been rainy and cold in Austin for weeks, anomalous for our sham Texas winter; on this day, the clouds miraculously cleared and that Simba’s-birth-scene-from-The-Lion-King-sunlight streamed over us at the apex of our hike.

The drive I optimistically called “an hour” took, as usual, an hour and a half; it was almost one pm by the time we turned off the main drag in Fredericksburg and headed north toward the park.

“Park Closed,” a sign with blinking hazard lights informed us.

“Closed?” I cried. “No way!”

“Why would it be closed?”

“Well, in the busy season they close for a while when they reach capacity. Then they reopen later in the day when enough people have left. But it’s February! It’s unthinkable that it would already be this crowded.”

“Why don’t we just drive up there and see if it’s open?”

“Okay, yeah. I mean I doubt the sign lies, but we can always continue up that way and hike at Colorado Bend.”

As we came over a steep hill, the rock appeared in the valley below, rose-colored and bald.

“Wow,” Nick said. “That is a big rock.”

“Wow,” I echoed, as we approached the entrance to the park. A line of a dozen cars was waiting just to talk to the volunteers at the gate—and be turned away. We joined them.

“So you’re not open,” Nick said, rolling down his window. “But I came all the way from Oregon to see this!”

Three volunteers in reflective vests came enthusiastically to our side.

“Well then y’all will have to come back,” said one of them, a man in his late sixties with a deep drawl.

“We re-open at two,” said another man. “Here’s your number to get back in.”

I raised my eyebrows at Nick. So we were right to drive out despite the sign, after all: you needed a number. I’d been here many times before and never encountered the number ticket system. Maybe it was new.

“I don’t know,” I said. “Two o’clock is an hour away. We could just keep driving and go hike in Inks Lake or Colorado Bend.”

“Inks Lake nothin!” cried the female volunteer, a sturdy grandmotherly type with bleached hair. “You’ve gotta come back here. It’s the biggest batholith in the world – or somethin!"

“The biggest what?”

They told us about a spot we could hang out seven miles back and sent us on our way.

“See you in an hour, Oregon!” they called. “You’ll be back!

The best parks volunteer in Texas was close to right: it is the largest batholith in the United States. And what, pray tell, is a batholith? It is a vast, mostly-underground swath of granite. The Enchanted Rock batholith is over 62 square miles; the dome(s) of the park are but a small, visible portion.

We drove seven miles back the way we had come, where we found a charming little store called—appropriately—Frontier Outpost. I got a can of diet coke, my favorite vice, and Nicky picked up a small overpriced tube of sunscreen for his delicate Northwestern hide. The proprietor’s blonde children lazed on the store's back porch like a passel of bored puppies.

We walked a ways down a little trail and found an empty campsite where we did stretches and push-ups and sunned ourselves until the hour was up. Other people were clearly killing time until the park re-entry hour, too. Some were drinking beers and playing horseshoes behind the store. One couple stood out front, drawing their arms back again and again, letting little stones fly.

“It never stops amazing me, what people will do to pass the time,” Nick laughed.

“What, throwing rocks at rocks? That’s a totally legit game.”

Back at the park, we waited in a line of about forty cars to enter. When we reached the front,

“You made it!” the volunteer, remembering us, said happily.

We parked and set off. Because we wanted a little more of a hike than the mile up-and-back Summit Trail, we headed West on the outer Loop Trail, swinging around past the Walnut Springs Primitive Camping area. The trail along this western part of the loop was wide and flat, gravelly. Several cool boulders and rock formations lay along our route.

“This looks like Canyonlands!” Nick enthused. “This looks like Zion!”

I could see his point. Through his fresh eyes, the landscape of central Texas was bright and Southwestern, all orange rock under a cobalt sky. Yeah, I thought. It wasn’t just ho-hum. It was surprising, even lovely.

After passing the primitive camping areas, which I noted as “promising” and “must come back to do this,” not for the first time, we passed Moss Lake, where I was surprised to find a sizable pool reflecting the granite domes beyond (see the cover photo for this piece). Again, I was shocked by its loveliness.

Continuing, we followed the Echo Canyon trail through the canyon of the same name, a narrow gorge between the two boobs (I mean sorry, but they’re boob-ish) of Enchanted Rock and the oh-so-originally-named Little Rock. This section of trail offers rare shade and access to some caves and climbing routes. Echo Canyon spat us out on the flank of the main rock, which we free-hiked until we approximately rejoined the summit trail, reaching the top.

A cool rock formation, plus the crumbly "exfoliated" granite of Enchanted Rock.

Enchanted Rock is what’s known as an “exfoliation dome,” meaning that layers of rock peel away like the layers of an onion. The Tonkawa, who lived here in the 16th century, were frightened by the groaning and cracking sounds the rock emitted after dark. Modern-day geologists attribute these noises to the rock contracting at night after a day of heating in the Texas sun. Scientists also have an explanation for an eerie light effect early settlers called “ghost fires,” but I’d prefer to keep the idea of a supernatural presence alive, so I won’t explain that one away.

Like all people who climb this famous hump, we reached the top and sat down on our humps to enjoy the view. That sudden Lion King sunlight poured over us, and we stripped down to short sleeves, drinking it in. The hill country spread out below, a flat-ish wash of limestone covered in post oak, live oak, black hickory, and prickly pear. We watched a group of climbers ascend nearby Turkey Peak.

“You want the rest of this Clif bar?”

“Duh,” Nick said, inhaling it in a second.

“Ready to go back down?”

He was. We descended the curved surface of the rock, layers of granite flaking off like house-sized sections of pie crust. The sun shone in our eyes. Dozens of people streamed up and down the Summit Trail.

“Wow!” they said.

Wow is right.

For a gorgeous and gratifying day hike, Enchanted Rock always delivers. For a report on the overnight backpacking trip, check back in a month or so – it’s in the works! I’ve heard the stargazing is incredible out there. But whether for a day or more, this park remains the mysterious, maybe-haunted, jewel of central Texas. If you're in the area, don't miss it.

DETAILS

Location: Enchanted Rock State Natural Area, about 17 miles north of Fredericksburg, TX.

How to get there: Drive. If you’re coming from out of state, fly into Austin or San Antonio, then drive. It’s Texas, y’all – gotta drive.

Costs: $7 per adult, free with a Texas State Parks Pass

Permits: Necessary for camping. $14-18/night.

Getting in: Arrive early if going on the weekend—or time your arrival in an attempt to score a ticket for the second round of entry at 2pm (they give out 200 such “parking slips”). You can also check the park's Facebook or Twitter for news of a "max capacity closure," which is almost guaranteed on weekends.

Hikes: The Summit Trail is most popular, but the park has 11 miles of trails. If you've got the time and stamina, I'd recommend the Loop Trail.

When to go: Anytime, though it will be HOT from May-October. I’d recommend March or April, the best months in the hill country, so you can see fields of bluebonnets in bloom and sample those peaches! But plan more carefully than me if you’re going on a weekend. Weekdays, if you can swing them, will be much easier.

Bring: Water, hat, sunscreen, sunglasses. Maybe a snack. Your credulity for ghost fires.