The horizon of southwestern Oklahoma regained a pulse as I approached the Wichita Mountains. For that matter, I did, too. For the past three days, I had been driving north up the 100th meridian, part of a grand summer road trip from the Texas borderlands to Fargo, N.D. — an admittedly indulgent exercise in my newfound freedom as a fully vaccinated plainsman. And yet, despite my love for this sorely neglected region, the miles began to blur. Beyond the hazy purple sensation of the Texas Hill Country, the land relaxed, and soon enough, it was just me and the sagebrush and so many wind turbines casting shadows across the highway.
God bless the ancient Wichitas, rising like bare knuckles from the dirt. Some 500 million years ago, lava rose from the Earth’s core through volcanic vents. Most of it cooled as granite before reaching the surface. The rest spilled across this ancient seabed and formed a fine-grained rhyolite. Both retained a reddish hue that now distinguishes the entire mountain range.
Two hundred million years later, during what geologists call the Pennsylvanian Period, a tectonic shift wrested the rocks skyward. Year after year, the elements slowly chiseled them down to their current iteration. From behind a bug-smeared windshield, one of the oldest mountain ranges on Earth now beckoned me forward, stretching roughly 30 miles across the southern Great Plains.
Still, I hadn’t intended to camp out. The city of Lawton and neighboring Fort Sill were just about 30 miles away, but my travel budget was slim, and because the heat index had been hovering near triple digits since my trip began, I had already eaten through most of it by sleeping in air-conditioned hotels. So there I was in the Wichita Mountains Wildlife Refuge, not yet halfway through my trip, racing to set up camp before the sun dipped below the hills.
More than 1 million people flock to the refuge each year, but late July in Oklahoma is apparently a tough sell, even for Oklahomans. Save for a roving gang of wild turkeys, the Doris Campground — the only modern campground in the refuge — was virtually abandoned. I spread out my tarp beneath a towering stand of blackjack oaks, pitched the tent in record time, threw my bags inside and, with an hour of daylight to spare, backtracked down Highway 49 to the glassy lake I had passed upon entry.
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I wasn’t prepared for what I found that night — mostly because I hadn’t prepared at all. In my mind, the refuge was merely one potential stop among the dozens I would make before reaching Fargo. I was wrong.
A cockeyed sun kissed the mountains’ silhouette and burst through a ribbon of feathery clouds. Gray. Pink. Orange. Blue. The sky dressed to the nines. The lake followed. Even the mud sang a tune caught up in celebration, freshly churned by the hoofs of so many bison roaming this nearly 60,000-acre refuge.
For 20 minutes, I watched the shadows stretch across the water, still waking from my highway hypnosis. Then I snapped out of it and continued down the road. A field of bluestem unfurled to the south. To the north, a shell of speckled red granite rose along the shoreline. And at the end of the road, I hit the Quanah Parker Dam, which restricts the flow of Quanah Creek and creates the 89-acre Quanah Parker Lake — each of them named for the Comanche leader who was born on Elk Creek just south of the mountains.
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The dam was a blunt reminder of humankind’s imposition on the land; the name was a reminder that none of this was free, that hiking here and sleeping here and absorbing this landscape is a privilege stolen from the Native Americans who called it home long before the U.S. government arrived with guns and whiskey and hollow promises.
It’s a tough caveat to swallow. Yet to stand atop so many tons of water-stained concrete — to drop your gaze 70 feet below and watch the spillover dribble into the dusk — was undeniably electrifying. Completed by the Works Progress Administration in 1936, the Quanah Parker Dam was designed as a miniature copy of the much-larger Hoover Dam completed the same year. I lingered on the catwalk as a half-dozen fishermen gathered their tackle. In the distance, a young bride posed on a rocky red outcrop, one leg bare, gown piled at her feet like sea foam, as her photographer snapped away. There was something surreal about the whole display, ghostly somehow, but soon the show was over, the bass stopped biting and my car sat alone in the parking lot.
Later, I would learn that alcohol is prohibited in the refuge, but I didn’t know it then, I swear, so I grabbed two lukewarm Shiners from my watery cooler and staked my claim on the rocks, using my phone to light the way. A chorus of frogs croaked from the cattails below. Crickets. Cicadas. The occasional slap of a jumping fish. The middle of the lake reflected the last sliver of twilight as I lowered my head onto the granite and let the breeze wash over me. And as I lay there in a half-drunken reverie, awestruck by this oasis on the plains, I wondered how many people had experienced a moment like this — head on the heartbeat of the world — and concluded it wasn’t enough.
That night, I sprawled in my tent, exhausted and sweaty. Unspeakably sweaty. Far too sweaty to sleep. The mercury hovered around 90 degrees. The air stood still. I tossed and turned and tossed again, every minute a rusty barge chugging slowly upstream. Sometime around 3 a.m., a twig snapped in the distance. And again a few minutes later. Then a few more, closer each time, and finally a loud huff just beyond the nylon walls of the tent. Either I had slipped into some heat-induced delirium, or there was a large mammal grazing through my campsite.
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Wichita Mountains was the first big-game wildlife refuge in the country. President William McKinley proclaimed this portion of the mountain range a forest reserve in 1901. Congress soon authorized funding for a wildlife refuge, and in 1906, President Theodore Roosevelt added 3,680 acres to what was now called the Wichita National Forest and Game Preserve.
Thanks to the same hard-fought regional campaign that first attracted federal interest in the Wichitas, the New York Zoological Park donated 15 bison to help the refuge establish a new herd and prevent the animal’s extinction. Some 20 years later, the Forest Service did the same for the Texas longhorn, whose genetic distinction was quickly being diluted by the introduction of more popular breeds. In August 1927, a small herd of true Texas longhorns were released in the preserve, as well. Both bovine species now roam freely throughout the refuge.
Whether the mystery brute registered my sweaty presence or not, it soon moseyed through my semi-primitive campsite and back into the woods. A few hours later, a light shower finally cut through the heat, but it was time to move on. Dawn now slanted through the refuge, and with so many miles still to go, the road was calling me once again. I packed up my spartan encampment and made one last stop at Lost Lake, the first reservoir constructed in the Wichitas, where I stretched my restless legs along the meandering Kite Trail.
The hills shuddered awake alongside me, greener every minute, as I skipped from one rain-slick boulder to the next. I logged every tiny delight: the collared lizard frozen in its tracks and the emerald lichen clinging to the granite and the sumac and the wildflowers and the water spilling over the dam. The refuge had spoiled me already.
The rest would have to wait: the road to Mount Scott, one of the highest points in the refuge; the Holy City of the Wichitas, a complex of seemingly ancient buildings crafted from local granite by the WPA; the miles of hiking trails I hadn’t touched. The elk herd and the natural arch and the historic homesteads. So much more.
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I loathed watching the refuge fade from the rearview mirror. But what a wonderful excuse to return.
Vaughan is a writer based in Chicago. His website is carsonvaughan.com. Follow him on Twitter and Instagram: @carsonvaughan.
If you go
Where to stay
Doris Campground
127 NW Camp Doris Rd. Indiahoma, Okla.
580-429-2197
fws.gov/refuge/Wichita_Mountains/activities/camp/doris.html
Nestled in the woods just beyond Quanah Parker Lake in the Wichita Mountains Wildlife Refuge, the Doris Campground welcomes tent campers and RV enthusiasts year-round. Every site, be it electric or semi-primitive, features a table, fire pit and grill. Reservations must be made online. Campground gates open Sunday through Thursday 8 a.m. to 10 p.m. and Friday and Saturday until 11 p.m. in April to October; open Sunday through Thursday 8 a.m. to 8 p.m. and Friday and Saturday until 10 p.m. in November to March. Sites from $12 per night.
What to do
Wichita Mountains Wildlife Refuge
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20539 State Hwy. 115, Cache, Okla.
580-429-2197
fws.gov/refuge/Wichita_Mountains
West of Lawton, Okla., this nearly 60,000-acre federal wildlife refuge boasts roaming herds of bison and Texas longhorns, in addition to roughly 15 miles of designated hiking trails, 13 public-use lakes and a remnant mixed-grass prairie. Don’t miss the dam at Quanah Parker Lake, a miniature copy of the Hoover Dam, or the views from Mount Scott, one of the highest peaks in the Wichita Mountains. The visitor center is temporarily closed amid pandemic restrictions; refuge is open daily, dawn to dusk. No entry fees.
Information
travelok.com/listings/view.profile/id.8525
The coronavirus pandemic has disrupted travel domestically and around the world. Find the latest developments at washingtonpost.com/coronavirus
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