Awhile after we'd floated in, my raftmate Pamela Daggett of Austin got quiet.
In wonder and languor, we drifted along, four rafts in a deep declivity in the middle of nowhere. Guides Patrick Harris, Sandi Turvan and Darren Wallace told us about the 22 kinds of bats found in the canyon, the 1,200 kinds of plants, the 450 bird species. Fellow rafter Kelly Schievelbein of Seguin, Texas, who had thoughtfully packed pre-mixed Smirnoff cosmopolitans for the river, offered nips.
Hancock rowed alongside us in a raft freighted with supplies, pausing frequently to pull out a camera and shoot close-ups of weird-looking rocks.
Despite the ideal weather, we spotted just one other rafting group. (In spring and fall, the temperatures along the river usually run 70 to 90 degrees by day, 45 to 60 overnight. Our trip was at the low end of that range.)
Everyone aboard was from Texas except me and Jon and Jodi Houlon, a Philadelphia couple, and most everyone had been hearing for years about the wonders of Big Bend, or listening to Butch, or both.
What, someone asked, inspired the Philadelphians to travel so far? Jon Houlon, attorney by day and frontman by night for a band called John Train, explained how he had discovered Butch Hancock's music about 25 years ago as a high school student in Maryland. Houlon ordered an album. And because Hancock was then running his own label on a shoestring, he recalled, "I was getting these cassettes in the mail from a trailer park in Austin. My mom was like, 'What is this?' "
Raised on a farm in Lubbock, Hancock wrote some of his first songs while driving tractors. Then in the early 1970s, he and his Lubbock buddies Joe Ely and Jimmie Dale Gilmore formed a group -- a legendary group, in Texas music circles -- called the Flatlanders.
They never set the charts on fire, but through three decades of musical, financial and spiritual ins, outs, ups and downs, all three Flatlanders have forged careers as songwriters and performers, frequently recording one another's material, often joining for reunion gigs and albums.
Hancock's songs have always been dense with wordplay, their melodies plaintive, the guitar work plain, the whole package peppered with twangy riddles. In "West Texas Waltz," he finds rhymes for both "Renaults" and "arthritis." In "Boxcars," he says that "if you ever seen the cold blue railroad tracks / Shinin' by the light of the moon / If you ever felt the locomotive shake the ground / I know you don't have to be told / Why I'm goin' down to the railroad tracks / And watch them lonesome boxcars roll."
Inevitably, given that Hancock works with acoustic guitar, plays harmonica and will never be mistaken for an opera singer, he has often been compared to Bob Dylan. But what's so Texan, or Zen, about Dylan?
Anyway, Hancock moved in 1997 to Terlingua, where he lives with his wife, son and two stepdaughters in a sprawling, curvaceous, solar-powered home that he's building, room by room, from concrete, beer cans and recycled materials. They share the property with four Airstream trailers and many, many pets, because his wife, Adrienne, is a serial rescuer.
That first night on the river, Hancock sang 17 songs, including one he introduced as "another true story from West Texas, which is like a triple oxymoron." He wrapped up with the love song "Bluebird" (an old favorite that Emmylou Harris has covered) and a war song from last year called "When the Good and the Bad Get Ugly."
Then he thanked us for our applause, pointed up and invited us to join him spotting comets. The headliner, in other words, was deferring to other stars. And in such a brilliant sky, with no competing light source for miles, the gazing was priceless.
The canyon swallowed us the next morning. Floating farther and farther in, we ate lunch in Mexico, which is a fancy way of saying we pulled off the river on the right side instead of the left. We skipped stones by the score, scrambled up a fern canyon for a mile or so, drained a few beers, saw nobody.
By the nightfall on our second camp, still miles from the end of the canyon, the looming walls had reduced the starry sky to a thin twinkling strip directly above us. Hancock's lyrics bounced around the canyon like bats on the wing, which were present in great numbers as well. And when I rose from my folding chair at the campfire to stretch my legs, there stood my shadow on the far wall, 75 feet high and flickering. Bright or dim, a handsome canyon.
"I thought it was going to be pretty, but it's just breathtaking," said fellow rafter Dottie Hall.
Hancock played a little longer that second night -- about 25 songs, including a couple by Dylan and at least three by Townes Van Zandt, including the one everybody knows, "Pancho and Lefty."
For a few minutes he handed the guitar to Houlon, who couldn't resist playing Johnny Cash's "Big River." Somebody pulled out a bottle of whiskey. Soon it was 11.
"I don't want to go to sleep," Houlon said, "because then it'll be tomorrow."
But in the end he did, and it was. We broke camp, eased back into the slow flow and watched the cliffs stretch up to about 1,400 feet, then dwindle to nothing. We skipped a few hundred more stones into Mexico. (Somebody, check a satellite photo, and I'm sure you'll discover that Texas lost territory between Nov. 29 and Dec. 2.)
Then we turned a corner, and it was all over. The sky, that narrow sliver overhead from the night before, was big again. A telephone pole rose in the distance. You could see trails along the shore. Cars. People.
Damn, I thought. And then I remembered a line that Hancock muttered somewhere along the river, saying he was saving it for the right song: "What a world this mess is in."