The first place I stopped in the ghost town of Terlingua, Texas, was the cemetery. I was on a road trip through the southwest, doing some soul-searching in between jobs. It was an hour until sunset, and I was looking for a place to set up my camera in hopes of capturing a dramatic shot. Gusts of warm wind blew sand and pebbles across the desolate landscape as coyotes howled and yipped in the distance.
The cemetery dates back to 1903 and is still in use, resulting in an odd mix of old, unmarked graves with weathered wooden crosses, cairns that serve as makeshift burial mounds, crumbling stone grottos, and modern marble headstones that are scattered amongst creosote bushes. Many are adorned with flowers and folk art. At one site, in lieu of flowers, there lay a large pile of neatly discarded beer and liquor bottles. The inscription on the headstone read “A Terlingua Legend: ‘Dr. Doug.’” As I continued to survey the area for a place to set up my camera, low clouds began to roll in, obscuring the distant Chisos mountains on the horizon.
Exhausted from a long day of hiking in nearby Big Bend National Park and realizing there wouldn’t be much of a sunset, I decided to pack up my camera gear and walk to a nearby bar for a hot meal and some cold beers. After a few drinks and a long conversation with some locals, the cemetery and Dr. Doug became distant memories. As the evening wore on, the bar closed, and the party moved on to Terlingua’s famous community gathering spot, The Porch, where a massive impromptu jam session broke out. That’s where I spent most of the rest of the evening, taking in music and enjoying the cool breeze of a spring desert night.
A few days later, on my way out of Big Bend, I decided to pay Terlingua one last visit. I stopped off at the general store on The Porch for a beer and some postcards. In the rack, amongst sweeping aerial shots of the town, one of the postcards grabbed my attention. It was a photo of a man wearing a lab coat over a three-piece suit, cane in hand, in mid-stride atop the hood of a black 1970s Lincoln Continental. The back of it read “Dr. Black, Black Butte, Texas.” Even though it didn’t seem to have anything to do with Terlingua, I decided to grab a couple. The woman at the counter who was ringing me up stopped when she saw them, held one up in her hand, and smiled.
“That was my friend, Dr. Doug,” she said.
“Can you tell me about him?”
She was more than happy to oblige. Douglas Blackmon moved to Terlingua in the 1980s, before it “blew up,” and came to be beloved in the small town. He was a fixture on The Porch, offering counsel at what he called “the world’s largest open-air insane asylum.” The cost of his services was a few Lone Star beers, and in exchange, he’d patiently listen to people explain their problems.
“He was such a great listener,” she added, lost in reverie.
Dr. Doug “self-perished,” as the cashier put it, in a car accident in 2017. There was a huge service on The Porch, a celebration befitting a local legend who was so important to the small community. I extended my condolences, and mentioned that I saw his grave a few days earlier.
“Seems like a lot of folks still visit him,” I said.
“I guess a lot of people want to pay their respects.” She paused. “Or maybe they just want some advice.”
I thanked her for sharing, paid for my things, and stepped out onto The Porch. It was empty and eerily quiet as the midday sun baked the surrounding landscape, a stark contrast from the lively scene a few nights earlier. I cracked open my beer, unsure where I was headed next—not just on my road trip, but in life. I started walking toward the cemetery. I figured if you’re in need of some advice in a ghost town, who better to ask than a ghost?
Words + Photoby Mark LaFaro