FAROUT

IN THE OBSCURITY OF THE WEST TEXAS DESERT, AN UNLIKELY ART TOWN CONTINUES TO DRAW ATTENTION

-  KAITLYN SADIK

THE SUN'S GOING DOWN AT THE EDGE OF THE WORLD, AND DARKNESS IS COMING ON QUICK. WE'RE DRIVING 75 MILES AN HOUR ON THE SLIM TWO-LANE HIGHWAY, WHICH SOMEHOW FEELS SLOW WHEN THERE'S NO ONE ELSE AROUND FOR MILES AND MILES. THE ENDLESS FIELDS OF DRY, SCRUBBY UNDERBRUSH WE'VE STARED AT FOR HOURS AND THE PREHISTORIC DAVIS MOUNTAINS ROLLING IN THE DISTANCE HAVE MELTED INTO INDISCERNIBLE BLACKNESS. FOR ALL I KNOW, THERE MAY BE UFO'S LURKING IN THE DESERT AROUND US.

My eyes scan for the bouncing orbs of light we've been warned about: the odd, unexplainable, rumored extraterrestrial "Marfa Lights," as they've been called for decades. Squinting into oblivion, it's easy to start feeling paranoid. There's even a remote viewing area where people gather every night in hopes of witnessing the mysterious phenomenon, often leaving with exaggerated "You didn't catch that?" accounts. We admittedly see none, except for the faraway flashes of what we deduce to be just late-night truck headlights.

Out in West Texas, perhaps the most quintessentially Texan place in existence, Marfa does feel like a concealed corner of the world. The nearest commercial airports are both three-hour drives away in El Paso and Midland. In our case, the town is a seven-hour drive from Austin-and from there, you hit the road, losing cell service almost immediately until you roll up to a slow-blinking stoplight that welcomes you to Marfa, coaxing you to choose a direction, none of which spans more than a handful of blocks before nothingness begins again.

Just two generations ago, residents of the Trans-Pecos region, also known as Far West Texas, could never have foreseen all the fuss to come. Marfa was a place where even cattle had a hard time living under the relentless sun, without enough nutrients despite vast desert lands to roam.