My empty nest was closing in on me.
I texted my friend Anne, also the mother of absent college kids: “Want to drive to Big Bend and stay in a dome in the Chihuahuan Desert?” I’d recently seen photos of otherworldly “stargazing domes” on Instagram, and despite not being a camper, or a glamper, or even someone who’s been inside a Cabela’s on purpose, I was intrigued.
“I’ll bring the mezcal, Thelma,” she replied. “You bring the limes.” (All Gen X women on a road trip call each other Thelma and Louise—not just because we frequently feel like driving off a cliff.)
We hit the road on a Thursday, our cooler filled with Topo Chico and my hormone replacement therapy pills because the last thing you need in the desert is a hot flash. Eight hours later, we pull into Marfa in far West Texas and wonder if the town is closed. The wide streets are empty. The stores uncrowded. No tipsy bachelorettes on scooters clogging the sidewalks. We definitely aren’t in Austin anymore. We check into the beautiful Spanish and Mission Revival-style Hotel Paisano and sip palomas in the courtyard. It isn’t yet camping, but the hotel elevator is broken so we’re getting closer. At twilight, we drive to the Marfa Lights Viewing Area and watch tiny, intermittent flashes dot the horizon under a royal blue sky. Anne doesn’t buy that it’s a natural phenomenon. “Someone’s putting on a show,” she insists.
We take US 67 the next morning and head south toward Terlingua, the quirky remote community famous for its historical ghost town and legendary annual chili cookoff. The landscape is sparse, and the road is empty save for the occasional white-and-green U.S. Border Patrol trucks that aren’t in any hurry and the herds of aoudad watching us from their rocky perches. With fleeting cell service while traveling along the border of Big Bend National Park, I pull up the email confirmation and read again that they don’t offer refunds for “weather, life changes, acts of God, power outages, road conditions, and the discomforts of nature.” Understandable, but I really hope “discomforts of nature” doesn’t mean “vicious scorpions.”
Eleven miles outside Terlingua, we see the sign for the Summit at Big Bend and turn onto the unpaved Lone Star Mine Road. Thirty-seven white domes appear on the hillside, dotting the dry brown-and-tan landscape like marshmallows in cocoa. I stare at them in wonder but with apprehension. I wanted to get out of my house, yes, but not colonize the moon. My anxiety rises as we drive through the isolated property up to our numbered dome and park the car.
“I don’t know if I can handle this,” I mutter, realizing how remote we actually are. I’d only seen this part of Texas while watching No Country for Old Men with my hands over my eyes. Anton Chigurh was fictional, right?
“You’d better start trying to handle it,” Anne says in her laconic native Texan voice. “Because Terlingua doesn’t have a Four Seasons.”
We step inside our digs, and I’m flooded with relief to see we’re not in a Bear Grylls survival situation. It’s nicer than my bedroom at home. With better air conditioning, too. Our Super Stargazing 6-meter geodesic dome is made of struts joined to form interconnected triangles in a spherical grid and sheathed in heavy-duty tan canvas. It’s secured to a cement foundation for stability, so we won’t be blown into Mexico in case of a windstorm.
The showstopper is the panoramic window that covers about a third of the space, offering unfettered views of the landscape. Standing in the dome is comparable to being inside one of those giant parachutes from gym class—not quite inside and not quite outside. Rather, it’s an in-between, ephemeral space. With running water, thank goodness.
The roughly 305 square feet of our dome are decorated in warm, inviting tones. This includes a king bed, queen sofa sleeper, two accent chairs, a coffee bar, a mini cooler, and a sink. There are plenty of electrical outlets to keep my phone charged for Wordle because that’s important when you’re in the middle of nowhere. It all feels so chic.
Carmen Vilchez, partner to Summit cofounder Brent Pickette, is the Summit’s interior designer. She grew up in an architecturally radial structure in Miami and tells me later that she used that aesthetic when designing the domes. For example, the mixed-interior electric lighting works in tandem with the natural light to create a unique visual brilliance. She says her goal was to achieve “the perfect radial balance” so that standing inside the dome “feels like a sunburst, radiating with rustic and eco-inspired design.”
Feeling a lot more comfortable, we take a hike through the property, adjacent to where cinnabar, the ore used for refining elemental mercury, was mined beginning in the early 1900s. The craggy landscape doesn’t vary from shades of brown besides the occasional pop of color from an ocotillo’s bright red orange flowers or a prickly pear cactus’ warm yellow blooms. High above us are the Summit’s Luxury Caves, hotel rooms carved into the side of the Tres Cuevas Mountain. They look amazing, but I’m not ready for that level of glamping. There are a couple other dome resorts in the Terlingua area, plus a few places with yurts and “luxury tents.” Obviously, roughing it with a queen-size bed is a popular lodging option. With legs stretched, we head back to our dome, excited to see the evening’s entertainment.
After Anne builds a fire in our dome’s firepit—the property provides wood—we mix up mezcal cocktails to sip in our Adirondack chairs and settle in to watch the sunset throw streaks of orange and yellow above the desert ground. I notice for the hundredth time how quiet it is. There are people staying in nearby domes, but we don’t hear anything besides an upset rooster a few miles away. Finally, the sky darkens, darkens some more, and turns inky black. Despite some cloud cover, we are treated to the spectacle of millions of glittery West Texas stars in every direction.
Hours later, smelling of campfire and pleasantly exhausted, we go inside the dome to turn in for the night. I briefly freak out upon seeing a few ants on the floor—discomforts of nature!—but use my shoe to solve the problem, just like a real camper. We decide to leave the flaps on our big window open to see the stars, and then, once in bed, gaze up at more celestial bodies through the 5-foot-diameter stargazing oculus at the apex of the dome.
Maybe this camping thing isn’t so bad after all. I’m sleeping under the stars. I told stories around the campfire. I probably smell kind of bad. I’m not even bothered that we have to use the communal bathroom about 100 feet from our dome—until 3 a.m., when I desperately need it. I creep through the dark interior, turn on my iPhone’s flashlight once outside, and nervously trot over to the restroom. I hope none of the area’s wildlife is hungry or attracted to the smell of Neutrogena Rapid Wrinkle Repair Regenerating Cream. Once done, I gingerly make my way back on the rocky path to the dome but panic when I forget the code to the door.
“Thelma!” I whisper-shout. “Let me in the dome! Hurry!”
“I’m Louise,” Anne says groggily, opening the door. “You’re Thelma. And I told you to not drink so much Topo.”
I sleep peacefully and worry-free the rest of the night and wake early to an eyeful of soft pastels through the big window. I see Anne outside, drinking coffee and taking in the expanse. In just a few hours, we will leave behind the dome and the wild wonders of far West Texas. It’ll be good to get back home, but I’m happy I’ve taken this adventure. Happy to leave not only my comfort zone, but most of civilization, too.
What good is an empty nest if you never fly out of it?
