Momo and I are creatures of habit, wandering through the peculiar tapestry of our country, mainly the desert southwest and the mountains of far West Texas. Drawn like a moth to a porchlight, time and again to the whimsical embrace of a certain town.
Marfa, Texas, stands as a solitary beacon of floating lights in the mountains amidst the vastness, nestled alongside its mysterious neighbors—Alpine and Fort Davis—forming a curious landlocked Bermuda Triangle of odd happenings in the Chihuahuan high desert. Strange lights, ghostly apparitions floating around town, young hipsters from Austin that migrated to the new Nirvana, only to find out that it costs more than they can afford to live there, and who will buy their third‑rate art and used clothing? The local folks call them “Marfa Surfers.” Either the surf is up or down, and then on to the next beach. The average shelf life for these young gypsies is around three to six months: then it’s back to Austin, where their air of weirdness is commonplace.
Each visit finds us returning to the Hotel Paisano, a historic haunt where the stars of the film “Giant” once breathed in the same desert air, their whispers still echoing through the adobe walls, reminding us of the historical stories that linger in this town.
There exists an ever-growing assembly of characters, primed to share the local tales intertwined with a potpourri of exaggerations, all while maintaining a devilish demeanor as they weave their narratives, and Planet Marfa appears to be their favored stage.
Sagebrush Sonny Toluse was my favorite from our last visit. Sporting a long white beard and a wooden leg, courtesy of a large desert dump of toxic nuclear waste from the 1945 Atom Bomb. The waste was eaten by a group of escaped Chihuahuas from a breeder in Persideo, which turned them into vicious, mutated killer mongrels, which in turn relieved him of his right leg. I believed most of it, but truthfully, he’s full of crap, but it was fun crap. I was hoping to run into him again, ply him with beer, and hear a few more stories.
As luck has it, he was at his usual seat at the end of the bar, looking much worse for wear than two years ago. The dry desert air is supposed to preserve one like an Egyptian mummy, but Sonny may be the exception. He looked as if he had been vacationing in Hell and just arrived home that day. His drinking a case of beer a day is not considered medicinal or practical, and he was smoking two cigarettes at a time with a third sitting in a classic Hotel Paisano glass ashtray, ready to be lit. I didn’t see money on the bar, so the kind young bartender likely lets him drink for free these days.
I saddled up beside him, and he remembered me:
“You’re the fella from Fort Worth who liked my stories,” he says.
“Yep, that’s me,” I reply. Mister gullible, but interested enough to listen and use what he tells me, even though much of it is a tall tale, and I do know something about that genre.
I ask the bartender to bring Sonny two beers, on me. He appears to have had more than a few already, but I can sense he is ready to orate a few of his tales. It’s then that I notice he is wearing a black patch over his left ear, and his left arm is missing: his shirt sleeve is held in place at the shoulder by a safety pin, and there is a large area of his scalp on the left side that is bare of hair. The poor man looks like a wreck, so I ask if he was in a car accident. He drinks his beer in one gulp, lights his third cigarette, and I can sense he is going to explain his ghastly appearance. Momo is sitting under a canopy, enjoying a beer, texting, and taking a few pictures. A light rain has started to fall.
Sonny wastes no time and begins his story.
He speaks in between deep draws of his cigarette and swigs of his fourth beer, ” Back about a year ago, I was driving on the highway over by El Cosmico, you know that bunch of hippies from Austin that live in those tents and trailers. There was this 1960s Fairlane station wagon with the hood up, spewing steam, and a family standing by the side of the highway, so I stopped to help. The man said they were from Minnesota and were looking to set up camp in the desert, but couldn’t afford to rent a space in El Cosmico. They were a ragged-looking bunch, three kids, all wearing boxer shorts and sneakers, long hair with fishing lures woven into it. The wife, who called herself Sassy, was cute, but kind of a smart ass. The guy, Tiberius, was really nice. I told them there’s an old abandoned campground about ten miles out that might fit their need, and it has a little pond the kids can swim in. After I put some water in their radiator, they followed me to the spot, which is way out yonder in the desert. When we got there, they were excited to see a few Yurts that were still livable, so after I got rid of the rattlesnakes, they moved right in. It was getting dark, so they asked me to stay for supper and spend the night. I had a cooler full of beer, and they fixed up some beans and weiners and sat around the campfire swapping stories. That’s when I told them about the toxic killer Chihuahuas that roamed the desert at night, and that’s why I have a wooden leg cause they chewed the other one off. They thought I was full of crap and got a big hoot over my story, which was really a warning: this place ain’t safe at night. They laughed so hard, the wife wet her shorts, and they thought I was telling a tall tale. Around midnight, we all said goodnight and hit the hay.
I ordered him two more beers and a fresh pack of cigarettes, and he continued, ” I was sleeping in my truck, and during the night I had to pee, so I hobbled a few feet away from the truck, because at night, I take my wooden leg off to give my stump a rest. That’s when the little demon Chiuauas jumped me. They had been hiding under the pickup, waiting for me. The little demons got me down, chewed off my left ear and most of my left arm, and took a good part of my scalp and hair, which was sparse already. The family woke up after the attack, piled me in the car, and drove me to the hospital over in Alpine, and the doc saved my life, cut off the rest of my arm, and sewed up what was left of my ear and scalp. I was there for a week or so, and when I returned to Marfa, the family had packed up and gone back to Minnesota. They were too weird for me anyway.” I looked at the bartender, and he gave me a smile and a nod, as if to say, It’s all true.
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Great story, Phil! Those demon chihuahuas were probably plastered after eating Sonny’s arm. 🍺💪🐕🐕🐕
Likely so. He doesn’t have many parts to lose, so he may not be around much longer. I’m certain that family from MN is the same one their father wrote me about in
Ask A Texan.
Maybe Sonny can get some Million Dollar Man parts on Ebay.
He’s going to need them if he keeps losing his appendages. Why do you think some of our ancient politicians are still alive, they’ve had all their parts replaced.
🤣🤖
I analyzed every element of that story, and couldn’t find a single one that sounded false. Definitely a true story! And I know the bartender will back me up!
What’s so odd is, the bartender has been there for all 4 of our visits, and I recognized most of the locals, so I assume this is the happening place for Marfa. I don’t believe Sonny will be around much longer, he’s about worn plum out and loosing parts.
I very much enjoyed your great character story, Phil!
Thanks, Terry. We enjoyed Marfa, but not so much Alpine.
The kit fox is the most iconic desert fox in West Texas and is often associated with the region’s folklore and ecosystem. While they’re not as mythical as Sonny’s tales, they are masters of survival in harsh, arid environments—making them the perfect silent witnesses to Marfa’s oddities 😀
I’m aware of them. There is a story in Texas Parks and Wildlife about the foxes in our state. They thrive in that environment. We didn’t see any this last trip, but I do have two gray Foxes that visit my backyard. Bigfoot is rumored to be around the Fort Davis area.
Your storytelling skills are impressive
Thank you, I appreciate that.
I took care of a patient who claimed to be a weatherman during the atomic tests.. he said he told the people the weather changes were all normal🙃
The blast poisoned a group of teenage girls on a campout near Ruidoso. They all died from cancer, and that’s just the ones we know about. I make fun of the effects, but it was quite ghastly. When I went through radiation treatments for cancer, the nurses at UT Southwestern told me the stuff they used was the same that Oppenheimer used for the bomb. I’m not sure if they were kidding or not.
My wife and I visited Alpine/Fort Davis in 2017; we thoroughly enjoyed it. Since Sul Ross is one of my favorite figures in Texas history, we spent time at the university. We loved the statues there.
One morning at a local diner, we sat across from a fellow — probably in his 60s or 70s, the same age as me at the time — and marveled at his very expressive face. Sunburned and weathered, aged by years of hard work. We’ll never forget it. He had the look of Texas about him. I know you know what I mean. He looked tired. He sat at the counter and drank his hot coffee, looking into the distance, maybe remembering earlier times. His pose would have made an outstanding painting.
About Marfa — and the Big Bend, where long before Bonnie and Clyde, Frank Hamer earned his spurs. One may recall the Canales Investigation, when José sought to sink the Texas Rangers for simply being Texas Rangers. I think it was Frank who visited with José and asked whether he’d seen his life pass before him lately. In Marfa, Hamer and Jim Gillett became fast friends, which makes sense given that they were cut from the same cloth.
Enjoy your sojourn — safe travels. We’ll be in San Antonio for a few days next week. It’s about all we can take of Texas’s oldest city.
I’ve seen a few of those old fella’s around those towns. Frank Hamer was quite a character in himself, and a legend. Those parts of Texas carry a lot of history and lore, of which most is true. San Antonio is too congested for me, except for visiting the Alamo every four or five years, just to refresh my spirits and respect for my home state. It’s real hot down here, so bring light clothing.
Gret tall tales Phil…he deserved every drink you bought! The only thing missing…I was sure he was going to mail them some cherry bombs.
Chihuahuas don’t need radiation to be as mean as hell. God knew what he was doing putting all of that anger into a little dog…if they were Saint Bernards that mean…we would have Cujos everywhere.
My late late late Aunt had a Chihuahua and it was a foul tempered little beast. Always snarling and would bite your ankles and hands. She figured a Coyote got him one night when she let him out to potty. You mix those dogs with toxic waste, and you get a predator canine.
Yes you would! They are mean as hell anyway like you said.
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Chihuahuas suffer from Napoleon (small dog) syndrome, according to noted dog psychologists. Plus, they were domesticated by the Aztecs, who were themselves prone to a snarly disposition. They’re probably best used to pull sleds, but the problem is you’d need 50 or 60 of ’em.
I believe all that you say, that’s why, in Mexico, they are the most popular breed of dog. I can’t imagine a wild Chihuahua running around in the jungle. How did the Aztecs do that? The ones in the desert outside of Marfa are part Coyote and full of toxic atomic bomb waste, so that alone makes them killers.
Yes, I worked 💪 on oncology, not the same strength but the same radioactive isotopes. Now we have immunotherapy, which gets our bodies to fight the cancer cell, but for a long time ⌛️ we were given a “cure: that poison healthy and cancer cells
The radiation UT Southwestern gave me was SBRT, high dose, five times. It was a tough go, but it cured the cancer, but damaged other parts of my body.
Celebration: You can now bless 🙌 🙏 US with your wonderful stories 😀
I am blessed and fortunate to have found such a wonderful hospital and a group of Doctors and nurses who did an amazing job. My wife is a retired Cath Lab nurse, and it does take a special calling. Cancer-free for almost 7 years now, but I need a new right knee, and who knows what else will just fall off when walking around. Thanks for the thought. Still playing my mandolin, guitar, and fiddle.
👍❤️ 10 years in rehab—helped countless people regain their strength post-surgery.
Back then, doctors would say “Maybe you’ll need another surgery.” Now? “Highly unlikely”—thanks to tech advancements.
Biggest factor? Find a surgeon with proven competence and low infection rates (it’s public info). That’s also why “no one dies on the table if possible”—statistics stay clean.
My surgeon is top notch, a young fella, late 40s. He did my wifes knee and my rotator cuff so I trust him. His name is Dr. Pepper, and thats the truth. He only does surgery at 10-2-and 4.