Ham radio, Big Bend, and a weekend I didn’t know I needed
There’s a certain kind of quiet you only find in far West Texas.
The kind that feels like the whole world steps back and lets the land speak first.
This past weekend (January 18th) I found myself back in that quiet… Bundled up in layers, cheeks stinging from the cold, standing at the start/finish line of the Big Bend Ultra in the Terlingua area… and doing something that felt both wildly nerdy and deeply meaningful:
I was volunteering with the Big Bend Amateur Radio Club as communication support.
And somehow, it turned into one of those weekends that settles into your bones. The kind you know you’ll remember later, the kind that feels nostalgic before it’s even over.
The kind of cold you don’t get at home
I’ve been living in Central Texas for over 10 years now, and I thought I remembered the West Texas cold from my childhood.
But clearly, I don’t.
Desert cold is crisp and dry, sharp like clean glass. It sneaks under your sleeves and makes you grateful for every sip of warm coffee. The sky looked extra wide. The stars felt closer. Even the early morning darkness had a kind of clarity to it, like it wasn’t hiding anything.
Terlingua in winter has this no-frills honesty. It doesn’t try to be cozy. It just is. And you either show up prepared… or you learn quickly.
Net Control: where the story comes together
If you’ve never seen a ham radio crew at an endurance race, imagine a relay of voices holding the whole event together; not with spotlight moments, but with steady, quiet coordination.
Our team had operators stationed at the start/finish line (Net Control. AKA where I was) and at every breakpoint along the course. Each spot becomes a small outpost of awareness: a person, a radio, a log, and the art of paying attention.
At Net Control, you become the hub. The point where all the moving pieces return to make sense.
We were tracking runners as they moved across the course. Checking them in, updating their status, logging times, relaying messages, and making sure the right people knew what was happening when it mattered.
Sometimes it was simple:
“Runner XX in.”
“Runner XX out.”
“Copy. Logged.”
Sometimes it carried more weight:
A runner was behind expected pace.
A checkpoint needed an update.
Someone requested transport.
Someone needed help.
And even when everything was going smoothly, the job was the same: be ready.
Because in a place like that… remote, rugged, stunning, and unforgiving in its own way… communication isn’t just helpful. It’s safety. It’s reassurance. It’s the invisible thread that keeps the day stitched together.
A course you can’t fake your way through
Ultra runners are a different breed.
They choose hard things on purpose. They run into miles most people would never even drive through. They keep going when comfort is no longer part of the deal.
From where I stood, I saw the beginning: the nervous energy, the headlamps, the last-minute gear checks, the quiet hype.
And then I watched them return hours later. Faces sun-reddened, dusted in grit, eyes tired in a way that looked almost ancient… and somehow still determined. Some, so pumped up with adrenaline, still looked like they could run another 100K.
There’s a moment in races like this that always gets me: when someone crosses the finish line and you can tell it wasn’t just physical. Something shifted. Something got proven – maybe to the world, but mostly to themselves.
And in our own way, we were part of that. Not running the miles, but helping hold the container for it. Making it possible.
The best part: doing it with my dad
If I’m being honest, the heart of the weekend wasn’t the radios or the logs or the crisp desert air.
It was the fact that I got to do this with my dad.
He’s also a ham, also volunteered, and there’s something so special about sharing a role like this. Side by side, both tuned into the same goal, speaking the same language of call signs and check-ins and “copy that.”
It felt… simple. In the best way.
No big performance. No forced conversation. Just time together, doing something useful, in a place that makes you look up more than you look down at your phone.
And I know someday I’ll miss this exact version of life… The version where my dad and I can still pack up for a volunteer weekend, stand in the cold together, and be part of something that matters.
That’s the part that makes it nostalgic. Because you can feel, even while you’re living it, how quickly time moves.
Why I keep coming back to things like this
I didn’t come home with a medal.
I came home tired, dusty, with two broken nails, and probably still slightly chilled.
But I also came home with that full feeling. The one you get when you’ve done something real. Something that didn’t revolve around productivity or perfection or proving anything online.
Just service. Presence. Community.
A reminder that there are so many ways to be part of a story.
Some people run the miles.
Some people hand out water.
Some people keep the lights on behind the scenes, radio in hand, ready to respond when the desert says, “Hey! Pay attention.”
And for one crisp, beautiful January weekend in Terlingua… that was me.
And I’ll be back next year to do it all again.
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