– A Visit to Davis Mountains State Park.

It was the night of a full moon when I arrived at Davis Mountains State Park, the kind of evening you hope will unfold into a masterpiece—especially with a camera in hand. But nature had other plans. Thunderstorms had rolled in ahead of me, a rare and welcome sight in a region scorched by prolonged drought. The desert had been bone dry for months, yet now, water was falling from the sky again. Life was waking up.

It was the kind of night you hope to share with someone. But instead of conversation, there was stillness—and a quiet sense that I was right where I needed to be.

A Lodge Built to Endure

Checking into Indian Lodge, I was immediately taken aback by its quiet charm. This white adobe-style hotel, tucked into the folds of the state park, was built by the Civilian Conservation Corps in the 1930s. With handcrafted woodwork and peaceful patios, it felt like stepping into a forgotten world—timeless, quiet, and deeply calming. It was the perfect place to stay and use as a homebase.

Skyline Drive and the Waiting Storm

Two hours before sunset, I packed my gear and drove to the top of Skyline Drive. Hiking is always an option, but with the thunderstorms in the area, I opted for speed and shelter. The first overlook on the drive offers a panoramic view in every direction—a great place to watch the drama unfold. Off to the west, storms gathered and grew. They weren’t moving fast, and that was part of the magic. Lightning bolts flared to the ground miles away, and for over half an hour, I stood in dry wind, watching the dark towers of rain just barely hold their distance.

In most places, the storm would have swept through. But here, the mountains toyed with it. Updrafts and ridgelines stalled the downpour, ripping the clouds apart before reaching me, only to let them reform again. Finally, the gusts picked up hard. It was obvious the storm was going to make good on its promise.

Finding Shelter on the Mountain

Rather than press my luck, I drove east about a mile along the same ridge to the stone Lookout Shelter—another CCC creation built nearly a century ago. Think of it as a large, rustic stone room open on one side, like a window carved into the face of the mountain.

As I looked back toward where I had been standing, I saw it vanish into a wall of rain. My timing had been just right. Inside the shelter, I was dry, even comfortable. The storm roared my way, lightning flashing behind sheets of water, but I had peace. A literal shelter from the storm.

The shelter wasn’t extravagant. Just solid. Open. It wasn’t made to keep the world out—it was made to offer a place to pause, even if only for a while. And in that moment, it was exactly what I needed.

I stayed and watched the weather move on. The storm, even as it soaked the desert, felt strangely personal. I’d come looking for moonlight, but found something deeper: a moment of quiet strength in the midst of chaos. I never saw the moonrise, but the experience didn’t need it. What I got instead was a living picture of protection and provision.

A Base for Exploration

Some places are meant to be stayed in; others seem to ask you to keep going. Davis Mountains State Park does both. From the quiet rooms of Indian Lodge to the stargazing solitude of the overlooks, it offers rest—but it also stirs your curiosity about what lies just beyond.

The domes of McDonald Observatory rise on the horizon, not far from where I stood. The stone walls of Fort Davis remind you that others once sought shelter here too, in a much different time. Each place in this corner of Texas seems to hold its own version of stillness, its own invitation to pause and see.

🧭 Planning to explore more of the region?
We’ve gathered our favorite stops and suggestions in the Big Bend Region Travel Guide—perfect if you’re using the park as a base camp.

Framing the Unexpected

The next evening, I decided to head over to the Marfa Lights Viewing Area. The rains had cleared the skies, removing the usual haze that often hangs over the desert. I wasn’t expecting to see the famed lights—I just wanted to go, to look. And sure enough, no lights showed that night. But something else did.

As the sun dipped toward the horizon, streaks of gold lit up the west. About fifty people stood nearby, eyes on the sky. One of the viewing structures caught my attention—not because of what it was, but because of how it framed the sunset. In that moment, the sky was perfectly captured inside the open rectangle. I raised my camera and took the shot, unaware at first of how much meaning would land in that simple frame.

The night before, I had stood in the stone lookout shelter — also a window — protected from the onslaught of rain. I’d hoped for a moonrise, but got thunder instead. This night, I came hoping for mysterious lights. I got none. But both nights offered something more meaningful. Each time, what I found was a quiet moment framed in a window – not the scene I came for, but maybe the perspective I needed.

Moments Before Change

I can’t remember another time where I was so drawn to images framed by windows. It wasn’t intentional. It simply happened, again and again. And maybe that repetition meant something. Windows are thresholds. Not quite outside, not quite in. Windows hold you there for a moment – they’re the pause before movement, the breath before the step. They speak to potential, to change, and to how a moment you didn’t choose can shift the way you see everything beyond it.

To someone else, they may just be openings in walls or gaps in stone. But sometimes, they’re more. Sometimes they remind you that even if a storm arrives, you’re not left without shelter. Sometimes they hold the light that was meant for you, even when the moment doesn’t come the way you hoped it would.

And maybe—just maybe—windows aren’t only for looking out. Maybe they’re quiet invitations, waiting for someone to return to what they once saw.

📍 Interested in exploring Texas’ natural beauty?
Check out our articles on Texas State Parks — every time we visit, we share captivating stories and stunning highlights from these incredible places!

Letting the Land Speak

That’s what this trip became—not just a chance to photograph a beautiful part of Texas, but an opportunity to be still and let the land say what it needed to say. Out here, storms pause, light reframes itself, and mountains both reveal and obscure. Sometimes, a window appears just when you need it, offering enough light to show a way forward.

When the storm finally reached me, I found refuge in the Lookout Shelter—a literal shield from the rain. Yet, the next evening’s sunset framed perfectly through the open window at the Marfa Lights Viewing Area reminded me that refuge isn’t only about shelter from the storm. Sometimes it’s about fresh perspectives, new light, and hope found in unexpected places.

In both the solid stone walls and the open frames, I was reminded of the truth in Psalm 119:114: “You are my refuge and my shield; I have put my hope in Your word.” Whether seeking shelter from the storm or a window into what comes next, hope is the constant that holds us steady.

No matter if you come for the stars or the silence, chasing answers or simply seeking a little beauty, give yourself time here. Time to hike, to sit still, and to notice what’s framed before you. Often, the best views aren’t the ones you planned—they arrive unexpectedly, whether in a whisper or a roar, and stay with you long after the shutter clicks.

Author: Tim Maxwell