One Hump or Two?

Riding a camel across the West Texas sand dunes, I got in touch with my inner O'Toole— and left the modern world far behind.

"SQUEEZE HIS NOSE," SAYS DOUG BAUM, a.k.a. the Camel Man, pointing at Gobi, one of three camels kneeling by a big trailer in the campground at Monahans Sandhills State Park, thirty miles southwest of Odessa.

Keeping a prudent distance, I examine these beasts with bad reputations and big teeth and skin like cheap carpet. They look placid enough, so I clamp my cowboy hat on my head and walk closer, trying to move like a man with natural authority over large animals. Gobi has a huge head, enormous eyes, and a long, soft snout like a giant plush toy. "Harder," says Baum. I grab the top of Gobi's nose and maul it, and he bats his eyelashes as you might if somebody you liked nibbled your earlobe.

The Camel Man is an amiable, squarely built guy in his mid-thirties. If your church wants to stage the Nativity tableau or your movie script calls for desert action or you simply want the kids at your school to have a fun time, Baum will haul his herd across the Southwest to help you. He and his wife, Trish, run the Texas Camel Corps, the only camel operation in the U.S. that offers regular overnight treks. Our trip through the Sandhills will take us across some of these rolling dunes, which extend for two hundred miles northwest into New Mexico. The park's active dunes—vast, slowly shifting waves of sand—provide the perfect backdrop for imagining yourself in the real Arabian desert of romance and adventure.

I watch as the Camel Man fits Gobi with his "reverse bra," a large piece of foam padding with holes for the Bactrian's two fat humps to flop through. Between the humps goes a wooden saddle; over it Baum slings four heavy packs containing everything we trekkers will need. He supplies the food and tents; we—Joann and Mike, a Houston couple celebrating her fiftieth birthday, and I—bring our sleeping bags, sunscreen, and spare underwear. Gobi is the beast of burden for this trip. The two other camels, single-humped dromedaries named David and Richard, will carry only their riders. The three of them wait patiently in the hot sun while Baum prepares them for the ride and we gingerly get acquainted with our mounts. "Hello, David," I say, patting my camel's head. He bares his teeth and wrinkles his nose at me, and I wonder if I am about to be spat upon, but the gesture brings a look of affection to the Camel Man's eyes. He places a thin foam pad and a Mexican blanket over David's back, hump and all; together we hoist a three-sided metal frame over the blanket, and he cinches it tight. Baum calls the side rail the "oh, shit" bar. It seems that David is an adolescent camel, not yet ready for a proper saddle—and not exactly broken in. Baum says he figured I would have more to write about this way. Oh . . . darn.

I climb onto the camel's back and pull on the reins. David lurches to his feet, and I grab the bar and my hat as I am instantly propelled six feet into the air. Unlike Mike, who is sandwiched between Gobi's floppy humps, Joann and I are riding behind our camels' one hump, where, like on the back of the bus, you feel every bump. At least Joann gets a proper saddle; I am keenly aware of the sharp ridge of my camel's backbone. On the way here, I had envisioned myself as Charlie of Arabia, galloping across the sand, but right now the idea of my camel moving any faster than an amble is extremely disconcerting. All illusions shattered, I am immensely relieved that David is tied to Richard, who is tied to Gobi, who is being led by Baum, on foot, at an unhurried pace. Baum explains that, in fact, the bedouin would normally walk their camels over steep sand dunes like the ones here at the park. It's pretty obvious why. If the camel is the ship of the desert, I am George Clooney trying to ride the perfect storm, except that I feel as if I'm sitting on the steering wheel.

Doug Baum grew up in Big Spring with two passions—music and exotic animals. "I was fascinated with animals as a way of finding out about the geography of other countries," he says. But music won out initially, and in September 1992 his career as a drummer took him to Nashville, where he found work with rising country star Trace Adkins. Gigging at night left Baum twiddling his thumbs during the day, so he took a job at the Nashville Zoo working with the apes and the monkeys. When the zoo needed a volunteer to help out with its newly acquired camels, he took on the task.

Then, in 1996, Adkins landed a record deal, so Baum said good-bye to the zoo and went on the road. He didn't like it at all. After a year, he and his wife moved back to Texas—to Waco, where Trish found a job at Baylor University.

Pondering his next step, Baum remembered the tale of the short-lived U.S. Camel Corps of the mid-nineteenth century. In 1853 Jefferson Davis, then the U.S. Secretary of War, got wind of a plan to use camels on a trade route across the Southwest and, seeing military possibilities, persuaded Congress to fund a camel military corps. As a result, some seventy camels were transported from the Ottoman Empire (now Turkey) and North Africa to Texas. A Lieutenant Edward Beale led the corps from its base at Camp Verde, in Kerr County, on a trial expedition to California. Beale praised the animals, but the troops disliked their smell and their demeanor—and they scared the bejesus out of prospectors' mules—so the Army eventually abandoned the project.

Inspired by this tale, Baum called Tom Smith, the Indiana animal dealer who had supplied the Nashville Zoo, and Smith told him about a Bactrian that was

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