Whiskey and Wellness in West Texas
The Curious Case of Dr. Dwinell
It was December 2022, our first winter on the road in the van. Our destination for the evening: Marathon, Texas.
Heading west in my campervan on remote U.S. 90, we were exploring the vast, empty Texas desert on our way to visit Big Bend National Park, located hours from anywhere.
On the road, the winter chill bites hard. My dog and I had driven down to the Deep South to escape the bitter cold up north. But the high desert nights in Texas are quite cold, too.
Upon arrival in Marathon, I checked into the homey Marathon RV Park, then went to explore the town. Given its size, this only took about 10 minutes. Marathon had a population of 275 in the 2023 census. On some days, it appears that tourists outnumber inhabitants.
That it still exists is something of a miracle. The minuscule town of Marathon, in rural Brewster County, survives primarily for two reasons: the Union Pacific freight train runs through it, and it’s also the jumping-off point for tourists visiting Big Bend.
***
While driving up and down Main Street, I spotted the aptly named Railroad Liquors store and decided an alcoholic beverage might be in order for a long, cold winter evening. I parked out front and entered the small, cozy shop, tastefully appointed with western art and décor. Inside, the smartly designed, natural-tone wooden shelves were well-stocked.
The liquor store owner, a tall man with a neatly-trimmed beard, wore a colorful western vest with a Southwestern motif. He leaned across the check-out counter and greeted me with a friendly smile. “Hello. What are you looking for today?” That caused me to freeze.
****
Let’s stop here. Anyone who has ever walked into a liquor store in a small town knows that the employees are often less than friendly. They tend to look morose, like they just finished doing hard time in jail, which might not be far from the truth.
Their reluctance to offer customers any help finding a particular product makes me wonder: Do they want to sell me liquor or waiting for me to leave, so they can steal it?
Local liquor stores are often located in a seedy side of a small town, between a vape shop and a bail bondsman, at a considerable distance from the nearest church. A customer must project dignity and sobriety while walking into and out of the store to avoid being mistaken for a local wino. Climbing into your car and driving in a straight line helps, too.
What kind of liquor store have I stumbled into in Marathon, I wondered, and what explained the chipper attitude of the gentleman addressing me? He seemed keenly interested in knowing what I wanted.
Was it a trick? Was I in danger? The thought of running away crossed my mind. The man behind the counter knew nothing of my furtive thoughts.
***
He stood there, eyebrows raised, waiting for me to speak. I asked for tequila. He nodded. “I think I have something you’ll like. I drink this myself. Follow me.”
He reached for the good stuff, unaware that I am notoriously cheap. To avoid sounding like a skinflint, I blurted out, “Uh, I’m not going to drink it straight. It’s for … making margaritas.”
He gave me an understanding look. “Gotcha. How about this one over here?”
He handed me a bottle of Cazadores, a mid-priced brand. He said he used it himself to make margaritas. Solidarity in spirits, not “liquor-brand shaming.”
I asked how long he had owned the store and if he was from Marathon.
***
He laughed and said, “No, I’m originally from San Diego. I’ve lived all over. For retirement, I wanted to take over a local business that was open to everyone, a friendly spot, one that had a definite niche. The liquor store was for sale, so I bought it.
But actually,” he paused, “This is not my day job. I’m also the town doctor over in Alpine and Marfa.” (The next two towns to the west of Marathon.)
He added that Marathon is West Texas, while Marfa, a much larger town and an arts community, is more like a chunk of Los Angeles that someone dropped in the desert.
***
What? A town doctor who owns a liquor store? You don’t often find a person like this.
It struck me as both incongruous and humorous, an odd couple of occupations. I tried to keep a straight face as I imagined him working by day, wearing a white smock, prescribing medications to be taken with water, and then, after hours, selling customers other concoctions to be consumed either straight or on ice.
This, I said to myself, is an interesting man. There is a story here, and I want to know more.
Presumably, you want to know more about this friendly doctor who transplanted himself into a small town in Texas.
I present to you the curious case of Dr. Mark Dwinell.
***
I wondered what else he might suggest to me?
“Great,” I said. “Thanks for the recommendation. Say, I am just passing through and staying at the RV park. Is there anything going on in Marathon tonight I should know about?”
“Hey,” he said. “My wife and I also live in the RV park in an Airstream trailer. A bunch of us guys get together in the evening around the fire pit at the RV park to drink whiskey, smoke cigars, and tell lies.” My face lit up at the prospect of telling lies, I mean, stories.
“Mark, that may be the greatest thing I have ever heard of! Can I join you guys?”
“Sure,” he said, “You are more than welcome.” On the spot, I decided Marathon, Texas, was the greatest small town in America. This I knew; I had visited so many small towns.
At the RV park, I spotted Mark’s vintage silver Airstream trailer with the trademark round edges, gleaming in the late afternoon sun. Parked next to it was a pristine, vintage Indian motorcycle, painted sea-foam green and ivory, with a set of genuine leather saddlebags. Like the Airstream, the chrome trim shone in the sun.
Mark led an enviable life, I thought.
***
That evening, with my bottle of tequila in hand, I found the group of guys huddled around the large open fireplace, a fire roaring away to dispel the chill of a desert winter night. “Pull up a seat,” Mark said, introducing me to the other liars, I mean, the other guys.
We spent a few hours puffing on cigars of various sizes, sipping whiskey, and telling lies. The cigar smoke swirled around us; the pungent aroma of cigar smoke braced us against the cold, as we sat there, monitoring the pale red glow at the ash end of our cigars.
My lackluster lies paled in significance to the bold lies of more experienced prevaricators.
“Now, this is the way to live,” I thought. “This must be how men lived in prehistoric times.” Sometimes, being primitive has its advantages.
Later, I asked Mark if he would allow me to interview him for the blog post.
***
Not all those who roam do so full-time, but Mark of Marathon has done more travelling than most. Unlike most doctors I have known, who practice for decades in one place, he has had an itinerant medical career, working in many different positions and places.
In addition to owning the Marathon liquor store, Mark is also a former Air Force flight surgeon, a rock guitarist, a motorcycle rider, and the President of the local Chamber of Commerce.
While serving as a doctor in Austin, Texas, he fell in love with the local music scene, taught himself to play guitar, and eventually became the lead guitar in a rock band.
He told me about an elderly Navajo woman in NM, one of his favorite patients, who always dressed beautifully in Navajo style. She puzzled him. No matter how much he smiled at her, she did not return the smile.
I wonder if a reserved manner was a sign of respect in her culture.
Mark said, “At her last visit with me, she shed a tear and told me I was her favorite doctor, ever.” Her opinion meant a lot; I suppose he meant a lot to her, too.
So ingrained in my mind is the idea that doctors only practice medicine and do nothing else that I found it hard to reconcile his M.D. degree with his other hobbies, like motorcycling.
How did this fellow get the travel bug? Mark could not remember a time when he didn’t want to travel. Like many people who wander, it seemed to be in his genes.
Intrigued by the variety of challenges he had tackled, I asked what motivated him to pursue so many things. He shrugged.
“There’s not much to tell. I am just the sort of person who decides to do something, then I go do it. It’s a matter of determination, of motivation.”
And brains, talent, and perseverance, etc. Like anybody could do what he has done. Not all people realize dreams; what made him different?
Mark said he did not reinvent himself to escape a midlife crisis or for prestige. He followed interests that made him feel alive. That might be the formula for lifelong reinvention.
***
“So,” I asked. “What about motorcycle riding? Do you go solo or are you part of a group?”
If he wants to ride his motorcycle, he rounds up fellow riders, and they head out into the desert to some remote spot. “Why does this appeal to you?” I asked. Another pause, followed by a simple answer. “I just love being out in the desert.”
“Can you expand on that?” I asked, using an interview technique I had just learned.
“Well,” he said. “I like to be free, to feel alive. I like the solitude, the independence… I also like to spend less time paying bills and working on patient medical records.”
I can relate.
For those who want to know more, Mark married Emely 12 years ago, after they had dated for 10 years. He also has two children, both grown, who live on their own.
Although planning to retire from medical practice and relax more, Mark said he agreed to take on the position of President of the Chamber of Commerce in Marathon out of a sense of civic duty and because he wanted to help it become financially solvent. Now, it is.
It all keeps him busy. “Honestly, I work more now than I did before I retired.”
***
Thanks to Mark and to the RV Park’s coterie of dedicated liars, Marathon remains my favorite small town in America. If you have time on your hands or your hands are on time, and you have no idea where to go, drive west on U.S. 90 to visit Marathon.
It should take you about a week to get there. You will meet nice people like Mark. He may not speak much about himself, but his zest for life and wide-ranging interests speak volumes. For those of us still figuring things out, his approach seems like good medicine.
Stop in the Railroad Liquor store after 5 p.m., and you may find Mark minding the store. If you are so inclined, ask when the guys are meeting at the RV park to drink and tell lies.
Tell a few for me. And take inspiration from Mark. You, too, can reinvent yourself.
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Carl, I absolutely love this story! Your writing is captivating and enjoyable. I found myself smiling and chuckling to myself.
Hey Marta, well, hopefully my writing is improving. Thanks for the compliment. Much appreciated!