Crossing with the Virgin: Stories from the Migrant Trail

Story Twenty

Story Twenty I t was still dark when I arrived at the shed behind the church.Winter, 5:45 a.m. Your senses go into high gear when you are alone and in the dark. I looked around the parking lot to see if anyone was nearby, friend or foe. Even though the shed is behind the all-embracing Southside church, in the dark of the morning not everyone walking the alleys has generosity and equanimity in mind. Usually more cars would be arriving, but today I was on my own. Two other volunteers had planned to go on patrol, but this morning at 5:30 one called to tell me he had the flu, and the other one had called the night before to say her child was sick. It’s always a chore to arrange a schedule for these patrols, so I decided to go alone anyway. I parked my truck so the headlights shined on the shed door, where you have to get down on your knees to fumble and cajole the key into the recessed lock of the big metal door. Whoever designed this system didn’t consider the hard-earned dignity of human beings. I hadn’t even started my trip and I was already dirty, knees in the damp soil, numb red cut fingers slamming against the edge of the cold metal lock. I loaded up the Rodeo with supplies—the darned things are heavy when you’re alone—and headed out. Not able to resist that delicious sludgy Circle K coffee, I stopped to buy one for the road. As I hit I-19 toward Nogales, I tuned into La Caliente, 102.1 FM on the radio, a Radio en Español channel, so I could keep in mind Spanish verbs and the general sense of celebración that come from an early morning radio show. All was well in this best of all possible worlds. I like traveling alone. Almost to Arivaca Road; the sun was rising, cutting out a sharp silhouette of Elephant Head peak and Mount Wrightson. As I pulled into Amado, I saw a couple of Border Patrol trucks, the agents chatting by 118 stories from the migrant trail the side of the road. I turned and drove by some washes at the edge of town. Not seeing any fresh signs of people, I headed back and went to the town of Arivaca, passing the mercantile. For a moment, I thought of stopping and running in to get another coffee. But I moved on, passing several sites in the Buenos Aires refuge, and randomly chose to go in at milepost 7. I parked by some trees, put on my backpack, and locked up the car. I headed down a trail west of the milepost marker, ducked under mesquite branches, scoured the path for fresh footprints. None. I made my way down a little hill into the first wash, looking around for signs. In the crisp morning air, I heard wind and crackles and chirps. Years ago, the day after my divorce, I had walked here with Max, my Airedale. Not paying attention, we had almost bumped into a huge mesquite branch, jutting out into the wash so low I could have hit my head on it. With an astounding whoosh, out of proportion to the stillness , a mammoth owl lifted off the branch right in front of us, its dark wings bigger than solitude. But at this moment there was no owl, no dog, no footprints. I resumed walking and began to call out in Spanish, “Hola, somos amigos . . .” Hello, we are friends, we have food, water. We come to help . . . Hello, we are friends, we have. . . . I walked and called for a long time. I was now in the Big Wash; thick trees bent to the sand, morning light filtered through leaves. I didn’t see him at first. I don’t know where he came from. He was just there, ahead, walking rapidly toward me. I stopped. He moved fast. When he was a yard away, he demanded,“¿Estás sola?”Are you alone? I said, “Are you alone?” He said yes. I said my friends were back up the trail behind me. I kept my eyes on his eyes, but listened for any footsteps that might be joining us. “What are you doing?” I asked. “Walking,” he said, smiling. “Are you thirsty?” I broke into my Samaritan litany. “We have water and food. Are you hungry...