Crossing with the Virgin: Stories from the Migrant Trail

Story Thirty-eight

Story Thirty-eight T oday was different. I traveled alone. I traveled to some places I had not been before. I went to a hill off Brown Canyon with a sign that says, “Vehicles prohibited beyond this point.” That doesn’t keep the Border Patrol from climbing up to the crest in their vehicles . I drove up. And of course it was obvious. You can see every thing for 360 degrees for a long way. It’s a perfect place to perch when you want to see things like migrants or mules or Samaritans or whatever. I saw deer. I saw things I could not identify through my field glasses. A little piece of red under a tree a quarter mile away. A truck way over about a half a mile, just sitting under some trees. A hunter? Or the hunted? I did not investigate. Mule deer moving, ever moving. They don’t stop, can’t stop. All of this on a windswept hill under the watchful eye of Baboquivari Peak, the sentinel whose eye is not only the beacon and guide to migrants who walk the trails north but also the beginning of all beginnings for the native people who have lived in the area for a lot longer than others of us. When the sun comes up and places his red warmth on the eastern flank of its countenance, you can know inside of your heart that you have witnessed something that has guided many people and given them a sense of place in this wide country for many, many years. Most of the tracks are a day old. Cutting sign, the Border Patrol had dragged the dirt road with large tires, erasing old footprints so that newer ones would show. The migrants keep moving if they can. I would too. I did find three, though, between mileposts 18 and 19. One had wrenched his knee and could hardly walk. They were from Acapulco. They wanted to go back to Sasabe, where they had crossed, and then go home. They asked for a ride, but I said it wasn’t possible, “It’s against the law.”“La pinche migra,” one of them said. 200 stories from the migrant trail The one who had wrenched his knee had a huge belly, like he drank a lot. I thought, no wonder he twisted something. It’s amazing they got eighteen miles into the country with him. The other two were in a little better shape for the desert. One was young and very slight with a wispy mustache. The other was thick and had a bunch of silver teeth. They were in relatively good spirits because they had been walking only twenty-four hours, and the high temperature was only eighty or so. Heat wouldn’t kill them, but the cold after the sun went down might. I drove to Sasabe and called it in on 911 and then returned to their location just as the Border Patrol officer arrived; a young Latino man, all macho, with shades. The three were no longer there. I said to him, “I called it in, sir, told them to wait for you or me.” He looked at me coldly. I went on: “Apparently someone picked them up, cuz the one dude was not walking anywhere—his knee was pretty messed up.” The agent turned away from me in disgust and began walking toward his truck. Why was he pissed at me? I was just trying to help. It could mean only two things to me. Someone had picked them up and headed south to return them to the border without having to deal with “la pinche migra,” or someone had picked them up and headed north. Either way this agent wasn’t going to be able to arrest them. ...