Memorial Day in the desert

     We commemorated Memorial Day by hiking to three shrines in the Sonoran desert and leaving water and food along the trail in an effort to prevent the creation of future shrines.

     We were walking along the side of a hill when Bob stopped and began peering around.  He stepped off the trail and started working his way up through the spiny ocotillo.  After a few minutes he saw the cross and a small pile of rocks.  He took some rope out of his pack, knelt down, and lashed the cross solidly together again.  Bob had found the remains of a migrant there in March of last year.  We sat down in the scant shade of a mesquite tree and contemplated the tragedy that had occurred at that site.

     The trail continued up to a saddle between the hills a quarter mile away.  This is a resting place for migrants where Bob and Dorothy had hung four packs beside the trail a week before.  They checked the packs and the water and food they had placed inside was all gone.  We unloaded the water and food packets we had carried and restocked those packs.  It felt like an appropriate way to honor the person who had died just down the trail.

     We continued hiking and after a while Bob led us to a tree which has a cross and a candle at its base.  That marks the site where he found the remains of a migrant in February of this year.  We again sat in the shade for a long moment of silence.

     A short distance away, Bob brought us to the third shrine.  He found the remains of another migrant there on that same day in March 2011.  The bones he encountered were of a small person, probably a woman. 

     I asked Bob a few questions about the shrines and I started to feel overwhelmed – sadness at those painful deaths and anger over a border strategy that deliberately funnels people into such remote and deadly terrain.  I took a few steps away and tried to focus on the mesquite trees and the feel of the breeze on my face.  The cactus behind the cross was in bloom – beauty and tragedy, side by side.

     “I don’t want to have to place another shrine in the desert,” Bob told me.  “It hurts to do so but I don’t want people to be forgotten.”

     

Alone in the desert

     We had been hiking for a couple hours on May 5 when we saw a man walking towards us on the ridge.  We were following the trail south towards Mexico and he was heading north.

     “Are you OK?” we asked.  “They chased us this morning,” he replied.  “I got separated from the group and I’m lost.”  “Who were they?” we inquired.  “La Migra (Border Patrol).” 

     “Do you have water and food?” we asked.  “No,” he said.  Al gave him a pint bottle of water which he quickly gulped down.  It was just 10 A.M. and it was already getting warm.

     “Have you seen a group of people?” he asked.  We did see a group about an hour earlier.  We had reached the edge of a cliff and were looking into the canyon when Al saw four people walking down an ATV (all-terrain vehicle) trail.  We watched as a Border Patrol truck came into the canyon and drove towards the bottom of the trail.  We heard some noise and saw two Border Patrol agents on ATVs riding down that same trail.  The people, ATVs, and truck disappeared from view behind the trees and we couldn’t see what happened next.

     We told him what we had witnessed and pointed out where it had occurred.  He was hoping to catch up with the group but that no longer seemed possible.  “Can I go with you?” he asked.  We explained that we’re members of the Samaritans and put water and food along some of the trails.  We were just out for the day and we weren’t going to be hiking further north.        

     We gave him bottles of water and food packs, and talked about the danger of continuing the trip alone (see photo of the terrain heading north).  He said he was going to wait and see if another group came along that he could join.  If not, he would walk back to Mexico.

     We asked where he was from and he told us Guatemala.  I asked where in Guatemala and he said Quetzaltenango.  I had gone to language school there twenty years ago.  Quetzaltenango is in the western highlands of Guatemala at an elevation of 7,500 feet – a world away from the arid landscape of the Sonoran desert.   

     He looked to be about my age and all he was carrying was a sweater, and no pack.  He thanked us, gathered up the water and food in his arms, and walked south back up the ridge.  We turned around and started down the ridge into the canyon.  Shortly after reaching the canyon road, we passed two Border Patrol trucks parked (with engines running) in the shade of some trees.

     We continued on to the main road and began walking back to where we had parked the truck.  Along the way, we saw a road sign: “Travel Caution: Smuggling and illegal immigration may be encountered in this area.”