National Park on the Line
BIG BEND NATIONAL PARK AND CHIHUAHUAN DESERT, MEXICO
THE BROCHURE PROVIDED BY THE RANGER STATION THAT WE read on our drive southward into Big Bend National Park addressed the question, “Is it safe?” The Park Service must have been getting that query regularly and decided to address it head-on. The brochure assured the reader that as long as tourists practice safe driving and watch out for wildlife, they should be free of danger. It warned, however, that buying goods from Mexican people who sell crafts at the river is illegal. Purchase souvenirs only at the designated official areas, the Park Service warned.
Searching the web under Big Bend and the question “Is it safe?” I found that a number of people seem to be afraid they will meet up with drug gangs there. Those familiar with the area, however, are quick to dismiss that fear. For one thing, they say, just south of Big Bend there is the harmless town of Boquillas and then beyond that “a whole lot of nothing.” They reason that if a drug gang wants to make trades with people, they would do so where there are roads, or where there are people to buy or carry the drugs. And those who ask about safety perhaps haven’t seen the height of the mountains or the depth of the canyons there either. Foot travel across the border is nearly impossible at many points in the park.
These painted walking sticks and small copper animals made by a Mexican family were laid along a path in the Big Bend National Park. The sign asks for contributions in exchange for the objects.
There were signs of border fears from a previous era on the official website. A “Did you know?” blurb at the bottom said that in 1942, “soldiers from Fort Bliss installed a machine-gun emplacement along the Rio Grande pointed at Boquillas, Mexico.” That was exactly the same year the federal government began bringing thousands of Bracero workers into U.S. fields to harvest our crops—right in the middle of World War II. As we have seen, the U.S. military wasn’t afraid of a Mexican invasion then, but they were concerned that the Axis soldiers might invade from the south and arrive through Mexico. One gun pointed at Boquillas didn’t seem enough somehow, but then again we’ve done lots of posturing within our border history. Some would argue that building a wall continues that legacy.
Our first destination in the park was Boquillas Canyon, a picturesque stretch of the Rio Grande where the river flows by rock faces pocked with caves, the little bocas (mouths) in the sides of the canyon walls. Hope waited for me while I hiked alone through the intense afternoon heat, heading up over a rocky rise and then down a trail to the river. I never found the remnants of the big gun aimed toward the little hamlet below, but at the rise I did find green and red painted walking sticks and twisted copper-wire scorpions—for sale. There was a green soft-drink bottle with its top cut off and a message beside it saying, please leave money here if you would like to take one of the objects. No one was there hawking; it was just an honor-system jug. Thinking of the warning, I walked by without stopping.
The Rio was so low that I began to step easily on dry rocks making my way across without getting my feet wet, just to see how hard it would be to cross into Mexico. As I jumped along on the rounded rocks, I first noticed the two horses grazing nearby, and then a moment later a man emerged from the cottonwood thicket behind them. I shouted a greeting, “Buenas tardes!” while standing in the middle of the river and he waved and replied in kind. He carried himself with the posture of a humble man, his very stance seeming to offer an apology. “I live over there in Boquillas,” he said, pointing. “I’m a farmer. Those are my horses.” They were his transportation, and his beasts of burden with which he plowed his fields. But this was a difficult place and time to farm, I acknowledged. “Very dry,” he shouted. The rains had not arrived even in the rainy season as they once did. There was a five-year drought. The crops had not germinated. The corn that had started growing was now drying up and the leaves were turning yellow.
I asked him if he was the person who left the copper scorpions and walking canes. He replied, “Yes, my family and I make those.” He would go across the river after dark to retrieve his goods and any money left. “We used to go across without any problem. Now it’s different.” He didn’t plead for money or mention the crafts again. We shouted back and forth a little more about his farming life; then I bid him good-bye and walked back to find Hope.
On the way over the rocks, I stopped at the makeshift sales area along the trail, looked around to make sure no one was watching, dropped a five-dollar bill into the otherwise empty bottle, and picked up a small intricately twisted copper scorpion. I gave it to Hope when I got back to the car. I told her that the proceeds from the gift were probably the only income a small farmer in Mexico had made that day, and that she now was in the possession of illegally traded goods.
. . .
THE NEXT DAY we had scheduled a trip with Big Bend River Tours through Santa Elena Canyon, a stretch of rock etched deeply through millions of years of the Rio’s run. In 1992, the Handbook of Texas had bragged that Santa Elena Canyon was “for dedicated river runners” and featured a “swirling series of Class IV rapids that sling boats.” When we launched the boats with our guide, right away they scraped along the mud and gravel, and things didn’t improve much as we headed upriver. No rapids challenged us; hardly any water swirled at all. But we spent a delightful star-filled night camped at the base of majestic cliffs that lit up with pastel colors at sunset. As we strolled along the riverbank before dinner, a dramatic curtain of shadow drew across the rocks as the sun disappeared and the stars began to glow. We camped far enough uphill from the river to avoid the flash floods that our guide, Wayne, assured us could come any evening—but all night the water remained frighteningly shallow. Another week or two of dry weather and the River Tour companies would have to cancel even the route we were on.
What stood out most about the incredible scenery of the Big Bend canyon is how both towering rock faces of the canyon are required to make the whole of the park. There would be no way to have this park without Mexico. In fact, while in Santa Elena we camped in Mexico. No one checked our papers; our stay in the bi-national natural space posed no threat to anyone. Inside the canyon we could smell cattle on the Mexico side, but we never saw a soul on the rocks above. No one seemed to live anywhere near. At one point we did get out of the boats and climb into an enchanting spring-fed side canyon where the water ran light blue over white rocks. We guessed we could have followed the spring upstream and made it farther into Mexico at that point. No one would have cared.
Wayne took a matter-of-fact attitude about Mexicans coming into Texas, through the park and otherwise. He had interacted with Mexican immigrants his whole life. Nothing seemed wrong to him about people traveling back and forth as necessary. He had once taken a job working with Mexicans chopping out mesquite stumps and had seen how hard they worked in the hot sun. “They are good people and I think if they want to work and there’s jobs for them, they ought to be able to come through.” Then he shifted the discussion elsewhere: “I caught a lot of rattlesnakes back then, too.” “Caught?” I asked. “Yeah, you catch them by the tail and hold it up high and they just try to crawl away from you. They don’t think to turn back to bite you. They’re just trying to get away.” We had seen one small rattler near the boat launch, so we were glad Wayne was around. He wasn’t a bad cook either. His filet mignon cooked on a mesquite fire was unforgettable.
. . .
Heading out of the park after two days of camping, I picked up a weekly newspaper at a café in Terlingua where we ate breakfast. A front-page article said that during the past week President Obama had taken a significant step toward establishing the Big Bend as a “peace park” between Mexico and the United States. He and Mexico’s president, Felipe Calderón, who had just that week visited Washington for talks, had taken steps to protect important transboundary wild lands. They noted the long history of bi-national cooperation and specifically recognized the Big Bend National Park and the Rio Grande, including the Cañon de Santa Elena. They pledged to preserve this region of extraordinary biological diversity. It was a good step and a welcome article to read after scraping along on the bottom of the river while looking at Mexico beside us. The word “fragile” doesn’t begin to capture the state of the river and the park. “Precarious” is more like it. At least the two presidents had given lip service to our mutual future and had signaled a hopeful note about international friendship.
. . .
Leaving the national park and heading west on Route 170, we traveled through a landscape mountainous and parched, yet mesmerizingly colorful and diverse. Most of the land was uninhabited, with one exception: a gated golf community named Lajitas. Peeking through fences, we could see green lawns, and as we drove around a bend and craned our necks back toward the clubhouse, we saw golf greens. We couldn’t understand how any humans could be so oblivious to their surroundings as to pump water to a golf course while living beside the barely running Rio Grande, the landscape around them dying of thirst.
A few bends farther we passed an old Hollywood movie set for a make-believe town named “Contrabando”—a name that captured perfectly America’s fears of Mexico. We stopped and took a few photographs, realizing that what appeared to be solid old western buildings were nothing but façades. A few miles after that we stopped to say hello to five Latino vaqueros riding in an old gray pickup as they repaired livestock fence in the scorching heat just a few feet from the U.S. border. Their work was not at all a façade. Caught in the middle of their job stretching wire, they seemed happy to pose for a photograph and to mark a connection with someone who noticed. As we drove off, a simple joke about the border came to me: When they construct the border fence, who will do the work? I continued the thought: Who built the fence around the gated community of Lajitas? For that matter, who built Contrabando?
We turned northward and drove for half an hour before coming upon another Border Patrol stop. It was in the middle of nowhere and by then at least thirty miles from the borderline. The Border Patrol agent on duty looked into the driver’s window where I sat and, after greeting us, began to ask questions. First, “Why do you have that map?” It seemed a ridiculous question for people driving along back roads near a tourist destination. Then, as we had grown accustomed to being asked, he wanted to know where we were headed. I lost my patience.
“Anywhere we please,” I replied, giving him a sidelong glance. Hope took over. She answered, “We’re leaving Big Bend and heading toward New Mexico.” The officer nodded and after hesitating a bit to look into our car, said, “Thank you, have a nice trip,” choosing to ignore my angry comment. He stepped back to let us pass, and we set off northward through a landscape strewn with boulders, scrub brush, and green and white vehicles. The Border Patrol trucks were everywhere: some parked, some off road, some driving by. Cooling down as we drove, I told Hope again how glad I was she had spoken up when she did. Some scenes at the border might be façades, I said, but border guards are all too real.