When it comes to anyone's immediate living environment, it pays to understand the neighborhood... and when that neighborhood includes the twelve foot Mexican border fence just over a mile away, the neighborhood is both complex and fascinating. Our off grid acreage is full of red dust, fierce wind, mesquite trees, Border Patrol officers traveling via SUV or on horseback, and pedestrian Mexicans heading north.

In the roughly six weeks we've lived here, I've seen half a dozen "BP Roundups" during my sometimes daily journeys back and forth between our camp trailer and the town of Sierra Vista some twenty-five miles to the north. In each case, two or more Border Patrol officers have been alert and on their feet, supervising roughly a dozen Mexican men--some little more than boys, some clearly older. There is an extremely deep wash in the vicinity which serves well to hide men on foot, and at least one of those roundups took place where a wide dirt street crosses the wash. In all cases, the northbound men are seated while the officers are presumably processing everyone prior to transport and eventual deportation.

The closest such roundup to date, at least that we've witnessed, took place a scant quarter mile from our residence, just where our (dirt) cross street intersects the wider (dirt) street. When we first arrived on the land, we inadvertently uncovered several items covered with mere inches of dirt--a water bottle for one, as well as a tee shirt in extra large that looked like it had been used to change oil in somebody's car. Obviously, the daily and nightly foot-caravans had frequently trekked right through where our vehicles and storage sheds now sit.

Are we concerned for our safety? No. Not in the least. We know the northbound gentlemen haven't the slightest interest in bothering us. None of those seated by the side of the road under the watchful eyes of BP officers have ever appeared to be traveling with more than the clothes on their backs. As it stands, they face no worse penalty than being returned to Mexico--although with the murder tally rising rapidly on the other side of the border, that penalty may not be insignifant. Certainly none of the weary travelers wish to increase their risk under the law by stealing or harrassing American citizens...with the one exception being the armed drug runners that have been known to shoot their way back to the border when pursued by law enforcement. But for the most part, despite a known increase in illegals packing a criminal past, these are peaceful people doing their best to become better providers for their families.

Besides, they have to know that most people who choose to live in these semi-remote areas have the Border Patrol's local number taped up on the refrigerator, possibly a loud or even vicious alarm dog, and more than likely loaded firearms they actually know how to use. No, like the situation between a startled human and a startled diamondback rattlesnake, they are wisely more wary of us than we are of them. But still, just as we don't wish to accidentally step on a five foot diamondback, we don't wish to step on a sleeping six foot Mexican, either--although in all fairness, few of the travelers are likely to be caught sleeping this close to the border. I would not in their position; that's for sure.

Which all adds up to one incontrovertible fact: When I found obvious evidence of a travel route that passed only a few dozen yards to the east of our sleeping quarters, my interest was more than piqued.

It was a fine day, I snapped the shot, but mostly thinking that the bottle could have been dropped by a construction worker (while digging the pipeline for our well water, or even while drilling the well itself), or a teenager out partying long before we were in the area, whatever, whoever. There were plenty of other photographic subjects available, starting with kangaroo rat holes. Having read online that kangaroo rats dig their own burrows, usually at the base of a sheltering shrub or tree, I was having the time of my life going, "There's one! Ah! Another!"

There's an old saying that if something looks like a duck and walks like a duck and quacks like a duck, then it's probably a duck. For a time, I remained focused on the hole question: Was the burrow shown in the lower photo (above) dug by a kangaroo rat, or by something else? The holes look much alike, at least to my layman's eye, but the nearest tree cover for this particular hole was nearly twenty feet away. My vote was leaning toward calling it a rathole, just one built by an eccentric rat or a rat with a learning disability that never graduated from the class in Using Trees For Protective Cover From Owls.

Then, as I wandered slowly northward, tracing a line parallel to the eastern boundary of our property, I stumbled onto a discovery that grabbed my full attention: An entire, abandoned backpack. Tracking human footprints in this land would require an old school Apache warrior, what with the wind scouring the place daily and red-dusting everything over. A backpack, however, is truly a more than humongous "track"...especially when it contains an empty water bottle. Even this white boy can't miss a sign like that.

The discarded pack might not have been dropped by the same individual or group that dropped the first empty bottle. Clearly it had been out weathering under the none too gentle supervision of Mother Nature for some time. Nonetheless, it suddenly occurred to me that the bottle and the pack were lined up almost exactly along a direct south-to-north compass line. If this had been a heavily traveled route for illegals, there should be more indications farther north (or south, but I wasn't headed in that direction). Perhaps they were swinging a bit wider of our place now, or perhaps not--but there should be stuff lying around in either case.

And there was. Not more than fifty yards farther along, another empty bottle showed itself.

Not all that far from the northern edge of our property, I took a second look at something I'd seen several times before without considering it's significance. In that spot, somewhat in the open but with mesquite trees and other vegetation surrounding the area at no great distance in any direction, there sits a pile of dry sticks. With my newfound awareness, the reason for that stickpile was blazingly obvious: A group of northbound pedestrians (they seem to seldom travel alone, most likely for security and simple survival) must have gathered the wood with the intention of starting a warming fire.

If you think a warming fire might be a luxury or even ridiculous in desert terrain, consider this: Even in the month of June, this particular acreage has seen daytime highs approaching 100 degrees Fahrenheit, followed by night time lows of 43 degrees Fahrenheit...in the same 24 hour period. Additionally, consider the fact that most of these folks are on the move without so much as a warm jacket to ward off the chill of the night. Forty-three degrees might not be enough to kill you if you're a hardy enough Soul, but it could surely make you think you were going to die, or to wish you would, especially if you hadn't eaten in hours...or days. And this is far from the coldest part of the year. I pulled into Sierra Vista one January morning three years ago when the temperature was in the low 20s and there was actually a dusting of snow on the ground.

Then again, if the woodpile was meant to be a warming fire, why was it not lit? The open ground meant the would-be fire builders were savvy to the dangers, keeping its location as far from dry grass and brush as they dared. But they never got to warm themselves. Why? Two possible reasons jump to mind; there may be more:

1. They were suddenly aware of Border Patrol presence in the area--the BP even has a helicopter that covers this area with a searchlight on some nights, though not all.

2. They tried to light the fire but failed.

Either way, those had to be some cold men who abandoned the project.

It has long been a theory of mine that the greater the beauty of any land, the greater the danger that lies therein. It is easy to comprehend that idea when contemplating the great ice floes of the polar regions or the depths of an Amazonian jungle. Some might argue a contrary view by pointing to the beautiful land of Hawaii, asking where the danger lies there--to which I would respond, Do the words Pearl Harbor, volcano, shark, or typhoon mean anything to you? Applying the theory to southeastern Arizona, then, we first consider beauty as exemplified in the splendid sunset that followed my Day of Discovery regarding the illegal immigration route explored in this Hub.

Pam and I are firmly rooted here already. When we watch a light show at sunset like the one above, it gives us nothing but pleasure despite the fact that I'm still hunting for work and we are for the moment continuing to eat far more pork and beans than we are even hamburger, let alone the elusive, nonexistent steak. But we have sufficient food if plain, plenty of water, shelter with locks on the doors, and no reason to move around after dark. Oh, sure, I may be up until midnight producing a Hub, but with the necessary electricity (powered by a portable generator) and a sixty watt light.

What would my reaction to that sunset be if I were a desperate breadwinner for my hungry family, waiting only for full darkness to climb that twelve foot fence and set off with a few other men through hostile terrain? Not all such travelers live through the experience, but I would not dare even think about that...or about the chance of stepping in a hole and breaking a leg...or God forbid stepping on that startled rattlesnake we mentioned. After all, even a two foot diamondback in the pitch dark assumes the proportions of a thirty foot Anaconda, every prick of a sharp mesquite thorn a rattler's bite...every....

No. Stop there. I really don't want to know. We passed TMI, Too Much Information, some time back. I don't even really want to think about the politics of the situation, understanding quite well the viewpoints of law enforcement (our close and busy neighbors, the Border Patrol)...and the desperate northbound breadwinners (the illegal immigrants)...and the American landowners (that would be us).

One thing I do know: I would not wish to trade places at any price, not even traveling under a full moon.

Thanks for reading,

Ghost32