Eight Days On The Rio Grande

Walter and the Mexicans immediately start conversing in rapid-fire Spanish. The men had swum across the river into the United States the day before and made the precarious climb out of the canyon. All they carried between them was a single plastic one-gallon water jug. Soon after gaining the plateau—at which point their plan was to hike cross-country to some unknown distant road—they had been hounded back into Mexico by a Border Patrol helicopter.

“They were headed up to Ft. Worth for the winter, then Cincinnati in the summer, where they heard they can find work as brick layers,” Walter says. “But their plan now is to walk back into Mexico—three days across the desert—to a road where they’ll be able to catch a ride. It’ll take several more days to get back to the village where they’re from. Then, after they gather their strength and resources, they’ll try to enter the U.S. again.”

At this point, one of the Mexicans, silent until now, speaks up. It’s difficult to tell how old he is, but, like his compadres, I guess he’s in his late 20’s or early 30’s. His face is dark and cheerless, and he rubs his rough hands together in worry. Walter translates again. “He says there is nothing for them in Mexico, no work, no future. This is something they must do to survive. But right now they are very hungry, very tired. He is asking if we can spare some food for them for their long walk ahead.”

I can be hardhearted at times about human suffering, but the tale of desperation I’ve just heard leaves me deeply moved. These men are willing to abandon their families and homeland, risk everything, including their lives, to find poorly paid work that few Americans will do.

We tell the men that we’ll return in a few hours with some provisions, and trudge through the pitch-black gulch to our own camp. The contrast is startling. Half of our group is sitting in lawn chairs around a blazing fire, sipping vino or hot chocolate and munching on appetizers. The other half is hard at work over roll-up tables and three propane stoves, preparing yet another sumptuous feast: grilled chicken quarters with yellow squash, zucchini, new potatoes, carrots, onions, bell peppers, and celery, plus grilled fillets from the five-pound channel cat someone had caught. Served on the side will be Italian garlic bread. Desert will be a Dutch oven-baked double-chocolate cake.

After everyone has eaten their fill there’s still plenty of delectable leftovers, enough for at least three to four full-sized meals. Walter, Gary, and I hastily prepare a care package for the other camp, throwing in some extra goodies from our own personal snack stashes. A few others kick in as well. However, there are two or three among us—folks who, for the most part, I like and respect—who choose not to give. Over the course of the past few days these people have expressed resentment, even anger, toward Latinos who cross illegally into the United States. How it’s just a matter of time before Texas—our entire country—is “Mexicanized,” completely overrun by “beaners” and “wetbacks.” How our impotent federal government is doing nothing to stem the flood tide. Yet right here and now, it is we Americans who are the illegal ones. We could be arrested, fined, and imprisoned for overnighting on the sands of another country. Long gone are the halcyon days when people of both nations were allowed to come and go as needed.

Our reunion with the Mexicans is hurried. Without getting up, the ravenous men smile and thank us as we hand them the food. We shake each of their hands and wish them suerte, and then follow the beams of our headlamps back to our own bustling, merry camp.

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As anticipated, the portage is long, tiresome, and withering in the burning mid-day sun.

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After a day of lounging around the hot springs and exploring side canyons, we break down our small village, load our canoes under the warming sun, and descend again into a canyon as narrow as a Manhattan avenue. Shadowed by the towering walls, we push down long, quiet pools separated by scattered Class I and II rapids. S-shaped loops and curves disappear into distant canyons far beyond. Paradoxically, we are paddling through one of the driest, harshest regions in North America. The only green in the landscape hugs the river’s banks. Here grow impenetrable thickets of salt cedar, mesquite, seep willow, and wild cane. A stone’s throw from the river a different, more desolate landscape holds sway. Typical Chihuahuan Desert plants—creosote, yucca, ocotillo, lechuguilla, and all kinds of cacti—scallop the rugged mountainsides in dull shades of yellow and somber browns.

Much of our banter this late-November day focuses on Upper Madison Falls, the biggest, baddest, and most complex rapid in the Lower Canyons. Most of the veteran canoeists among us already know that at these lowish water levels, they will portage the Class III-IV drop along the rough Mexican bank. But Marc, also a veteran Rio Grander, is determined to sneak down the dangerous rapid rather than portage the massive payload he’s carting in his solo open boat. “Hell, if I die I can’t think of any better place to do it than at Madison Falls here in the Lower Canyons,” he crows. “Unless it’s in bed after getting shot in the ass by a jealous husband!”

After a time-consuming capsize at Rodeo Rapid (where our fearless leader gets toasted in the strong Class III suckhole), we reach Upper Madison a day late. After a perfunctory scout, even Marc admits the rapid is too bony to run. The river has been dropping slowly but steadily since we shoved off six days ago, mostly because of scant rainfall in the Rio Conchos drainage of Mexico. Upstream of the confluence with the Rio Conchos, the Rio Grande is sucked almost dry by a thousand miles of irrigation ditches between its cradle in the snows of Colorado and the free-flowing, wild and scenic section that begins in Big Bend National Park.

As anticipated, the portage is long, tiresome, and withering in the burning mid-day sun. The “trail” snakes through a jumble of boulders that have broken off the walls looming to our right. About halfway through the three-hour grunt, I’m alone at the end of the ant line, waiting for the next canoe to be handed down to me at the downstream staging pool. It’s sublimely quiet, broken only by the lilting song of a canyon wren. Suddenly, a barrage of gunshots replaces the tranquility.