Border Patrolling

With an average of 333 days of sunshine a year, Yuma is the vegetable garden of the country in the winter. Fields spread green as we drove east out of the city. Acres of orange trees, heavy with fruit, and of lettuce, in various stages of development, created a patchwork of color in between trailer courts outside of town. "I read last night that Yuma processes two million pounds of lettuce a day in the winter at nine plants," said Andy. "It's grown on 380,000 irrigated acres outside Yuma, but what I thought was most interesting was the laser leveling."

I looked across the super flat fields. He explained that laser leveling created a most effective and efficient watering system. "All those fields are irrigated," he added. "Plus there is water for 35,000 trailer sites in the immediate Yuma area."

We passed a snowbird park with trailers lined as far as we could see. "That's one of them," said Andy, "but a lot of the parks are not filled until after the holidays."

Outside the city, Border Patrol stopped every vehicle. One sniff of Little Red, one glance at our license plate, one question about citizenship, and the guard waved us on.

The road crossed the Gila Mountains into the Mohawk Valley, bordering the Air Force testing range. "This is a practice bombing range," explained Andy, "which deters the Mexican illegal immigrants somewhat."

A morning fog hugged the valley floor like a dense cloud. We learned later that fog is usual after a winter rain.

Then we entered desert nothingness--flat expanses of creosote bushes.

Ignoring the GPS in Gila Bend, we turned south on Arizona #85 through the Goldwater Air Force Range. We passed five different trucks checking fences. One man actually looked like he was attaching a sensor as we zipped by. "Those are probably border patrol agents," said Andy. "I know this is one of the most problematic areas, and the government has clamped down."

South of Gila Bend, maybe 75 miles from the border, still another check point stopped vehicles. Flashing speed signs slowed us to 15 m.p.h., but the uniformed guard waved us through.

We pulled off the road three times for pictures in Crater Mountains. Overhead and all around us jets practiced low level flying, but only the roars and booms suggested their presence. Not until we entered Childs Valley could we spot the two fighters banking, accelerating and swooping low.

Andy remembered the Ajo of years ago as a few tumbled-down buildings with a decrepit copper mine. Now the town rambled for miles. Orange, red and fuchsia bougainvilleas bloomed everywhere, climbing on trellises up sides of houses, accenting doorways as bushes along walks, festooning the fountain in the center of town. The historic buildings of town plaza, the churches, all refurbished and white washed, reminded us of Santa Fe, New Mexico. "No worries about church and state separation here," said Andy, as we walked around the backdrop for a Christmas pageant on the green. Lampposts hung with wreaths accented street corners. For Northern Yankees, the combination of live flowers growing on buildings and winter holiday decorations seemed incongruous.

"The mine is still closed," said a volunteer at the Chamber of Commerce, but the town of Ajo seemed comfortable.

Another mobile border patrol greeted us at the entrance to Organ Pipe National Monument. This one looked portable. The guards just nodded hello. They don't care about Americans headed toward Mexico.

Andy has always loved Organ Pipe National Monument, but with recent unrest along the Mexican border, his decision to explore the area surprised me.

Organ Pipe's Ajo Mountain Drive is "the best way to see the monument," said Ranger Vivian. "It's a 21-mile dirt road, passable in a car and yes, safe. I wouldn't be here if it wasn't safe." Driving slowly over the rough gravel surface, we headed into the Sonoran Desert, the most diverse desert in North America. Unique because it gets two rainfall periods--one in late winter and another in late summer--this area is home to more than 4,000 species of plants and animals. Many of them migrated from the tropics or descended from tropical species. For the next four hours we didn't see a human being, and even though drug traffickers and illegal aliens have carved more than 130 miles of illegal roads in the park itself, we felt safe.

But Poor Little Red! Vivian had promised "passable by car." Rocks cluttered the narrow one-way road in some spots and ruts and loose gravel filled the washes. Still, the 21-mile 18-stop tour wound through the Ajo Mountains, along Arch Canyon and Estes Canyon and back to Kris Eggle Visitor Center, named for a ranger killed in 2002 while chasing some alleged illegal drug smugglers.
The guidebook identified creosote, adaptable, useful and considered one of the oldest single living organisms on the planet at more than 10,000 years; and teddy bear cholla, found in a packrat midden in the Puerto Blanco Mountains, that arrived in Organ Pipe when the Sonoran Desert was in its infancy 10,000 years ago.

Saguaro cactus, some as tall as 50 feet and weighing several tons, grew up the mountainsides. The guidebook explained that biologists believe these cacti in Organ Pipe flower for the first time at approximately 65 years of age and produce their first arms at about 90 years. In between grew prickly pear, jojobas, mesquite, palo verde, ocotillos and chain-fruit cholla.
Four miles in we found the organ pipes, protected since 1937 by Franklin Delano Roosevelt in its only natural U.S. habitat. The guidebook explained how flowers, open only at night to minimize water loss, provide food for long-nosed bats. They in turn spread the cactus seeds.

Most fun of all was seeing a herd of six javalinas run across the road in front of the car. As fast as I grabbed the camera, these wild collard peccary were faster. I only caught the tail end.

Leaving the park meant another check through border patrol.

"Hi folks," greeted a moustached agent. "Where were you born?"

Andy, ready to tell him where we were from, had to think for a minute.

"Okay. Have a nice day." The dog, a ferocious black shepherd, had already circled the car, and the red Toyota two cars ahead of us was being searched by agents with guns drawn.

Thirty miles later, we passed a spot marked heavy enforcement area. Five or six vehicles lined the road; the sun sank in the distance behind us. We'd make Tucson by nightfall.
On the road through the Tohono O'odham Indian Reservation we counted at least 40 white crosses by the roadside. I wondered how many of the dead were males out at night. The road was straight, for the most part, and smoothly paved. Suddenly all the traffic came to a halt. A mile ahead police lights flashed. An ambulance came by from the other direction, lights flashing but no siren. When we moved again about 15 minutes later, we saw three smashed vehicles and three young men surrounded by police. No new white crosses this time.

Closer to Tucson, another border patrol check stopped all cars in the dark. Big guys in bullet proof vests, fierce dogs straining at their leashes, blackness everywhere except the narrow spotlighted lanes. It was even more intimidating in the dark. Twenty minutes later lights of Tucson twinkled a welcome.