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Final Days in the Borderland

But there was still another semester at El Paso Community College to complete. In addition to the usual beginning composition course, I was teaching, of all things, “introduction to film.”  Asked to do this by the English department head, I agreed, even though I had no experience in such instruction.  Shots, scenes, angles, lighting, fades, wipes: the course was as instructive to me as it undoubtedly was to my students.  The class not only included the study of film technique, but also the viewing of films, which occurred in a conference room of the college library with a device that projected videocassettes onto a large screen. 

Throughout my life, I’d enjoyed―too much, perhaps―watching movies.  I cannot count how many times as a child in the 50s and early 60s I watched Godzilla, King Kong, Crime School (starring my favorite delinquents of those years, the Dead End Kids), The Thing from Another World, Preston Foster in The Last Days of Pompeii, and other films presented by Million Dollar Movie, WOR Television’s program broadcast from New York City on weekday evenings.  The program always opened with music that never failed to stir my young heart: a segment from “Tara’s Theme” from Gone with the Wind.  As a teenager, I thrilled to the music and visuals of A Hard Day’s Night and was titillated by the scantily-clad girls in I’ll Take Sweden, starring Bob Hope.  As an adult, I counted among my favorite films The Godfather, Mean Streets, Red River, Hud, Lonely are the Brave, Easy Rider, Serpico, Dog Day Afternoon, Midnight Cowboy, and Deliverance

For the class, I presented some films―available at video rental stores in the area―I’d never before seen, including Dark Victory, It Happened One Night, and Robert Enrico’s masterful short An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge.  In addition, I presented a film whose story line I hoped would be particularly encouraging to my Latino students: Stand and Deliver, in which Edward James Olmos plays a Latino inner-city high school instructor who inspires his students from troubled neighborhoods to overcome huge odds and master advanced mathematics. 

I enjoyed teaching the class, and yet there were times when I felt like I was pimping out a subject that had no place being taught in a community college.  I found myself coming to the conclusion that movies―no matter how critically acclaimed, no matter their artistic and technical achievement―are essentially entertainment, rarely an intellectual exercise.  And if community college students needed anything, I thought, they needed to exercise their minds in the fundamentals of academics; “film” would have to wait for the four-year university or college.  Indeed, I suspected that many of my students were requiring a hand-up in a community college precisely because they had spent too much time watching movies and television in high school, and that “video” had made mush of their curiosity, critical thinking, and imaginations.  Why, the very textbooks that I used to teach my classes often contained a compelling essay―”Amusing Ourselves to Death?”―by university professor Neil Postman decrying the scourge of television on young minds. In terms of an intellectual exercise, I doubted there was a single movie that could challenge the mind of one of my students more than a mere half-hour of reading the lowliest supermarket pulp fiction. 

And yet, had I not taught the class, I would never have introduced my students―and myself―to the genius and heart-rending tenderness of Charlie Chaplin in City Lights.  I would never have been touched and gratified to hear one of my students, who likely had never met The Tramp, laugh again and again at the primitive film’s visuals and subtle humor.

I also substitute-taught English for several evenings at the Technological Institute of Ciudad Juárez.  The head of the community college English department informed me of the opportunity.  I looked forward to the extra money and, more, the experience of “teaching in Mexico.”  

I met with other American instructors―mostly full-time ones at the institute, I presumed―of various subjects at an El Paso shopping center near the border, and we climbed into a van for the ride south.  Evening traffic on the various bridges connecting Juárez with El Paso was considerably less than that during the daytime, so we entered Mexico with a minimum of delay.  We then hurtled this way and that over the more streamlined avenues of Juárez to reach the institute, which was southeast of downtown El Paso. 

The campus of the 35-year-old institute was spacious, clean, and attractive.  Prior to my first class, I met with a pleasant, bi-lingual administrator of the institute, and she led me to a second-floor classroom where I was to substitute.  The room had the familiar institutional drabness of my classrooms at El Paso Community College and UNM.  The mujer introduced me to the students in Spanish.  The students were generally older than any I’d taught in America.   Many of them were smartly dressed, the men in business jackets, dress shirts, and ties now loosened, the women in blouses, skirts, and heels.  I assumed most of them had spent the day working in mid-level or more advanced jobs in some of the dozens of maquiladoras―Mexican assembly plants for computers, mobile phones, appliances, auto parts, and medical devices―I’d heard so much about since moving to the borderland. 

I have little recollection of the precise nature of the English my Juárez students were being taught, although it likely had something to do with communicating with English in the business environment.  The administrator told me that many of the students spoke English, although not with great fluency.  If the class was using a textbook, I was not shown it.  In any event, I quickly concluded that my purpose as a substitute was not to delve into the class’s current linguistic focus, but rather to fill the 75 minutes of class time with conversational English about any topic under the desert sun and make the students feel that they were continuing to get their money’s worth until the return of their regular instructor.  I encouraged the students to tell me what they did for a living and share the challenges they felt they faced as students of English.  I also prattled on, quite self-consciously, always wondering how clearly I was communicating, about myself and my impressions of the borderland.  As with my older American students, I sensed my Mexican students were all highly motivated.  To a person, they were respectful, and I liked them immediately.  After class, the drive back to America was even more disorienting, as night had fallen completely over Mexico and the spring winds drove clouds of dust over the feverish streets and neighborhoods of Juárez.

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To the Rio Arriba!

Another winter in Anthony passed. 

One day, Linda, disenchanted with work at the private medical practice in Las Cruces, and likely dreading a third fiery summer in the Mesilla Valley, saw in a medical journal a job opening for an internal medicine physician in Alamosa, Colorado.  After a phone call, she flew to Denver, caught a connecting flight, interviewed in Alamosa at a government-funded medical clinic for the indigent, and was offered the job.  With my blessing, she accepted it.  She also ate at a local Mexican restaurant she could not recommend enough to me. 

So, nomads once again. 

I, too, looked forward to the move.  Although I had only the vaguest memory of Alamosa itself, I’d never forgotten that windy spring night when I made the car camp in a piñon woodland on a lower slope of La Veta Pass, and I gazed westward at the chilly, rosy embers of a dying sunset over the San Luis Valley, in which Alamosa is located.  I liked that part of the world at once, although never imagined I’d be living there. 

In Anthony, I researched Alamosa and the San Luis Valley in books and maps and on the Internet, to which I was now connected at home and work for the first time.  And I liked what I uncovered. 

In the winter of 1806, the explorer Zebulon Pike―who historian David Lavender characterized as a “natural dupe . . . earnest, ambitious, dutiful, and naive”―and his men, frozen and nearly starving to death, discovered the valley on behalf of the White race of the fledgling United States during their attempt to find the headwaters of the Red River.  Some eight decades later, journalist Charles Lummis, one of the original promoters of the Southwest (and who, in fact, is credited with coining the geographical name “Southwest”) first beheld the Rio Grande in Alamosa as he tramped from Ohio to Los Angeles. 

I learned that Alamosa, population about 10,000, is surrounded by farms and ranch lands.  I was hoping this meant there would be the possibility of continuing the semi-rural life we were enjoying, despite the heat, in Anthony.  

Although I handled the desert heat better than Linda, the prospect of cooler summers―Alamosa rarely gets above 90°F―was attractive.  From my days of following weather reports in Denver, I knew Alamosa is routinely the coldest place in Colorado, even the lower forty-eight.  Yet I now learned it is a dry cold: the San Luis Valley, being in the rain shadow of the San Juan and Sangre de Cristo mountains, is effectively a vast, if isolated, desert.  The valley’s abundant crops―including lettuce, wheat, and potatoes―receive their water primarily from a huge underground aquifer; its pastures, from water diverted from the Rio Grande, Rio Conejos, and the occasional rains.  Meanwhile, if I wanted to enjoy deep snows, I would easily find them on the higher elevations of the surrounding mountains.  

I learned that the town is home to Adams State College―today known as Adams State University―where I might continue to teach.

I learned that the town of San Luis, in the southeastern corner of the valley, is the oldest continuously-inhabited town in Colorado, and that it was settled by Hispanics in 1851.  Thus, I wasn’t too surprised to discover that Alamosa―Spanish for “cottonwood”―was 45% Latino.  This suited me, as well.  I’d made numerous Latino friends and acquaintances in my decade in New Mexico, and I came to appreciate many aspects of Latino culture beyond simply the food.  “Perhaps because of his love of land,” Erna Fergusson wrote in 1941, “his disinclination to leave his native place, and his ability to enrich an austere life with simple pleasures, the Latin seems to have a basic stability which the Nordic in similar situations lacks.” 

Okay, at the approach of the new millennium, millions of America’s Latinos were no longer living “austere” lives.  Meanwhile, my life with Linda had been anything but “stable.”  But I certainly didn’t lack for a “love of land” and what I felt were life’s “simple pleasures.” 

Finally, I especially liked the fact that the Rio Grande, running as it does through Alamosa, would still be with me, still be a thread binding me to the Southwest as much as my new Latino neighbors.  I tried to imagine the Great River’s character through Alamosa; would it be as different as Anthony’s section of the river is from Albuquerque’s?  I couldn’t wait to see.

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Fire and Water

If I missed anything about my native Northeast during these years in the Southwest, it was a plunge into an abundance of fresh water.  I’ve known great depths of fresh water in New Jersey, New York, New Hampshire, Vermont, and Ontario.  However, my ideal will forever be a glacier-carved lake cradled in the Berkshire Hills of northwestern Connecticut, where I was fortunate to vacation as a child and adolescent.  Here was my boyhood elixir, water rich with the flavor and aroma of granite, quartz, lilies, sunfish, mussels, white pine root, dragonflies, maple leaves, and, to a lesser extent, gasoline, suntan lotion, beer cans and bottles, and sunken wooden rowboats.  But the sweetness prevailed.

It’s not that New Mexico lacked vast bodies of water.  It is, after all, home to “lakes” and “reservoirs” named El Vado, Heron, Cochiti, Elephant Butte, Navajo, Bluewater, Conchas, Fenton, and Storrie, all impounded by concrete or earth.  However, the opportunity to swim, bob, or splash in them had never presented itself.

New Mexico’s rivers were a different story.  One June, upon exiting, perfumed with sage smoke and dripping, a sweat lodge in New Mexico’s Jemez Mountains, I plunged into the icy waters of the River of the Cows.  In New Mexico’s Black Range, I camped beside and bathed in the headwaters of the Gila River.  And, prior to moving to Anthony, I had dipped into the Rio Grande in such places as Albuquerque, Isleta Pueblo, and San Antonio.

Now, in Anthony, I had the Great River a mere five-minute drive from my house.            

Our second June in Anthony witnessed eleven consecutive days of temperatures in the low one-hundreds coupled with the typical low humidity of early summer.  Some of those days were windy, with the wind-driven heat fit to scorching the nostrils.  The combination of heat, my pleasant memories of the Connecticut lake, and the possibility that Buddy might be seaworthy turned my thoughts to the nearby river.  So the hound and I headed out.

In Doña Ana County, the Rio runs with few meanders, and its banks are grassy and virtually treeless.  Absent here are the dense, peaceful, and shady bosques of cottonwoods, salt cedar, Russian olive, and willow that border the river in central New Mexico.  Here the river is firmly in the clamp of southern New Mexico agribusiness, which effectively begins just south of the Caballo Reservoir dam in the town of Arrey, some 75 airline miles northwest of Anthony.  From Arrey, through the Hatch and Mesilla valleys, and into west Texas, the river is bordered by and quenches the thirst of all manner of commercial crops: chile, onions, cotton, corn, pecans, alfalfa, lettuce, cabbage, and oats.  An occasional dairy farm joins these enterprises.  Tapped by myriad canals and ditches, its flow subject to the gates of New Mexico’s Caballo, Elephant Butte, and Cochiti dams, a stack of national and international agreements and regulations, and the whims of the weather, the Rio Grande through southern New Mexico looks and behaves like a dull canal, its northern curvaceousness, wildness, and relative sloppiness in times of heavy precipitation merely a memory.  Yet it is still two banks and a bed that will not be erased no matter how it is directed.  It still must flow above ground or below in whatever capacity from the mountains of southwest Colorado to the Boca Chica near Brownsville, Texas, and the Gulf of Mexico.

To my delight, the river was swollen and therefore moving at a brisk pace on that furiously hot afternoon as a dust storm with the odor of ripening onions raged. 

I entered the river at a narrow cleft in the bank where the water, some three feet deep, gently eddied.  The water was chillier than I’d anticipated, no doubt because it had recently been ice and snow in the Rockies and, subsequently, impounded in great, cold depths behind Cochiti and Elephant Butte dams.  Yet I eagerly wandered into it, although only up to my neck: aware that a facility in upriver Las Cruces deposited that city’s treated waste into the river, I wasn’t about to get any water near any orifices above my shoulders. 

The primal thrill of the deep and powerful flow was immediate; I hadn’t known such a sensation since I bobbed in the Colorado River outside of Moab, Utah, on a fiery July afternoon a decade earlier.  Is there another feeling like it on the planet?  Even if humanity had a considerable hand in the force of this flood, it was still transcendent: the collective plunge of thousands of western mountains and hills to the north; Earth’s very pulse; one component of that great, forever-turning “millwheel,” in Hal Borland’s word, that evaporates ocean water, delivers the moist vapors to the mountains, condenses the vapors into rain and snow, and channels the rain and snowmelt down canyons and valleys and back to the oceans, to start the remarkable process all over again. 

Not wishing to be borne on the waters to Canutillo, Texas, just downriver, I resisted the current by dog-paddling, but also by planting my feet in the thoroughly sandy riverbed, which created an equally thrilling sensation.  Standing in the river, resisting its current, I stabilized that sand immediately beneath my feet.  The Great River (no doubt affronted) then ate furiously at the surrounding bed, and my feet and the rest of me thus “rose” on two little pedestals of sand.  Then I got creative.  In the shallower water, where the current was nearly as robust, I sat on the bed, drew my knees to my chest, and was soon “hoisted” on a sandy stool.  However, not even this riverbed perch lasted long before the hunger of the current, so I continually planted myself in new places.  And refreshed myself in the process.  Pure, simple, childlike fun.  Meanwhile, I tried to imagine how many mountains―literally, mountains―of water-driven sand had marched in this manner to the Gulf of Mexico over the eons.

As for Buddy, this was likely his first encounter with a broad, deep, moving body of water.  Linda had suspected that he had some retriever in his pedigree, and he perhaps demonstrated this that afternoon.  Watching me in the river, he initially stood on the edge of the bank and whimpered, anxious to join me yet not quite sure what to make of this strange liquid phenomenon.  When he could apparently stand it no longer, he dropped clumsily down the bank and into the water, but then executed a strong, perfect paddle, making his way toward me, occasionally snapping at the bounty for a drink.  (Okay, I had more faith in his constitution than mine.) Ably resisting the current, he swam to my side.  I cradled him, expecting him to cease his movements; however, either out of a sheer desire to explore the river and his natal buoyancy or, more likely, obedience to his survival instinct, he continued to work his legs and paws, so I turned him loose. 

I then stepped and bobbed quickly to the bank, where I grabbed a stick and threw it downriver.  Buddy was on it, watching it as it wafted through the air, pursuing it after it hit the river’s surface.  Finding it after some brief confusion, he snapped it in his jaws, coughed as he held onto it and paddled across the current, and scrambled up onto the bank, where he dropped it.  Curtains of water descended from him briefly, and then water shot in all directions as a vigorous, uninterrupted shake began at his head and ears, traveled through his midsection, and ended at his shimmying butt and tail―a remarkably fluid mechanics seemingly unique to most canines that has since never ceased to amaze me.  While he lingered on the bank watching me―he wasn’t stupid; he now knew the muscle of the river and wasn’t going to unnecessarily wear himself out―I grabbed another stick and delivered it over the water.  This time he leapt dramatically from the bank, broke the variously glassy and finely-bubbling river surface with a crash, and retrieved it.  Already I sensed he could handle any depth and flow of the Rio, at least as it traveled through our county.

In a queer land it was the queerest of afternoons: a hot eastbound river of wind and dust intersecting a flood of chilly water driving southward―the perfect representation of a naturally parched land refusing a drink: narrowly perverse but broadly understandable. 

During the ride home through the yellow world I dried almost completely; Buddy took only slightly longer.  At home, I showered quickly; after all, what could have been more cleansing than the river? 

That night, pleasantly exhausted, I stripped, crawled between the sheets, and watched a distant lightning show through a north-facing window until sleep arrived.  In the middle of the night, however, a strange sensation awakened me.  I turned on the light―to find myself stretched out on a fine layer of cinnamon-colored river silt.  Too tired to address it, I doused the light and left this thinnest of pedestals to the mercy of my river of dreams.  

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Springtime in the Borderland

By the first week of February, winter was effectively over in the Mesilla Valley.  The winds increased in frequency and velocity.  Dust storms fed by leagues of undeveloped desert and acres of unplanted fields were counties wide and several thousand feet high.  In the fury, the yucca quivered, sheet metal roofs clattered, and road signs gyrated hysterically.  Yet, as in Albuquerque, I loved the spring winds: the new year eagerly emerging from hibernation; the deep, robust respirations of a vibrant planet; the howling messages from the most distant places.  By the third week of February water began filling a number of ditches, and disc harrows again combed the fields.

The winds continued in March, washing over our house and property like ocean waves.  Columns of pungent smoke rose around the valley: weeds being eradicated from ditches with fire.  Out on the desert, the snakeweed greened, the mesquite leafed.  Despite my protestations, Buddy regularly nibbled on the manure recently spread on the field behind our house. 

In April, I explored nearby Camel Mountain.

The mountain stands 4,687 feet above sea level in a remote part of a remote state.  As the raven flies, its peak is six-tenths of a mile from the border with Chihuahua.  The mountain’s vertical relief is some five hundred feet, and thus the formation is not a particularly challenging climb.  But that was okay: testing my fitness or satisfying my ego was not the purpose of the visit.  I wanted for the first time, in complete anonymity and solitude, to come as close as I could to a Mexican border country unsullied by civilization.  I’d been to several Mexican border towns large and small: Juárez; Palomas, Chihuahua; Naco, Sonora.  Now I wanted to woo the border again, yet deal with no entrance stations, customs buildings, bars, restaurants, bakeries, dental offices, gas stations, tienditas, brothels, pharmacies, telephone poles, concrete “Jersey” barriers, traffic lights.  I wanted a glimpse of undeveloped Mexico, the country’s raw desert, the Mexican wilderness, perhaps a little bit of the windy, dusty Mexican landscape that Howard, Dobbs, and Curtin experience in the film The Treasure of the Sierra Madre, my favorite motion picture set in that mysterious country.  And I wanted to do it from the familiarity―and, yes, safety―of the United States.  I knew that the Mexican landscape would hardly look any different from that of its neighbor to the north.  However, I was planning on it feeling different, and me feeling different as I observed it.   

It was a chilly, windy afternoon when Buddy and I drove about a half-mile south of Route 9 on a dirt road toward Camel Mountain.  It was named for the Middle Eastern ungulate, although I discerned no obvious resemblance.  Not surprisingly, the desert rangeland at the base of the mountain was a patchwork of bare soil and stunted grasses littered with desiccated cow patties, although I saw no cattle grazing anywhere.  We parked amid yucca quivering in a wind and immediately set out.  As we climbed, the cold wind stinging my ears, the size of the boulders girding the mountain increased, as did the height of the grasses, safe now from the maws of cattle.  Buddy spotted a mule deer―its presence on this relatively small, isolated, and virtually treeless mountain surprising me―and chased it for a quarter-mile before giving up and returning to my side. 

Soon we were on the little plateau of the peak, where we were met by a shiny piece of electronic equipment no bigger than a stereo receiver.  It was labeled “INS”―as in Immigration and Naturalization Service―“SENSITIVE.”  A five-foot-tall antenna sprouted from the device and an attached solar panel evidently powered it.  It was chained and padlocked to a rock, but nothing a bolt cutter couldn’t overcome. 

So much for the primitive experience I was anticipating.

Then again, perhaps I should have known.  The presence of this device, surely there to aid in the detection of illegal border activity, should have been as predictable as that “aerostat,” a massive tethered balloon deployed for a similar purpose high over Deming, New Mexico, to which Frank, my rockhounding friend, introduced me several years earlier.  Although I wondered if some government technocrat clamped in headphones in El Paso was now monitoring Buddy’s tortilla-like ears flapping in the wind, or me periodically blowing my runny nose, I was determined to not let the presence of the equipment ruffle me.  Meanwhile, I knew the sight of my truck might rouse the suspicion of a U.S. Border Patrol agent who happened to be driving by on 9, but I didn’t let that possibility cast a shadow on my visit either. 

Although I had binoculars, I initially gazed south with unaided eyes.  I saw two dirt roads parallel to the border on the American side.  Just beyond the farther of the two was a fence, although not a solid or grill-like one twenty feet high and made of steel, as one might have expected given that this was our border with “desperate,” “distrusted,” “lawless,” “corrupt” Mexico.  No, it appeared to be the standard barrier of New Mexican cattle-growing country: a mere four-foot-high, three-stranded barbed-wire fence supported by slender and likely rusted metal posts.  In any event, I was certain that beyond this fence was―wow―Mexico, so I sat myself beside the “stereo receiver” and began my study. 

There, in Chihuahua, I saw a cloud of dust issuing likely from a playa―Spanish for “beach,” but also a common sandy area in the greater Southwest that is dry except after rains―and a nearby dust devil rise and just as quickly collapse.  The landscape was dotted like a dalmatian with mesquite.  As I viewed sullen hills and parched, serrated mountain ranges―the Cormac McCarthy country of his epic, phantasmagoric novel Blood Meridian―I dipped into my pack and consulted my photocopied map of northern Chihuahua (compliments of UNM’s Map and Geographic Information Center) in the hopes of identifying some or all of them.  I fanned from southeast to southwest, stirred by the mystery and music of their names: Sierra Juárez, Sierra El Presidio, Cerro El Mesudo, Cerro El Volcan, Cerro El Tascate, Cerro El Venado, Cerro La Rosina, Cerro El Aguila―the northernmost crumbs of the Mexico’s massive Sierra Madre Oriental, the Eastern Mother Mountains.  According to the map, the formations in my immediate vicinity were not especially tall, ranging in altitude from 4,300 to 4,800 feet, about the height of Camel.  And I thought: Forget Mexico’s tourist magnet Copper Canyon.  If I knew a bilingual Chihuahuan with a backpack, I’d pay him or her anything to spend a single windy spring night camping on any one of these formations.  If I understood the explanatory symbols on the map, the original of which appeared to have been created and printed in Mexico, there were “mines” due south of me named La Linea, La Pena, La Noria, and El Llanto, and there was a possible “trail” named Alicamiento Aproximado.  My guts stirred with the romance of it all. 

I was prepared to conclude that what I’d been witnessing was utterly devoid of any human presence or impact, a desolation as great as any I’d witnessed in Death Valley, when I finally raised my binoculars to my eyes.  Through them I spotted some grazing cattle.  Then, southwest of Tescate Mountain, I saw what appeared to be a ranchito consisting of a couple of colorful roofs―Mexicans love bold, bright colors―and a pickup truck with sunlight glaring on its windshield.  Also to the southwest, I spotted, through a haze of dust, a huge flag barred with green, white, and red―clearly that of the United Mexican States―rippling gracefully in the wind probably in or near the Mexican border town of Las Palomas.  But I saw no people in all of this space: no federales; no policia; no farmers; no ranchers; no one preparing to be “illegal aliens”; no “mules”―drug smugglers; and no “coyotes”―people smugglers.  Just dust, bending grasses, and wavering mesquite. 

On the New Mexican side, meanwhile, I saw not a single Border Patrol agent or vehicle, just an occasional vulture and raven riding the updraft on the west side of Camel Mountain.  Where, therefore, was all the human drama―Mexicans smuggling drugs, Mexicans “seeking a better life,” and Border Patrol agents on the lookout for them―in the remote stretches of la frontera that I’d been reading about in the Albuquerque papers since my arrival in the Southwest?  Certainly not here on an April afternoon.  More likely, I concluded, such drama was in the Rio Grande territory of south Texas, where a regular water supply quenched thirsts―if it did not drown first―and lush woods concealed; and in the Arizona deserts south of the mega-cities of Tucson and Phoenix, where there was just the right balance of remoteness and promise, providing one could avoid death by heat prostration.  And this was fine with me.  If I’d wanted human drama, I would have returned to Paisano Drive in El Paso and viewed the concrete riverbanks, chain-link fences, barbed wire, and international railroad bridges bookended with doors of dense steel mesh.  

Then Buddy, who’d been seated and gazing with me, lay down, put the full weight of his head on my leg, and looked up at me with his dark, glamorous eyes: his way of telling me he was bored with geography and botany and ready to move. 

Before we did, however, I chose to sustain the mood a trifle longer.  I broke into a Buffy St. Marie song, her haunting 1969 recording “The Vampire,” which to this day comes to my mind when I imagine rural Mexico.  The song concerns a woman―I imagine a young and attractive señorita wrapped in a rebozo―who, on a cold, moonlit November night, as snow prepares to fall, encounters on a road―a dirt road, I envision, on the outskirts of a primitive village in northern Chihuahua―a tall, old man in whose eye she fails to see her reflection.  In her innocence―or blindness?―she provides him with a bed for the night.  Meanwhile, we hear Buffy’s acoustic guitar, alternately ebbing and flowing, and some effective but not overbearing electronic sound effects.  Then, in the dead of night, the moment arrives when we know the man hovers, fangs bared, over the equally bared neck of the prostrate Mexican maiden.  And the maiden is powerless to stop him, for she is in want of her “rosary,” which she “never used . . . very well” in any case.  Thus, this lapsed Catholic does the old man’s “bidding.”  I couldn’t approach Buffy’s tremulous, icy soprano, but I sang lustily on that mountain anyway.  Perhaps I was joined in song by the eavesdropping technocrat in El Paso.

Buddy briefly chased several rabbits as we descended the north slope of the mountain.  I was tempted to circle the formation and approach the barbed-wire fence.  Would I see matching footprints on both sides of the fence pointing north to a job in a chile field, slaughterhouse, restaurant, or motel room?  Necessary work.  Work Anglos like myself were not willing to do.  Then I wondered what would it feel like to plant at least one foot in mysterious Mexico?  But I continued to my truck instead.  I didn’t want to press my luck, attract la migra and thus mix politics with the land, spoil our afternoon.

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First Snow in the Desert

On December nights, I walked with Buddy along the ditches.  The skies were usually clear, and December’s waxing moon, cutting its highest annual arc in the sky and all but unchallenged by artificial light, bathed the valley in a brilliance that revealed the very face of the night. 

One morning several days before Christmas, it began to lightly rain, but soon the rain was accompanied by our neighborhood’s first snowflakes.  Buddy, perhaps new to the phenomenon, stood dumbstruck in the downfall and snapped at the wet flakes as they lazily approached his nose.  The snow briefly accumulated on our lawn before disappearing into the thirsty earth. 

When the storm clouds finally lifted, they revealed snow that had accumulated on the higher elevations of the Franklin Mountains, where it would linger for days.  A mere 5,100 feet in maximum elevation in the New Mexico portion of the range, forever parched and crushed beneath the daily hammer of sunlight throughout the summer and fall, the Franklins now had an almost Alpan grandeur, appeared far loftier than they really were, and the sight gave me a twinge of nostalgia for the Rockies far to the north. 

Very early Christmas morning, while Linda and my in-laws slept, Buddy and I drove in another wet snowfall out to Lanark, another vanished settlement along the Southern Pacific tracks in the desert southwest of Anthony.  There, Buddy flushed out rabbits while I investigated a melancholy string of snow-mantled boxcars on a siding.

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We Have a Visitor

Several days before Thanksgiving my 83-year-old father arrived at the El Paso airport from New Hampshire.  The following day, Linda, Dad, and I visited Juárez.  At the El Paso Convention Center we boarded the “Border Jumper Trolley”―actually a simulated trolley with rubber tires―that inched across the Santa Fe Street International Bridge over the Rio Grande and into the Chihuahuan megalopolis.  We disembarked not far into downtown Juárez with an assurance from the trolley’s PA system―comforting, no doubt, to at least some of the Yankee passengers―that the trolley would return us to the United States on the same day from the same location.  

The section of the city through which we walked with no particular destination in mind was crowded, chaotic, and shabby.  Street and sidewalk construction had created giant holes that were, at least by standards to the north, insufficiently barricaded.  I feared my father, who at this point in his life was walking slowly and unsteadily, would disappear into one of them, becoming a permanent part of Juárez’s municipal water system, a Border legend.  But, to my relief, he remained in view.  I could see he was, as in New Mexico, fascinated by the heavily made up Latinas. 

One morning he joined me at the college.  I introduced him to a number of my students, some of whom commuted from Juárez.  Prior to our arrival at the college, I shared with him some of the phrases I’d grown accustomed to using since teaching in the border city.  Thus, “No hablo Español,” said Dad while smiling and extending his cool, prominently-veined right hand to a student, who gently clasped the hand while returning his smile.  

On a chilly Thanksgiving evening pecan logs burned in our fireplace, producing a vibrant flame but, unlike that of the piñon and juniper that flourished up north, a somewhat bitter smoke.  As the turkey cooked, I slipped a CD Dad had brought with him into the player, and Dad danced with Linda to Errol Garner’s rendition of “Poor Butterfly,” which Dad had lately indicated was his favorite song. 

My father was now mostly deaf and had had little success with hearing aids, although this didn’t frustrate him. In fact, he rarely complained about anything.  Since I had last seen him, he had been diagnosed with a transient ischemic attack, or “mini stroke,” and as a result was easily confused.  He never mentioned the stroke.  For years his favorite outdoor activity was skiing on New Hampshire’s King Hill.  Now, however, my sister and I knew he would never ski again.  Yet, our father, to our surprise―for he had always struck us as someone willing to acknowledge his limitations―continued to talk as if he would. 

During the visit, a discussion of nursing homes occurred, not in regard to my father’s health―my sister and I had never suggested to him that he might be a candidate for “long-term care”―but merely incidental to Linda’s adult-medicine practice prior to moving to Anthony.  Then, my father, who was still living independently, weighed in with a remark that was gaining in frequency with him: he said he would kill himself, preferably by an overdose of his prescription medications or by car-exhaust asphyxiation, before entering a nursing home.  It was not a threat, instead merely a declaration as he calmly sipped his martini and gazed contentedly into the blue and gold flames dancing upon pecan logs. 

Several days after Thanksgiving, we returned Dad to the El Paso airport.  It would be his final visit to the Southwest. 

Likely due to their being thrust into a climate far more arid than New England’s, my father’s legs itched often during his stay, and their skin, now loose and papery with age, bled easily. With Dad’s departure, I stripped and bundled the sheets and mattress cover, both spotted with blood, from his bed.  Proceeding with the bundle to the laundry room, I passed the guest bathroom that now reeked of the fifties, of Mennen Skin Bracer. 

Six years later, Dad passed relatively comfortably into the mystic―”Nothing to get riled about,” he assured my sister hours before his death―at a lovely assisted-living facility he willingly entered in his New Hampshire town.  The facility included a bar, open late-afternoons, stocked by the residents, and tended by various volunteer townspeople.  My father’s weakness was vodka martinis.  Not long after his arrival, the bar had to display a two-drink-maximum sign as my father was frequently requesting thirds, thus prompting his fellow residents to do the same, all of which almost resulted in a mutiny of sorts.  In any event, those chilly New Hampshire afternoons were likely warmed with tales of Old and New Mexico by a certain fellow.     

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Lost and Found

One day during the second week of September, Buddy didn’t return to our house within a couple hours of his wandering―as he always did.  I simply attributed this to his independence that I so admired.  However, when he had not shown up by noon of the following day, and had thus skipped two meals, I began to worry.  Of course, I recalled the many dead dogs we’d seen along Doña Ana County roads and highways.  Rapidly mounting anticipatory grief began to be coupled with anger at my naiveté.  Then I fired up and directed another kind of anger at my fellow Doña Ana County residents.  I cursed their careless, unlawful, and―as evidenced by all the empty beer cans, liquor bottles, and wine bottles along county thoroughfares―drunken driving. 

However, while I was coming apart, preparing to write Buddy’s obituary in absentia, Linda, still relatively composed and, as always, practical, decided we should gather up a photo of Buddy, some colored highlighters, and push pins, and head to the nearest copy shop to create some lost-dog posters.  A fool’s errand, I thought sadly: In one of the poorest counties in New Mexico, when there are fields to be harvested and children readied for another year of school, who’ll stop and read a sun-faded poster tacked to a tree trunk or telephone pole?  But I glumly went along.  At an El Paso copy shop we ran off fifteen posters, which, owing to Linda’s recollection of her high school Spanish, wisely included the words “perdido” and “recompensa.”  In my truck we paused to tack the posters along the country roads roughly within a mile radius of our house; throughout, Linda periodically called out “Buhhhhhh-deeee!”, a wail into the indifferent fields, woods, and ditches that pierced my heart.  Later that afternoon Linda phoned the classifieds department of the El Paso Times, which was delivered throughout the Mesilla Valley, and dictated a lost-dog announcement.  That night I slept miserably.

The following morning, a Sunday, while I happened to be on our side patio, a dog appeared, limping down our driveway.  He was mud-caked and scraped.  Despite his sluggish arrival, he was panting rapidly.  His penis was oozing pus. 

We immediately phoned a veterinary clinic in Las Cruces, and the on-call veterinarian told us to bring him in right away.  X-rays revealed that Buddy had a torn diaphragm and two pelvic fractures.  Surely he had been struck by a motor vehicle.  We left the clinic while the vet prepared to perform “major surgery.” 

Despite Buddy’s obviously serious injuries, I was hugely relieved and, ignorantly perhaps, hopeful about the surgery.  After all, I told myself, he was still young, and he’d made it to our house from wherever he had been. 

The first thing I did when we arrived home was head out in my truck to take down all of the posters, not for practical reasons, but for the sheer relief, joy, and gratitude.  Never had our section of the valley―the roads, ditches, fields, homes both solid and sadly ramshackle, tractors, farmworkers, children, cats, dogs, blossoming alfalfa, seven-foot-high weeds―looked so lovely.  I savored the removal of every poster, while, with some shame, acknowledging the wisdom, not to mention the simple humanity, of tacking them up in the first place.  I thanked the fair skies that had occurred over the previous three days and the muddy ditch that may have cradled Buddy while, broken and torn, he mustered the strength to return.  Acknowledging once again my own carelessness, I apologized to the desert skies for my blanket condemnation of my neighbors.  Finally, I blessed my rational and compassionate wife.

That evening, we returned to the clinic and saw Buddy: sedated, an IV line in his forepaw, under several layers of warmed blankets, and breathing regularly.  He had survived the surgery, which revealed that his liver and intestines had partially entered his chest cavity through the ruptured diaphragm.  Beholding him, I was so grateful that, if he did not survive the trauma, at least he did not die slowly, in agony, filthy, forgotten, in a ditch, beneath a gathering whirlpool of soaring vultures.  The following morning, remarkably, the veterinarian informed us that Buddy was ready to go home.  I’ve never forgotten that vet and her hands of an angel.

Over the next six weeks, as fall in the Mesilla Valley arrived, Buddy mended.  In the evenings, he reclined at my feet as I sat in the portal.  Never again did I let him out of my sight and voice control, at least not in our developed part of the valley.  In the desert wildlands, I continued to make an exception, for I knew he was safe there.  Once again, in pink and lavender evenings, we sat together at Vevay, on a knoll above the Southern Pacific track.  We watched the lights of El Paso and Juárez blossom in the east.  With the approach of a freight train, I held Buddy firmly by the chest and collar.   Sometimes, obeying the red light of a block signal, a clamorous train came to a halt right beside us, and in so doing seemed to become a black hole into which all the noise of the world, including that of the train itself, was sucked, creating a vast and eerie silence underscored by a mile or more of dark and brooding steel on wheels.  Buddy, meanwhile, attended to every point in space, reveling in the independence of his remarkable senses.

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Observing the Dog Who Came to Stay

That first summer, Buddy was a joy to accompany and observe.  Again, he joined me on my first backpack in the Black Range.  He was often with me in a place called Vevay, a vanished settlement in the desert southwest of Anthony through which ran the main line of the Southern Pacific Railroad.  There, in 100-degree heat, I’d watch the freight trains while Buddy, unbothered by the flames, bolted after jackrabbits he’d flushed from the mesquite, never catching one.  Patrolling the cotton field behind our house, the hound would accelerate for no apparent reason, sprint twenty yards, stop, leap, and spin―a lean, young canine simply reveling in his canine youth.  He’d pause to grab a stick from the ground, merely to shake it vigorously.  Once, we gave him a foot-long rawhide chew; likely unaccustomed to such a feast, he wandered around our property a good part of a morning with the massive thing clenched in his teeth, apparently unwilling to devour it―the delayed gratification again at work?―but in a tormenting quandary as to where to bury it.  He eventually interred it in the cotton field; who knew if he ever found it again.  Lord of the manor, after breakfast he’d wander across the road and join the farmworkers in the onion field, occasionally making, somewhat to my embarrassment, a solid deposit among them before resuming his wandering.  The workers ignored him.

And wander he did.  Although every night he was either in his outdoor pen or in the house, during the day he’d often disappear for hours at a time, perhaps revisiting the territory, near or far, that eventually led, however circuitously, to our house.  I didn’t mind this, nor, I presumed, did Linda.  In fact, I liked Buddy’s independence, befitting of a “country dog,” I thought.  His independence mirrored mine in this fabulous new place.  Among other things, it reminded me that we were no longer living among the perils of the city.  Foolishly, it never occurred to me that such independence would imperil him.

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Some Lessons of Flood Irrigation

Summer flood irrigation taught us two things.  First, mosquitoes can occur in the desert providing there is enough standing water, which, of course, was the case when the monsoons arrived in Anthony and were coupled with flood irrigation.  Thus, come August, pleasant evenings on our patio and portal were no more as clouds of insects sought blood. 

Second, swamp coolers provide relief only below a certain percentage of relative humidity.  One day in August, I entered the house once again anticipating relief from the heat.  I heard the comforting hum of the swamp cooler’s blower, felt the draft from the registers, yet found that the beads of sweat on my brow and under my nose were failing to disappear.  Meanwhile, my clothing seemed to stubbornly cling to my skin.  Linda began experiencing similar phenomena.  Our swamp cooler in Albuquerque never failed to keep us comfortable, even during central New Mexico’s monsoon season.  Something was causing this new discomfort.  Rightly or wrongly, we figured it was the additional humidity of the flood irrigation, so we replaced the swamp cooling with air-conditioning, absorbed the additional cost in electricity, and felt immediately better.

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The Event of Summer

By the third week of July, the ferocious heat of early summer―dry, crackling, moisture-sucking―eased up, and the “monsoon season” of regular rain showers―some brief and weak, others sustained and powerful―commenced, typically in the form of local, convective thunderstorms. 

The pattern was predictable.  Mornings in the Mesilla Valley consisted of empty skies or, at best, skies fleeced with vague, unthreatening, high-altitude cirrus clouds.  By early afternoon, cumulus congestus clouds, caused by rising columns of warm, moist air from the gulfs of Mexico and California and the eastern Pacific Ocean, began to form over such regional mountains as the Franklins, Organs, Floridas, and the Sierra Juárez.  Brilliantly white, these burgeoning clouds recalled, in their shapes and textures, heaps of mashed potatoes, ballooning mushrooms, and exploding cauliflowers.  As the afternoon progressed, the clouds climbed higher and higher, and their bellies began to darken with raindrops.  When the clouds assumed anvil-shaped heads, the tops of which reaching ten miles above southern New Mexico, west Texas, and northern Chihuahua, they were fully-developed cumulonimbi, now prepared to release their wet payload. 

Rain in the green world―that is, most of America―is often merely weather; rain in the Chihuahuan Desert was an event.  Iron-gray curtains of rain spread from their mountain cradles and swept slowly across the valley floor, bearing lightning, thunder, and winds that often kicked up―with a queer juxtaposition, it always seemed to me―towering clouds of dust at their feet, dust fleeing for its ethereal life.  As always, the initial drops to hit the ground briefly perfumed the desert air with the unique Southwestern fragrance of moistened dust.  Then, rain, miraculous rain.  Rain was occasionally so heavy that it reduced visibility to a quarter of a mile. 

From our property, I often viewed several storms patrolling various sectors of the vast valley at once, wreaking havoc.  If our house was in the bull’s eye of a storm approaching, say, from the south, the north wall of the house would often be coated with flies presumably seeking shelter. 

Most of the storms that began in the afternoon ended by evening.  Some, however, extended into the night or began in the night, their lightning offering dazzling displays near and far, often in eerie silence.  

In the storms’ wake, the valley filled with the cloying, tarry odor of wet creosote.  At sunrise after a stormy night, Anthony often looked like a summer morning in Connecticut: fogbanks, puddles everywhere, and our lawns, such as they were, greening before our eyes.