by Will Hobbs
“If we were only out for a few days, that would be the way to go,” my cousin agreed. “But for ten days, that’s different. If it really gets to raining, the river could get too big for a canoe to handle.”
“How likely is that?” I insisted.
“You never know,” he answered with a shrug. “Safety first. It’s what my dad would do. He’s seen it happen.”
“If it did happen, we would both continue on in the raft?”
“Yep. Stash the canoe and come back for it later.”
Eyeballing the so-called river as we pumped up the raft, I had my doubts as to how far we would get before Rio had to jump out and drag it.
Once everything was off the truck, Ariel drove back to the visitors’ center to get us a river permit to fill out.
Rio and I were putting the rowing frame together when a couple of soldiers headed our way. They were dressed in desert camo and were carrying automatic weapons. I was afraid they were going to put the kibosh on our trip.
The one with four stripes did the talking. The other, with two stripes, was along for the ride like me. The sergeant’s mission was to find out how soon we could vacate the premises. Rio assured him we would be on the river shortly. “Good,” the sergeant said. “How long will you boys be out?”
“Ten days—how come?”
“There’s a possibility that the Big Bend is in for a major weather event within that time frame.”
Rio’s eyebrows knitted doubtfully. “Are you positive, sir? I checked the ten-day forecast yesterday, and it wasn’t calling for a major weather event.”
“That forecast might be subject to change. There’s a hurricane by the name of Dolly entering the Gulf of Mexico later today. This morning it was brushing the tip of the Yucatán. The computer models show landfall three days from now, most likely on the East Texas coast or western Louisiana. Here’s a heads-up for you: There’s a one in ten chance of Dolly coming ashore in the Brownsville area, at the mouth of the Rio Grande.”
“One in ten, that’s not very likely.”
“If she does, and she happens to follow the river upstream, we might see some heavy precipitation.”
“Thanks for the heads-up. One more thing . . . Can you tell us anything about your mission, Sergeant? Why your unit’s Black Hawks flew into Mexico?”
“Sorry, I’m not authorized.”
“Mexico is having a big battle with the drug cartels, and they needed our help?”
The faint suggestion of a smile crossed the sergeant’s lips. “Have a good trip,” he said in parting.
“Think we might make the acquaintance of Dolly?” I asked Rio as we watched them go.
“We’re in the eleventh year of a drought. I’d almost like to see a tropical storm come our way.”
We went back to rigging the raft. By the time Ariel returned with the permit we had it fully rigged, with our trip gear stowed either in the rowing compartment or in the back. The stuff for Boquillas we piled haphazardly in the front. Across the river, the forested crest of the Sierra del Carmen was turning dark. Rio said there was a good chance we were in for a thunderstorm this very day.
Rio sat down and filled out the permit with our names and addresses, description of boats, and itinerary. The Park Service managed the use of the river in the park and the “wild and scenic” corridor below. I was relieved that someone besides Ariel was going to know what we were up to in case we went missing.
It was time to say good-bye. We made sure we were in sync with Ariel about our rendezvous. We were going to spend nine nights on the river. At noon on the tenth day she would meet us at a place called Dryden Crossing at the end of a remote ranch road.
“You guys sure enough look like desert river rats,” Ariel said. And we did, with our sunglasses and wide-brimmed straw hats, our river knives deployed heart-high on our life jackets, our arms and legs protected with super-light long sleeves and trousers. Our feet were clad with sneakers rather than river flops on account of the hostile terrain.
We thanked Ariel for everything she had done for us. “Take care of each other, you guys,” she said, all misty-eyed, and gave us big hugs. We promised we would.
Rio waded into the river, hopped aboard the raft, and took the oars. I waded out with the canoe and stepped inside. I reached for the paddle and took my first stroke. “Good-bye, good luck!” Ariel called as we headed around the bend.
Chapter 8
Uh, I Don’t Think So
BEFORE WE’D EVEN FLOATED the length of the cottonwood trees in front of the helicopters, Rio had to get out and pull his raft over a sandbar. The canoe had a much shallower draft. For the time being, I was able to stay in my seat.
Pretty quick Rio found a little more water to work with and was rowing downstream. I followed, trying to wrap my mind around the fact that the midpoint of this creeklike river was an international boundary. At the moment, both shores were covered with cane grass that soared up to fifteen feet. Mexico didn’t look a lick different from the United States.
The wind picked up. The cane was dry, and the wind made it chatter. A stiff gust blew the raft onto another sandbar. Rio put on a pair of gloves like he meant business. He jumped out with a splash and horsed the blue raft, a fourteen-footer, down the river. It would’ve been even harder to drag the raft if he hadn’t put some of the heaviest stuff in the canoe, including all three five-gallon jugs of drinking water and a small cooler full of our canned goods.
After fifty yards, Rio was drenched in sweat. I thought for sure he’d have to give up. He put his head down and pulled harder. When he stopped to catch his breath again he told me we were lucky to have this much water—Colorado and New Mexico take the lion’s share. We would be walking on a dry riverbed if not for a Mexican river called the Rio Conchos, which flowed into the Rio Grande not very far upstream of the Big Bend.
At last Rio found water deep enough to float the raft and was back in the rowing seat, gulping water from one of our one-gallon bottles. I took a slug, too. In the heat, it was nearly hot as tea. With his back against the wind and pulling downstream, Rio made some extremely hard-won progress. At the rate we were going, though, even covering the two miles down to the village before dark seemed unlikely.
Next time Rio got stuck—this time on a gravel bar—I offered to spell him dragging the raft. He wouldn’t have it. I could see what he was thinking: I wouldn’t be able to drag it very fast or very far. He had twenty pounds on me, and it was all muscle.
I kept looking for my first glimpse of the village. For the time being, only the crest of the Sierra del Carmen was showing above the tassels of the cane.
We came to a stretch where the water was pooled up for a good long run, and Rio was able to make some time. Along came a break in the giant cane lining the Mexican shore, and Boquillas suddenly appeared on its rocky bench above the river. Against the backdrop of purple-black clouds and lightning attacking the Sierra del Carmen, its squat adobe houses were wildly picturesque. Unfortunately, we were only halfway there.
Most of that second mile Rio splashed ahead of the raft, dragging it by a short length of rope. The turtles evacuated their basking rocks like a monster was approaching. It was unreal how hard Rio was working. Was this any way to run a river?
As for me, I only had to step into the river here and there. Dragging the canoe was easy, and it was never long before I got back in. As we finally drew close to the village, the sun had set. Rio wasn’t concerned. Dusk lasts a long time in the middle of the summer, he pointed out. He redoubled his efforts, rowing hard against the wind.
The village was directly above us at last, on the right-hand side. From below, we could see only a couple of houses. Rio rammed the raft against the small beach at the foot of a trail down from the village. The raft held in the sand. I paddled in next to him. “My first time in Mexico!” I announced as I was about to step out.
“Stay in the canoe!” Rio ordered.
“How come?”
“You can stand in t
he river but not on the shore. That’s considered a visit to Boquillas, and Boquillas is off-limits.”
“Say what? I thought we were going to visit the village.”
“Did I say that? I said we were going to drop off the donations. That’s all we’re allowed to do.”
“Says who?”
“Uncle Sam. After 9/11, the government closed the informal border crossings along the river. Part of the war on terror.”
“Is Uncle Sam watching us right now?”
“Without doubt.”
Rio took a quick look, then pointed across to the Texas shore, where a dirt track met the river at a break in the cane grass. A green-and-white Border Patrol truck was on its way down to the river. “See, they’ve got us spotted. He’s going to park right across from us to make sure we mind our p’s and q’s. If we visit the village we’re subject to a five-thousand-dollar fine.”
“Ouch. That’s beyond my budget. I’ve got a hundred dollars on me and a hundred I left at your place. Say, how will they know up in the village that we brought some stuff for them?”
Rio said that wouldn’t be a problem. The black garbage bags on the front of the raft were our calling card. They could pretty well guess we were bringing scraps for making quilts, and other donations.
While we were waiting for the villagers in the gathering dusk, Rio filled me in on Boquillas. A hundred years before, it had sprung to life as a silver mining town. The ore went across the river on a bucket tram and was transported by mule-drawn wagons all the way to the railroad at Marathon, Texas. When the mines went bust, the town dwindled to a village and nearly emptied out. It came back to life after World War II with the creation of Big Bend National Park across the river. Boquillas was flourishing in the 1980s and ’90s, with all the tourists visiting from across the river. They crossed in a small metal rowboat called the Enchilada and took a burro ride up to the village, where they bought meals and drinks and souvenirs. The people from Boquillas crossed to do their shopping at the store in Rio Grande Village.
Back in May 2002, everything suddenly changed. Overnight, the United States closed the border crossing. Before long, Boquillas was going bust again. The village was one of the most remote in all of Coahuila, which in turn was one of the most remote states in Mexico. The nearest shopping was 120 miles south on a bad dirt road, and the bus ran only one day a week. A couple dozen men had seasonal work fighting fires in the U.S., and another dozen had jobs at a lodge high in the Sierra del Carmen, but other than that, there wasn’t work in Mexico to be had. From three hundred, the population of the village was down to less than a hundred.
Two Texas women, a former river guide from Terlingua and a woman from Marathon who used to teach in the Boquillas school, decided to try to help if they possibly could. They hit on the idea of teaching the women of the village to make quilts and founded a volunteer group called Fronteras Unlimited. The idea worked. The quilts were sold at galleries in Terlingua and at church auctions across West Texas. The money coming in from the quilts was making a big difference. For the time being, Boquillas was hanging on.
Dark was nearly upon us when we spied a couple dozen villagers, from kids to old people, starting down the path. Halfway down the hill, the Boquillans recognized Rio. They had big smiles on their faces as they closed in on us, everybody calling out, “Hola, Rio!” and “Bienvenidos!”
What blew me out of the water was how astoundingly fluent Rio was. I truly couldn’t tell the difference between his Spanish and theirs. I wished I understood what they were saying. I had taken a little Spanish in school, but they spoke so fast I got only the gist of what they were talking about, and sometimes not that much. Rio asked if they had seen the helicopters. They had, but they didn’t know what was going on. Rio asked after a woman named Señora Madrid. He was chagrined to find out she wasn’t home. Señora Madrid was away. At least, that’s what I thought they were saying.
Rio thanked them and told them we were in a hurry to get down the river and make camp while we could still see. They quickly unloaded the donations. In no time we were on our way again. Rio bent his back to the oars and yelled, “Hasta pronto,” to his friends. As I paddled downstream I found myself wondering why he had said, “See you soon.”
I didn’t give it a second thought. I was much more interested in the Border Patrolman who’d been watching us from across the river. In the murky twilight, he turned his truck around and drove back up through the cane. Rio said he wouldn’t be able to track us after this. He was at the end of the road.
Twenty minutes later, with bats flitting all around us, we were approaching the monumental entrance to Boquillas Canyon, a towering gate of solid stone, hugely impressive as a silhouette. Rio was promising a campsite barely inside the canyon.
He found the campsite, on a high sandbar on the Mexican side. Strange to say, it was okay with the U.S. if river runners camped in Mexico. They just couldn’t stop at a village.
We put up the tent by the light of our headlamps. I asked if we should set up our kitchen next, and find something for supper. “Not for me,” Rio said. “There’s a path back to the village from here. I’ve got some business to take care of.”
“What kind of business?”
“I’m carrying twenty-three hundred dollars from Ariel. It’s a month’s earnings from the quilt sales for the women of Boquillas. Ariel said I was supposed to give it to Señora Madrid, and her only. She’s the one who distributes it, and she’s away at a ranch.”
“You sure you can’t give it to somebody else to hold until she gets back?”
“Ariel didn’t say. That’s a huge amount of money for a village that poor. . . . I’m not going to take any chances. Not to worry, Dylan. I’m going to hotfoot it back to Boquillas. Somebody with a truck is going to take me to Señora Madrid. She’s at a ranch somewhere along the road south. She’s the village midwife and went there to deliver a baby.”
“How soon will you get back?”
“Middle of the night, maybe? I didn’t catch how far away the ranch was. You just hang tight. Make yourself something to eat. Have a good night’s sleep.”
“Uh, I don’t think so,” I said. “I’m going with you.”
Chapter 9
A Little Side Trip into Mexico
THERE WAS JUST NO way I was going to wait there alone in the dark, on the Mexican shore no less, wondering when and if my cousin was going to return. We grabbed a couple of energy bars and a gallon jug of drinking water and took off.
With no streetlights and the village half abandoned, Boquillas was like Terlingua Ghost Town, only more so. You could tell the houses that were still occupied. With soft light from low-wattage bulbs seeping out through the windows, they glowed like candle lanterns. The village was eerily quiet until a dog detected our approaching footsteps and erupted with a full-throated alarm. A couple more dogs joined in. The hackles stood up on the back of my neck.
A door squeaked open. “Quién es?” a man called.
Rio identified himself. The man yelled at the dogs, and they quit barking. A few minutes later my cousin and I squeezed into the cab of a beat-up compact pickup, me in the middle, and headed down the dusty dirt road leading out of Boquillas. Fortino was the name of our white-maned driver. The old man didn’t speak English, but he understood some. He nodded along as Rio told me that one of his sons was in Montana right now fighting a forest fire, and another was working up at the lodge in the nearby Sierra del Carmen.
Rio went on to tell me that Fortino was the one who used to ferry the tourists across the river in the Enchilada before the border was closed. Nowadays, Fortino made some money for his family and the village school by wading to the middle of the river below the Boquillas Canyon Overlook and serenading the tourists with songs of friendship and peace. They left the money in a can Fortino could reach without setting foot on the American shore.
The road was rough, and it felt like the old man’s rattletrap didn’t have shocks, same as it didn’t have seat belts.
I wondered if I was going to lose some fillings, or even my life. I wished Rio would ask him to slow down. The road was badly washboarded, and five minutes wouldn’t go by without us going into a skid. Fortino was good at steering out of them—I’ll give him that. After every skid he kept his speed down for half a minute maybe, then it was off to the races again. I pondered how incomprehensible it would be when my parents got a call from the U.S. Embassy in Mexico: “We regret to inform you that your son Dylan has been killed in a rollover on a remote road in the Mexican state of Coahuila.”
Some more chatter from Rio took my mind off my imminent demise. He told me he’d been down this road once before, on the weekly bus with Ariel on one of her missions across the river with Fronteras Unlimited. When the women of Boquillas had a bunch of new quilts to sell, one of the volunteers from Terlingua would cross the river to pick them up and take them back across.
To return to the American side, the volunteer had to cross at an official port of entry. The closest one was at Del Rio, Texas, a couple hundred miles downriver. Getting back to Terlingua from Boquillas entailed a journey of three days and nearly six hundred miles, beginning with a four-hour bus ride down the dirt road we were presently traveling. “I saw a lot of the emptiest part of Mexico,” Rio told me. “It’s rough country, and kind of scary.”
You aren’t telling me anything I don’t already know, I thought. Just then Fortino rounded a corner and we came upon red and blue flashing lights, a roadblock in the middle of nowhere. The police were out of their vehicles and heavily armed. They were motioning for Fortino to stop, and they meant now. They raised their assault rifles, ready to mow us down if he didn’t stop, and quick. “Policía Federal” was written large on the side of their vehicles, two cruisers and a tanklike truck.
