They drive in silence
to the mountain. There is too much to say after so many
years apart. It has been like this since she met him at the gate. He emerged
smaller, tarnished, humble. She stepped out of the car and took the passenger
side to let him drive. Even a hug seemed too much. That was an hour ago, late,
still hot.
Beneath the silence is a log jam of
words and time and needs.
The headlight illuminates a smooth,
black highway that slices the saguaro forest. Ocotillo branches etch the rose
colored sky like upside down spiders, spindly legs reaching for something solid
in the air. The road cuts an angled line onto the naked ridges that spread out
at the base of the range. It rises relentlessly, a perfect incision along the
contours of the front slope before turning into the defile of Molino Canyon.
Lights of city fade behind the shadow of the ridge, and the road tilts up, now
between sheer granite walls. Cacti surrender to dwellers of higher country.
Scrub oaks replace the saguaro along the murmuring stream down in the gorge.
The car passes a sign saying they have climbed a thousand feet. Water plunges
over a ledge of banded gneiss into a pool where tiny frogs have gathered to mate
and feed on the abundant bloom of fireflies.
Still the road climbs. It is the
fruit of blood, the labor of prisoners who wielded hand tools to carve
this lifeline between the heat of the valley and the heights of the mountains;
it is the gateway to alpine forests, islands of shade and cool air surrounded
by the ocean of desert below. It is perfect. It is refuge, sanctuary, the
counterpart to confinement. They believe the desert can heal old wounds and
have come here first. All of the rest, those mountains of details can wait.
There will be time, finally. There will be time enough.
Thoughts fail to find words as they
pass through Molino Basin. The road and the towering slopes speak instead. A
fire scoured this valley and left scars of ash, bony skeletons of Manzanita.
The moon lights a bleak and haunted landscape, harsh reminders of the
decade-long drought. She rests her hand on his thigh as the little car surges
up the slope, straining against the grade. They cross a saddle and enter Bear
Canyon, the first taste of the high mountain. The road levels briefly before it
cuts through a portal of granite spires and enters another canyon, this one
deeper than the last, with sheer vertical walls that squeeze the narrow road. A
stream whispers as it cascades over boulders and down spillways. Water runs
onto the roads off the walls of the canyon and showers the pavement. A curtain
of mist chills them, rinsing the heat of the low desert off their foreheads. He
feels drunk on the thrill of air moving over him, cold mist on his skin. The
canyon opens, and Ponderosa pines block the fading sunset. They drive now
through a tunnel of them, deep in the ravine.
He is tempted to stop, to soak in the smell, the touch of trees, of living
breath, but proceeds upward. His pulse rises as he takes the tight hairpin that
leads up again, out of the canyon onto the contour up to Windy Point. Hoodoos
stand like sentinels against the sky, the watercourse now far below them. A sky
full of with moon and stars deepens above them while shadowy silhouettes of
stone stand on either side of the highway.
His head surges with his pulse and
he is flush with a desire that is almost more than he can stand. Best to warm
his hands at the fire rather than to quell the stirring urge. He grips the wheel.
She sits quietly beside him, following his lead, expectant, silent, full
herself with a hunger she has not felt for a long time.
They round the curve at Windy Point
and pull up to a parking spot. They grab a small pack that contains sleeping
pads, some water, and a blanket. They head away from the road under the moon
down a path he knows to an overlook. Her eyes widen in wonder at the sight
below; the city shines a million tiny lights beneath them like a bed of
diamonds. There is a stream beneath them and a pool. It catches the moonlight
and is completely still, a perfect mirror. He lays down the pads while she
admires the light. She joins him. He touches her arm and she lies down. He
reaches for her as distant lightning illuminates a thunderhead a hundred miles
away, in Mexico.
“How long has it been?” he asks
after they have lain against each other for a long time. He feels her pulse
against his chest. He cannot be tender enough when he runs his finger along her
cheek.
He wants to hear the words “since
before you went to prison,” but braces himself for whatever the truth might be.
He couldn’t blame her after all. It was his fault, his stupidity for getting
caught that was to blame for the long separation.
For a second he slips back, back to
the yard and the long years of biding his time, playing the game as much as he
had to. But he pushes it out of his mind. This is here, his dreams come to
life. He turns to her, waiting.
Before she can answer, they both
hear voices, then see a light scanning the rocks behind them
“Rangers,” he says. “They saw the
car and are looking for us. They’ll ask us to leave if they don’t get nasty
about fines or arrest.” What he didn’t say was what might happen if they called
in his name, got his record. That could get ugly.
She sits up and wraps herself in a
blanket against the chill of the evening. So much heat, she thinks, radiating
up and away so fast on these clear nights.
The voices are louder now and he
stands, ready to meet them. Then they are there.
Two young guys in starchy uniforms
look embarrassed and pumped up with authority.
“You can’t be here. The area is
closed. Didn’t you see the signs?”
“Sorry officer,” he says. “We were
just taking in some of the moon and the cool air. Been so hot.”
The two men nod and then look over
at her, and she can feel their gaze. She pulls the blanket tighter. They look
at him, size him up.
One of the men spreads his legs. His
stance tries to say he is in charge.
“This area is closed,” he says.
“You’re in violation of laws, trespassing.”
“Look officer, we were just looking
for a quiet spot to relax.”
“There are campgrounds for that this
time of day.”
“But we’re heading higher up the
road, to town. We have a reservation there.”
The bossy ranger softens a bit.
“Reservations huh? Well you better pack up your things and get back on the
road. No telling what you might run into here. We’ve had some robberies, even a
rape a few months back. You better be careful, and don’t stop in any fee areas
as you head up.”
The rangers watch them start up the
car, back out, and turn up the highway. His face burns with humility and rage.
“Who did those guys think they were, anyway?”
“You don’t have to let it bother
you,” she says, hand on his arm.
“You don’t know what it’s like,” he
says, bristling. “That kind of crap gets under your skin after a while. I want
to blow up… but I know that’s gotta change.”
“You’ll get there. I can help,” she
says, voice low. “Let’s just say it has been a long time. Too long.”
***
Seventy miles to the south, a young
man considers the rusted steel of the border fence. It’s at least twenty feet
high and lined with barbed wire at the top. He has a way up to the wire ad some
tools the sever and spread the wire, but no way down the other side.
The coyote, his guide, sets the tall
plank with cleats nailed to it against the fence. He signals that it’s time to
scale the board.
“The night is good. A storm is
coming. The gabachos don’t like to
drive in the rain and wind. You’re lucky cabron.”
The board is skittish and affords no
hand grips, but the man holds where he can.
“Here’s the tool. You’ll have to cut
the wire and spread it. Don’t touch those dientes,
they’ll rip through you like Jello.”
The man takes the tool, puts it in
his back pocket and climbs while the coyote steadies the board.
It’s impossible, and he slips, but
hangs on somehow. He has to get across, to finish business. That’s all that
matters. He has a score to settle with some pinche
gringo plug, a middle man dealer. His sneakers are almost worthless for
gripping the tiny cleats nailed to the board.
He climbs. Soon he is almost to the
top and then he can see the other side.
He scrabbles for purchase on the
board as pulls out the ancient tool with blades that can break the wire. He
squeezes until his hands scream with pain, and he twists to get the edge to
bite into the wire. Then it snaps and pops open.
He is careful to grab it in the
space between the razors. With some help from the cutters he opens a cavity
just big enough to crawl through, but there is nothing to crawl on. He drops
the tool and looks down.
“You have to just go over,” the
coyote whispers, impatient. “Once you lift off the board, you’re on your own.”
The man checks the layers of
cardboard under his shirt. He hopes it will protect him from the rusted, jagged
top edge of the fence.
Then he is on it, scrambling like a
fish just caught. He wriggles his way through the hole, spins around, and
catches only a pant leg on a razor.
Somehow he gets through and ends up
hanging by his hands to the top edge of the fence. The coyote is gone, and it’s
a long drop, but he has no choice.
He pushes off with his feet and lets
go. His drop is off balance and he hits the ground hard with one foot. Before
the other makes it to earth, he hears the crack and feels his tibia jam upward
into his knee. The break is bad and complete.
Wind kicks up out of nowhere. The
sky boils, and fingers of lightning play on the ridges on both sides of the
border. No rain falls. The dry lightning ignites dry creosote in the distance.
A fire should keep them busy he thinks to himself as pain replaces his musings
of good fortune.
He lies there, on fire with shock
and pain and fear. But he doesn’t panic. He knows he has to wait for the
others, the ones on this side, the ones who might help. He crawls to a bush on
the other side of the fence road and hides himself beneath it. He doesn’t want
to be seen by the copters if they come by. They may have spotted the coyote
with one of their videos or may just be bored sitting in front of the lit dash
of their shining SUVs.
He would do that if they would let
him, would pay him. Hell, he’d do anything now. He knows this place better than
almost anyone. He has hunted here for decades, with nothing more than a single
shot .22. He knows the canyons on the other side, all the places to hide. But
here he is a stranger.
His leg pounds with the dull
frequency of a hammer blow, but he listens. Then he hears it, a faint whistle.
He whistles back. The sibilance grows as it closes in. When they find him, he
gives in to the pain. They carry him a long ways to a road, a waiting truck. It
will be a long night over dusty and rutted mining road, but they will get
around the migra, will get him to
help, just a bit to the north.
He grimaces when they splint his
leg, but it feels good in a way. He’s closing in. It won’t be long now.
