La Ruta del Desierto: a journey across the heart
By Daniel Muñoa & George Altgelt
Daniel Muñoa
Note to the reader: For me, this travel to the dunes around Cuatro Cienegas with my friend George Altgelt was not only an exploration of the Earth, but also an exploration within me to address questions that had become refrains: "Would my MCAT (Medical College Admissions Test) scores and my resumé get me into medical school in the fall of 2004? Was the decision to pursue medicine a good one?" Also in the mix were, "Can the Earth still be saved? Is there hope for humanity's wicked ways?" At the start of this journey, there were only five days left in the two-month wait for the MCAT scores to be revealed. I was seriously doubting myself and running thousands of potentially negative, future life scenarios in my head, all the while dealing with the loss of a great friend, recalling past life and death experiences, and wondering where I would be a year later.
The story of this adventure is dedicated to Emily Craddock, a true warrior of the earth, humanitarian, naturalist, and scholar, who worked as the radio operator aboard the Green Peace vessel Arctic Sunrise, which combated illegal logging in the forests of the Amazon. Emily Craddock died at the early age of 26 in December 2003, when she suddenly disappeared one night only to be found floating dead in the waters of the Amazon a few days later. Predictably, the pro-logging Brazilian government ruled out foul play despite several incidents of angry loggers trying to board and disable the Arctic Sunrise prior to the tragic incident. The story of Emily's life has been an inspiration, and vowing that her death would not be in vain, I have pledged to respect the earth as she did.
As George and I packed the last of our gear for yet another trip into Northern Mexico along La Ruta del Desierto, it seemed as if the monsoons we had experienced half a year before in the tropical cloud forests of El Cielo were upon us. On this late, wet Friday afternoon we crossed into Mexico to begin our move across the Chihuahuan Desert on a trip to document species of fish endemic to the springs of El Valle de Cuatro Cienegas, a vast area that began to enjoy federal protection as of November 1994. Endemic means that the species in question exist in only one unique habitat. The fish George and I had seen previously in the springs of Cuatro Cienegas are found there alone and nowhere else. In order to photograph and catalogue these miracles of evolution, George brought scuba gear and a C-750 Olympus digital camera and waterproof housing that gave us amazing still and video photography underwater, blessing both of us with exceptional digital memories of yet another epic adventure in northern Mexico.
Fish are not the only endemic organisms in the Cuatro Cienegas preserve. Of the 70 known endemic, living organisms found in this preserve, there are nine species of reptiles, 10 species of fish, seven species of crustaceans, seven species of scorpions, four species of insects, 18 species of plants, and 13 species of mollusks -- all in danger of extinction. The reserve spans 84,347 hectares (~205,000 acres) of desert with a magnificent mountain landscape in view in any direction. Graduate students, post-doctoral fellows, and The National Geographic Society are a few of the many individuals and institutions that conduct scientific investigations in this unique biosphere.
To get to Cuatro Cienegas, you will have to travel La Ruta del Desierto, a designated segment of Mexican State Highway 30 that begins in Candela, Coahuila and ends some 160 kilometers west/southwest in the town of Cuatro Cienegas , Coahuila. Aware of the benefits of eco-tourism in other poverty-stricken regions of Mexico , the municipalities of Coahuila, together with state and federal agencies established La Ruta del Desierto to promote eco-tourism in the Chihuahuan Desert . From Candela to Cuatro Cienegas, there are springs, thermal springs, rivers, caves, mountains, valleys, high mountain pine forest, boreal stands of mountain oak, and sand dunes, all open to exploration by the willing.
We spent the first two days of our journey in the quaint village of Candela , nestled at the foothills of the gorgeous low-level mountain range called Los Pajaros Azules, a range of several peaks exceeding 5,000 feet . Two of the more famous peaks are Pata de Gallo and Providencia; both are visible from Laredo when the north wind has blown pollution and particulate matter in the air southward. Dr. Tom Vaughan, professor of biology at TAMIU, recalled a time not long ago when the mountains were visible any time of the year from Laredo , before the first and third world trading nations of the United States and Mexico , respectively, began the steady pumping of contaminants and greenhouse gasses into the air.
As we drove down a desolate stretch of highway George pulled over next to some sandstone outcroppings that jutted at a 45 degree angle. George said that this spot had been a sacred way-point for the ancient cultures that once dominated this part of the world. As we approached the primary monolith we noticed the abundance of bees everywhere. Were they killer bees, honey bees? We couldn't tell. The air was cold and crisp and some of the bees walked on the ground, moving very slowly. The humming of their hive was audible even before we came underneath the rock platform that created a roof above us. Inbound and outbound worker bees made traffic as they entered and exited a small hole at the base of the rock under which we stood. George had spoken of this place before and I was very glad to be able to see for myself the pictograph of the shaman -- the Coahuiltecan holy man. There he was, arms spread, like a thunderbird descending from the heavens. So taken was I by the experience of being this close to a historical pictograph that I committed the cardinal sin of not keeping my hands to myself. Just as my finger came in near contact with the shaman's face George was reaching for my hand to swat it away, at the same time admonishing, "Don't touch." At that exact moment, at that very instant, a bee stung me on the neck just as the tip of my finger came close to the image of the holy earth warrior. We quietly and quickly vacated the area and got back into the truck. George suggested that the shaman had spoken to us and that the bees were his guardians. George fired up the Tacoma and we continued our hurtle down a Mexican country road.
The rain broke as we drove through the foothills of La Sierra de Lampazos, the first major range of mountains on our journey. The countryside was green, lush, and such a contrast to how it looked on previous journeys through the area. It was quite obvious that the fall of 2003 had brought plentiful rains. As day gave way to night, my thoughts went far from the mountains that surrounded us as I remembered Pancho, the Ridgeback that had always been part of these forays with George into Northern Mexico .
Pancho had died in my arms two weeks before this trip. In his final moments, he gasped for air as he lay on the ground unable to move. He took in a deep breath, and made the effort to raise his head and look at me as if to greet me, only to lay his head down and release his last breath. I loved this dog and at that moment, my mind went blank and I felt as if a part of me had passed on with him. I wept, wailed for the agony, grief, and misery that had been this old dog's final days. I recalled great moments with Pancho -- my first canoe ride with George down the Frio River , treks on the sandy dunes of the Chihuahuan Desert , canoe rides at Lake Casa Blanca, Pancho snapping at me when I was disciplining him for being too arrogant. I tried as best I could to administer CPR to a dog, but it was of no use. I felt his spirit rise upward toward the eternal void from whence we came, and at that moment, it was as if he spoke to me in a sudden shift in the wind that rustling the leaves. Two weeks prior, he had been struck by an 18-wheeler driving like hell down farm road 3169 outside San Ygnacio. He survived the impact, but was critically wounded with a compound fracture to his right front leg and multiple fractures to his left rear leg that were successfully reconstructed by a veterinarian who allowed me to assist administering medication and moving him back and forth. What I always loved about Pancho was how particular he was about which Homo sapiens he would allow near. Despite the care, we lost him.
A streak of lightning and our arrival in Candela shortly after nightfall reeled me in. Quickly, we unloaded our gear at the weekend residence of Wawi and Omar Tijerina, who have always been very generous to allow George and his family use of their sweet old adobe. We made a roaring campfire and used hot mesquite coals to cook a fillet of salmon marinated with chipotle pepper and lime juice topped with slices of fresh pineapple. George met up with Javier Tijerina Menchaca, Presidente del Municipio de Candela, and they discussed eco-tourism. George asked if we could explore a cave nearby and the river that runs through Candela to see what could be done with them in reference to eco-tourism. Javier arranged for a guide to be on standby to take us to the cave.
The morning we set out the sky was overcast with waves of fog floating by and separated with intermittent showers of mist and light rain that blanketed the mountaintops of Providencia, Cerrito Las Madres, Espirito Santo, and Sierra el Carrizal. Before meeting our guide, we drove towards Candela's cemetery and saw decadent, elaborate headstones dating as far back as the early 1800s as well as shabby, broken down, and, from time to time, fully exposed graves. It was eerie to walk the aisles of the dead, to come across rich, distinguishing details on some of the tombs, such as a dew drenched spider web that attached the headstones of a deceased husband and wife. George spotted an above-ground tomb that had caved in over time. Inside was a readily identifiable humerus as well as an assortment of other human bones. All the while, Chihuahua ravens called back and forth against the gurgle of the Candela River and the occasional growl of thunder rolling across the sky and reverberating through the mountains. It was a constant reminder that rain could descend upon us at any moment. Javier had mentioned that if it was raining hard, entry to the cave would be forbidden because we would be walking upstream an underground river that floods at times to the height of the chambers' ceilings.
We hastily returned to the Candela house, had a good breakfast, and met up with our guide, Maximiliano, who took us to the entrance of the cave. Maximiliano was a 65-year-old man who moved with the ease of a teenager. His face was marked by the sun the way a tree trunk is marked with the rings of time. He has been a guide since his youth and has a vast knowledge and understanding of the area's flora and fauna. The cave was located a little over 13 miles east of Candela, nestled halfway up alongside a mountain known as El Carrizal. The drive took about 25 minutes. Once out of the vehicle, the flow of a stream could be heard as it spilled from a huge cut alongside the mountain's limestone wall. The crystal clear waters were flanked with giant elephant ears and a dense canopy of highland oaks that rustled in the wind. This babbling riparian system makes its way from the highlands of this oak forest down to the desert floor of scrub brush where it fuses with the Río Candela, which then joins the Río Salado, eventually connecting with the Río Grande.
We climbed up the mountain, reaching a massive horizontal entrance to the cave. According to Maximiliano, once inside the cavern, we would be able to see where the water came from. From here you could see the watercourse below and its descent on the face of the mountain. We said a silent prayer, turned on the Petzel headlamps, and submerged into the eerie darkness of the cavern. The shaft that led from the entrance into the cave had been smoothly carved from the rock by the slow updraft of air moving constantly throughout the entire cave system. Our tunnel, ample and wide at the entrance, began to shorten suddenly in height to a narrow four-foot wide by two-foot high slit. The only way to pass was on your back, sliding through the crack. While doing so, George spotted a most curious looking arachnid with incredibly long, modified appendages. Its unusually long legs seemed to be designed for movement in total darkness. George photographed the arachnid, and later I forwarded the photo to Dr. Neal McReynolds, professor of Biology at TAMIU, who identified the specimen to the order of Amblypygi. We were now at a most precarious place in our journey into the earth.
Shortly after the face-to-face with the Amblypygi, we descended into the cave while holding onto a cable and walking backwards at a 45-degree angle down a slippery, moist, and very smooth slab of limestone. From the moment we submerged deeper into total darkness, we became aware of the presence of thousands of bats. George snapped a photo of my descent and happened to catch a bat flying across the camera's field of view. At times, the bats flew within a foot or two of our heads, made a 180° turn in flight, and flapped hastily away. We literally felt the air displaced by the bat's wings against our faces as they navigated past us, using their echolocation to avoid contact. We slowly followed the flow of water inward to the heart of the mountain. We walked for nearly an hour before turning around. There weren't any noticeable stalagmites or stalactites that had not been touched. Unlike the La Joya de Manantiales cave at El Cielo, this cave had been seriously mistreated to the extent that George and I could not spot one stalagmite or stalactite that had not been broken by past visitors. Shortly before reaching the end, we walked in the river for at least a third of a mile against the flow of cool, clear mountain spring-fed water, sometimes waist-high, and at other times along the subterranean river banks. We finally reached the end where the river gushed forth from a huge, gaping sliver at the base of a dead-end limestone wall. We turned off the headlights, observed the absolute darkness and listened as the water flowed steadily by. We carefully made our back way out of the cave.
Out in the open, George noticed the abundance of wild chiles piquines and collected a handful for dinner. At the truck I changed foot gear and prepared for a run back to Candela while George drove Maximiliano back to Candela. The recent rains produced a desert floor in full bloom, and George and Maximiliano collected wild oregano for the marinade for a leg of lamb that chef George would slow smoke. In a week's time, I would be racing in the last half-Iron Man distance event in Texas for 2003, so the 13 or so miles back to Candela would fit in perfectly for training purposes. The sheer beauty of desert wild flowers blanketing the landscape was incredibly visually stimulating. Some were yellow, others red and blue. Others were even more exotic with shades of purple and yellow bordered with translucent-like green edges. All the while, sweet, intoxicating, aromatic fragrances were detectable in the clean, desert air as I ran back to Candela.
We had lunch, saddled up the mountain bike gear, and explored the Río Candela on trailheads already established alongside the banks of the river thanks to local livestock. It was an enjoyable afternoon listening to the water flow as we pedaled along the banks. George and I had explored a segment of this river by foot several years ago with his dear wife Rosie. As in past times, we stopped at a section of the river called Las Lajas, where it flows over exposed beds of stratified limestone giving way to small, cascading waterfalls spilling into a large, natural pool of water about 30 by 60 feet in size. The water was very deep in this natural pool, and you could repeatedly jump off the small waterfalls into the deep end time and time again to your heart's content. After the natural pool, the water flow narrows in width and returns to but a few feet in depth, forming the river that runs through Candela.
We proceeded upstream to El Ojo Caliente, a thermal spring that gushes forth from the earth after a good rain. The warm waters flow downhill into the Candela River. By now the sun had tucked itself behind the Pajaros Azules and we were once again destined to chase daylight. Halfway home, George turned on his headlights and illuminated the caliche road as we traversed the foothills of the Carrizal range. In the distance we could see an approaching thunderstorm suffusing the valley between us and the Sierra de Lampazos. The rumbling growl of the thunderheads and the strobed streaks of lightning were constant reminders that it was very important for us to get off of these higher elevations and back to the comfort of the warm fire that awaited us at the Tijerinas' home. Our last obstacle was the Río Candela, which was running pretty hard due to the heavy rainfall. We barreled down the hill on our mountain bikes and forged ahead through the rushing waters. Once we cleared the river we were well on our way to concluding yet another chapter in the logbook of our adventures.
That evening, we had dinner with Javier Menchaca and told him of the day's exploration. We noted to Menchaca that the cave lacked large caverns and interesting formations and that it would be appealing only to those interested in bats and the adventure of going into the earth. The river was the real jewel of Candela, especially as you follow it up into the mountains. The river is Candela's lifeblood, and it is what turns the arid desert floor into fruited plain and pecan groves. It is plainly the amenity the town leaders need most to protect and promote along La Ruta del Desierto, as well as the charming character of this desert community. One question that kept bugging us was the nature of the blue containers at an abandoned copper smelting plant along the Río Candela. In some spots, there were a few, in others, there were many bunched together, and when you came close enough, you could definitely detect a chemical odor. The Mayor looked at us solemnly and told us that those were chemicals the mining industry had used in their operations. Although the mines were shut down, the containers had been left behind, and despite repeated requests to get rid of them, they were still there. He said that he was not sure what was going to happen with the containers or their contents, but acknowledged that if the problem was not fixed soon and there was a chemical spill, this could ruin the town's plans to promote eco-tourism. Tourists would not come to a town, no matter how charming, if the river and soil are tainted with dangerous chemicals. After speaking to the foreman of the now closed facilities, it turns out that the 200 or so containers contain hydrochloric acid, an international environmental concern given the direction that the water flow takes it into the Río Grande watershed. Lampazos de Naranjo, a small town down stream of Candela, unfortunately utilizes some of the contaminated water flow of the Río Candela for drinking water and irrigating crops.
Saturday we were on our way to Cuatro Cienegas. The afternoon was extremely overcast with low-flying grayish clouds. We rolled into Cuatro Cienegas shortly before sundown to find the central plaza bustling with life. We were off to the Valle of Cuatro Cienegas. Our home for the rest of this journey was El Pozo de la Becerra , one of 500 springs in the national preserve of Cuatro Cienegas located less than 10 kilometers south of town. Camping is allowed and so is swimming, making it an excellent base of operations for exploration of the rest of the preserve. We were welcomed back by Roberto, the gatekeeper, whom we had met on several earlier journeys to this wonderful part of the earth. We invited Roberto for dinner and as usual had a good long conversation with him. His company has always been welcomed, and he has always done his absolute best to make sure that we were at home in this desert paradise. We asked Roberto about El Whiskey, the dog he had with him the last time we saw him a little over a year ago, and he said that Whiskey was living in the town of Cuatro Cienegas, "Corriendo atrás de las perras." He had a new companion, Muñeca, a small-bodied mutt. He was quick to ask where Pancho was and quite saddened to hear of his passing.
I didn't get much sleep that night, camping where we had camped with George and Pancho a little over a year ago. Reminiscing on Pancho's passing somehow initiated a total recall of all the life and death experiences I have had up to that point in my life. The fitful sleep and thoughts of Pancho fueled a long, torturous, recurring nightmare based entirely on real, past events of my life, lasting for the rest of the night and carrying over into the early morning hours of Sunday. That recall began with a tragic incident that had occurred in College Station a little over two years ago while participating in a summer research fellowship in the biomedical and biophysical sciences at Texas A&M University. It was barely the second week that I had ever lived away from home only to be greeted with the sound of squealing tires and an audible "thumping" sound as I cooked dinner and talked to my mother on the phone. At first I thought someone had hit a trashcan, but after hearing cries for help, I ended the phone call and ran outside to see what the commotion was.
My neighbor, Ashley, was frozen in fright, staring at the scene of a terrible accident and yelling for help. Things were happening fast. Ashley described what happened as I approached the first individual lying on the ground covered in blood. She saw the young couple running by when they were struck from behind by a large pickup driving at least 40 miles per hour. The squealing tires I heard was the driver slamming on the brakes, attempting to avoid hitting the couple, but that was obviously of no use. The husband was severely injured as he lay on the side of the road. Blood spilled from his mouth, nose, and numerous cuts, with both legs badly mangled. Even in those circumstances, the young man was crying out for his wife. After instructing him to lay still and not move his head, I ran over to his wife. The husband was hit by the edge of the vehicle, thrown off to the side; the wife however, received a much more direct hit. Ashley's description of the young woman flying through the air after being hit was broken with intermittent cries of disbelief of what she had just witnessed. A young, healthy, adult woman in her late 20s lay dead before me. She most likely died on impact. Her neck and back were grotesquely contorted and both ankles were torn open.
The memory of that tragic evening shifted to another event that occurred along the banks of the Frio River three years ago during winter. While George and I explored an area new to us we came across a young doe that had been shot in the rear left leg. The smell of her scent glands and the stench of gangrene lingered in the air as George and I analyzed the situation. It quickly became apparent to us that we would have to commit an act of euthanasia. The deer's leg was dangling and severely rotted. George attempted to slit the deer's throat while holding it partly submerged in the river. The deer still had quite a bit of life left in her and threw George back, causing him to accidentally stab his left forearm. I assisted George out of the river, administered first aid, and looked around for the deer that now swam across the river to the opposite bank. I ran downstream half a mile to where the water was shallow enough to cross over and made my way towards the ailing deer. She lay alongside the river, succumbing to the initial stages of hypothermia. I sat down beside her and slowly stroked her pelage, trying to comfort her as hypothermia continued to set in and numb the deer more and more. I figured I had all day and should at least take the time to make its death as painless as possible. Once I saw that the deer could no longer move her limbs, I said a silent prayer, asked for forgiveness from the deer, and promised her death would not be in vain. With great pain, I simply pushed the deer's head underneath the surface of the water and stared into her eyes as the life force slowly drained from its body. Afterwards, I pulled her out of the river and carried her on my back for the remainder of the trek. Back at our cabin we cleaned the deer and partitioned the meat between us. That deer is now part of us, both physically and spiritually.
The total recall shifted from the banks of the Frio to Lansdowne St. in Boston, which runs by Fenway Park, home to the Red Sox. While living in Boston I would commute everywhere by mountain bike. With only two weeks left in a summer Fellowship at Tufts Biomedical Research Center, I was run over by a lady from New York who had driven in that day to see the Yanks play the Red Sox. I'll never forget the moment that the right front corner of her bumper made contact with my left calf. As I turned to see what the hell was going on, the right front tire of the vehicle made contact with the front tire of my bike, instantly pulling the bike under the car. Fortunately, momentum saved me that day as it sent me flying forward through the air. I ended up doing an inverted cartwheel, making first contact with my right shoulder and head. I was on my way to check the results of some experiments I had left running in the morning so I had my laptop, digital camera, and calculator packed in my satchel. Unbelievably, the only damage sustained was to my person, a second-degree separation in my right acromioclavicular articulation and minor tears to the right rotator cuff. It would be more than a year after that incident before I could start swimming competitively again.
The recall of past moments of sadness or terror shifted once again, taking me further back in time to the long-drawn, seven-month battle my father had with lung cancer. I remember sitting by his side day after day talking to him, massaging his feet, basically trying to comfort him as much as possible as he slowly struggled towards eternal sleep. The last month before his passing was difficult for all of my family yet, even in his darkest hours, he still managed to speak to me with the words of wisdom, guidance, and encouragement he had always offered me since I was a boy. Time and time again he told me not to forget my education, to strive for what is good and right and fight those who side with wrong, to defend the weak and the helpless, to fight for the good of the earth and to always honor family and friendship. I remember promising him back then that I would one day be a doctor, although at that point I was nowhere nearly as centered and focused as I am today with my own education. On this night nearly 10 years after the passing of my father, I lay asleep alongside a hot spring on the desert floor of the Chihuahuan Desert in recall of all of those heart-wrenching life and death experiences, as well as many others too personal to share. With only two days left before the scores of the MCAT would be released, I felt as if though I was in limbo.
I awoke Monday morning with all of my life and death experiences close at hand, as if I had experienced all of them the day before. George said I didn't look too good, but I told him we would continue with the day's objectives. Today was the big show. We were going to ask for approval from CONANP (Mexico's National Commission on Natural Protected Areas) to swim in two springs, El Pozo Azul and another with no particular name that are off limits for swimming to the general public for conservation purposes. Once again the morning greeted us with curtains of mist and fog enveloping the mountaintops that are usually visible on sunnier days. George left two legs of lamb marintated in olive oil, fresh oregano from the desert, and freshly pressed garlic, slow smoking in a cooker provided at the camping grounds we were at. We drove to CONANP's headquarters. After talking to the director and some of the staff, we were given approval to go ahead with our mission so long as we were accompanied by one of their "official" guides to the region. Seeing that it was still early in the morning, none of the guides had arrived yet. We asked where we could get our hands on some good home-cooked breakfast, and after eating we headed back to CONANP's HQ, where we met up with our guide.
El Pozo Azul is a spring just behind the tourist information center in the middle of the Valle de Cuatro Cienegas, just off the highway. The water there was unbelievably blue and clear, with a maximum depth of 20 feet . We entered the spring and were greeted with very warm water, warmer than the water in the spring where we had set up camp. As George documenting the many wonderfully colored fish that dashed back and forth below me, I did a few laps on the surface. George signaled that he had found a slit along the floor of the spring where water was gushing forth. Sure enough, when I dove and placed my hand there, I could feel that the water was very hot, coming out of the ground. Another interesting feature of this pozo was that on the opposite end of the pool from the spring there was an indention on the floor where the water would disappear underground and run off into the aquifer that controls the water system for the entire valley. According to our guide, all of the 500-plus pozos are connected throughout the Valle de Cuatro Cienegas. After our exploration we and made our way to the unnamed pozo. This was a much larger spring than the pozo azul, but not nearly as crystal clear.
Early afternoon was upon us by the time we dropped our guide at CONANP's headquarters. After returning to camp we rode into the desert dunes, Las Dunas de Yeso, that were just a few kilometers from El Pozo de la Becerra where we camped. The dunes are almost 100 percent pure gypsum. Before being declared a preserve, several companies were using the gypsum for a variety of industrial purposes, essentially destroying the unique and sensitive sand dune ecosystem. Due to the recent rains, the dunes were nice and compact, just perfect for surfing earth by foot and/or mountain bike. We rode until sundown, riding over one dune only to be greeted by another and then another. Some of the dunes must have been between 20 to 30 feet in height. Before gypsum mining, the dunes were said to reach heights of over 50 feet . Many of the dunes were intricately carved and sculpted by the wind. Some looked like citadels and minarets from a distance and if camels were present you would probably think that you were somewhere in the deserts of the Middle East rather than in the Chihuahuan Desert.
Back at camp we saw an old school bus parked at El Pozo de la Becerra with at least a dozen college students having a great time cooking dinner and enjoying the splendid wonders of the earth. A couple greeted us and asked where we were from. It turned out they were studying forestry and habitat preservation at La Universidad Autonoma de Torreon. They had covered endemism the week before had researched Cuatro Cienegas. After reading up on it, some students decided to take matters into their own hands. They borrowed a bus that was definitely older than George and I, and they drove for almost eight hours to get to Cuatro Cienegas to see for themselves the species they had read about. It was refreshing to see others who were sincerely interested in studying and protecting the earth. Perhaps there is still hope for humanity. After a few beers with the couple, the group returned home. We waved goodbye and said a prayer for their safe return home. Our last evening was spent devouring the legs of lamb that George had left slow smoking. The meat was so tender that all you literally had to do was shake the bone and let the morsels of carne fall off. Roberto joined us once again for food and fellowship. We all had several cold Indios, our Mexican beer of choice, and sat around the warmth of the fire, sharing with one and other the many valuable lessons that life had taught us. The night air was cool and crisp, and the day's activity had taken its toll. Fortunately, I wasn't plagued with nightmares as I had been the night before.
Tuesday morning the wet weather had finally broken, giving way to clear, sunny skies. I took off on a two hour run accompanied by Roberto's dog Muñeca, while George scuba dived in the spring. With enthusiasm he continued his photo documentary of the fish endemic to the Valle of Cuatro Cienegas. What a blast it was to see the sun rise while running through the gypsum dunes like a wild Comanche. Later, we said our goodbyes to Roberto and drove into Cuatro Cienegas for lunch before departing for the US. This was the day the MCAT scores were to be made available for the most recent testing session. I was a bit nervous as I entered CONANP headquarters to use their computer to check my scores. Months if not years of preparation and study had gone into taking that exam, and when I saw that I had indeed done well as my professors said that I most likely would, I felt as if a ton of weight had been taken off my shoulders. This tremendous blessing affirmed for me a thousand-fold the conviction to continue to study, to fight for the earth, and to do the things that are just. After a handful of street tacos and a couple of beers, George and I were back on track, headed to the US after completing another wonderful journey of the Chihuahuan Desert.
George Altgelt
Dan described in detail the death of my dear old dog Pancho, an event I missed due to the untimely manner in which death usually visits. It is my obligation to celebrate Pancho's life. He came to me in 1998 as a six-month-old rescue dog. When I went to pick him up, his former owners were a mix of emotions to see this beautiful dog go. Their apartment was barren of furniture and all of their shelves were placed high upon the walls. Apparently Super Dog (one of Pancho's many names) had already been through a couple of sofas, numerous pairs of shoes, and anything else that was inadvertently left in his lair, which seems to have been the entire living room and all of the common areas. There was a doggy gate that hung from one hinge and looked seriously disabled that had been placed up in hopes of containing him and keeping him from entering into the kitchen and devouring whatever he might get his snout into. There were scratch marks on the walls and doors, and the remains of a once comfortable love seat.
The other side of the coin was a sad little boy who was losing his first dog. His mom explained to him that Pancho needed room to grow and that he would be a happier dog if he had wide open spaces to live in.
And happy was what Pancho's life was with us. Pancho in his short five years of life had seen more of the world then most people do in a lifetime. There were the trips to Big Bend and the Hill Country, countless arrowhead hunts together, and all of the mountain biking adventures we took together. Back when I used to live on the old Link Ranch, Pancho and I would go on long horseback rides. I would saddle up my horse Doroteo and ride off into the monte, sometimes at a fast pace, sometimes at a steady lope, but always with old Pancho following closely behind. We would dive in and out of the arroyos, through the brush and shallow watercourses. The thunder of my horse's hooves would synchronize our heartbeats as we blazed trails through the south Texas countryside in unison. There is something awesome about being part of a coordinated effort of dog, horse, and man. After a good rain, the three of us went ballroom dancing through the moist and fragrant monte.
On one ride I was galloping Doroteo down a very old sendero only to discover -- without notice -- that seven feet of earth had been washed out. Doroteo paused on the edge of the precipice, not in apprehension, but rather in calculation, and then bolted over the arroyo. I looked back in the nick of time to catch Pancho turning on his afterburners so that he, too, could make the jump. When he came upon the arroyo he did not even think twice about it and soared over the drop-off like a spring buck clearing barbwire. Pancho always looked forward to our rides, our walks, and our adventures. He became instantly and noticeably excited when he saw me headed towards the tack room, or putting my bicycle helmet on.
Pancho was a dear affectionate friend with those he knew. He was very protective of me and my mother, and I could leave the mountain bikes in the bed of the truck without thinking twice about their security. When I left for law school my mom generously gave him room and board back at the ranch in San Ygnacio. He quickly moved up the ranks and became chief of security, and remained on active duty up until his passing. He served bravely and deterred many a stray traveler from approaching the ranch compound. During my stint in law school my mom, wife, and I made several trips to Candela, Mexico. I recall that on one occasion we went to the grutas (caves) of Bustamante, he followed us into the depths of the cave and had a wonderful time doing it, drinking from the clear pools of water that collected in the travertine dams.
One time Dan and I took Pancho and the chocolate lab Duchess for a hike along the banks of Lake Casablanca when the lake level was so low, the shoreline extended 30 meters into the lake than usual. We paddled along in a canoe and they followed us along the banks when suddenly Pancho came upon a family of feral hogs. He chased after a sow and her piglets like it was a game, oblivious to the seriousness of his own situation as well as to my direct orders to cease and desist. He engaged the family of peccaries with playfulness, his hindquarters in the air highlighting the wag of his mighty tail. He would pause a moment in this position and wait while the sow took a couple of steps back and then went at Pancho in a full charge. Ol' Skeeter, another nickname for this dog, waited until the absolute last second to get up from his happy-dog-ready-for-battle-position before he would turn tail and run away, only to slow down enough so that the sow could catch up to him and so keep the thrill of the chase going -- much like a matador on horseback who slows down enough to show off to the audience that his horse is inches away from being gored. Pancho would then go into overdirve and the sow would have to call off the chase. As soon as she turned around, Panchorelo would proceed to chase the sow to his heart's content. She would run away from him as fast as she could with her little legs, which were no match for the Ridgeback's long legs and agility. As soon as he would catch up to her, she would spin around and stand her ground, and the cycle would repeat itself until I finally went hoarse from calling out to Pancho's deaf ears. He eventually gave up the chase and followed us in the canoe because despite his alpha-ness, he did not want to be far from his pack.
Then there was the time that Pancho figured out how to open the gate at the Heights house we lived in. This was a particularly bad thing because Pancho always seemed to find the most inopportune moments to keep the outside world on edge. I remember one morning waking up to the sound of his bark, the violent screams of grown men yelling like girls, and the raucous din of aluminum trashcans being thrown against the pavement. By the time I managed to get outside, the City of Laredo garbage truck was speeding away and its riders were attempting to mount while using the neighbor's trashcans as a shield to keep the four-legged fury from getting a hold of them. As they drove away, I attempted to apologize only to be received by a handful of obscene hand signals and a variety of "tu y tu pinche perro's" and "haber quien te levanta la basura's". I had to use a padlock to keep Pancho from using his snout to open the gate and to keep society safe from my dog. This, however, would not be Pancho's last run-in with the law.
Pancho and Duchess should have been members of the Olympic two-dog-digging team. Once they figured out that the gig was up on the gate, they were off to bigger and better challenges. When it came to digging and other methods of escape these two were the Houdinis of the canine species. They dug a massive pit so that Pancho at 110 pounds and 22 inches tall on all fours could fit under the fence. After about 24 hours of no Pancho (Duchess, like the wonderful dog that she is, returned promptly that night just short of her 9 p.m. curfew), I decided to go to the animal shelter to look for my missing partner in crime. As I walked in to the pound I could hear him barking at all of those who got to close to his jail cell. When we made eye contact, he put on his "I didn't do it, it was not my fault" face. According to the clerk, Pancho was apprehended in the El Azteca barrio, quite far from the Heights. Only one animal control officer was initially dispatched to capture Thunder Nuts. After many unsuccessful attempts by this lone ranger (who was at one time reported to have been seen sitting on top of his dog catcher mobile when reinforcements arrived), several other animal control officers were dispatched to the scene. After about an hour or so of Pancho's favorite game of Catch Me If You Can, with which he engaged about two-thirds of the animal control force, everyone had finally had enough. According to the account, he was roped, hog-tied, and muzzled, requiring four grown men to lift him into the solitary confinement cages of the pound's paddy wagon. So I posted bail, sprung him from jail, and proceeded to fill the hole in the yard with a combination of cinder blocks and dirt, thereby averting other potential acts of canine liability.
There were many happy moments as well as several occasions that brought us both a good deal of grief. He had nipped at a couple of folks, innocent bystanders who'd crossed his path. There was also the time Pancho ate two packages of flour tortillas and could not move for a couple of days. Ex Lax worked like a charm. I recall distinctly one time that Dan and I went canoeing down the Frio River close to Concan. We decided to do a five-mile river run and take both Pancho and Duchess with us. Once again they followed on the banks as we paddled, sometimes swimming along. I was able to read very well Pancho's facial expressions, which were his was his way of speaking, as was his yelp and growl. There was a distinct pitch that told you the security perimeter had been breached or was about to be breached.
We often roughhoused until we were out of breath, playing tug of war, chase, or fetch. What I remember above all is a very affectionate dog who never wanted to leave my side and who was very protective of my mother at the ranch or at her office downtown. I always loved watching Pancho and other dogs play, because he moved with such grace and agility. His senses were very keen, especially his sight, and he had a knack for detecting movement way off in the distance. He was a good dog if ever there was one.
I cried like a baby the day that I found out that he was gone from this world. I hadn't experienced that level of grief since I was a young boy. The reality is that loved ones come and go, and one day we will also be somebody's loved one when we go.
To live is to die, and it is merely a matter of when and how. When to live your life? Right now. How to live your life? In a manner which leaves our planet earth in a better condition than the day it was handed to you for good stewardship. These are the lessons learned from all I have loved dearly and who have passed on.
Pancho the dog, yes, a dog, made our world a more wonderful place to inhabit. His playfulness always brought me to laughter and kept me on my toes, literally. For those who knew Pancho well, he made their lives richer, too; and for those who did not know him so well, let's just say he kept them on their toes too, which is a good thing. I miss that old fella, and I hope to continue to learn from him as I have in the past, and I hope one day to run alongside him and once again roam the hunting grounds of our ancestors.
