“In a way, all of us have an El Guapo to face someday. For some, shyness might be their El Guapo. For others, a lack of education might be their El Guapo. For us, El Guapo is a big, dangerous guy who wants to kill us. But as sure as my name is Lucky Day, the people of Santa Poco can conquer their own personal El Guapo who also happens to be the actual El Guapo.” — Excerpt from The Three Amigos
While I was passing through the quiet town of Enochs, a truck with three men pulled over beside me. Having clearly been elected the spokesperson, the nearest fellow used a sublime mixture of eloquence, subtlety, and wit to address me in conversation. His command of the English language was great, his words delicately chosen.
“What the hell are you doing?” he asked.
We talked, the four of us, about what I was doing. After covering the basics of food, water, and shelter, our talk turned to El Paso and the US-Mexico border. Like chips at a Mexican restaurant, a border story is usually followed by another and another, each one as hot as the last.
I remember one about a friend of theirs, a hunter. The guy got in his deer blind early one morning, felt something different in the small space, but didn’t want to shine a light to see what it was. When the sun came up and his luck ran out with wild game, he turned his attention to the object he had felt earlier. It was a metal box, though he hadn’t remembered leaving it. He lifted the lid, then shut it. The box was filled with cocaine.
I don’t vouch for the tale’s authenticity. But the men touched upon a fear that’s been getting closer and closer ever since I left Corpus Christi. To borrow Lucky Day’s words, El Paso had become my El Guapo.
Fast forward to a few evenings ago. My panhandle tour in its final days, I walked out of the plains and into the desert landscape of West Texas. I camped out underneath a mesquite tree on a slope slightly beneath the level of the road. As the sunlight faded and a plethora of bugs and birds made a few last minute flights, I waited for the sky to fill with stars. Then I saw headlights.
At an intersection
I had passed not half a mile prior, a car stopped. The driver could have been doing anything – consulting a map, picking up
his cell phone, looking for a tissue in the backseat of the car – but with the veil of a dozen border stories clouding my vision I could think of only a single explanation: drugs.
When
another vehicle approached in the distance, the car in question took off. The driver didn’t peel out, but he seemed intent on making a getaway. I ducked down as he passed. It had the feel of a close call, and though nothing had happened, I left early the next morning.
I continued south to the lower left of the panhandle, trying to find the corner marker. What I found instead were the remnants of a survey site, a pile of cement chunks marked by a fading sign. Hidden in the jumble, I noticed something more, a canister. Good lord, it was even covered in camouflage tape. I reached for it, unscrewing the lid slowly.
No coke.
It was a geocache, a hobby-box for “treasure” seekers, filled with the signatures of people who, like me, were looking for the corner. I signed the register and left.
The way I’ve acted, you’d think I was already on the Rio Grande, but it’s actually a couple of weeks away. These infamous border tales which currently share an edge with my imagination will soon be very real. My name’s not Lucky Day either. I will be careful; I will be quiet; I shall overcome my fear.
Smatt is the penname of S.Matt Read. A writer, inventor, baker, and hiker, he is currently hiking the entire outline of the state. Follow his adventure here and at www.texasperimeterhike.blogspot.com and www.twitter.com/perimeterhiker.
The Texas Perimeter Hike: Installment #8
“What the hell are you doing?” he asked.
We talked, the four of us, about what I was doing. After covering the basics of food, water, and shelter, our talk turned to El Paso and the US-Mexico border. Like chips at a Mexican restaurant, a border story is usually followed by another and another, each one as hot as the last.
I remember one about a friend of theirs, a hunter. The guy got in his deer blind early one morning, felt something different in the small space, but didn’t want to shine a light to see what it was. When the sun came up and his luck ran out with wild game, he turned his attention to the object he had felt earlier. It was a metal box, though he hadn’t remembered leaving it. He lifted the lid, then shut it. The box was filled with cocaine.
I don’t vouch for the tale’s authenticity. But the men touched upon a fear that’s been getting closer and closer ever since I left Corpus Christi. To borrow Lucky Day’s words, El Paso had become my El Guapo.
Fast forward to a few evenings ago. My panhandle tour in its final days, I walked out of the plains and into the desert landscape of West Texas. I camped out underneath a mesquite tree on a slope slightly beneath the level of the road. As the sunlight faded and a plethora of bugs and birds made a few last minute flights, I waited for the sky to fill with stars. Then I saw headlights.
At an intersection
I had passed not half a mile prior, a car stopped. The driver could have been doing anything – consulting a map, picking up
his cell phone, looking for a tissue in the backseat of the car – but with the veil of a dozen border stories clouding my vision I could think of only a single explanation: drugs.
When
another vehicle approached in the distance, the car in question took off. The driver didn’t peel out, but he seemed intent on making a getaway. I ducked down as he passed. It had the feel of a close call, and though nothing had happened, I left early the next morning.
I continued south to the lower left of the panhandle, trying to find the corner marker. What I found instead were the remnants of a survey site, a pile of cement chunks marked by a fading sign. Hidden in the jumble, I noticed something more, a canister. Good lord, it was even covered in camouflage tape. I reached for it, unscrewing the lid slowly.
No coke.
It was a geocache, a hobby-box for “treasure” seekers, filled with the signatures of people who, like me, were looking for the corner. I signed the register and left.
The way I’ve acted, you’d think I was already on the Rio Grande, but it’s actually a couple of weeks away. These infamous border tales which currently share an edge with my imagination will soon be very real. My name’s not Lucky Day either. I will be careful; I will be quiet; I shall overcome my fear.
Smatt is the penname of S.Matt Read. A writer, inventor, baker, and hiker, he is currently hiking the entire outline of the state. Follow his adventure here and at www.texasperimeterhike.blogspot.com and www.twitter.com/perimeterhiker.