D e s e r t E x p o s u r e
May
2009
Wilderness Patrol
Page: 2Not long after getting off the freeway, Shriver shares an important rule for the wilderness patrol members as we pass a road sign that says "Do Not Pass."
He points out, "It doesn't say, 'Do not piss.'"
Pirtle thankfully pulls the Rubicon over for a pit stop.
After this, er, break, I learn that Pirtle is a real rocket scientist. Really! He retired as a lieutenant colonel after serving 20 years in the Air Force and 16 more in aerospace. He's been in the Wilderness Patrol for about six months, and is already encyclopedic in his knowledge of the area. He also is very much into photography, and is all too happy to help shoot photos of the WSA.
Shriver is in his seventh year as a member of the Wilderness Patrol, and has also done the same type of volunteer work for the US Forest Service. He worked in the Bell telephone system for many years in Colorado and New York, and was an adjunct professor at NMSU from 1989 to 1996.
"Those are the Big Hachitas dead ahead," Shriver says, pointing to the volcanic columns in the distance.
The only signs of human habitation on this beautiful road are distant ranch buildings and the omnipresent cows. To our left are small rugged mountain ranges, bathed in shadows and sunlight; to our right is land that is more open, with purple mountain shadows in the distance. Along both sides of the road, there are clear signs of overgrazing.
As we arrive in Hachita, population dubious, we are greeted by a javelina that darts across the road. We slow down to let him waddle past, then pull into Hachita, a small town that would probably blow away if it not for the "garage sale" being held in front of an abandoned store, replete with a cardboard sign offering free coffee. We whoosh by the enterprising locals, who probably won't get a customer all day, and continue south.
Shriver points out some of the highlights of the land, including the low and rugged-looking Alamo Huecos. We buzz right by the "road" that will lead us to the WSA, and have to turn around just outside Antelope Wells.
About 10 miles in, on a fairly well-maintained private road, we arrive at the Hurt Ranch, where William Hurt (the rancher, not the actor) has lived for the last quarter-century.
This is a courtesy stop, since much of the WSA is on land leased by Hurt, whose family still works another ranch that they homesteaded west of Deming in 1909.
Heavyset with soft features and shaggy hair, Hurt doesn't look like my idea of a rancher. His female companion does not speak English, and they make a rather odd couple. We are not introduced to her. (One of my companions later says that we are only inches from the border, where it is not uncommon for a Mexican woman to be employed or to become a bride at such isolated places as the Hurt Ranch.)
Hurt grumbles a bit about the government in general, tells us he makes more money from stock in a local bank than from the livestock he owns that roams the desert, and announces his need to return to his tax-preparation work. We bid him adieu, and start down a very rough road that will circle around the west side of the Alamo Huecos.
The area is stunning in its geographic beauty, marred only by the presence of Hurt's cows and their own landmarks — trampled flora, large areas of cow pies, and an abundance of flies.
Not far down the road, Shriver points out a coyote. It's the only other form of wildlife we will see all day except for three mule deer.
Pirtle is putting the Jeep through its paces, driving roughshod down the gravel track. We stop every half-mile to shoot pictures of this stunning and quiet landscape, until we come to a fork in the road.
Shriver notes that the other road goes into the Big Hachita WSA, which is the way we will exit to head back to Hwy. 81 later in the day.
The drive to this WSA is twice as long as the road within the WSA itself, and we soon come to the end of the trail. In the distance is Mexico. Shriver says that the buildings on the horizon are Mennonite farms, but he has no further information about them.
We circle back and stop for lunch.
I'm proud to think that I am probably the first human being ever to eat leftover pizza for lunch in this place, which probably looks the same as it did 400 years ago. The quiet and the majesty of the small mountain range are almost overwhelming.
After lunch, we head down the road that will circle part of the Big Hachita. This "road" is not much more than an eroded track, washed out in several places, and very muddy in others. The cattle remain our constant companions as we bump and grind our way into a large valley.
The scenery has pretty much ended now. There is an old rock house that was probably a line camp for the cowboys of long ago, but the rest of the view is very much the same. Ocotillo, mesquite and cholla are the plants of choice for the next two hours. The view becomes monotonous, even for someone who loves the desert. Further, I had thought we would get out and do some patroling on foot, perhaps a short hike from here to over there, but this trip is all by motor.
We spy what might be a primitive airstrip, just over the border. Shriver has been here several times and knows the lay of the land pretty well, and is puzzled by this distant building. (Bailey later informs me that the farms grow cotton, and the airstrip is part of the Mennonite operation.) We pass by another ranch, which has a large number of buildings and is also home for the local school buses.
By now, I am becoming restless, and start to wonder, "Are we there yet?" The nondescript desert is taking a toll.
After a long silence, Shriver points out Doubtful Canyon — so named because in the old days it was often doubtful if travelers would make it through alive. He is studying a map that was printed in 1918, combining this information with data from the GPS.
We reach Hwy. 81 at about 2:30, and head back to Las Cruces. It has been 60 miles of bad road in beautiful country, and in spite of the lack of visual stimulation for the last two hours, it has been a disarmingly beautiful day. We've discovered nothing out of the ordinary, and it is probably not wrong to say that no one has been where we had been for quite some time.
I also note that this road is marked with signs that say "Public Land Access" and arrows pointing in the appropriate direction. So I dismiss the Gray Book comment that says access here is available only through private lands.
Even before I knew anything about environmental issues, I knew that places like Alamo Hueco were important. This trip made me one of not very many people privileged enough to ever see this place. I heard the same quiet, the same silence that those few other travelers before me heard — travelers from hundreds of years ago — and I am a better person for it.
I don't need gold, silver, a motorized vehicle between my legs or even cows to make my life better, to make me whole. What I need is a sense of place that allows me to be silent and introspective.
For those who may have differing thoughts, I offer this maxim from author and naturalist Rachel Carson: "The 'control of nature' is a phrase conceived in arrogance, born of the Neanderthal age of biology and philosophy, when it was supposed that nature exists for the convenience of man."
Senior writer Jeff Berg says he eschews most of the human race, only occasionally venturing from his hovel in Las Cruces.