Follow The Sun - Day One

Story & photos also by Curtis Prendergast and Charlie Golestani.

The brown hide of a decomposed horse flaps in the wind and its belly spills sun-bleached bones. The bones lay scattered on the right side of a road which dead ends at the Babaquivari mountain range across from the U.S.-Mexico Border fence in Sasabe, Arizona.

A faded backpack hangs from a rusted vehicle barrier, perpendicular to Sasabe's border fence. Stopping at least 10 feet short of the mountain range, the fence allows migrants and smugglers to slip across effortlessly. For those willing to trudge across the border via the Sonoran Desert, these macabre and surreal images serve as an "enter at your own risk" warning. This is our welcoming committee.

In November 2009, Curtis Prendergast, Charlie Golestani and I intended to walk 45 miles of migrant trails from the U.S.-Mexico Border at Sasabe to Three Points, Arizona over three days. Our purpose was to experience the trek hundreds of thousands of migrants and smugglers make each year while documenting the remnants left behind.

Equipped with enough food for four days, six gallons of water, a first aid kit, camping supplies, video and photography gear, spare changes of clothes, and a hand-held GPS tracker with coordinates to the area's numerous Humane Borders' water stations, we began our trip into the desolate terrain. We planned to cover 20 miles the first day.

We soon discovered that the time spent conducting interviews, researching the region and gathering supplies the month before actually did little to prepare us for the realizations of an intense journey.

***

For many Americans, the number of migrants apprehended each month by the U.S. Border Patrol throughout the nine sectors of the U.S.-Mexico border - from Brownsville, Texas to San Diego, California - is hard to fathom.

According to Border Patrol agent David Jimarez, one of the most frequently used areas is the desert west of Nogales, Arizona.

"We don't have a specific number of people who actually cross the border, but we do know how many we apprehend," said agent Jimarez. "In the month of October (2009), over 23,000 people have been apprehended in the Tucson Sector alone."

While agent Jimarez's figure appears to be unusually high, evidence of a daily exodus is apparent on the red dirt trails and underneath the mesquite trees that cover the landscape. Water bottles, clothes, shoes, toiletries, personal garments, discarded food containers, phone cards, and even walkie-talkies litter the desert floor.

Dan Millis, Borderlands Campaign Manager for the Arizona Chapter of the Sierra Club, regularly travels throughout the border's Tucson Sector on humanitarian aid missions and to clean up trash in the area.

"Sometimes you find trash and personal items left behind by migrants who have been pushed by U.S. border policy out into these remote areas," said Millis, offering an explanation as to why so much debris is commonly found in the Sonoran Desert north of Sasabe.

Before he began working with the Sierra Club, Millis was arrested in 2008 for leaving water jugs on migrant trails in the Buenos Aries National Wildlife Refuge while volunteering for migrant activist group No More Deaths. His trial struck a chord with migrant activist groups across the country and garnered Millis an interview with Democracy Now's Amy Goodman, the host of a nationwide leftist news program.

***

Soon after crossing the border, my colleagues and I deduce that whole families frequently make this trek by the amount of children's shoes and backpacks left behind in various stages of decay. Agent Jimarez said that it's not uncommon to see families with young children walking these trails.

By the second mile, Curt, Charlie and I come across the peculiar sight of a damaged mountain bike with all its distinguishing marks and reflectors painted over. We stare at the bike in amazement, dumbfounded that someone would try to ride through the rugged landscape and even more surprised by the prospect the attempt could have been made at night. In the next two days, we will find five more bikes within our journey's first six miles.

"(Migrants) ride their bikes north to get across the border," said Millis. "It makes sense because (the bikes) are a lot faster than walking, while being quiet and cheap."

As we continue through mountainous terrain, crossing barbwire fences into barren valleys, we search for the first Humane Borders' water station by following the GPS coordinates. By our calculations, the water station is four miles from the border and no more than half a mile from U.S Highway 286. According to GPS, we have walked a little over four miles - in five hours - but the water station is still nowhere in sight.

Growing exhausted by hauling the amount of gear we carry, we decide to walk closer to Highway 286 in hopes of finding the blue flag that signifies a water station.

Before we can spot the flag, a UPS courier spots us. Mistaking us as migrants, he quickly summons a nearby Border Patrol agent. When the agent tracks us down, I promptly identify ourselves as freelance journalists and explain our objective.

He is a very helpful man who seems a bit amused by our journey as well as by our oversized backpacks filled with gear. We inquire about the location of the water station.

"That station is about a mile west of this area," the agent says. "If you walk straight toward the mountain, you should run into it."

We thank him for his time and he makes sure that we have enough water to continue on.
"You boys are really going to attempt to walk to Three Points?" the agent asks with a slight grin. We collectively nod.

"Well, that's one I haven't heard before, but best of luck to you. Be safe."

We continue on, tramping over flora that pricks while watching out for fauna that bites and stings. The GPS shows us that we aren't getting closer to our destination.

Frustration is growing. After 30 minutes of walking west, we stop for another break at the top of a foothill in the middle of the desert. Charlie and I are complaining about the incorrect GPS coordinates. It is very likely that we were lost. At the same moment, Curt's eyes light up.

"Blue flag, blue flag," Curt exclaims as Charlie and I look in the direction Curt points.
About 500 feet away, a blue flag waves and our spirits instantly lift. Though physically and mentally exhausted, we summon the energy to walk to the water station.

Located off to the side of a dirt road, the station consists of a large blue water barrel, garbage can and flag. To the naked eye, it is nothing special. After walking through miles of harsh desert, it is an oasis that recharges our outlook on the trip.

I check the GPS again and realize that the given coordinates are at least two kilometers off. There is no way we are going to be able to find the other water stations leading to Three Points with this information.

The setting sun tells us it's time to set up camp, reevaluate our objective, and relax for the evening.

Before we can unpack our bags, a white U.S. Fish and Wildlife truck approaches the water station. Once again, I am telling an officer that we are journalists and explicate our intentions. Curt asks him about the possibility of camping near the station. The officer informs us that it would be illegal to stay there but says there is a campsite a mile up the road.

While they are talking, I read the officer's name tag. A. Kirkpatrick. "Why does that name sound familiar?"

Like the Border Patrol agent we encountered earlier, officer Kirkpatrick finds it humorous that we actually think we can walk to Three Points in three days with the amount of supplies we have. While trying to contain his amusement, officer Kirkpatrick is still cordial to us.

Since the GPS coordinates proved to be defunct, we ask to see a map of the area in an attempt to plan the next day's journey. Officer Kirkpatrick is happy to help and makes sure we have a good idea of where we will be heading before he leaves.

As we continue down the dirt road to the campsite, my mind is racing. Why does officer Kirkpatrick's name sound familiar? Then it hits me.

"Do you guys realize that Kirkpatrick was the arresting officer in Dan Millis's case?" I ask. "Reports from activist groups about the case made Kirkpatrick out to be a harsh man with a black heart."

"Well, he seemed nice enough to me," Charlie replies.

Too tired to care about the irony, we look forward to finding the campsite, eating a hot meal and having a night cap before turning in.

The campsite is located in between two towers of the recently constructed virtual border fence. At any given time, Border Patrol agents have a fix on our position and can scope our every move as we set up camp. Big Brother is watching us in the middle of nowhere.

As we sit around the campfire after a dinner of canned ravioli, we reflect on what has taken place that day and pass around a bottle of spiced rum. All the preconceived notions of who was crossing and patrolling the desert were quickly becoming unraveled. We became aware of our prior arrogance toward preparing for the journey as well as the hardships that so many endure on these trails, both physically and mentally.

Before we sleep, Curt dresses blisters on his feet while I notice that the metal arch support in my newly purchased combat boots is now protruding from the bottom of the sole. Charlie takes a long pull from the bottle and releases an exhausted sigh.

We had hoped to cover 20 miles on the first day, but only gained five.

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