12/8/22

By Josh Rubin

We left Marathon and found the fog that rested in a dense bank, like snow, on the horizon. It was miles and miles to the banks of the river that divides the two nations. Miles through patches of fog, and towering peaks and desert desert desert. Some caught glimpses of javelina and deer. I saw only an animal I didn’t have time to identify, that scurried across the road furtively and furrily.

People quite scarce. The emptiest national park in the nation. At long last a turnoff near a canyon, and a descent to the ranger station that doubles as a port of entry station. There to greet us, along with a ranger, were three armed agents of Customs and Border Protection, one mustached, one bearded, another, who spoke little, clean shaven.

The ranger tipped us off. She told us the CBP was only occasionally there at the peaceful station. We later learned, from those agents themselves, that they were there on account of a band of caravaners, something called the Journey for Justice. In other words, us.

Our passports in order, we go down a dirt slope path to a river about fifty feet wide. The water, the ranger said, is higher than usual. The way across if you don’t want to swim, which you are allowed to do, is to pay a man with a rowboat five bucks for a round trip ticket. Four and five at a time we went, the rower fighting the current to land on the opposite shore. We settled up the fare with a man on the bank. He gave us a ticket to hold onto like the ones for a carnival ride, and offered a burro or horse or truck ride to the town of Boquillas, a half mile away. Also we could walk.

Lunch in the town, the repeated offers of trinkets, “souvenirs” the people called out, the children offering us the tinier ones, saying the same.

We weren’t there long. We looked around, and soon it was back to the river. Into the rowboat. On our side of the river, we offered our tickets. “Souvenir,” the man who rowed us said, refusing them.