For some reason utterly unfathomable to me, the Department of Homeland Security has deemed me not a particular security risk, and thus I have been cleared for a ride-along with Border Patrol personnel as they go about their daily rounds plucking people out of the desert.
Some of these rounds are rather routine. The other day I drove up to a store right on the border, saw that the store was closed, turned around and drove back out onto the road. Within a hundred yards the flashing blue lights were behind me: I’d been pulled over by La Migra. Turns out the oleander-shaded driveway I’d pullled into is a usual pickup point for would-be border crossers. The agent was polite, even cordial, and didn’t ask for ID: He just looked in the cab of my truck and explained why he’d pulled me over and told me to have a good day. Then he got back into his air-conditioned truck.
The ride I’m going on on Monday won’t be like that. We’ll be following El Camino del Diablo. If you follow that link, nota bene the red text at the bottom of the page — the text that says “Note - This is not a trip to take in the summer.”
Why am I doing this again? Oh, yeah: because I’m the kind of guy who can’t resist heading out into the worst possible desert at the worst possible time. Twice in a week, if possible. Although I assume that if we get into any trouble, my Border Patrol escort will radio for help and the DHS will leap into action and rescue us just like they did all those people in New Orlea… um. Anyway, it’s a place I’ve always wanted to go, especially if — as I assume we will — we get anywhere near the Tinajas Altas mountains.
