The Things They Leave Behind

Laura Dravenstott

Resentment fell with drops of sweat as I scrambled up the dusty trail. My new hiking boots kept my ankle from turning as the ground dropped away underfoot, and I took a deep breath while examining their already - shredding soles. I cursed the bizarre impulse that had led me and my roommate, Claire, to this harsh desert south of Tucson. Through a dehydrated haze I recalled our logic: alternative spring breaks were all the rage, and we had found a resume-builder that combined service, Spanish, and warm weather.

The nine-day trip with No More Deaths / No Más Muertes seemed perfect back in the safe environs of our Portland dorm room; we would give water and food to struggling migrants while camping with other liberal college students. Today, after a week of hard hiking without seeing one immigrant, I reflected that we should have gone to inner-city Detroit. Volunteers there slept in dorms with running water and accomplished something tangible like painting over graffiti.

I recalled that our first view of camp had not inspired a sense of optimism. A white flag with a green cross flew over the kitchen tent with its adjacent covered picnic tables. On the right was a battered first-aid tent for injured migrants and on the left, cots spread out between mesquite trees. After a bumpy ride from the airport, mostly off-road, we clambered out of the van tired and bruised, searching for flashlights in our backpacks. The sun had dropped behind the Baboquivari mountains, and the temperature was falling with the light.

Our driver and guide, Joe, said, “We have some folks staying in the hospital tent. Don’t worry if you see them up in the morning. They may want an early start.”

“You just let them go?” I asked.

“Yeah, we don’t hold them. If they want us to call ICE, we will, but it’s their choice. If they want to keep walking to Phoenix, we just make sure they know how much water to carry.”

From inside the tent, a deep voice barked with laughter, followed by rapid Spanish. The low tones and accents were difficult to understand. I wanted to ask where the men were from and why they had left their families to make this risky journey.

“Can I talk to them later? I want to practice my Spanish, maybe ask them some questions.”

“In the morning, if they’re still around. We don’t want to walk in there and stare like it’s some freak show. And we have to eat and set up beds before too late.”

Joe turned to the group, which consisted of me, Claire, and four girls from a Northeastern college. “Set up a cot and sleeping bag anywhere, and put on all your warm clothes. It falls into the thirties at night. The cots will keep you away from bugs and scorpions, but look out for coyotes.” One of the girls squealed.

Joe continued. “The bathroom is anywhere for number one, and for number two it’s a bucket down that path. Move the 2 x 4 across it if you’re headed that way – and bring your own toilet paper.”

Claire elbowed me, muttering, “You’ve got to be kidding! We’re pooping in a bucket for a whole week?”

“Suck it up, camper. Your idea, remember?”

“You jumped on board as soon as you heard Español for the resume.”

“Let’s at least find a good spot for our beds.”

We moved to scout our cot spaces, seeking flat ground close to the others – and far from the 2 x 4. Later, dressed like Eskimos, we shoveled soup into our bowls and ate around the fire. Joe introduced us to locals Steve and Greer. Steve, who talked a lot, was cooking for the week. Greer, a woman with brutally short hair, said virtually nothing. Like Joe, she was an experienced camper and trail expert. They planned to split the group for our daily hikes. Claire and I exchanged glances, both hoping for a spot in Joe’s group.

The first night left a layer of frost on my exposed skin. I wore my down coat and wool hat to sleep mummy-style in the cold-weather bag. The stars were icily beautiful, though the occasional thrum of a Border Patrol helicopter broke the stillness. The repeated noise and the recurrent swath of a searchlight left me feeling more warzone than campsite.

I slept on and off as a fingernail moon traced the sky. Four-legged coyotes caucused somewhere in the distance and woke me up before the sun could crack our horizon. My nose and toes were frozen and Claire was still sleeping when I realized that my bladder would burst if I didn’t get to the desert restroom. I wormed my way out of the sleeping bag and stumbled over the rough ground for a few feet trying to keep my flashlight low.

Reluctantly edging my pants down my legs, I squatted until the ground steamed. Water in, water out. As I rose from my crouch and jerked up my leggings, I heard voices and froze.

“Shhh. Cuidado.” (Careful).

“Si, lo conocemos.” (Yeah, we know).

Three men were leaving the hospital tent. They were dressed in baggy jeans and dark sweatshirts. One wore a black cowboy hat and the other two hid under Cardinals baseball caps. When I unwittingly leaned on a branch, they heard the crack and turned. We exchanged stares for a moment, then the trio about-faced without a word and walked in the other direction. They didn’t use flashlights, but faded quickly into darkness, gallon jugs of water dangling from their fingertips.

Back in the warmth of my sleeping bag I thought how weird it was that hundreds of people were walking around out there in the desert. I was vaguely reassured by the knowledge that migrants didn’t want to talk to me. Their plans didn’t include interviews with a random college student, even a sympathetic one. The desperation that caused them to trek through a foreign desert at night dodging helicopters and drug smugglers had been more illusion than reality until this early morning.

Joe provided a brief orientation after a breakfast of scrambled eggs and coffee. He explained that most migrants try to hike from the border to Phoenix over several nights, when the temperatures were cooler and the darkness protective. They generally hid and rested during the day. When asked why we didn’t do the same, Joe said it was too dangerous for volunteers to be out in the dark. Stray gunshots and drug runners could hit college students as well as migrants. Our goal was to hike through the warm days in order to ‘drop’ gallons of water at various points on the trails. We would also carry packs with first aid kits and granola bars in case we ran into folks in need. The biggest problem was water. They could never carry enough.

On that first morning we had been anxious and excited, anticipating at least a few individuals who needed our water, food, and inexpert medical attention. As of this morning, after five days of hot hiking, many gallons of water dropped, our throats hoarse from dust and shout-outs, we had not seen a soul. Joe and Greer told us that was normal, even good, but I felt as empty as the water jugs we replaced. The feeling of missing out reminded me of a family trip to the San Diego Animal Park when I was seven. We looked for lions all day and never found one, a failure which left frustrated kids crying for ice-cream and worn-out parents agreeing to pull into Dairy Queen.

The springtime desert tried to compensate for its lack of visible travelers. I appreciated the red-flowered ocotillos with their strange octopus-arm branches. The soap-tree yuccas offered up white blooms and the palo verde bushes had the beginnings of tiny yellow blossoms. Everything smelled clean and sage-y.

All the volunteers and guides walked together for this last hike, and there was more chatter than usual, which I found strangely annoying. Joe chose a trail that showed signs of recent use: discrete footprints, empty Red Bull cans, lipstick cases, even a dirty diaper.

“Gross!” said Claire, stopping by the diaper. “Who would bring a baby?”

“A lot more moms are bringing small kids,” said Joe. “We haven’t seen more diapers because most people can’t afford them. Not diapers, not even milk. Too expensive.”

I looked out at the forbidding landscape and heard a soft cry to the left. Heart quickening, I turned: just a hawk sliding downwind.

Joe sat under a palo verde tree and took a swig of warm water. “A few of you need to leave your gallons here. Mark the date on them. It looks like most of the jugs we left last week are empty. Either the migrants used them or the Border Patrol dumped them out.”

“Dumped them out? How could they do that?” asked Claire, enraged. The silent Greer drew three crosses on each of the new gallons and placed them carefully in the shade.

Joe said, “Yeah, it sucks, but it happens. This trail has been heavily used over the winter, so we’ll keep pushing this way and drop more water. Keep your eyes out.”

Joe asked me to do the shout-outs again. When he and Greer had found out that I spoke Spanish they had given me this routine task. Every ten minutes for days I’d been calling out “Somos samaritanos! Tenemos agua, comida, y medicina!” (We are friends! We have water, food and medicine!) At first I thought the line was “Somos Americanos!” (We are Americans) which made Joe laugh. He noted that we’re all Americans – the Border Patrol, ICE, Minutemen and Samaritans. Saying “We are Americans” wasn’t likely to comfort any migrants within hearing. I had blushingly corrected myself, and now my voice was hoarse and – even with the correct lines - I felt stupid. If it hadn’t been for the garbage on the trails I wouldn’t have believed that migrants existed.

A faded green toothbrush, pink hair ribbons, a blue hoody, a rosary, a child’s shoe. Every day we stepped over mounds of personal things. We had passed a makeshift shrine in a juniper tree about mid-week. Stacks of rocks and candles lay among its roots and the branches were hung with pictures of Saint Toribio (patron saint of migrants) and wrinkled family photographs, soundless chimes turning in the wind. Volunteers had placed a pile of abandoned things near the roots, and a faded prayer book entitled “Oraciones de las Emigrantes” (Prayers for Immigrants) was placed on the stack. Greer explained that such shrines were made by immigrants to encourage others on the trail, and volunteers often added to them.

“We save what we can. If not the people, then the things they leave behind.”

“Owwww!” Claire suddenly slipped and skidded fifteen feet down the incline, almost into my arms. “My ankle- I rolled it,” and she winced as Joe slid down to gently manipulate her foot in its heavy hiking boot and dirty wool sock. I saw Greer shift impatiently.

“Can you walk on it?” When Claire shook her head, Joe grabbed her under the arms and drew most of her weight on his shoulders. “I’ll take her back to camp and get some ice on her ankle. The rest of you go on with Greer.”

My heart sank as he and Claire limped away, leaving us to continue the fruitless hike. Greer shook her head but said only, “Migrants have cheap shoes, not hiking boots.”

“What happens when they twist or break an ankle?”

“If they’re lucky, they can send someone for help, flag us down, or Border Patrol. If its Border Patrol, they get bussed right back to Mexico. No medical treatment.”

When we started again I called louder, in defiance of the injustice that left me here with a useless task. “Somos samaritanos! Tenemos agua, comida, y medicina.”

We stopped to leave more water. My back was soaked and I finished my own bottle, glad that Greer carried extra. Shorts would have been cooler than long pants, but shorts would have left my white legs open to stabbing cactus needles. No beach tan for spring break this year – just several layers of dirt. As the late afternoon hours passed, my shouts grew hoarse.

“Somos samaritanos! Tenenmos agua, comida, y medicina!” We came to a stop in a grove of waving ocotillos and palo verde trees. My voice cracked hard on the last “medi – ci – na” and the fragrant branches came suddenly alive with dark-skinned people shaking off leaves and rising to stand.

“Necessitan ayuda?” asked a moustached man in a green sweatshirt. A few women held out dusty, half-full water bottles. A grimy little boy held out a granola bar. Silence fell as we contemplated each other.

“They think we need help,” said Greer.

She shook her head, sliding her backpack off to extend a full gallon jug. Complaints dissolved on my tongue and I reached back for the baggies of food in my pack. Comprehension dawned on the migrants’ faces and they shuffled forward, casting their eyes around for signs of trouble. Greer explained our mission in her superior Spanish while I dispersed food and water, mumbling “mi placer, mi placer” (my pleasure) at the many “gracias” offered in return.

Squatting near my pack, I watched their feet, enclosed in faded Keds, cheap tennis shoes with crumbling soles, even a ratty pair of bedroom slippers. The woman in slippers limped on a purplish swollen ankle and leaned heavily on a slight girl. Greer asked if she needed medical assistance and she nodded slowly as she reached for a drink.

Greer knelt and removed the torn slipper, then washed the woman’s foot with water from her jug. She turned to me: “Put ointment on her foot and wrap it with the gauze. I’ll get some socks.”

The injured woman sat on a graying log and extended her leg as the girl (her daughter?) hovered anxiously. My hands shook as I applied Neosporin to her open blisters and cortisone cream up the purplish swelling on the ankle. Her breath caught, and then she murmured “Gracias a Díos. Qué sorpresa.” (Thanks be to God. What a surprise).

As I wound the gauze around and around the foot and ankle, sweat fell into my eyes and onto the ground. After a few minutes, she touched my hand. “Está bien.” (It’s good). I helped her put on the heavy socks from Greer’s backpack, and replaced the slippers.

They stood and the woman put her hand on my head as I squatted in the dust. I blinked, out of surprise - and something else. The pressure on my head suddenly lifted and the pair shuffled off.

I looked up as I heard a final “gracias,” to see the group receding slowly into the trees, the small boy waving as he stumbled after.