Mrs. Weaver and I used to do a lot of
rock hounding when we lived in Tucson. It was a great way to explore
our new state, and provided both recreation and economic
opportunities. One of our favorite spots was just a few miles from
the Mexican border. Our first visit, on the way home, we saw an
unidentified object in the sky. We had to follow it. We'd had grand
adventures already that day, but we could not have expected what
awaited us.
I bought a bundle of old west tourist
booklets at the swap meet, and included among the mandatory “Death
Valley Scotty” and “Lost Dutchman Mine” tracts was a book of
Arizona Rock and Mineral sites from 1954. People would tell me these
places had been picked clean years ago, but a generation later,
erosion and percolation would present new material. We also found a
lot of good rock exploring near well
known areas. We failed to locate either of our targets for the day,
but found so much more than if we had.
The
page from the map book read “Patagonia Area” and showed two
promising sites. One was an Agate collecting area, and the other was
an old mining town that no longer existed. Pavement ran out before we
were through Patagonia, but the road was very good until our turnoff
to the Agates. The side road only traveled about ten feet before it
dropped into a creek. We continued south toward the Ghost Town,
hoping to find another, more viable side road but nope. That was the
one.
I
watched the odometer, guessing where this old mining town was, but at
the proper mileage, we saw nothing to report. Another half mile and
we came to a crossroads, but there were no signs or evidence of
tailings or anything so we just kept driving. We were out of the
desert now, into some big trees and lush vegetation. We passed moving
water twice.
I
loved driving the dirt roads. As a fugitive, any time I was behind
the wheel was a nervous time for me. If I should get pulled over for
anything, it could be my last day as a free man. I didn't sweat it on
the dirt. It was my land. It was freedom. I was toking a lefty and
just idling through the forest on a two rut track without a care in
the world when we passed a small sign, square, just inches across. I
backed up to read it.
“U.S.
National Border”.
Shit.
My illegal ass just snuck into Mexico.
And
back.
I'd
like to say I had the sense to stop right there and let Mrs. Weaver
drive, but I didn't. They had to be watching the fucking border,
right? This was a trick wasn't it? DEA Guerrillas in the trees (!)
and facial recognition software and oh fuck just look natural and
turn this car the hell around. Act natural. Pretend like the doobie
is a cigarette. Don't look in the mirror! don't look in the mirror!
don'tlookinthe mirror!
There
were no Guerrillas in the trees. No Stool Pigeons. No Rats. It was
fine. The paranoia passed. We doubled back to the road that dropped
in the creek and I got out to breathe and look for dust clouds behind
us. No Guerrillas.
The
creek flowed north to south, and disappeared around a bend to the
west after about a hundred feet. The creek bottom was solid rock, not
gravel or sand, and the water was barely over my ankles. I sold the
idea to Mrs. Weaver and downstream we drove through the creek, around
the corner, and the road popped up on the other side of a low hill
after about 150 yards. There was a 70 foot mud cliff where we exited,
and I thought I saw something sparkling in the face of it. We got
barely another mile, and the road took to a hill that was too much
for our sedan to climb. It was made up of big goonie rocks like
basketballs. I turned the car around and went to check out that
sparkling cliff.
Still
no Guerrillas.
Mrs.
Weaver set up the picnic, and I set across to check out the geology.
The sparkles in the cliff were Selenite crystals. Nice ones; nearly a
foot long and clear with globular inclusions of the same clay that
made up the cliff. (In years to come I would do well carving these
and selling them as wands and athames in the new age shops on fourth
avenue). It was a nice afternoon. I've returned to this spot many
times. We even brought our daughter as an infant. I considered filing
a mining claim there at one point. I still haven't ruled it out.
About
two in the afternoon, we loaded up for the return trip. There were
some spots at the base of the Santa Ritas I wanted to check out. This
time, Mrs. Weaver drove, for legality's sake. North to Patagonia and
then northeast to Sonoita. There was a gas station there with the
best Broasted chicken, but we didn't know that yet and got a bag of
chips and sodas for the ride home. I waited in the car while Mrs.
Weaver shopped. That's when I saw it.
At
first I thought it was a cloud, but there were a few other sparse
clouds and they were moving in unison. This one just hung there. I
thought it might be the moon for a minute, but the shape was wrong.
Besides, the moon was over there. I forgot all about Guerillas. What
the fuck was this? When Mrs. Weaver returned, I ran back through that
train of thought and she was as bewildered as I.
It
was obviously a mothership and we needed to follow it. Mrs. Weaver
took back the wheel, and I commenced to navigating and rolling the
stash. If I was going to be an emissary to otherworldly creatures, I
was going to vibrate at the right frequency. Also it would be a good
way to ditch the evidence before the Guerrillas show up, be they DEA
or X-Files. Things were about to get stranger than we expected.
We
took the 83 south of Sonoita until it turned to dirt, then just
followed the mother ship.
Turning
on one dirt road after another headed steadily southeast. This was
scrub desert for a while; Creosote bush, Prickly Pear, Cholla. We
dropped into a valley and suddenly thought we were on private
property. It was an old Spanish Mission, with church, ranch house,
and outbuildings. It was populated by little brown people in great
striped shirts who stared at us as we idled through. I wondered for a
minute if we'd crossed into Mexico again, but we'd gone much farther
east than south at this point.
More
scrub desert forever, then around a corner and there were Teepees! I
was about to warn Mrs. Weaver that we were in Injun Country, when I
saw the chuck wagon and about twenty cowboys on horseback riding
toward us. We'd wondered into a roundup! They stared us down less
friendly than the brown people back the way, so we idled down and
waited for them to pass.
Another
mile or two and a corner and we dropped down into a lush riperian
area and an old covered bridge. Mrs. Weaver stopped on the bridge,
and I asked what the problem was. She pointed out that the bridge
only went halfway. The roof was all there, as were two I beams
spanning the water. But the floor of the bridge only went about
fifteen feet across then stopped. I got out to take a look.
The
important part of the bridge was made up of two by tens laying across
the I beams. After about three feet in front of the car, they
stopped. I had an idea, but I thought it was going to be harder
selling it to Mrs. Weaver than it was. She was a trooper, and let me
move planks from the back of the car to the front as she inched her
way across. I was very proud of her that night, she obviously
understood the import of chasing spaceships in the Sonoran Desert.
The local flora prevented us seeing the sky for a while. It was maybe
another five miles before we could see the “mothership” and
shortly after that we hit a roadblock.
The
road ended at the base of some mountains in a wooden barricade. The
barricade was facing the other way, so we couldn't read it. I got out
and climbed the fence to read it. It said “Government Property: No
Trespassing”. We were on the wrong side! How did this happen? What
about the cowboys and little brown people? They didn't look like
Feds? Fuck! Now we had to go across that goddamned bridge again!
Guerrillas! Guerillas!
Still
no Guerrillas. But the mothership was right above us. I scanned the
perimeter one more time for Richard Dreyfuss, Teri Garr, or
Spielberg, then we headed back. We crossed the bridge in record time
(#MrsWeaverisatrooper) and didn't stop until we caught up with the
last straggling cowpoke. Exasperated, I implored him for an
explanation, which he was happy to give a couple of Hoosier
greenhorns like us.
The
“mothership” was a spy balloon, one of several watching the
border, and monitored by an army base just north of us. Turns out the
Guerrillas were
watching us. They were just much higher than the trees.
So was I.
So was I.
No comments:
Post a Comment