Early on during a radical sabbatical year-on-the-road I had spent far too much time helping build my friend Lee’s cabin in the Chiricahuas and far too little time boating. Everyone in the Chiricahaus had a nickname (Mongo, Useless Bill, Boots) and, having spent a couple months working for free and doing all the damn grunt work, I had become known locally as "Manuel Labor".
Seizing on a break in the wood-butchery schedule, I told Lee that I had to go paddling, and took off for Big Bend in south Texas. I’d heard that there were a couple of nice runs on the Rio Grande thereabouts and elected to do a gentle float through Boquillas canyon, stretching a twenty-some mile canyon run into a 4 day trip with lots of in-canyon camping and arroyo exploration.
Drove all night from SE Arizona to Big Bend and arrived in Boquillas Village exhausted but raring to get out into the solitude of the canyon. Got to talking with a young lady wandering about the 115 degree in the shade put-in and she offered to run my shuttle for a reasonable fee.
Fantastic. Serendipity. Fill a 5 gallon carboy and a few canteens with water, throw the rest of my gear in the boat and here’s the keys - pick me up in La Linda in four days. Yeah, yeah, yeah..something about a gravel bar on the right just after the last island...see ya in 4 days.
Get out on the river and it’s just what the doctor ordered. When I picked up my permit the Rangers told me there was no one else ahead of me on the river and that they wouldn’t really expect to see anyone else. Hotter ‘n hell though, so I shucked all my clothes and poured on some SPF 35 (some places you just don’t ever want to sunburn...).
The first few days were idyllic, just floatin’ along, camping, swimming and hiking up side canyons. Still hotter than hell though, and by day three I’d gone through 5+ gallons of water. Making camp the last night the carboy and canteens were dry and I resorted to Rio Grande water, run through a gerry-rigged filter (toilet paper stuffed in a pair of socks) and liberally dosed with halazone. Yuck. But it’s only for one more day, tomorrow I’ll be in La Linda, waiting for Mary.
Waiting for Mary. Sitting on the bank, under the bridge in La Linda, waiting for Mary. Still waiting for Mary.
Mary, um, Mary Who? Guess in my enthusiasm and exhaustion I kinda didn’t bother to get her last name. Or any other bona fides. Hummmm...And she has my truck...which basically contains all of my worldly possessions. I can’t even walk into La Linda for a beer, I have no money. Or ID. Oh Shit! I’m homeless, broke and rapidly dehydrating under a bridge in Mexico - How did this happen to me?
As a side note, the bridge between La Linda, Mexico and the US is an interesting border crossing. Paved road, nice bridge, little guard shack on the Mexican side with a sleepy fellow who just sort of waves out the window as vehicles pass by....and nothing on the US side. No guard. No gate. No cameras. No nothing’. I note one 4x4 that crosses and re-crosses the bridge repeatedly while I’m waiting. Hey, you people getting busted smuggling through Tijuana, Mexicali and Juarez, I’ve got two words for ya - La Linda, baby, La Linda.
Well, I’m just baking here under the bridge, no water, no money, no truck...I’d cry in my beer if I had one. Every time a car crosses the bridge I get my hopes up. And then get my hopes crushed. I’m really freaking out here. You screwed up big time on this one, McCrea. You moron, you gave away everything you own and now you’re stuck in Mexico, dying of thirst...whadda ya gonna do now? This is as low as I’ve ever felt.
And a vehicle rumbles across the bridge. ITS MY TRUCK! HOORAY! Hugely relieved, I stand up and wait for Mary (wonderful Mary) to drive my truck (my wonderful truck) down to the bridge abutment. Yup, there she’s turning off onto the dirt road. Yup, there she’s driving down to the river.
Nope, she’s driving along the river away from me, she isn’t stopping. WAITTTTTT! STOPPPPPP! I take off running across the desert, hollering and waving my arms in desperation. Dehydrated, wobbly, running across through the Mexican desert in the 115 degree heat, chasing my truck.
Oh, remember the "something about a gravel bar on the right just after the last island". Well, *THAT* is the customary take out for Boquillas runs. Mary parks my truck on the gravel bar and steps out just in time for me to stagger up, collapse onto my knees and throw up the last of my desperation-filtered Rio Grande water at her feet. She subtly edges away from me with a semi-horror stricken look on her face. I wobble back upright, explain my stupidity and we drive back to the bridge to collect my gear.
Rack my boat, throw my gear in the back and stop at a little store for some much needed hydration supplies. I drain a couple bottles of water and then crack a cold beer. Wave at the Mexican border guard, punch a tape into the cassette deck and suddenly I’m flying along through
Brewster County, Texas, listening to Michele Shocked wail about driving Texas back roads.
And I knew, right then, at that moment in time, that it was the BEST I’d ever felt.
And it still is.