Sara’s forehead is moist when she reaches the top of the cliff. The morning is cool enough to wear a sweater and she’s already sweating. That is probably not a good sign for things to come. The river, a brownish amber color when they crossed, has a dark emerald tint when seen from above. She takes off her floppy canvas hat and wipes her brow with the red bandanna Emiliano insisted she carry in the back pocket of her white chino pants. In addition to the two-gallon bag of water, she carries another water bottle in an outside pocket of her backpack, as does Emiliano. Is it too early to take a drink? The indigo dawn is slowly transforming itself into cobalt blue. She hears the chirping of birds and something like the tick of a clock. She scampers up the rock where Emiliano is standing.
“Don’t worry,” Emiliano says. “The rattlesnakes are down in that cane we walked through.”
“What’s that noise, then?”
“A grasshopper waking up.”
“So, we’re past all the snakes?”
“There’s more where we’re going. But the ones that can kill you for sure are by the river.”
Emiliano and Sara stand on the rock, looking across the river at the mountains of Mexico. They remind Sara of a picture of an old man that Emiliano showed her after he came back from a trip to the Sierra Tarahumara. The old man stood next to a wooden hut, holding a crooked walking stick, his face wrinkled and weathered by age and hardship. It was the eyes that caught Sara’s attention. It was as if they had been looking at what mankind had done to the world since the beginning of time.
Someday I will remember this moment, Sara says to herself. Will I ever see you again, my Mexico?
The image of her mother climbing into the silver-and-blue bus comes to her. The bus driver helping Mami up the steps. Then she imagines her mother looking out the window as the bus pulls into the León terminal. She sees Aunt Tencha hugging her mother—two women who know loss comforting each other. They will embrace and cry a little, and then they will take a bus to the tiny apartment, where Mami will have a cup of coffee and then maybe go lie down in the bedroom filled with pictures of Tencha’s grandchildren.
Sara sighs. “I miss Mami.”
Emiliano nods. “She’s happy knowing you’re safe,” he tells her.
He jumps off the rock, and after a few moments Sara does as well. Now both of them face north. There in front of them is a vastness of reddish dirt, cacti, and creosote bushes that goes on forever, it seems. Way in the distance there’s a barely perceptible line where the sky and the earth touch. It’s as far as the eye can see. A series of hills and peaks gradually rises to mountains to the west. The proximity of the emptiness of the desert and the massive reality of the mountains takes Emiliano’s breath away. It’s as if someone deliberately mixed beauty and immensity to elicit awe.
“Is that the end of the park?” Sara points at the horizon.
Emiliano smiles. “That’s where we’ll end up late tonight if we hurry.” He turns Sara’s shoulder slightly and points to the left. “That pile of wood over there is the ruin of the old tramway that Brother Patricio told us about. A little way from there is the abandoned dirt road. You see it? It’s a thin white line like a thread.”
“How far is that, you think?”
“Maybe three miles.”
Sara gulps. “That’s only three miles?”
Emiliano takes his compass from his right pocket. He moves his hand until the needle trembles on true north. Then he points in the direction they will walk. Navigation, once they get to the dirt road, will be easy. There’s no need for the GPS as long as they stay on the dirt road. The map of the park describes the road as “rough” and recommends travel only with a four-wheel-drive vehicle. They should be able to pass through it undetected. They will see the dust of an oncoming vehicle long before it reaches them. If someone does come, they’ll get off the road and lie flat on the ground behind a bush. Emiliano reminds himself to listen for the mosquito-like drone of an approaching plane as well.
“Okay,” he says, tightening the strap that connects his backpack to his waist. “I’m going to start walking at a pace that covers four miles per hour while the sun is still low. Then when the sun gets a little stronger, I’ll slow down to three miles an hour. Around noon, we’ll stop and wait for the sun to go down. We’ll go slowly the first day while your legs get used to walking and your back adapts to the weight of the backpack. Then maybe tomorrow we can go faster. Drink some water. You need to drink a gallon of water each day. We’re carrying enough water for three days, and later today we’ll reach a place where there’s water, so there’s no need to be stingy with it. Have some of the raisins and dried figs. From now on, don’t take your hat off.”
Emiliano starts walking. Sara sees that there is no way to walk next to him. There is not a set path, so they must weave their way through cacti and creosote bushes, and the space between the plants is not wide enough for two persons. She expected to have a hard time keeping up with him, but his pace is measured, comfortable. If they went a little bit faster, maybe they could make five miles an hour. The night before they left for Chihuahua, Emiliano and Sara went over the map one more time, Emiliano pointing out the wavy lines that denoted the hills, mountains, and canyons: The tighter a circle, the higher the elevation of the mountain. Emiliano said then that on the earlier part of the trip, where the terrain was flatter, they might be able to walk as much as six hours a day.
“Six hours doesn’t seem like much,” she remembers saying.
“You’ll see,” Emiliano answered.
Now as they walk, she feels she could definitely do at least eight hours—four in the morning and four in the evening. She does the math. If they walk at the leisurely pace of four miles an hour like they’re doing, and they do that for eight hours, then they could cover thirty-two miles a day. Emiliano and Brother Patricio calculated that the distance from the river to Sanderson was around eighty miles. Once they get within twenty miles of Sanderson, they will also be within range of a cell tower, and they could communicate with the deacon of the Catholic church at Sanderson, who could come pick them up if need be.
“Watch out for those,” Emiliano says, tapping his boot on a round, flat cactus studded with long, pointed thorns. “It’s called a ‘horse crippler’ for a reason. The thorns pierce through the hooves of horses and soles of shoes.”
Sara steps over it, making a point to remember that the cactus has deceivingly innocent, pale pink flowers. What was it she was thinking? She was doing some math in her head. Eighty miles divided by thirty-two is two days plus a little more. But if they walked a little faster, say, five miles an hour, and they did that for eight hours, they’d get there in two days. She feels strong enough to go five miles an hour. Yet Emiliano wants to slow down to three miles an hour for six hours. At that speed, it will take a week to get to Sanderson.
“Stop it,” Emiliano says without looking back.
“What?”
“Thinking that we can walk faster or farther.”
“How … ?”
“That’s what everyone thinks their first time out in the desert. It doesn’t work that way.”
“If you’re slowing down because of me, you don’t have to. I’m fine.”