A million stars and a half-moon in the cloudless sky gave faint illumination to the desert floor below...

     We arrived at Lajitas late in the day and met Linda Walker, owner and operator of Lajitas Stables. Over dinner that night, in the Badlands Restaurant, Linda filled us in on the history of Lajitas. Lajitas means flagstone, which is abundant in the area, and therefore used extensively for construction. The area has been used as a good ford of the Rio Grande for more than 2(K) years, she said. In the 18th and 19th centuries, the Comanches kept the flagstone ford well traveled by crossing over from Texas to make raids on Mexican livestock. 

     A United States Cavalry Fort was established at Lajitas in 1916, under the command of John J. "Black Jack" Pershing, in response to border raids both by Mexican bandits and revolutionaries led by Francisco "Pancho" Villa. Pershing's job was to see that the revolution stayed on "the other side" of the Rio Grande. 

     The Rio Grande flows 1,248 miles from Colorado to the Gulf of Mexico, forms part of the United States-Mexico border, and drops 12,O(K) feet in elevation along the way. In Mexico, the river is named Rio Bravo, or Rio Bravo del Norte - Brave River of the North. The river's water flow has been greatly reduced in this century because of dams and irrigation needs upstream. At Lajitas, it is only about 30 feet wide, and that comes mostly thanks to the Rio Conchos, which flows from the upper Mexican state of Durango into Rio Bravo. 

     "We'll have a Mexican guide and will be riding Mexican horses," Linda said. "I think you'll find the horses well-suited to the country. They're small - 700 to 900 pounds, 14 hands or less - and they're tough. They have to be tough to live in this type of country.  It's survival of the fittest around here." 

    Linda was raised on a ranch at Durango, Co., spent her younger years packing friends into the Colorado mountains, just for fun, and was a barrel racer on the rodeo trail. But she had family ties in the Big Bend country - her grandparents had a ranch there, and eventually she came to help them in their declining years, then stayed permanently. Now she has friends on both sides of the border, and says she has found her true roots and a great sense of contentment in this arid land of mountains, rocks, and cactus. 

     "We'll saddle up in Mexico tomorrow at 9 a.m.," Linda said, "mas o menos" - more or less. In fact it was "more." We found ourselves ready to ride out of the Mexican town of Paso Lajitas by 9:30 or so. Morgan (Lightfoot) kept handing me plastic bottles of water to stuff in my saddle bags, and a kindly Mexican woman implored us to "drink plenty of water, drink until you slosh inside." Linda said she had water for us too - "but I'm not going to tell anybody who is riding into the desert to not bring extra water." Morgan handed me two more water bottles. 

     "Don't worry," Morgan said, "we'll have something besides water to drink in camp tonight." Which was true. Earlier we had stopped at the Lajitas Trading Post - a general store in operation since 1915, and currently famous for a beer-drinking goat named Clay Henry Jr. - and purchased ice for and ice chest Morgan had packed with a variety of beverages. The ice chest would meet us via pickup truck with the rest of our gear, in camp at day's end. 

     And so we rode down the dusty streets of Paso Lajitas, past adobes and cinderblock houses, past a small goat farm on the outskirts of town, into the expansive desert, and into the heat, which was beginning to rise. Linda took the lead, mas o menos, and a Mexican guide named Ruben followed along behind. 

     Jim and Darrell rode uncomplaining, but Morgan reined up beside me after a while and said, matter-of-factly, shaking his head from side-to-side, "This is God-forsaken country." The assessment was accurate, but Linda was determined to give us all a sense of the history and beauty of the land. We stopped and investigated an abandoned flagstone casa with earthen roof. When was it built - 100, 200 years ago? Hard to tell. Nearby was the remains of a recent candellia wax operation, a desert cash crop that brings forth a powdery substance used in makeup. 

     We stopped for lunch in the shade of a canyon wall, and offered our horses a drink from a small spring that appeared out of a limestone crack. Linda spread out the makings for fajitas on a smooth slab of rock, and sliced avocado and mango to go with them. We drank water and observed that the day was not nearly as hot as it might have been, thanks to a cool front from the Pacific, far to the west. 

     On the trail again, we skirted the canyon single-file, walking and climbing our horses along a limestone shelf. Jim's horse suddenly slipped and fell, but Jim kicked out of the stirrup and rolled free of the wreck like he was a movie stuntman. Neither he not the horse was injured, and we resumed our journey. 

     We traveled up an area known as Los Mongos, and explored a canyon with a small but persistent waterfall that is Milagro Creek - Miracle Creek. Linda pointed out, along the way, the four kinds of prickly-pear cactus, plus the ocotillo with its with is wicked thorns and delicate blossoms, the Christmas, rainbow, and strawberry cactuses, several kinds of yucca, and the sotol, a cabbage-like plant that was a staple of life for the ancient ones who peopled this area long ago. 

     "I prefer the Spanish names over the English names for a lot of these plants" Linda said. "For instance, there is a desert plant we call leather stem, but the Spanish or Mexican name for it is sangre de drago - blood of the dragon. What we call allthorn is named corona de Cristo - crown of Christ - in Mexico.'' 

     We spent the first night at a ranch on Milagro Creek, putting the horses in a stone corral, spreading our bedrolls on the warm desert dirt, The horses ate alfalfa hay hauled in the pickup by Jana Nichols, who also helped with the preparation of a Dutch-oven dinner for the rest of us, Ruben climbed up to the little capia - religious shrine with a wooden cross on its roof - that stood atop a knoll behind the house. He knelt to open the tiny door on the structure, and inside lit a votive candle - a blessing on the ranch and people. 

     A million stars and a half-moon in the cloudless sky gave faint illumination to the desert floor below. A lone rider approached in the night, put his horse in the corral, and turned in. Next morning, we were introduced to Onorio Orasco, a native vaquero who would assume guide duties for our expedition. Onorio had traveled from his village through the night, delaying his departure to join us in order to be with his wife to witness the birth of their first son. 

     The following day was filled with contrast as we traveled through red rock strewn landscapes that looked like photos from Mars, desolate miles of cactus, more rocks, and tall, rugged mountains, seemingly devoid of life. Interspersed among the thorns, spikes and needles was the occasional band of native horses and burros, seemingly content and carrying adequate flesh, though no one could figure out just what they ate. 

     We wound our way to the top of Sierra la Mora, and stopped at an abandoned flagstone casa and rock corral. Nearby was a pristine spring that flowed into a natural bowl formed by cottonwood tree roots. The horses drank and we had lunch in the shade. A old capia stood guard on a tall hill overlooking the terrain. 

     That afternoon we rode around and over mountains, continuing on our way to San Carlos. We followed an ancient trail that was worn into solid rock going over the pass on San Carlos Mountain, and thought of the Spaniards, Comanches, revolutionaries, and desperadoes who had no doubt traveled the same path years earlier. San Carlos (Manuel Benavides on the map) has seen them all. 

     We rode through San Carlos late in the afternoon. Hoof beats on cobblestone streets alerted the town's children that visitors were there, and they rushed out of adobe houses to have a look at the sunburned gringos who rode by. Our little entourage found its way to a beautiful hacienda - La Gloria - on the far side of town, with irrigated gardens from the warm springs up San Carlos Canyon. 

     We unsaddled horses and staggered up the hill to the hacienda, where soft Mexican flute music played and Gloria Rodriguez greeted us with ice-cold Tecates and lime. Gloria's Bed and Breakfast caters to American tourists, many of whom, according to her guest book, return again and again. And it's easy to see why - we didn't want to leave. 

     We had another full day of riding and then found ourselves once again trailing in on the dusty little street of Paso Lajitas. Our horses seemed content to be back, and so were we.