Cocktail Hour

We are headed to the Wall, the border fence that splits the town of Nogales.  The start of Mexico, the end of Estados Unidos, although I have to say I find very little to unite us these days. We are riding through the Coronado National Forest for 32 miles and 3,400 feet of climbing on a bike, along roads that are meant for Border Patrol, but also are used as a backwoods playground.  

I’m amped up on a sufficient amount of fear, I’ve read enough border news stories to keep me alarmed. It’s a beautiful area, jagged mountains that attract birders and middle aged men on  dune buggies.  When it gets really rugged, it will just be us, hauling bikes through rocky terrain and acting surprised that the average speed for the day has plummeted down to 5 mph, making for a very long day. 

I always start off rather frightened on these adventures; I should just skip reading the news before we go.  But slowly, after the first hour of riding, when I start thinking we might make it back, I will begin to enjoy the adventure.  

Throughout all of our border adventures, I’ve only seen two sketchy scenarios.  The first was a white van that I could see across the valley, with an odd assortment of passengers. The second was a guy hiding in a gully who slithered deeper into the bushes when I approached. 

But the border intrigues me, an artificial line that separates us and that defines us.  Border trips always leave me thankful, gracious for possessing the correct passport, a random draw in the lottery of life. 

And yet the border also creates an odd industry; Mexicans dash to Nogales to eat at Denny’s  and shop for the day in US stores.  Americans run down to the Mexican beach for the afternoon. All with drug, arms and human trafficking swirling through the mix.  And anchored into the area are large immigration detention centers that have nabbed unlucky souls who lack proper authorization.  

If all goes well, tomorrow night we will be back at the RV resort just in time for cocktail hour at the neighbor’s RV.  They will talk about playing pickleball and riding ebikes on the bike path.  And I’ll talk about hauling my gravel bike over rugged terrain while trying not to notice anything sketchy.  

After we leave the group, off to consume a mound of food for dinner, the neighbor’s cocktail hour discussion will drop from a roar to a whisper, a conversation that I’m sure is not about pickleball or riding ebikes on bike paths.  

Fast forward:  it was a tremendous day.  But we did run across contractors for the roads who said we had just missed Border Patrol hauling off a group of people who had come through one of the holes in the wall.