A TALE OF SURVIVAL

THE Blistering Desert

A True Tale of Confronting Heat and Delirium in Southern Arizona's Badlands

Text by Bill Broyles Photographs by Jack Dykinga

"... the heat was so great that it was just as bad staying where I was, under that flood of blinding light falling from the sky. To stay, or to make a move it came to much the same."

Trailing the ghost of a man I never met, a turn-of-the-century prospector named Pablo, took me into the deep desert of Arizona and Mexico in the time of summer, in the time of heat. Pablo had walked this same inhospitable land near Yuma to rediscover and stake his claim on a lost mine. I stumbled upon his name in a report written by W.J. McGee, a frontier scientist who would play a fateful role in Pablo's story. After prowling this desert in all seasons, Pablo had returned in August of 1905 with his partner, a man called Jesus, in search of gold. Sixty miles southeast of Yuma, they stopped at a water hole called Tinajas Altas and visited with McGee, who was camped there. Then they topped off their water bags and headed 40 miles deeper into nowhere. When their water ran low, Jesus returned to McGee's camp for more while Pablo continued into the desert. The two prospectors planned to meet at a predetermined spot, but they never found each other, and so began Pablo's ordeal. For six and a half days, alone, on foot, and without any water, Pablo struggled to make his way back to Tinajas Altas. He walked; he stumbled; he crawled. Dehydration, delirium, and cactus thorns wracked his body. He was so far gone that he underwent a near-death experience, believing that he saw his soul outside his body urging him to go on. Given his situation, he should have died. On the eighth day, somehow, he lay weak and gasping within earshot of Tinajas Altas. McGee, who found the desperate man after hearing his cries, thought he would die. But he didn't. With McGee's help, and plenty of broth and juicy watermelon, Pablo survived. From McGee's account, I knew Pablo started and finished his trek at the water Whole, but clues only hinted at where he'd been in between. Here lay a historic mystery with a blank page. For me, armchair curiosity roused a challenge. Then, fingertracing possible routes on a map, I touched a deeper need. I had driven this desert region's few ruts and hiked its canyons in other seasons than summer. Yet, ultimately, I knew that if ever I were to understand Pablo, I'd have to follow him on his terms: in August, afoot, alone. But, as Pablo knew and I would learn, understanding can extort a price. Encompassing at least 4,000 square miles of extremely hot and dry desert, this land bears the name El Gran Desierto, "the great desert." Save for a few pitiful outposts of cowboys, truck-stop employees, and squatters, no one dares live there. And with the exception of motorists on the one paved highway - near El Camino del Diablo, "the devil's highway" - few venture there in summer. But Pablo did. He believed, as true desert folk do, that life needn't stop because of summer. With sufficient water and maybe an afternoon siesta in the shade, people can and do go about their business. And now, many decades later, so did I, unaware that the end of my 120-mile round-trip would echo Pablo's own misadventure.

I stepped off a steamy bus at a one-pump truck stop on two-lane Mexico Route 2. A cafe served warm colas from an ice chest, but the stuffy room drew sweat faster than I could replenish it. My head spun with nausea, and I raced outside to throw up. Heat spilled off the asphalt and hot trucks. Some truckers slept in hammocks under trailers; others fanned themselves with cardboard. Inside, the waiter mopped his brow with a sopping towel. Heat favors no one. Already semidehydrated, I fled the truck stop and walked five miles north across the border to the water hole where Pablo began. The first steps away from civilization proved sand and rock to be cooler than asphalt. A puff of breeze caught and soothed, allowing sweat to work its magic. Near the water hole that night, I slept soundly. The first full day following Pablo proved uneventful, nothing more than a stroll through a beautiful "park" of strange-looking desert plants. I laid up during part of the afternoon until the sun faded and then hiked into the night. Desert nights are serene excursions at the top of my list. Owls glided past, hoping to snag any rodent I scared from its burrow. Kangaroo rats bounced along their runways. Foxes pranced in the shadows. Fanged serpents froze until I passed.

During the night the heat persisted, so I only napped and continued to hike through the second morning. By noon I was 30 miles into the walk and reached the first of four caches, which I had left weeks earlier by truck and which I hoped would sustain me for the entire trip. There I refilled all canteens as well as my belly. A summer traveler here requires six quarts of water a day just to function and upward from two gallons to walk. Desert trees produce sparce limbs with small leaves, so shade is at best a sheer curtain. Sheltering beneath one is rather like trying to dodge the sun by hiding under a lampshade.

And now I lay motionless, conserving energy and sweat and trying to motivate myself onward. A small voice objected: You have already left a bus and a cafe and a water hole; why leave this tree?

Then I realized the significance of last night's lingering heat: It never dropped below the threshold of sweating, every hour of the day and night.

The question reminded me of a friend who declined to join the paratroopers. "Why," he reasoned, "should anyone leave a perfectly good airplane?" To test courage? To ride adrenaline's rush? To penetrate the unknown? To kill time? A pair of ravens croaked overhead and stirred me to action. It was too late to philosophize; I had already pulled the rip cord when I left home. Now I was waiting to see if the parachute opened. I crammed gear back into my small pack and resumed walking.

In a rock alcove where mountain met flat land, I passed a rock cairn and wooden cross, marking the end of some previous but unnamed traveler. At the time, I wondered "who" and "when," but I should have pondered "why." Onward. The thirst grew. Sure, I had a reader's knowledge of the great desert travelers: Burton, Lawrence, Doughty, Thesiger. On other desert forays, I had earned an appreciation of short-term thirst, and at home I had studied desert survival. But that was cerebral, and this was different. It was visceral, a nagging persistence, a rude urgency and uneasiness.

Then I realized the significance of last night's lingering heat: It never dropped below the threshold of sweating, and I'd fought dehydration every hour of the day and night. Because of radiant cooling, the desert night's temperatures may plummet 30 to 40 degrees below the day's high, making the air seem almost cold. Indeed, many of those who perish of exposure out here actually suffer from hypothermia in the hours before sunrise. But last night, the mercury held high like a perpetual fever.

There was nothing to do but continue to the next cache. Jagged granite ridges ripped from the sand flats. Trees grew stunted and few. Desert mat, a partnership of lichen and algae, wove the sandy floor together. Seeds of summer flowers hid underground awaiting seasonal rains. Later, waves of sand rolled against the ridges. I When heat sledges the brain, thoughts creep. Simple computations become difficult; the mind drifts uncontrollably from the track.

I walked. I marched. I trudged. I tried to whistle, but my lips were parched. I drank often but craved more.

Again I hiked through the moon, which set just a few hours before sunup. And again the night's temperature hovered in the low 90s. I made another 25 miles but sweated the whole time.

The next day dawned hotter than the last, but about midmorning I reached a lava flow and sprawled on the ground near the spot I'd cached my "gold": a plastic jug of water. I sighed with relief. Rest. Water at hand. I napped in the thin shade of a paloverde, but even my eyeballs felt hot.

When rested I would dig out the cache and resume hiking. From my remaining canteen, I swallowed frequently. But the heat took its toll, and what was left wouldn't t last until sundown, so I decided to stock up from the cache.

In the time since burying my water jug, the wind had blown sand and obliterated all tracks. Few flower stalks remained standing. Trees and boulders became my only guideposts. No treasure map has ever been more delicately unfolded than my written directions to this cache. I reckoned that Pablo had waited in vain nearby for his partner to return with water.

Bracing myself, I lurched out into the sun's full inferno and triangulated my landmarks. I paced the yardage to the "X," the spot of salvation, and began to dig. In horror I found only shredded plastic. A coyote had done what comes naturally: found something new and sampled it.

Devastated, I crept back under the tree. Breathing accelerated. Uncertainty. Indecision. Fear. Sweat seeped into my eyes. Then I had to smile. Through the throbbing in my head, I remembered my reason for being here - Pablo - and I imagined him, here, facing his moment of crisis.

Undoubtedly he had lain under a tree, maybe even this tree, and pondered his predicament: "My partner hasn't come; I'm out of water; what can I do; is this the end?"

I had counted on this water. Without it, my trip died. Without it, I might. Searching for the track of a man now dead became a race to keep myself alive. Slowly I reviewed the options. When heat sledges the brain, thoughts creep. Simple computations become difficult; the mind drifts uncontrollably from the track; eyes burning with sweat become difficult to focus.

Five miles north lay the highway, but I couldn't count on a car or on flagging one down. Six miles eastward, I remembered, was a ranchito with a well. I had driven past it on earlier trips, but I couldn't be certain that someone would be there or that water would be on hand in this dry season. What are six more miles when 60 lay behind? What are six more if the plane's out of gas.

My canteen hung from a shading limb, but the water inside had soared to 113° and the air, two degrees more. I couldn't shake the thermometer down to even measure my own temperature.

Fragments of options and plans writhed through my head. But foremost I knew: If I stayed under this tree, I could count on it being my grave marker within a day. Occasionally I drifted and dozed. I felt myself slipping, slipping toward an eternal slumber. High above circled a vulture; nothing escapes its view. Once I roused from a doze when I heard it swoosh close overhead. When I rolled over, it flapped away in disgust.

I had to go somewhere soon or the coyote that tore into my cache would be sniffing me. Once I squandered a few drops of water to wet my handkerchief and dab the caked salt from my eyes. The crystals scratched tender skin when rubbed.

Heat had sapped nearly all my strength, and I was very tired. I've read that some thrash against the heat; some strip their clothes and try to bathe in dirt. That urge didn't come to me. I only wanted to sleep. I saw my face on the bloated body of a desert hiker eternally dozing under a tree years ago. He could have been me, serene, restful, no thrashing. He lay down for a rest and just slipped over the edge. His pocket radio was "on," though the batteries had long expired.

The insidious part? Dying would have

The sun pounded relentlessly. Even plants that thrive on sun power must have water or die. I was far more fragile than any plant.

been so easy. A powerless, exhausted fading of the mind, much like an accident victim sliding into shock and unconsciousness or a suddenly soaked dog-sledder freezing.But somehow and from somewhere in the same resolve of spirit that moved Pablo, I stirred. Without even sitting up, I slid the pack from under my head and pulled out everything except two empty canteens. I prayed that I'd need them. I'd also need the sheet I was lying on, maybe for a blanket, maybe for a shroud, but I knew I'd need it. The rest-my money, my camera, my spare clothes - I stuffed into a bag and hung in the tree. They mattered not at all.

The sun pounded relentlessly. Even plants that thrive on sun power must have water or die. I was far more fragile than any plant. I knew the direction to the ranch: away from the sun. Top gear on level ground-began with a trudge; it slowed to trudge and rest, rest, trudge, and rest. Eventually the best I could muster was a mountaineer's "rest step": one step, pause, breathe twice, then another step.

Mirages and dementia turned trees to houses and rocks to cars, each luring me to detour. The first barrel cactus I found died under my knife, but it tasted like gritty mucilage and left a tight film on my cracked lips.

My mind wandered and exaggerated. I feared not finding water at the ranch. Then I feared that the cowboys wouldn't give me any, so I resolved to kill them for it, if need be. When I trudged onto a cow path, I knew the ranch was near, so I readied my knife. I even rehearsed a speech about needing water but wasn't sure my lips and tongue could form the words.

Flies tested me, looking for moisture I no longer had. Half a day without water, and I was falling over the edge; Pablo's feat loomed even larger.

Six miles; five hours. The ranch's well tower appeared, then the shack and out buildings. Two ranch hands stood up under their ramada. They shaded their eyes and looked at the creature walking out of the sun. No speech; no knife; no need. My pathetic looks told them all they needed to know.

They slid off my pack and sat me down. One looked sympathetically and asked a few unanswered questions. The other clanged the coffeepot in the cook house. I stared ahead silently. A cup of sweet coffee, then a grape, then the wipe of a wet cloth. I was safe. Their hospitality could have salvaged Pablo himself.

I was now satisfied that I knew his route, and I knew deeply about him and his struggle. If ever we met, we could speak, without words. It was as if he had shared with me his luck, his country, his struggle. He had led me to the desert's own heart, not a place or even a zone. Instead, it is a voluntary contract accepting heat, a pact signed in life's sweat.

By accepting heat, not denying it, I came to know the desert... and myself... in a new way. A new season in a new world opened. Instead of being locked out of the desert for the summer, I found it even more alive and mysterious than in the cooler months. The three things wrong with the desert-June, July, and August-became the three things most right.

Like one who discovers the beauty of the north woods in deep winter, I now had met the dreaded desert enemy - and found it was only me. Too, I had probed my own limits without whimpering which, like earning a merit badge or bagging a tough exam, is always comforting. I had been privileged to touch the desert's heart. and my own.

Now I go freely and boldly into the land of little shade and feel its living pulse. I touch the land of fiery sunsets, taste evening's breeze, inhale the fragrance of the night's own flower queen, hear the chuff of cactuses breathing. Now I can begin to understand and love this desert.

Several months after his ordeal, Pablo was back in the desert. So am I.

Editor's Note:

To learn more about the Sonoran Desert and its environs, visit the Arizona-Sonora Desert Museum, 2021 N. Kinney Road, Tucson, AZ; (520) 883-2702.