The customs officer at Tucson Airport eyed me with suspicion. “You’re not planning to blockade a highway or bomb something, are you?” His words, laced with mistrust, marked my entry into the US, a stark prelude to the journey ahead. My purpose was far from violence; it was a peaceful seven-day trek through the Sonoran Desert, a 75-mile route from Sásabe, Mexico, to Tucson, Arizona, known as the Migrant Trail. This walk, now in its fourteenth year, is a poignant act of remembrance for those who have perished attempting to cross this treacherous landscape, and a stark reminder of the human cost of border policies.
The Mexican Desert, specifically the Sonoran Desert stretching across the US-Mexico border, is a formidable environment. Its beauty belies a deadly reality, particularly for migrants forced to traverse its unforgiving terrain. The Migrant Trail walk underscores this danger, pushing participants to confront the same harsh conditions faced by those seeking entry into the United States.
We began in Sásabe, a village clinging to the border. After a blessing at the local church, we carried three symbolic coffins – for a man, woman, and child – to the imposing border wall. This wall, a stark symbol of division, stands not where terrain is naturally impassable, but strategically, funnelling migrants into the most lethal stretches of the desert. In the first half of 2017 alone, 115 deaths were recorded along this border, a chilling statistic that gained a fresh, tragic dimension with news of a mother and child lost in the desert that very week.
At the wall, a ceremony blending indigenous and Catholic traditions, Spanish and English, and ancient songs, marked our crossing. We symbolically relinquished our passports, walking not as citizens of nations, but as humans within the shared environment of the desert. Each participant carried a white cross, many bearing names of those who had died in the desert. My cross was inscribed “Desconocida,” unknown woman, a nameless victim found in 2013. The desert sun, I learned, can erase identity as swiftly as it extinguishes life; a grim reality of the Mexican desert.
Migrant Trail walk through the Mexican desert, participants carrying crosses to remember those who died crossing the border.
Humanitarian groups tirelessly work along the border, providing essential aid by placing water bottles throughout the Mexican desert. Migrants, unable to carry sufficient water for days-long journeys, depend on these supplies. Our group, during the walk, consumed up to seven liters of water daily to combat dehydration, while migrants often carry less than four. Tragically, these vital water supplies are often destroyed by vigilantes and even Border Patrol agents, a cruel act that has been directly linked to deaths in the desert.
Despite the grim context, the Arizona section of the Mexican desert revealed an unexpected beauty. Towering mountain ranges framed plains vibrant with mesquite and cacti. Nights under the vast, star-strewn sky offered moments of serene respite. While some opted for tents, many of us slept under the open sky, bundled in sleeping bags against the cool desert air.
Our group of over 50 walkers was supported by vehicles carrying food, gear, and crucial water refills. In moments of silence, we walked in contemplation, then, as support trucks neared, we’d call out the names inscribed on our crosses. “Presente!” the group would respond, invoking the enduring presence of the departed. The litany of names, punctuated by the countless desconocidos and desconocidas – the unknowns – whose identities were lost to the desert, was profoundly moving.
Organizations along the border utilize DNA testing to help families identify remains, highlighting the devastating ripple effect of each death. The agonizing uncertainty of a loved one’s fate often surpasses even the pain of confirmation.
By the second day, we encountered tangible evidence of migrants’ journeys: discarded water bottles, backpacks, and clothing. The water bottles, often painted black to minimize sunlight reflection, were a poignant testament to their struggle for survival in the Mexican desert. A seasoned walker shared stories of Border Patrol agents forcing arrestees to abandon all possessions, including treasured photographs, rosaries, and phone numbers – fragments of lives abruptly disrupted in the harsh Mexican desert. We even witnessed trucks resembling animal control vehicles, caged and windowless, further dehumanizing an already vulnerable population.
Afternoons in camp, though stationary, offered little respite from the Mexican desert’s intensity. Under canopies or sparse shade of mesquite bushes, we endured the relentless, scorching heat, exceeding 40 degrees Celsius (104 Fahrenheit). The daily water delivery from Humane Borders was a welcome relief, providing not only drinking water but also makeshift showers – sun-warmed yet refreshing after arduous desert walks.
Blisters became a painful reality for me by day three, requiring a ride to camp for proper treatment. These seemingly minor injuries, common to desert trekking, underscored the extreme vulnerability of migrants. Untreated blisters in the Mexican desert can quickly become debilitating, even fatal, for those without support. The thought of mothers enduring this same heat, separated from their families, facing the same unforgiving desert, was deeply unsettling.
Vast and arid landscape of the Mexican desert, highlighting the harsh conditions faced by migrants.
Our longest day involved a grueling 16-mile walk, beginning at 3:30 am under headlamps, walking into the sunrise. As the sun ascended, it illuminated Baboquivari Peak, sacred to the Tohono O’odham people, bathing the hawk-shaped mountain in golden light. The Mexican desert presented a stark duality: breathtaking beauty juxtaposed with inherent cruelty.
Returning to the highway, we approached a border checkpoint on Route 286. Border Patrol agents awaited us, their presence heavy at the isolated outpost. As we approached, we began chanting the names of the deceased, our voices amplified by the wind at our backs. Even from a distance, those waiting with our vehicles heard our voices, a testament to the powerful invocation of remembrance echoing through the Mexican desert air.
Silence descended at the checkpoint. “Citizen?” each officer curtly questioned. As a Canadian, my “No!” was met with a dismissive wave, their attention already fixed on walkers from Mexico and Colombia, who were pulled aside for questioning. The absurdity of this selective scrutiny was palpable.
Just beyond the checkpoint, amidst the strains of Agustín Lira and Alma’s songs of migration, a call came from No More Deaths. A migrant had miraculously found a cell signal and issued a distress call. Volunteers were needed for a search party. The abstract reality of our walk abruptly solidified. While unlikely to encounter migrants directly – those seeking to remain unseen – the desperate reality of their plight in the Mexican desert became acutely real. That evening, the search party returned with news: the migrant had been found alive.
Border Patrol checkpoint in the Mexican desert, illustrating the militarized border environment.
Days blurred into a monotonous rhythm of early starts, walking, heat, and exhaustion. Yet, within this demanding routine, a quiet sense of presence and bearing witness emerged. On our final day, atop a rocky ledge overlooking the desert expanse stretching towards Tucson, we held a closing ceremony. Facing the stark beauty of the Sonoran Desert, we sent out prayers, mirroring our opening ceremony in Mexico.
Returning home to Mexico, to family, safety, and comfort, brought a sharp contrast. The Mexican desert’s deadliness is undeniable, yet, I realized, Mexico itself presents even greater dangers for migrants. Cartels, the perilous journeys atop freight trains known as “La Bestia,” and corrupt officials create a gauntlet of exploitation and violence. The US-sponsored Frontera Sur program pushes Mexico to stem the flow of migrants, often resulting in deportations back to the very dangers they flee. Reports indicate a staggering 41% of crimes against migrants are committed by officials, highlighting the systemic dangers within Mexico itself.
Iconic Saguaro cacti dot the Mexican desert landscape, a beautiful but dangerous environment for migrants.
Before leaving, my sons questioned my journey. The compelling urge to walk was difficult to articulate, even to myself. Now, I hope they understand that those of us privileged with passports, unburdened by suspicion at borders, and with the means to act, have a responsibility to witness, resist, and advocate for change.
My hope is that by the time my sons are old enough, the Migrant Trail walk will no longer be necessary. However, with increased border militarization and policies focused on walls and deportations, an end to the deaths in the Mexican desert seems tragically distant.
