¿Sonoyta, anyone?

Holy Family Catholic Church on Benito Juarez Street.

Our introduction to Sonoyta was rather unpleasant. 

We were still within feet inside the Mexican border when the armed guard waved us to the side and approached our car. “Where do you have your pistol?” he asked in Spanish. 

“I don't have one,” I insisted. 

“Is it under your seat? Is it in the glove box?” 

I was baffled that he would assume that I tried to smuggle a firearm across the U.S. / Mexican border! Or was it just a ruse to get me to admit if I had? 

He ordered the four of us out of our car and began a systematic search. He used his flashlight to rummage through the front and back seats, and then the trunk. He found nothing, but had me worried that he would find some reason to send us off to jail, or at least fine us. 

Then, he waved us on. 

Armed guards at the border.

We didn't go far. We then parked on the side of the road of the immigration office to get our tourist visas stamped. They only let one group inside at a time, so we had to wait outside. 

A man stood outside the door dressed in full military gear, including helmet, bullet-proof vest and fully-automatic rifle. He kept asking me if I knew the price of a certain kind of pistol. I was perplexed and not sure if something was lost in translation. 

At last it was our turn to go inside. We gave our passports and tourist cards to a short brown lady who checked the details, stamped them, and sent us on our way. 

Relieved to have “passed” our entry into Mexico, we returned to our car and began driving the main drag southward. 

Immediately we passed a couple dogs and a man in a wheelchair holding out a jar. We passed an array of street shops and markets. We also noticed the stark contrast of now abundant trash on the southern side of the border. The scene bade me to stop, but we couldn't. We had to march seventy miles further. Sonoyta would have to come later. 

Stray dog.

This was the first time I had ever driven my own car across the Mexican border. I was a bit nervous. Sonoyta is a border-town that piqued my curiosity, but at the same time filled me with trepidation.

Sonoyta is a unique city. It serves as a portal for U.S. tourists coming into Mexico, as well as a launching point for illegal Mexican immigrants looking to sneak into the States. I can't imagine anyone wanting to cross illegally here as it would require an arduous walk through the Sonoran Desert. 

Sonyota is located just inside the Mexican border.

Sonoyta and rural communities to the east have become the battleground for rival cartels who vie for control of the land to move people and drugs into the United States. As a result, the city has seen a high rate of homicide and other violence. 

Before we came through, my daughter heard a story from a friend who had been driving through Sonora and was stopped by the cartel in the middle of the road. They were robbed.  

Just over a year ago, nine women and children were massacred by one of the cartels as they drove to a wedding on a dusty dirt road in Sonora. The women were connected to a Mormon fundamentalist group. Some were burned alive in their car. These people were living in Sonora and accustomed to the dangers. 

Stories like these didn't sit well with us. But you can't live in fear, and we decided the rewards outweighed the risks, so we decided to come anyway. We spent the next several days enjoying the sun and sand in a resort town well away from the border. 

Sonoyta lies in the heart of the Sonoran Desert.

Organ pipe cactus.

Fast forward five days and we were back in Sonoyta. This time we had one primary goal—to spend our remaining 1,200 pesos before crossing the border. We could have just exchanged the money, but where's the fun in that?!! 

Our first purchase came easily. There were men on the street selling asparagus, nuts and other commodities. We rolled down the window and bought a big bag of oranges for 70 pesos. 

Sonoyta is a highly militarized town. Within a minute of entering its borders we spotted six police cars, including a group of cops frisking another man. Later we saw a small convoy of military police with helmets and service rifles. 

Main road running through Sonoyta.

One of my goals was to find a certain taco shop that specialized in “wet tacos.” I knew the name of it and general location, but finding it seemed elusive. We drove up and down the street twice and tried going around the block when Jenna spotted the name of the shop on a hand-written sign. 

We found it on a side-street, with the name “Taqueria Sabas” barely visible. It looked like it was located in someone's house, with plastic chairs and tables along the outside. 

We sat down and immediately a young man came to take our order. When I asked if he had a menu, he said they only sold one thing—tacos. We ordered six of them. 

The “kitchen” was located inside the house. We waited at our table on the patio with a few other groups that looked much less gringo than ourselves. When we asked if there was a bathroom, we were directed to an outhouse a few feet away. (There was no light in the outhouse, but that which came through a small window. There was also no toilet paper and the door wouldn't open from the inside!) 

Wet tacos are a lot like enchiladas, but in the shape of a taco. Inside they have chunks of beef, onions and cabbage. A red sauce is poured on top. You eat it with a plastic spoon. They taste nothing like enchiladas. 

He brought us a simple tray of condiments that included red and green salsa, and limes. The flavor of the wet tacos was nothing extra ordinary, but defiantly unique and worth the experience. 

Wet tacos.

Next, we worked on spending those pesos. We found a hole-in-the-wall shop and bought Savanah a skirt. “Mas adelante,” closer to the border, we found another shop where we bought a couple of blankets. 

Then, with only 200 pesos left, we stopped by a convenience store and bought snacks for our trip. The funny thing is that when we went to pay, the total came to 201 pesos. I offered to put something back, but the cashier lady told me not to worry about it! 

We had one more stop. I was a little worried about this one because it took us a couple miles off the main drag. 

We drove east on Calle Obregón past homes and several vacant buildings. Many of them were skeletons. We turned right onto a dirt road and drove past an unused basketball court. 

Getting off the beaten path like we were I was worried about getting robbed or killed. Four people with Utah plates would certainly grab the attention of the cartel. 

We arrived at our destination—the cemetery. I am always fascinated with how different cultures tend to have different types of cemeteries. 

Instead of the usual rows of headstones like we see in the States, the graves here were marked with shines to the deceased. Some were bigger, like mausoleums, and others just a simple cross. 

But what caught my attention the most were the saguaro-clad hills that surrounded the cemetery. That seemed to bring the arid realm of the living face-to-face with the land of the dead. 

Saguaro-clad hills surround the cemetery.

Mausoleum at Sonoyta Municipal Cemetery.

We made our way safely back to the main part of town and eventually to the frontier. We crossed “the line” where I was stopped by a U.S. border patrol agent. Not knowing how many documents I would need to show, I asked him, “What do you need to see?” 

In a friendly, but sarcastic tone he replied, “This is the international border. I need to see your passports.” 

My wife had a good chuckle. Soon we were safe on the other side of the line. ♠

 

Sonoyta, Mexico.

 

Paria Canyon (album)

 

Ghost Town of Austin, Nevada

The Austin Methodist Church towers above town.

The most striking feature before arriving at Austin are the snow-capped mountains that majestically press up from the valley floor. They run north to south like so many of the ranges in Nevada. The road finds a low pass on the northern flank of the range and twists its way through the pass. At the bottom of this serpentine route lies the ghost town of Austin, Nevada. 

It's not a complete ghost town. The 2010 census listed 194 people. But that's a far cry from the 10,000 that lived here in the 1880's. 

Like many of the old mining towns in the West, it is nestled between hills with steep decaying roads crawling up either side. Most of the stores on Main Street have been vacated for decades, although a few have resurrected, catering to the gawking tourist. 

Empty arcade along Main Street of Austin, Nevada.

Main Street.

We walked along an empty arcade and peered through the glass to find abandoned interiors, one appearing untouched since the 1950's. There is a turquoise shop across the street selling stones mined locally. A set of wooden stairs leads to an upper level, with a grander vista of Main Street, as well as a view of the Austin Methodist Church that towers above town. 

With the exception of the Vegas area, Nevada is a very sparsely populated state. This was even more true back in the mid-1800's. With the exception of a few Pony Express riders and Native Americans, there was almost no one. There is a reason that Highway 50 that runs through Austin is nicknamed “The Loneliest Highway in America.” 

Austin, Nevada is located on Highway 50, also known as The Loneliest Highway in America.

The first big strike came in 1862 when a former Pony Express rider found a promising quartz vein. Samples were taken to Virginia City where it was confirmed that the vein was rich in silver. 

By 1863 thousands of stakes were claimed and Austin became a tent city with over 2,000 residents. New businesses came to serve the booming town, including bakeries, barber shops and breweries. 

That same year Austin saw the International Hotel transplanted to their new town. The original building was constructed four years earlier in Virginia City. After building a three-story brick addition to the hotel, it was decided to dismantle the old wooden section and ship it to Austin where it was used to construct a new International Hotel. 

Lonely sloping Main Street of Austin, Nevada.

In 1864, an Italian immigrant named Samuel Crescenzo bought the International Hotel and ran it for the next 37 years. He built a hall next to the hotel and ran both of them profitably. He owned several other businesses in town, including a large store made of bricks. 

Mr. Crescenzo had a colorful past. He was born in 1833 in Naples, Italy where he was educated. As a teenager and young adult he spent twelve years working on ships and sailing the sea. In 1856 he landed in San Francisco and soon opened up a store at Mokelumne Hill, which is east of Sacramento. He spent a couple years in Washington before permanently settling in Austin, where he bought the International Hotel. He became a prominent pioneer in the early days of Austin. 

The International Hotel is alive and well today. The ramshackle structure is partially painted in bright blue to attract the modern tourist. Unfortunately for us it was closed (due to Covid), so we couldn't go inside. 

The International Hotel is up and running after 157 years in Austin.

Mural near the International Hotel.

The prosperity of Austin ebbed and flowed until the early 1880's when things started to go downhill. By 1887, most major mines had closed. Until this point, almost $20 million in silver production was credited to the mining district. 

On the south side of town on a hill is a strange-looking tower known as Stokes Castle. We drove on a dirt road to the tower, which is now abandoned and surrounded with a chain-link fence. We weren't the only ones there. It seemed to be a popular spot for recreational enthusiasts, their dogs and kids. 

Stokes Castle was completed in 1897 by Anson Phelps Stokes, a mine developer. He built it as a summer home for his sons, but it was only lived in for a couple of months. Originally it had three floors, each having its own fireplace. It had plumbing and was sumptuously furnished. The castle was inspired by a medieval tower that Stokes had seen in Italy. 

Stokes Castle lies on a hill above Austin, Nevada.

Lastly, we paid a brief visit to the Calvary Cemetery west of town. I believe there are four cemeteries adjacent to each other, but we only had time for one. 

I was very impressed with the abundance of graves from the 1800's. The old headstones were well preserved. Many of those buried came from other countries, such as Ireland and Italy. Most were fenced off into family plots.

Calvary Cemetery in Austin, Nevada.

There were a few modern burials. Being Memorial Day weekend, several people were decorating graves. One even had a rake and was manicuring the large mound above the grave. 

One of the more prominent headstones in the cemetery was that of an angel carrying a cross. This was the grave of Lizzie Ortley Crescenzo, wife of Samuel Crescenzo, whom we have already discussed. She was a native of Switzerland and is buried next to her husband in a family plot. 

Family plot of Samuel Crescenzo. His wife's headstone is the tall one with an angel.

As I usually do in cemeteries, I wandered the grounds looking at graves and taking pictures. One of the family plots was that of the Williamson family. The mother of the family, Frances A. Slaven Williamson, had a tall obelisk-shaped headstone with an interesting bas-relief of four faces sculpted into the headstone. I assume that these four faces belonged to her children. 

It wasn't until I got home and went on the Find a Grave website that I found the story behind Frances Slaven. It was written by Jessica Dykstra, and I will quote it here in its entirety, because I don't think that my rewording it will do it any justice: 

“Frances Slaven Williamson could probably be called one of the most obscure feminists in history. This woman, from Austin, Nev., however, helped to organize the suffragist movement in Nevada.

“Willamson was born in Canada in 1842 and came to Nevada in 1863 to teach. She quickly became active in Austin, filling the roles of both teacher and school principal.

“Her husband, John R. Williamson, was the superintendent of schools, the owner of the mercantile and active in politics.

“Williamson was not a suffragist until the early 1890s, after a series of tragedies struck her family. Four of her six children died of a strange illness between 1876 and 1877. She recovered from the losses; her husband did not.

Headstone of Frances Williamson.

“When her oldest son died in 1891, Williamson's husband committed suicide. 

“Left with one surviving family member, her daughter, Mary Laura, Frances threw herself into suffrage activism.

“In 1891 she became secretary of the newly-formed Lucy Stone Non-Partisan Suffrage League. A few years later she helped form the State Equal Suffrage Association and brought Susan B. Anthony to speak to suffragists in the state.

“She moved to Reno and published a suffragist newspaper, The Nevada Citizen, on a weekly basis from about 1897 to August 1898.

“She lived in Washington, D.C. for a time and then moved back to the west with her daughter. Unfortunately, Mary Laura died in 1900, soon after they had arrived in California.

“She remained active in California, attending conventions and meetings.

“Williamson died Dec. 21, 1919, the same year the Nineteenth Amendment was passed by Congress and sent to the states for ratification. She died before the suffrage amendment was ratified and added to the Bill of Rights.” 

Family plot of John and Frances Williamson.

This is why I love cemeteries so much. I know that everyone buried has a story. In this case, I was lucky enough to find it. 

Like the town of Austin, the Williamson family withered away. Frances outlived all her kids, and as far as I can tell, none of them had offspring. But just as a part of Frances lives on through the suffrage movement she valiantly fought for, so does Austin live on with people like us who stop to visit as they drive through. It also lives on through the stories of these hardy pioneers that have been lucky enough to survive. ♠

 

Austin, Nevada.

 

A Winter Delight

Today was good for me. 

We weren't even sure what we were going to do when I talked to Dave on the phone last night. Our original plan was to go cross-country skiing on the mountain, but the forecast called for a snowstorm. We toyed with the idea of just going down south and doing a normal hike, but we felt it would be a wasted opportunity. This was February and a chance to take advantage of snow. 

There was another issue. I haven't felt good lately. In fact, I've been sick in one form or another for nine months. I recently blogged about my new cancer diagnosis. Lately my stomach has been very tender and sore. We were concerned about falling while on the skis and hurting my stomach further (and believe me, I would fall!). 

We decided we would leave in the morning and beat the storm. And instead of skiing, we would go snowshoeing. Done deal! 

I felt under-prepared when Dave picked me up this morning. I only had on a few layers of clothing and was already feeling cold. And I forgot my snow boots. 

When we got to the rental shop they had already run out of snowshoes. I about spoke up and said that we could just go down south and go hiking. But Dave beat me to the punch: “We'll just get skis then.” It was the best decision we made all day. 

Physically, I felt great. No soreness today. That could all change, however, when I started chugging along a snowy trail, working all the muscles in my core. 

Thirty minutes later we arrived at the trailhead. The mountain was covered in a couple feet of snow, with a sprinkling on the pine trees. The weather was perfect. No cloud or snowstorm in sight. At that moment, we highly doubted the weatherman knew what he was talking about. 

We got out of the truck and I pulled over a sweatshirt and a LoftTek jacket. I took off my hiking boots and replaced them with the snow boots that came with the skis. Then we clipped the boots into the skis. I slipped on my gloves and beanie, grabbed my poles, and we were ready to go. 

This was a semi-popular trail for winter activities. It had been groomed and well packed. We glided along and I was surprised that I was doing so well. This was only my second time on skis. The first was last year and I think I fell at least 50 times. 

I followed the grooves left in the snow by previous skiers. This helped me move along with little worry of my skis becoming crossed or doing the splits. Our path moved forward slightly uphill. Everything seemed perfect. My stomach wasn't even hurting. 

Since my diagnosis I have had many ups and downs. When I am down I worry that I will never feel as well as I used to. But when I am up, I am planning so many treks and trips in my mind, looking forward to the day when I will finally be able to do them. 

Dave and I.

Dave has been instrumental in this forward-thinking. For a few years now we've went on several excursions together. Little by little they have grown in size and now we probably have at least a dozen different places we plan on going together. Last year we had a backpacking trip planned in the Snake Range in Nevada. At the last minute I had to cancel because I needed a bone-marrow biopsy. That was the same week I was diagnosed with cancer. I was pretty bummed. For nine months now I haven't been able to run or backpack, two things I love to do. I have been able to hike, but only on relatively flat surfaces that don't require a lot of exertion. 

The point I'm trying to get at is that these excursions with Dave have given me the motivation to stay positive. They have given me the determination to do whatever I can to recover to a level at least as high as what I was at before. I have learned that you can't take this life for granted. 

Today's adventure was a step in the right direction. 

By the time we arrived at our first resting point, I had biffed it twice. It was a downhill section and I panicked when I started going fast. I still have some work to do. But it was still a great improvement over last year. 

An iced-over Navajo Lake.

We stopped at a view point overlooking the frozen Navajo Lake. Unless you knew it was a body of water, you may not have recognized it. Instead of the deep-blue veneer like it has during summer, it had a monochromatic sheet of ice that blended with the surrounding snow-clad hills. 

We had a humorous moment when I unclipped my skis. I must have nudged my left ski forward because it effortlessly began to slide down the hill. Not just a little ways, but so far down we couldn't see it! Luckily it left a slight snake-track on the snow. I had to trudge down the hill with snow up to my knees to retrieve the ski. 

It was here that we were met by a group of skiers from the outdoor club at SUU. There were about a dozen of them and they were kind enough to take our picture. 

After guzzling down some water and eating a candy bar, we clipped on the skis again and continued our loop. By now a couple small clouds had formed in the sky. Nothing much. We still mocked the weather forecast that called for snow by 1 pm. 

Our time was filled with good conversation and scenery. Although I will admit that most of my scenery was focused downward as I concentrated on my skis. There was very little wind and the sun was happily shining, except for when it hid behind a cloud, which seemed to be happening more often.

I was falling more frequently now, but that was because there were more downhill sections. I was surprised that my stomach was not feeling sore. When we went uphill I could feel the fatigue that had been so common with me the last several months. But it was nothing too bad. In fact, it could probably be chalked up to the skiing (and being out of shape). After all, this is a sport that uses most of the muscles in your body. 

As we came to the halfway point, there was a long downhill section. Dave taught me to keep my skis pointed inward and to use my poles to slow me down. That worked most of the time, but I still kept biffing it. 

Another one bites the dust!

After one of my spills I got up and saw that Dave was talking to an older man with a long gray beard. His name was Bob Rasmussen and he used to live in Salt Lake City, but now lived down here. I think he must ski every day. He knew all the trails. 

As we talked, the skiers from the college began to pass. They were spread out now. Some seemed like pros, while others played it cautiously. At least three of them biffed it when they came around the corner and saw us. I don't blame them. I would have, too. I don't know if they psychologically faltered at the sight of another person, or if they were worried they would hit us. 

By this point the entire sky was full of clouds. We only had a couple more miles to the vehicle and I only wrecked once on that stretch, landing on my elbow. It hurt! 

When we arrived at the truck it was 12:56 and the first flakes were falling from the sky. I guess the weatherman was dead-on. 

Today we traveled a total of 6.1 miles. For me, that was good. I told Dave that next year we need to do a bigger trek that would be ten miles one-way. Maybe in the Tushars. 

We unclipped the skis and shed a couple layers of clothing. I was glad to be back. As I walked I felt light-headed. I worried that maybe I pushed myself too hard without realizing it because adrenaline had kicked in. If that was the case, then so be it. I was satisfied. ♠

 

One o'clock snow.