Sea of Cortez

My first impression was the stillness of the water. Very small waves. Shallow. Low-tide revealing a plethora of tide pools with small, but perfectly intact shells. 

Today we took a boat ride further south into the sea. Along the shore we passed white-washed beach homes, resorts, unfinished hotels, beach-goers, sand dunes and dry rocky mountains in the distance. The day was flawless, with almost no clouds and a perfectly serene surface of water. 

Jenna spotted a school of dolphins. They swam in our direction, occasionally arcing out of the water, their fins pointing skyward. As they moved closer they swam directly beneath our boat, then followed us for a short distance. 

We turned our course seaward from the coast until those dry rocky mountains nearly disappeared over the horizon. We came to another set of rocky hills, these being a small chain of islands. They were covered with sea lions and birds. 

As we turned off the engine of the boat we could hear the barking of the lions. I wondered what it was like for them to have their own little playground. They jumped off rocks, baked in the sun and whatever else their heart desired. 

We spent the next two hours watching them and exploring the coves of the islands in kayaks. My favorite experience was swimming with the sea lions—watching them swoosh within inches of my feet, but never touching! They didn't mind at all that we swam with them, treating us as if we were just another sea creature. 

By the end of the day we were exhausted. Although it felt as if we had boated 100 miles across the water, we barely scratched the surface of the Sea of Cortez. It was a healthy reminder that there are so many places in this world that I have yet to explore. 

Until a few months ago, I couldn't point out the Sea of Cortez on a map. If someone had asked to find the Gulf of California . . . then maybe. This inlet is tucked between Baja California and the main body of Mexico. It stretches 700 miles and has a maximum width of 150 miles. There are 37 islands 

It is believed that this gulf is one of the most diverse seas on Earth. An estimated 900 species of fish live here, along with 32 types of marine mammals. There are blue, humpback and gray whales that call these waters home. In addition there are sharks, dolphins, manta rays, sea lions and Leatherback Sea Turtles. On one of the islands is a rattlesnake that is found nowhere else in the world. 

All this marine wildlife is a stark contrast to the hot and barren Sonoran Desert just outside its waters. Sand dunes often flank the coast line and in some areas there grows an abundant sea of cactus. 

It was named by Francisco de Ulloa in 1539 in honor of the Spanish conquistador, Hernán Cortés. Ulloa originally believed that the gulf led to the mythical Strait of Anian, which connected the Pacific and Atlantic Oceans. Another Spaniard, Melchior Diaz explored the area extensively in 1540, including conducting a survey of the lower Colorado River where it runs into the gulf. 

A couple days later we chose a secluded sandy beach. The dunes sloped downward into the crystal clear blue water. I strapped on goggles and slowly floated on my belly a short distance from the shore, scouring the floor of the sea with my eyes. Remnants of shells were scattered everywhere, most of them white and some twirled in narrow conical twists like the horn of a unicorn. 

I swam parallel to the shore, coming up for air from time to time. When I saw something on the sandy bottom I would extend my arm—if I could reach—and pull it closer to my view. Then I would decide whether to keep it. In this manner I collected a modest cluster of shells. 

I have decided that the Sea of Cortez is a gem that most don't consider. I have only skimmed the top, yet there is an allure, a desire, to return and explore more. 

Perhaps John Steinbeck said it best: “Trying to remember the Gulf is like trying to re-create a dream. This is by no means a sentimental thing, it has little to do with beauty or even conscious liking. But the Gulf does draw one, and we have talked to rich men who own boats, who can go where they will. Regularly they find themselves sucked into the Gulf. And since we have returned, there is always in the backs of our minds the positive drive to go back again. If it were lush and rich, one could understand the pull, but it is fierce and hostile and sullen. The stone mountains pile up to the sky and there is little fresh water. But we know we must go back if we live, and we don't know why.” ♠

 

¿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.