The Treasure of San Pedro

J. Edgar S.

I suppose it is finally time to capture the infamous Mexican hunting trip in writing as I have related specifics to many over the years, especially the one event for which I shall forever be burdened.  Some memories are too vivid while others tend to be a bit fuzzy.

It was Christmas 1986 and I was staying with my folks in Sierra Vista, Arizona.  Art, Dianne and Josh were there and my best friend Paul also made the trip down from Tempe to spend a few days.  This may have been the Christmas that I gave Josh that huge blow-up Gumby.  I can still hear him swallowing his words as he said “Big Gumby” as soon as he came into the room.  I remember thinking then how children help keep the magic of Christmas alive for all of us.  It was perhaps a couple of days later that we embarked on our journey across the border into Sonora, Mexico.  I had made previous treks to Mexico to fish and hunt, so I knew the drill; apparently not as well as I should have.

Dad, Art, Paul and I piled into the 1981 GMC Vandura early in the morning and headed toward Naco, the nearest port of entry to Mexico.  Like duh, when did we ever go on any trip that didn’t start @ O’ Dark Thirty?  I always thought Naco was a funny name because Dad used to buy cheap gas there and well I assumed the quality was probably that which would cause the engine to knock.  Since Dad had both of his shotguns already registered in Mexico and we all had our proof of citizenship in hand, the entry process was uneventful.  Just the way we like it!  Often the process is expedited by tipping (nice word) members of the Mexican Army twenties.  The disparate affluence between the corrupt controlling army and the town’s common folk was frighteningly evident then and I am sure much worse today.  Dad recounted that on one particular trip, how he saw a desperately poor little girl, dirty and wearing rags for clothes, have the biggest smile on her face as she was enjoying a Coca Cola.  It all depends on your perspective. 

Re-entry, on the other hand, has not always been so smooth.   I have been a part of three episodes in Nogales which were nonstandard.   There were two separate incidents involving a Volkswagen Beetle; the other due to a minor miscommunication by my eccentric Aunt Jenny.  It was probably 1967 when my family drove our Bug across the border to see a bullfight.  The bullfight was a pathetic display of inhumane torture which was particularly traumatic for my sister and me.  On the way back across the border, we were behind an ice truck which evidently was using the clutch and gas pedal instead of brakes.  Just before making it across the border, the truck backed into the front of our tiny car.  The calculated risk of not buying insurance was unfortunately realized.   Then in about 1979, I was in Nogales with some crazy friends, Louie and his cousins Gilbert and Michael.  Gilbert was insistent on trying to bring back a case of tequila.  I can’t remember whether the limit was 2 quarts or 2 fifths, but obviously a case was more than you could legally take back across the border.  We put it under the back seat of the beetle next to the battery.  Someone, perhaps the seller, must have contacted the border guards.  I was rightfully afraid as I’d recently seen the movie Midnight Express.  They did nothing but take away the booze, an expensive lesson for Dr. G.  In retrospect I should have walked across without the other three (And I thought the hunting trip incident was embarrassingly stupid).  Sometime in between these two incidents was when we walked back across the border and the officials, as is practice, asked if we were U.S. citizens.  Aunt Jenny who apparently didn’t grasp the seriousness of the correct answer replied to the question by saying “I think.”  Dad finally got that one straightened out and it is now a funny story.

This particular day was not about traversing borders, however, but perhaps about discovering new things about ourselves and others.  To calibrate, our version of duck hunting is a bit different than the norm.  First of all, we don’t sit behind a blind nor do we use decoys or calls and the biggest challenge is not having four-legged retrievers.  There is also the fact that we only had two guns for all of us to use.  This was not thought to be a major issue though because Paul stopped just short of declaring himself a pacifist and was only along for the ride.  As always, Dad was focused on everyone else having a good time, so he didn’t figure to shoot much either.   Both shotguns were Remington’s, an almost brand new one at the time (model 1187) and a much older 3-shot autoloader. 

Paul H.

After crossing the border and heading south for a couple of miles, our route took us back west by northwest such that we were very close to the US border as the crow flies.  Primitive roads and the San Pedro River crossing in our battle tested van led us to a rugged expanse of private ranches, owners of which were friendly to the likes of American hunters.  Paul amused himself by reciting infamous lines from the Treasure of Sierra Madre; “Badges?  We don’t need no stinking badges!” as we weaved our way in and around hills and canyons.  Our MO was to get just close enough to one of several cattle tanks such that we could see with binoculars whether there were ducks on the pond.  If there were, we’d use our stealthy skills (Oh geez, pretty sure I was wearing red sweat pants. Really?) to get as close as possible before they took to the air. If we were successful in hitting any, it was preferable that they didn’t land in the water.  Otherwise, the rod and reel with a huge lure was our best shot at retrieving the bird(s).  There were also a few spots that Dad suggested we approach on foot without being able to see and be prepared to shoot as the ducks scattered.  Art and I snuck up on a small body of water covered with bushes and trees.  I landed my first shot at a Mallard in flight and we were able to retrieve it on the other side of the water.  I can still see Art shaking his head as if to say “that lucky shit did it again”.  Art is without question a much better outdoorsman than I, but for whatever reason I’ve had a penchant for stealing his thunder on occasion.

As you might imagine, traveling on a ranch or between properties, requires negotiating a number of gates.  The unwritten rule of any rural area is “leave the gate the way you found it”.  Being a farm boy himself, my dad strictly adhered to such rules.  Literally my job was the gate keeper and I had figuratively been down this road before.  The fencing and the associated gates were as primitive as the lands they parsed.  Not one was constructed, nor latched like another.  I struggled with nearly every gate.  Closing the gate exactly the way I found it was particularly frustrating and then I would be critiqued on my performance when I got back in the van.  In looking back, it was rather like Harry Potter trying to solve a new riddle for each test he went through in the Goblet of fire.  It was funny, but I was also determined to be more efficient in carrying out my duties.  I felt the respect of private property was warranted, but also started to wonder about the rhyme or reason to what I perceived as less than classic use of knots and hitches.   

Quail were also on the menu and Dad spotted either some Gamble or Bobwhite running in and out of the sides of the canyon road we were on.  Paul got out with Dad and Art and somehow Dad convinced Paul to carry a gun.  Paul and Art chased the covey up the canyon.   I can’t remember if they got anything, just that Paul came back with a crazed look in his eye and it was clear that he wasn’t giving up any more turns.  I just wondered if we would have enough ammunition for the day.  I envisioned him like Kwai Chang Caine, with a bit of blood in the crease of his mouth, saying that he was a priest and then kicking everybody’s butt.  I swear my dad tried to take the gun away from him so we could continue down the road and he pulled it back to his chest with a very tight grip.  So Paul was in all the way now.

As I mentioned, Dad had been teasing me about how long it would take me to close the gates.  As we pulled through one particular gate, I was as determined as ever to quickly and accurately close and latch it exactly as it had been found.  I pulled the gate shut dragging the flimsy wood and barbed barrier to the hitching post.  I quickly retied the knot such that the gate was taught.  I almost thought to myself “that wasn’t half bad”.  Then I looked up.  Oh Shit!  I had latched myself on the wrong side of the gate.  I could feel the heat of my embarrassment prickle the hairs on the back of my neck as I gave the van a quick glance.  It was bouncing as if the van itself were laughing. It might as well have been.  Oh man!  Perhaps because I didn’t want to feel the laughing eyes from the van as I unlatched the gate, I tried to squeeze between the post and gate.  As I did so, I caught my leg on barbed wire and was left with about 4 inches of ripped pants and flesh.  The literal scratch was not that deep, but the emotional scar lingers today.  You’ve heard of adding insult to injury, well I did the opposite, injury to insult.  I sheepishly climbed back into the van and my dad said “you’re not my son” as the other two, especially Paul broke into uncontrollable laughter.

I don’t really remember what I said after that but do recall eventually laughing at myself.  What else could you do?  I’ve used this story as an example to my employees and my kids.  You’ve got to keep your eye on the big picture and not get buried in the weeds.  I also point out that locking yourself on the other side of the gate could have much greater negative consequences.

We did rock the van at least one more time as all three passengers sat in the back and jumped up and down so we could get enough traction to make it to the top of one hill. We stopped at the crest and looked though the binoculars.  Dad says “I believe that is a goose!”  “I just might crawl on my belly for a few yards for a goose”.  There were also several ducks on the pond.  Art and I went far to one side of the pond where there was a spillway.  We crawled for several yards with our weapons riding on only our arms, being careful not to get them in the mud.  As we peered over the edge of the tank, to our dismay there were no birds of any kind.  Somehow they had left without us seeing them.  I guess we weren’t that good at stalking our prey.  It must have been the smell of dumbass that chased them away.  Disappointed, we started walking back from the dam, skipping a bit to avoid muddy areas.  Art suddenly lost his balance and fell into the mire.  He and the new shotgun were completely covered in mud.  It looked as if he might have hurt himself, but his primary concern was the condition of Dad’s new gun.  I felt terrible for him being cold and embarrassed.  On return to the house, he painstakingly took every piece of the gun apart and cleaned it.

I’m sure Art remembers our trip fondly despite the swan (goose) dive into the mud.  He can always think of me on the other side of the gate.  I know Dad also remembers the trip with a smile and a chuckle.  I miss you Paul.  I can still see you with that crazed look of a blood thirsty hunter and then how you laughed your ass off at me and teased me mercilessly by telling the story to our friends.  The Treasure of San Pedro is our memory of a great adventure.