Way back in 1988, I got the bright idea to do some climbing in a mountain range called the Pajarito Mountains. The name means “little bird” or “birdie” in Spanish, and this range sits in an area called the Tumacacori Highlands. This group of mountains straddles the U.S. – Mexico border and has an interesting wrinkle. The highest point of the range in the U.S. is an un-named summit with an elevation of 5,460 feet, sitting just north of the border. But here’s the best part – the highest point of the entire range lies miles farther south in old Mexico. It is called Cerro el Ruido (literally “noise peak”, in Spanish – possibly refers to the sound from thunder during storms, just a guess) and tops out at 5,939 feet. So which to do first?
It seemed like a good idea to start with the U.S. part in order to get a feel for the area. I waited until February 17th when the weather was cool and perfect, and drove down the freeway almost to Nogales, on the border, then west on what we call the Ruby Road. Miles later I passed Peña Blanca Lake and then headed down the rough road in Peña Blanca Canyon. Castle Rock is a well-known landmark by Ruby Road.
I could barely drive a mile before I had to park at just under 4,000 feet elevation. I started walking and soon passed an old ruined house near what was left of the Saint Patrick Mine. Beyond that, I went by Mine Shaft spring without checking to see if there was any water there and, not much beyond that, the remnants of the road ended near 4,300 feet elevation. Continuing on foot up the canyon, about a mile and a half later I came to an old structure called Tinker Dam. It didn’t much concern me – I guess you could say ………..wait for it………… I really didn’t give a tinker’s dam about it, and kept on going. Soon, it was time to leave the canyon and head west up-slope to the ridge and the little bump called Peak 5460. There was no sign of previous visitors, so I built a cairn and left a register. I knew that Border Monument 129 was only a short walk downhill, so I went there too. It was great to see it – these old structures are classic – but this one was very special. Instead of concrete, it was made of brick, and was huge – probably a good ten feet tall! They don’t make ’em like that any more.
It had a really old plaque on it, which read as follows: Repaired by the Boundary Commission created by treaties of 1882-1889. The destruction or displacement of this monument is a misdemeanor punishable by the United States of America.
I hung out a while and enjoyed the quiet forest. As I sat there on the border, I wondered what nonsense was going on in the nearby mountains – almost certainly some form of mayhem. I had a good view farther into Mexico from this ridge, and here is an interesting photo – let me tell you what it shows (this will become important in the next part of the story). On the far left is Cerro Pedregoso, and on the far right is Cerro el Ruido. We are looking over Peak 5545, which is also in Mexico.
Once I decided it was time to go, I changed things up a bit, staying up on the ridge for a couple of miles before dropping back down into Peña Blanca Canyon and retracing my steps back to the truck. The climb had taken 4 1/2 hours. I drove out to the Ruby Road and then a few miles farther east until I arrived at a dirt road called Forest Service Road 222. Turning on to this, I continued on it for over seven miles, staying more or less on ridge-tops, until the road ended a mere 800 feet from Mexico. This was incredibly good access, and I was feeling really pleased with my cleverness. I fixed myself something to eat and settled in for the night, sitting in the cab of my truck while listening to good tunes as the daylight faded.
I thought I heard the sound of a vehicle approaching, so I cautiously got out of my truck and waited. Up came a vehicle I didn’t recognize – it was my first close encounter with the Border Patrol. An agent got out of his truck and walked up to me, cautiously, and asked me who I was and what the hell I was doing there. I explained to him that I was going to walk into Mexico in the morning and climb a mountain. He was incredulous. “Alone?”, he asked. He then proceeded to inform me that this area had “a lot of bad people, really bad people”. He went on to explain that it was a major drug-smuggling corridor, very dangerous, and I was nuts to even consider crossing the border here for any reason. I told him that I really, really badly needed to climb that mountain. “Well, it’s your funeral, but if you’ve gotta go there, please be careful”. I promised him I would, and he drove away. I could tell he considered my plan to be a galactically stupid one. During the night, I heard a noise that woke me up out of a dead sleep. It was right outside my truck in the pitch dark. I slowly opened the back hatch and looked out, paranoid as hell by this time. It was only some cattle, not the smugglers I was envisioning. The rest of the night was spent fitfully, waiting for dawn.
Once there was enough light to see, I climbed 200 vertical feet up the hillside to Border Monument 128.
I was only a quarter of a mile away from yet another monument, number 127, which is unique – it marks the only spot where the 400-mile-long Arizona-Mexico border makes a change of direction. A curiosity, yes, but not enough to sidetrack me from my goal. So here was my plan – I would follow a series of ridges, all in Mexico, all the way to my peak – seemed pretty straightforward, right? Should go without a hitch.
I climbed over one bump, dropped down, then worked my way up something called Cerro Pedregoso, which translates as Rocky Peak. Once on top of it, I took stock of the situation. My series of ridges kept changing direction constantly, so I had to pay really close attention to the map. This was long before any of us had a GPS, so I kept my compass handy. Away I went, twisting and turning my way along the ridge-tops, minding my own business, when I noticed a house way down in the valley bottom farther to the south. There was wood smoke rising from its chimney. It didn’t seem an important detail at the time, so I just kept going. There were also several cows roaming nearby on the ridge.
Finally, I came to the base of my objective, the peak called Cerro el Ruido (5,908′). Once I got up it, near the top, it was necessary to wind my way along the summit through large boulders and thick brush, which took a while.
On the highest part, I found a Mexican benchmark, and here it is.
It had the interesting name of Matanza, which was the same as that of a nearby wash. That word can mean a lot of things, such as killing, slaughter, massacre, carnage or bloodshed. Hmmm, curiouser and curiouser. I had the privilege of leaving a register and then I actually sat and soaked up the view for a while. What a rush – sneaking across the border into Mexico and climbing a great peak like this, and getting away with it. Love it.
All good things must end, so I got my pack ready and left. Dropping down off the peak, I was making my way back along the ridges and had covered maybe two miles when I saw something that made my heart skip a beat. Approaching along the ridge were two men on horseback. It was obvious they had already spotted me, as they and their dogs were moving quickly right towards me. I was scared and looked around to see if there was someplace to hide, but to no avail – they were on me in a few moments. Caught! When I saw they had handguns in holsters, I felt sick. They looked angry, and I didn’t know what to do. I even thought of dropping to my knees and pleading for my life.
They asked me what I was doing there. I blurted out that I had just come from Cerro el Ruido (I pointed back to it), that I was a climber, and that was the only reason I was there, I swear to God. I babbled on that I had been climbing mountains for many years and I didn’t carry a gun and I didn’t vandalize property and what pretty cows he had. I asked him if that was his house down in the valley (he said it was), and said that had I known that anyone owned this land I would have tried to contact them and ask permission to climb there and certainly would have never knowingly trespassed. Perhaps he was amused by my sorry chatter, because after a bit I caught a hint of a smile and he seemed to relax. He told me that this was a very dangerous area, that people were crossing his land all the time, men with bad intentions. I swore that, if he let me go, I would leave immediately and hurry back to my vehicle on the U.S. side and never darken his doorstep again. He seemed okay with that and said I could go. (All of this conversation occurred in Spanish). Thanking him profusely, I hustled back the remaining miles and sneaked across the border back into the good ol’ U. S. of A. Thank you, Jay-zuz! Talk about grateful – I felt like I had dodged a bullet on this one. The climb had taken 7 1/4 hours. To this day, I have never gone back there, not that I have any reason to do so. However, there is another chapter to this story.
Let’s fast-forward to January 2, 1998. A decade had passed since I had had the crap scared out of me in the Pajarito Mountains in Mexico. Now I had a phone call from my friend Bill who lived in Los Angeles, asking me to meet with him and two of his friends to do a climb of the Coyote Mountains high point. We had a great day with that climb, albeit a long one, and I learned that they wanted to head down to Mexico to climb the Pajarito high point the very next day. They already knew the details of my adventure, with full embellishment, but they were determined to go anyway. The following is the story as told to me by Bill.
The three of us – myself, Eddie and Jim – were going to cross the border into Mexico to climb the high point of the Pajarito Mountains. The Desert Mountaineer had told us of his close call down there but we figured that ten years had passed, and we were three whereas he had been alone. Safety in numbers? Hopefully. Besides, Eddie and I needed the peak to complete an important list we were working on. Jim was just along for the ride. I can’t remember where we camped overnight, but the next morning we drove down to the end of the road and parked, probably in the same place as the DM had done.
It was a perfect day, clear blue sky, and we headed up the hill to the border monument. Once we slipped through the barbed-wire fence, we continued on into Mexico, following a series of ridges. After a while, we were walking on a trail, probably made by cattle, on a ridge in fairly open forested country. I remember we could see the range high point in the distance, as we were walking west. Then I saw four men on horseback – I told the others and we panicked. I remember running downhill to the north and hiding in the bushes. We had all scattered, each trying to hide wherever we could.
Probably because they sat up high on their horses, it wasn’t hard for them to spot us. I think they had dogs with them. They quickly rode over to where we were – the jig was up. Sheepishly, we came out of hiding. The men wore scarves to hide their faces, and also camouflage clothing. You could tell by their eyes that they were very stern, very serious. They all carried rifles, and had them tucked under their arms, ready to use. “Where are your other people”, they asked. I insisted that there were none others, there were only the three of us. The men spoke no English, so my Spanish must have done the trick. They seemed to calm down, and all of us made our way uphill back to the trail.
The men asked us if we had any tequila or cigars, and I told them we had none. By now, they must have felt okay about us because they even offered to share with us some of their lunch. We convinced them that we were here for only one reason, to climb Cerro el Ruido. They said that they would escort us over to the peak, so away we went. They followed right behind us on their horses, forcing us to go more quickly than we otherwise would have. It was quite a workout. I thought for sure that they were going to gun us down on the trail and was very relieved when they left us at the saddle northeast of the peak. They told us that we were on our own from there, and they could not be responsible for our safety, indicating that there were “bad men” in the mountains who could harm us. No shit, Sherlock! Their leader, Jesús, bid us farewell at the base of the peak, and told us to be very careful.
We got our mountain okay, and didn’t see the masked men on our way back out. It felt good to be back in the U.S., that’s for sure. Shortly after we were back at our vehicles, we ran into the Border Patrol. When we told them what we had been through, they confirmed that there were a lot of bad guys in the area, and that things could have gone much worse for us.
Oh yes, one final note. The DM asked me if he could use my photos for this piece. I told him that I never took any, that I was too busy leaving a load in my pants!
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