Blackest of all halos

The vultures circled, a crown of impending doom. There were four of them, startlingly distinct as they flew closer and closer with every revolution. The left half of my face was open to the warm desert air, though the rest was flush against its floor. I was immobile.

The stinging sand around me opened its mouth, and in song emitted some sort of hymn, an ancient lullaby that coerced me to just shut my eyes and listen to its age-old elegy, sung to many a fallen traveler:

'Tis on a fated bed we lie
to wrench a wretched birth
In thirst we parch a body dry
to drink it through the earth
Once shadows crawl and shroud the dusk
we shall be one and same
Our prisoner now, indeed we must
return you whence you came

That was its song—and it may have just been my imagination—but it continued regardless, and I joined in, rhythmically muttering into the ground.

Something staggered towards me in the distance, looming like dark drapery to cover me, to hide me where I'd fallen. It crept in silence while the monotone hiss of the desert replaced all sound with its empty tones of melancholy. I swear I could feel the coming desolation that could never waver, could never fail to obey its calling.

In that glorified silence the very light of day was transformed, the sun blotted out and the vultures all that remained heavenward while the rest of the landscape dissipated into a newly created haze, and I was stolen—returned—my life rising skyward in a dwindling sliver until not even a fragment remained, and like a new moon I was reclaimed, sinking slowly into that singing white sand with the winds wailing and the desert savoring everything I had ever become.

... ...

Not two days prior I was riding in the back of an old pickup truck down Highway 5 towards San Felipe. I'd previously convinced a bus driver with a load of tourists to let me tag along while they were on their way into Mexicali. From there, I had asked around until I found that truck and its two shy Mexican ranchers who were willing to lift me the rest of the way—they were already headed down for some type of seasonal developmental work. At least that's what I understood.

They knew English enough, and through the open cab window they asked why I was going to San Felipe, said it wasn't much to look at. I simply said I was meeting some friends who were there already, that was all. I was in no mood for storytelling.

After a hundred or so miles on the highway—arid in the heat of August but not terribly uncomfortable—we drifted slowly into town. In the west I could see a circling halo of buzzards, those red-faced turkey vultures of Baja California, as they searched for precious carrion that was lost and abandoned to the mercy of the desert.

It wasn't much of a town. A few mid-sized resorts bordered the ocean on its eastern horizon, and to the west laid flatland and sand dune interspersed with bleak hills. Small shops lined the small streets, and along the walkways the outdoor merchants had already begun packing up their things for the day.

I bid farewell to my gracious rancheros by the shoreline, tipping them a few of my American dollars—'No, no gracias'—'Yes, por favor, yo insisto'—and then walked the beach in the dwindling late-afternoon sunlight, weaving between the fishing boats that sat banked on the low tide's sand.

A dry breeze threw my hair about, and I smiled. Was there anything to be worried about? This was Mexico! The land without rules, with endless promise found in its stretches of ocean and sand—the dunes, of course the dunes!—unpaved bounty for my exploration.

Across the street, two coffee-skinned men laughed riotously and gestured in my direction, the brims of their white sombreros jostling. I must have been so blatantly American. But I didn't care, and I smiled and laughed right along with them.

"Hey!" I shouted to them. They laughed again.

"¿Conocen la mina olvidada? La busco," I said. Do you know the forgotten mine? A pause in their jolliness, and they exchanged a glance and looked back at me, shaking their heads to indicate no. I walked on.

I knew little Spanish, but had taken a two-week crash course before leaving. That way, I figured I could ramble about in desperate but hopeful attempts to create meaning. Because of this, and for the whole excursion in general, my brother had deemed me irrational and a fool.

"You have no knowledge of the area. You haven't done any research," he had said. "Besides, you're going alone. Just wait until one your friends' schedules changes—it'll be much safer, and it'll probably be a lot more enjoyable."

He was so perfect, so logical, always perfecting and lecturing, tossing out his actuallys or did-you-knows or to-tell-you-the-truths. But what did he know? This was living; this was life. He could stagnate in his cesspool of business and education for all I cared; meanwhile I would live and travel and sense the excitement that comes with change or something unexpected and spontaneous.

So I walked westward, into the neighborhood blocks where the homes shared walls and clung to each other like within a beehive, those fragile little humble huts. The point where the town met desert came quickly, and I just stood and stared out at the sand, rolling and endless, looking so barren and empty before those hills—a wasteland even—but I knew better. I knew what lay beyond, somewhere, perhaps too far to see from here but I knew. So I smiled at everything I passed; at the shrine to the Virgin of Guadalupe—the little church atop the hill, and at the cab driver who happened my way a few moments later.

"Sí. Gracias." I responded when he asked if I needed a ride, and I hopped into the run-down station wagon, painted in swaths of mild yellow and off-white. "I need to go southwest, to the older part of town. You know, with the dirt roads—los calles viejos."

"No, no señor," he said, opening up a grin with his eyes set on me in the rearview mirror. "I take you to La Pinta, el hotel, el centro. They like tourists. They like you. Big pool, big breakfast. Music. Bailan todas las noches!"

"No, no thank you. No gracias. I told you. Just take me to the old town, where it's smaller. The southwest, por favor. There should be an inn there, right?"

"¿Qué?"

"An inn. A hotel. You know, a place to stay, a place to sleep."

"Oh, sí, but you no want that. Is dirty, old. No fun. Resort for you."

"Just take me will you? Or no dinero. Come on, please. I don't care about your resort."

"Okay, okay," he flapped his right hand back at me in disgust, without taking his eyes off the road. "You say it. I take you. You say it."

The older part of town was on the outskirts, chalk brown and with a dust that permeated the air and churned up in billowing gusts. Fewer cars, fewer tourists, fewer people like me. But the dunes seemed closer now—that much closer.

I stepped out in front of a sickly-looking building, shallow and flat, with brown roofing that matched the roads. The Costa Castaño: my inn for the night. Inside, a man stood with his back facing the entrance, lighting small white candles on a ledge behind the wooden front counter. As I entered, he turned.

"¡Hola!" he shouted. So enthusiastic.

I nodded in return. "Hola."

"You need a room?"

"Yes, please. And just one night, for now."

"It is only you?"

"Yes."

I had brought almost five hundred dollars in cash, because I really had no concrete idea of what I'd need while traveling, and needed to be well prepared. While paying for the room, I noticed the innkeeper eyeing me intently.

"So what are you doing in San Felipe my friend?"

I debated as to whether or not he was trustworthy enough. Did it matter? I figured it didn't, and let it come spilling out.

"Well, you see, señor..." I descended into a whisper and hovered ever-closer to his inquisitive face. "Have you heard of la mina olvidada? The forgotten mine?" I looked deep into his brown eyes. This was the secret to end all secrets—a release of fantastic proportion or something withheld for generations.

He backed away with a sigh. "Ah, you are a Nuñez-chaser. My friend, that is an old tale, and a false one. Do not believe such madness. Lives have been wasted chasing lost treasures that were never truly lost." He held his hand outstretched, dangling my key. "Enjoy your stay."

My room was simple—tiled floor, no television, a shared washroom outside; in truth it was not much more than a pillow and a bed. Once inside I emptied my backpack of the research I had accumulated and looked it over, making plans for the following day.

I had first heard of la mina olvidada through a small publication, Buried Treasure magazine, which I occasionally flipped through at the library back home. The story had intrigued me and so I sought more information, and in doing so stumbled across various old references in Mexican lore books, often lumped together with other similar stories of lost mines.

The story followed typical convention: a lowly miner had unearthed an immense silver mine in the nearby mountains of the Sierra San Pedro Martír, a mine that he claimed rivaled even that of the massive Comstock Lode in Nevada. But there was something about this story in particular that made it seem more authentic than the others. The way the mine had collapsed, the subsequent illness its founder, Manuel Nuñez, was stricken with after narrowly escaping death, how he had recovered bedridden in San Felipe while spreading his story to a select few. The rumors spread following his death, and many had attempted to find the lost treasure over the years. They followed the verbal map that Señor Nuñez had laid out, stretching through the San Felipe desert to the base of the mountain range, two days' travel at the time—but all had returned emptyhanded.

Tomorrow I would find a guide, I determined, and I would not return emptyhanded.

... ...

Early the following morning, I awoke to a quiet but firm knocking at my door. In a sleep-ridden daze I came to the door to find two men. One was grinning wide.

I cleared my throat. "Hello?"

"Hola señor. My name is Jorge"—the smiling one—"and this is my brother Pedro. We hear you are seeking the Nuñez mine. We are also interested in this treasure. We would like to work together."


The innkeeper—he with his stern words of warning regarding the desiring of treasure—must have led them to me. I had intended to find a tour guide, and the notion of having two guides seemed to fit just as well.

"Well," I paused a moment for effect. "It's true, what you've heard; I do seek la mina olvidada. But first why don't you tell me what you know about it. Please, come in." I knew I was taking a risk by letting two unfamiliar men into my room, but really they seemed harmless. Jorge had a gentle appearance and a soft voice, and his apparently mute brother Pedro just followed along behind. I beckoned them inside.

"Pedro speaks no English. Forgive him," Jorge said, and Pedro nodded in affirmation, as though he'd been through this routine before.

"That's fine, I know a little bit of Spanish."

Jorge pointed to the stack of research on the tile next to the bed. "It looks like you know the mine well. You see, we always wanted to search for it, but never had the money or information to find it." I handed him the stack and he and Pedro glanced through it. They must have been impressed, flipping through it all like that. "Do you know where you're going?" he asked me.

"I think this will lead me there." I held out a photocopy of my map, limp and worn now, with faded markings and what I'd assumed were landmarks. "And I'm going to get some sort of transportation and a tour guide to join me. It should be easy enough."

They passed a few words in Spanish too quickly for me to understand, which seems to be the nature of the language—so incomprehensible as it flies by at hundreds of miles an hour right under your nose. But he returned to me. "If you want our help, we are familiar with the area, and would like to search with you."

I was easily convinced, because they would make the perfect crew—and how they had just fallen into my lap! So I agreed, and we discussed what plans we could make.

"We need a vehicle," Jorge said. "I know a man named Rico with a small truck. And Pedro and I have enough equipment for each of us."

So we set about making a plan. And although I had reservations about bringing on this Rico, an additional member, Jorge was correct; we needed a vehicle. As we sat there and talked, my mind spun, agitated. I could taste all of it: the recovered mine, the notoriety, the riches.

... ...

So 10:00 AM. Jorge and Pedro had gone to find Rico and his truck, and our rendezvous point was set to the tourist office—a small white building with barred windows. I waited outside while the heat began slowly growing in intensity as it does in the summer months. My presence called the attention of no one—save the lone receptionist in the office whom I saw glance my way more than once through the bars—because with my American clothes and backpack and sandals, and with pale skin and a patched jigsaw of facial hair, I was the perfect candidate to be sitting right there where I was.

They arrived late by fifteen minutes. Up they drove to meet me in a rusted, ugly beast of a pickup, white with gray patches of raw metal, a worn Toyota logo on the tailgate.

"We have brought plenty of equipment, señor."

"Perfect Jorge. Perfect." There were four shovels and two pickaxes in the bed of the truck. Pedro talked with who was obviously Rico, short and thin, with a strip of a black mustache below his nose (but his most significant detail being a golden front tooth, revealed whenever his lips parted in pseudo-smile). I made out the word comida from their conversation. Food.

"Okay everyone!" I interrupted, trying to show some authority. "Let's go pick up our supplies. We have got to get going! I'll buy food for all of us that will last our two or three day trip."

"Bien, amigo." said Jorge. The other two just looked on, evidently not as interested in the details.

"I'm not quite sure what we'll need though," I said in a semi-whisper.
"We'll go to the marketplace. I'll show you."

We stormed the bustling mercado down the central street, the only street really, and set about gathering fruits and dried meat, tortillas and beans, some cornmeal, coffee, flour, and some wood for a fire, should we need it. I purchased four large leather canteens which we filled with water. We also filled two 15-gallon containers of gasoline at the station in town, and threw them in the back with the tools. They watched as I paid for everything, because this was my journey, and I was its master. I tried to hide my money, but inevitably one of them would spy me as I detangled some cash from the stack and paid a merchant.

And so it began. We left the rising dust of the town behind and chased the forgotten mine of Manuel Nuñez across the crawling sands of the San Felipe desert, on a road that seemed in all appearances to lead nowhere—and no less, into the very center of it.

... ...

Jorge and I sat together in the back, with Pedro and Rico up front. We just rested, tired already from the heat.

"Jorge?"

"Hmm?" He looked up at me, head bumping along with the ruts in the road.

"Are you really so trusting? Were you really interested in this mine, or were you just looking for something to do and I came along at the right time?"

"Well my friend, let me tell you this. I had always heard tales of this treasure, and Pedro and I used to pretend we would be the finders. Of course, young boys, that is all. And my family is very poor. We have the fishing boats in town for many years, and my father always planned for his sons to do the same. So those stories were just dreams for us. But we liked those dreams.

"When I was younger, I took jobs working for a company. We worked construction and traveled to different cities. I became friends with the owner. During the summers he helped to educate me and taught me other things. Because of him, I now I wish to move north, to be a businessman that man who has helped me so much."

"Well that's great," I said.

"But it is not. My family does not like my ideas. They think my good fortune is not earned. They curse me. So I do not see them much—only Pedro. He is a good brother and a friend.

"So you see, there is reason why I hope we find this mine; it can help us all."

We'd driven for nearly three hours when a grinding, saw-like sound shook the truck, and Jorge and I were thrown into the air. Rico stopped and came out swearing at no one in particular. He ducked under the hood and retrieved a bottle of fluid which he poured into some tank hidden in the bowels of the vehicle.

"Transmission," Jorge explained. "Has only a leak." A leak?—that was more than likely—but the jolt alone felt like something far worse, though I was no mechanic. "But don't worry he says, there is plenty of fluid left to keep it running properly."

"Okay." I nodded my head, still unsure but not overly so. Things seemed to be going so well. Jorge has assured me that he and Rico had both told their families that they were going out for a desert run, and they'd know immediately where to look for us if there were any problems.

"See those birds?" Jorge pointed toward a small grove of cardon cactus. Each cactus was vertical, with massive stalks growing out together, and the vultures sat perched, watching. "We call them las bocas de la sangre—the blood mouths. They will eat anything, if it is almost dead!" He laughed and stood partially hunched, a scarecrow, trying to frighten them away. There were three, and they opened their beaks and wings and took to the sky with a screech. I had one of those feelings that welled up inside of me, but I quelled it and pushed it back down for fear of it overtaking my attitude.

Nightfall came quicker than expected—we probably drove for six hours or so—and we set up camp in a rocky outcropping.

"The base of the Sierra San Pedro Martír should come soon tomorrow morning," I said. "We have a lot of digging to do, so let's get as much sleep as we can."

"Espero que venga pronto," said Rico.

"¿Qué?" I asked. He hadn't spoken very loudly.

"Soon," he said, smiling the golden tooth-smile and raising a mug of the coffee he and Pedro had been brewing in my direction. "Soon."

I hadn't spoken at all with Rico. He supposedly knew little to no English and so Jorge would do all the communicating. But the guy had me somewhat disconcerted, and I couldn't really explain why.

Jorge and I heated some beans and tortillas and made a small meal. Rico and Pedro sat smoking in the distance; I could see the rise of their cigarette puffs making trails to the dying sky, while their cackles of laughter echoed across the emptiness. I was so pleased. ¡Qué suerte! We unrolled the tarps and blankets we'd brought and laid out four beds.

... ...

I awoke to the blunt sound of foot against metal and saw Rico kicking the passenger door of his truck. Jorge was under the hood this time.

"What's going on? What's the matter?" I asked hurrying over to the truck.

"Rico tried to start it this morning, but it would not start," Jorge said. Rico was then inside the cab, turning the key to reveal a tired, subtle cranking, as if the truck's iron lungs had given way and were taking their final drunken gasps of air burbling with gasoline.

"Oh, no." I said. Indeed.

There was no denying it, the truck was dead, and most likely not due to the transmission. I began second-guessing the lack of apprehension that had led me here, and the words of my brother resonated in my head: ...you're going alone..., ...it'll be much safer...

"¡Carro estúpido! ¿Porqué estamos aquí?" Pedro had broken from character and was shouting at his brother. They spoke rapidly with heightened voices, ignoring me.

"Hey hey hey!" I joined in, hoping to calm things down. "This isn't helping"—still ignored—"just stop!" I tried to push the two apart. Pedro looked as if he hated me; Jorge looked apologetic.

"What else can we do here, besides fight?"

We all paused, silent for a moment, and then Jorge spoke. "I think two of us should go back to town, and two of us should stay here. That way, we are not alone, and the two who stay can go on to the mine site. From the map, it can't be very far."

"I don't know..." I started thinking. Walking one hundred miles back to town in the desert heat with few supplies was insanity. But so was staying.

It only seemed right that I see this through to the end, because this was mine. Not theirs. So I volunteered to stay.

"I stay too." Rico piped up where he stood, still alongside the truck. That was unexpected. I'd hoped Jorge would volunteer to stay, or even Pedro, but not Rico! He went on to admit (to Jorge) that he had not told his family or acquaintances where he was, and that he thought it best if Pedro and Jorge headed back together; they would be the first ones missed and may even run into a search party. They could then return in a different vehicle to collect us and continue on to the mine sit, that we'd have hopefully located by then.

Jorge looked at me. "Is this okay?"

"Sure. Fine. We'll find it. Just don't forget to come back for us okay?"

Rico and I kept two-thirds of the remaining food and water would stay, while one-third was taken by Pedro and Jorge. They needed to keep as light as possible.

Around 11:00 AM our two groups departed in opposite directions.

I kept looking back until Jorge and Pedro were just flecks of dust on the horizon. Then I attempted to communicate with Rico. "Hey, ¿Qué podemos hacer?" What are we able to do?

He pointed ahead at the blurred outlines of the hills. "Follow," he said. He gestured towards my pack and made motions as if he were reading a newspaper.

"Oh, the map—here," I handed it to him.

Holding it up against the sun, he traced a slight outline on its upper right, then traced the same outline in the air as it corresponded with the peaks of the barely-visible mountains to our right.

I clapped him on the back. "That's it! We're there! We're going to be rich! Let's go let's go let's go."

He sneered his golden sneer, still holding my map and hardly even looking at me. I gave a little shiver but kept walking. Things still didn't seem quite right with him—but he'd just discovered the first landmark, and it seemed that even with our problems, our luck hadn't run out yet.

In silence we headed northwest three hours towards the closest looming foothill. The ground started exchanging fine sand in favor of chunkier gravel; shrubbery become more abundant and the smell of the air was tinged with a freshness foreign to the open desert. At the base of the foothill were two giant rocky outcroppings that led upward like a cliff, and without warning Rico pocketed the map and leapt at one, scaling it. I figured I better follow him. Who was I to argue with the local?

So I too leapt at the rock wall, found handholds, and began climbing—I was ready to do anything, to perform mid-desert stunts of arrogance, to ascend mountains and forge rivers, to endure the heat and survive regardless of circumstance.

Above me, maybe forty feet up, Rico had already retrieved the map again and was comparing it to our new view of the hill. He wore that sick smile like a badge. I panted and pulled myself up, crouching for a moment to regain breath.

"Come see. I think I like what I have found," he said with all-too-perfect English that I'd temporarily forgotten shouldn't have existed.

"Really?! Let's see!" I stood.

He pulled the map to his side. "You want?"

Yes. I nodded. Of course I did.

"I let you see—but first—where is all the money you are keeping?"

"My money..." My voice trailed off as I instinctively covered the bulge in my right front pocket where I kept it all.

And his motives became clear—here, without anyone else's company, without gentle Jorge to protect me from the fake language barrier that this criminal used for a crutch. Here, in the rising hills of the Sierra San Pedro Martír, where the buzzards and the sun kept watch, and brothers and boats and rancheros and inns and even mines were forgotten. Here I would reap what I had sown.

He threw the map and lunged for me. "No!" I shouted and danced to the side to avoid him, but he was smaller and more agile than me and caught me by the wrist. Our little rocky clearing was miniscule, and it took all my strength to prevent him from throwing me off.

"Let... go...!" I wriggled from his grip before he was able to get his second hand on me, and I kicked at his shins. I had never been in a fight before, and Rico appeared far more experienced.

He slapped me hard, and my eyes stung and immediately watered, blinding me. "Hey! Leave me alone!" I shouted. "What are you doing? They're going to be back soon!"

I threw my hands out as fists, and actually made contact, a weak little punch at one of his cheeks.

I was pushed. "You are not scared, amigo?"

My vision returned, and I turned around to try to find my way back down the cliffside, away from the madman. But a sharp pain from of a chunk of rock that was thrown at my back stopped my attempt short, and with a groan I stumbled off the slanting edge to fall seven feet or so to another outcropping below.

... ...

One of my eyes managed to open—the other must have been injured from the fall when my face scraped jagged rock—and I saw Rico smiling over me. That golden tooth. One of my legs had caught unnaturally and was skewed, surely broken.

"Don't... Please..." I said, moaning, as Rico pilfered my pockets and unstrapped my backpack.

"Thank you my friend. Thank you well." Holding my things, he looked down at me. A hard kick from one of his boots caught me in the midsection, and I clutched my stomach with what strength I could manage. And then he hooked his hands under my upward-facing arm and leg and rolled me, rolled me right off of where I had landed, and I was free, free to sail downward and fall another twenty or thirty or forty feet into the bed of desert sand below.

... ...

It wasn't until late afternoon that my eye opened again and looked east into the barren world beyond. I had fallen far, and was tucked up against the hill, everything still coated in that inescapable sand. I couldn't feel my arms. My broken leg throbbed angrily. My breaths were partially obstructed by the ground and I could feel the forced heaving of my chest and lungs—forcing up, forcing down, creaking, splintering. I couldn't tell how long I had been there. The same day, maybe two, maybe three days later. And as I looked up into the sky I did see something:

I saw a trail of death blowing in the wind, an unmistakable breath, breathing the cyclic nature of life into the inevitabilities of fortune and greed and love and anger alike as it grew larger and larger. It was a circle of birds—those birds, those simple creatures of instinct and survival and misfortune, of pain and happiness and yet still, somehow, nature and beauty—and it took to the air gracefully and effortlessly. They were filled with hope, desire, and they scoured the desert floor for something lost, something gone and forgotten, something perishing—something for which they longed desperately—as they, the blackest of all halos, adorned what was left of my view of the sky. I exhaled. The vultures circled.