The rutted dirt track pounded and twisted every internal organ in our bodies as we picked our way ahead. We traveled at only slightly more than a shuffle as the suburban creaked, groaned and scraped it’s way through this vast and desolate landscape. The word wilderness always seems to conjure up magnificent mountain valleys and deep heavy forest. It is seldom used for rocky burnt desert of Northern Mexico. Strangely I think because this is one of the most remote and unforgiving places left in North America.
San Antoino de los Alamos was a place of legend in archeological circles. At least those circles that studied indigenous cultures in this part of the world. Only a name on the most detailed topographical maps provided by the government map agency in Aguacalientes. There was no ejido, no village there. Just a spring and one man, Raul Villarreal. And what we had spent three days on these rutted tracks to get a glimpse of....centuries of rock art. “Pinturas de los indios”. The only sticking point in this plan was that Raul didn’t allow visitors and he made that very clear with an old model 94 rifle. He had turned away universities, governments, and travelers. Raul did not like strangers. We envisioned that today would be our day to be turned away. Hopefully, without any new holes in our expedition.
The rock outcrop was visible from miles away. At our pace of travel that meant several hours. The dirt track seemed to get much worse as we neared the oasis. We were constantly stoping to move rocks, pieces of wood, or to bypass deep gullies in the road. After several hours we managed to arrive at a rickety wire gate with a croaked handwritten sign on the back of a cut up oil can that said, “prohibida la entrada”. This was a crossroads for sure. Grampa told me one important lesson that all good Texans should always remember, “Don’t go through a gate that doesn’t want you”. From the gate we could see the bright green of trees rising up from the brown stark surroundings. No structures were visible and certainly no people. We would never get permission from here so a decision had to be made.
In those days Northern Mexico was one of the harshest physical environments on earth. It has always amazed me that those environments bred a very different type of people. There is a kindness and compassion grown from living hard that defies our modern sensibilities. In our journeys there we have shared a last can of beans, eaten the family goat, slept on old blankets that were the goat herders only source of warmth while he stood by the fire in the dark. The prospect of getting shot by a local in the desert was new to me. We would press on.
The greenery was even more absurd as we neared what appeared to be a narrow slot canyon. A stream was visible from a distance and trees lined the banks as it flowed from the tight rock outcrop. A small Immaculate house stood on a low rise looking out over the panorama of desert shaded by the grove of birch and cottonwood.
We waited for more than an hour at the outer gate without any sign of life in the enclosure. The silence of the desert made us certain that we had been heard as we picked our way up the road. We had gone as far as we dared and we would wait and hope for some contact or we would turn and leave. We were making our plans to leave when we saw movement coming from behind the house. A tall man in a hat was heading our way and he had a rifle.
His long sleeve shirt was tattered but clean except for the grease. The piping of the horses on the chest had long since gone. It was tucked in neatly and locked by a very ornate mexican belt and buckle. His hat was sweat soaked and rumpled but perfectly seated on his head. There was no doubt where the rattlesnake came from that made up the band. He was slim and dignified as much as any man I had seen in my life with a face that was tanned and leathery with bright green eyes. He was at least 70 years old. And he was covered in grease.
He stopped about 20 paces from the gate and began to tell us in a loud firm voice that this was private property and we needed to leave. He was not threatening but firm. The rifle was loose in his hand like someone who carried it every day of his life everywhere he went. The tension relaxed a bit as we tried to speak with him in broken spanish. “Was this San Antonio de los Alamos? “, we asked. After a few attempts he admitted it was. After a few seconds of awkward silence my friend asked him about the grease. Terry was a mechanic and recognized the by product of mechanical crisis. “My truck is broken” Raul said in a very weary voice. He looked like a man ready to give up. Terry offered to take a look and see if he could help. Raul thought for a minute then turned and started walking back to the house, rifle in hand. After about 10 yards he stopped and paused for a second, then turned around. A man without transportation in this place would not survive. That is when I shook the hand of Raul Villarreal.
San Antonio de los Alamos was one of if not the most beautiful places I have ever seen. I’m sure the flowers had more color in other places, there were bigger trees, and clearer water elsewhere but for the sheer power of contrast it had no equal. An island of green in a vast and constant ocean of brown. His house was small but perfectly cared for. In the front yard was a grave. A mound of dirt protected by small rocks all of the same size and shape. A cross was at the head. It was not nailed or screwed together. It was hand notched with an intricate inlay that made the cross piece flush with the main part. It had no name. The grave was circled in flowers that did not belong in this desert. They were freshly watered. I came to find out later it was Mrs.Villarreal’s grave.
Raul showed us the truck and he was right. It was broken. The back springs had broken apart and caused the rear to rest completely on the chassis. No doubt from many trips down the twisted rutted track. Terry had a plan. Several hours later through a series of spare parts and a blow torch Terry fashioned a fix. Raul stood back and said nothing only running for parts and pieces of things to continue the experiment. Midway through Raul saw what Terry was trying to do and their dance began. Terry would stop cutting and look around for some unidentified something and Raul would hand it to him. No words were spoken.
The truck was fixed. Mr. Villarreal disappeared into the house as we looked at each other and remembered we had not asked about the rock art. It was only then that we looked up at the walls of the slot canyon and could see the red ochre geometric shapes on the distant walls. The excitement was building for us and Mr. Villarreal returned with some water.
Finally, I managed the courage to ask about the rock art. In a tired voice he asked me if I worked for the government. I said no. Then he asked if we were school teachers. Again I said no. “We were just some normal people who loved pinturas de los indios”, I told him. He thought for a minute and looked back at his truck then motioned to the edge of the yard. There was a gate. “Vamos a verlo”, he said. Go take a look.
It’s an old cliche to say, “words can never describe” something but it was true. Imagine thousands of years of pictures and script laid down on top of each other. All telling a story about life, death and struggle in this desolate place. Imagine the life returned to you by the clean spring water and the shade of these trees after weeks of walking or riding to places unknown. There was prehistoric geometric shapes that were painted high on the cliff sides. There were more modern shapes of deer and antelope being hunted. My favorites were the mothers being depicted giving birth and the indians waring on what where most certainly friars on horseback. In a small cave there was spanish script and hand prints along with the outlines of old spanish rifles. Who knows why they put them there but here they were. No one in our group had ever seen or heard of anything like this. It was one of a kind. A few photos and our time was up. We could see Raul’s discomfort as he waited for us at the fence. Our praise of his place and the art went without comment. It was time for us to leave.
He followed us back to the inner gate and closed and locked it behind us. We shook hands and before we drove off Terry asked him how long he had lived at San Antonio. He said ever since he could remember but he would be the last. He told us that the rock art was going to cause him to lose everything. His home, the resting places of his family, and his life will soon be gone. It was just a matter of time. The Mexican government had already told him this place will be a national park very soon. It didn’t matter to them that this was his land and his home. The rock art was too valuable. Now for us it all made sense.
Five months later we heard through an Archeologist in Mexico that Raul Villarreal had taken kerosene and covered the walls of the slot canyon in San Antonio de los Alamos then lit them on fire.
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