The Trapper

4/04

I'm on the homeward stretch of a shell buying adventure, Chayo, his brother Manual and I. We've reached the Agua Verde road and I'm arranging for a ride from Jusavio's restaurante down to San Cosmo, us not wishing to have to go down this road with truckload of shells. Easily a deal is struck for taxi service, those there at that restaurant and us being on fairly good terms. This is the Jusavio, by the way, that will replace Gutierrez, the ejido chief, when and if he gets booted out of that position. He's Alejo's brother, the architect of the Rancho Carrizalito road, who has forgotten correct location of same rancho.

Crazy, I know, but that's the way things are here....

Jusavio is quite generous in offering his sleeping son Jorge to my almost immediate service. By the time I bid Chayo and Manual farewell Jorge's stretching and yawning himself back to cruel reality, him accepting of his commission. With a rumble and a belch of exhaust his mufflerless and vintage Ford Bronco comes to life, my bag is tussled in by his eight year old son Jorge Jr., and down the Agua Verde road us three rumble.

Jorge and I go quite a few years back. I told the son that I'd known his old man at least since he was as young as his claimed eight. Easily Jorge and I conversed about the old days, us both throwing in our remembrances of Jusavio's record 30+ metric ton catch of huge red pargo within his ponga's one corral net. This vehicle's shocks seemed almost non existent as we poked our way down this hurredence path. There yet was one good working headlight and of course he had no spare, it having been recently lent out to some needy relation. "If that light went, the moon was up and full," we both joked.

Politics, the subject switched to this, bad politics being a big part of that roads miserable condition. Jorge put the blame on the Presidante de Municipal, "Very bad Presidante," he proclaimed. I didn't let it lay there. I told him that I was sure that the governor, who's PRD, was cutting to but a trickle funds that the Municipal of Loreto, which voted PAN, desperately needed. "Politics!" we both agreed.

Jorge tends a small goat herd right now, as opposed to living in Agua Verde and fishing. Every year there were less and less fish and he simply couldn't stay in that shrinking pueblo longer. When we thunder into Alejo's space it was after 11:00 p.m.

Alejo meets us promptly. Naturally he wants to know what's up, which don't take long to get across, both Jorge and me adding the essentials. Alejos's sick. Gripa. Say's he's on the upswing, though. "You're going to walk home?" he questions.

"Si!"

"You're not afraid?"

"Of what?" I laugh back. I had a flashlight, there was that near-full moon.

He wanted to know if I was going the over-land route or the tidal one. The water was up, he speculated. I change from sandals I was wearing to ones good for the trail. I chose the wet way, knowing that the water would feel good. The seas lay becalmed. At worst I'd get my knees wet. I let Alejo take charge of my travel bag, paid Jorge generously for services rendered, and headed off for home, which I made just a midnight.

Marcia, the dogs, were happy to see me, even at that quite unexpected hour. As I'm getting ready for bed she says, "Good. Now you can go over and take the pictures in the morning."

"Pictures?!"

"Yeah. Three carros. They entered in the early morning, the day we went to town. They're the ones who knocked down the gate."

"Shit."

And wrestle with this in my sleep I did, too. Crazy fight dreams. Stuff shot through that level of awareness that was absolutely insane.

That gate had been knocked down sometime after 9 P.M. the past Sunday evening. We had misjudged the tide, us having been up visiting at Rancho Ultima Agua and staying too late. We'd had to leave truck at San Cosme, parked in front of the restaurante. Nine P.M. was when we'd crossed over stretched-tight chain. And then, because next day was a scheduled town day, something we try to push off early on, I had to get up at like 4:30 A.M. and walk back to San Cosme to get vehicle, cross into rancho and get back to waiting Marcia just as fast as was possible.

The moon was well up yet when I took off, me rejecting Marcia's suggestion towards a flashlight. The night had been cool and with a wind, so there was almost no fear in regards to rattlesnakes. I took the dogs to blaze trail in front of me. We went the hot-pool-pass route, as opposed to the longer rancho road. In good time we make our objective and soon our loud diesel fired to life, most likely waking all those yet sleeping there at San Cosme.

I checked time on truck's clock right when I shifted to four-wheel drive there starting over low-tide pass: 5:45, "Good time," I comment to self. We'd keep things right on schedule.

I roll along rancho road just fine and I'm approaching our gate with chain, me planning out how I'm going to keep both dogs in the truck when I stop to work the combination lock...but to my surprise the chain is on the ground, along with the fence post that had previously been smashed to the ground by Saul Trojillo and his brother, right after we first arrived. "That asshole," I mussed to myself, me determined not to let this upset me, our departure. Got home here in good order then and the two of us working together had us backing out drive about two minutes early of our self-imposed deadline. Only after shutting our yard gate and jumping in pickup did I tell the driver that we'd have to fix the gate.

"Saul?" Marcia questioned.

"Yeah. Sure. Saul. That asshole. Who else?" I shrugged back.

It didn't take long for me to right the bent down metal post, wire it back into place. Don't think it effected our timing more than five full minutes. This town trip was also the push off for that shell-buying trip I'd just come back from, Marcia coming back to rancho without me. The chain was up and tight when I'd walked in from San Cosme. I hadn't thought about its downing until I cross over it, when I'd again walked in. And now Marcia's tellin' me that I've got to deal with three carros of Mexicans who'd crossed onto rancho over that chain. And, too, there went my cherished certainty as to who'd trashed that gate.

So early next A.M. and after that restless sleep, right after my two cups of A.M. coffee and my morning hole digging, I'm ready to spring into action, execute my dreamt-up plan.

Weeks before this I had it in mind to fabricate a number of tire-killing devices fashioned from thick steel plates with welded-into-place steel reinforcing rod, maybe five inches long, space about four inches apart, eight er ten to the plate and sharpened to a point. When I verbalized my designs to the lady Marcia, she'd flatly put her foot down. I was actually surprised by the degree of her opposition, which was in itself enough to back me away from that great idea.

Let them smash their way into the rancho again, was my thinking. Then lets see if they can get their way out.

Last year, during week-of-Easter, which we'd left just ahead of, some who bought those phony parcels did smash their way over the gate, and then clung to their campsites irrespective of Chayo's determined efforts to expel them.

Chayo did take photos of their carros and plate numbers, along with those in a three-carro crowd. He called the law, too, and eventually the State Judicial Police had showin' up, the leader of this trespassing contingent giving them a false name and false information, this when they were already packed for leaving at the end of this week of festivities.

After conversing with me by phone in the woods and at martini time, after getting the go ahead from Ernesto, Chayo went to our Loreto lawyer, Sr. Yee, and filed a "demanda" against the drivers of those vehicles.

Well, they did have to stand in front of a judge in Loreto, and in heads- hung-down fashion they got told that if they pulled such a foolish stunt again, "Bam!" right to the slammer. Chayo delighted in telling me this part. He especially relished seeing the smart-ass spunk come out this character referred to by all around here as El Chaparito, or the short one. He'd been a pain for years already, me writing him up in..."Parcels," I think.

Neither Ernesto er Chayo ner me figured this crowd as brave or stupid enough to trespass on rancho again. But from Marcia's depiction of this new three-carro crowd, a short guy she'd seen from a distance, loud music and sounds of partying late into the night, this certainly seemed the situation. Marcia said she was wrong not to have let me build my tire traps. She told me that she had been contemplating doing something with boards and nails.

My first chore of the morning was to hunt up the right board and my longest nails. I chose a length of butternut which came from our woods. Trial and error quickly had me drilling holes in it so my nails wouldn't split this now super-dried wood. Ten rectangles about eight by ten inches with ten to 12 nails protruding to about three inches, I figured that was enough. Marcia had already headed off to San Cosme with the dogs to tell those there that we'd need the Delagada from Agua Verde and some form of law enforcement backup. She'd balked at first about my planned usage of her pickup but I over rode her hesitations. My ten tire traps and a shovel and an old cardboard box flipped into bed of same and I was off. And, I had the camera, too.

With that pickup's wheels I searched for the right kind of bumps in road between disrespected gate and these interlopers there on that beach. With my shovel I dug out shallow depressions, placed my devices carefully, covered them with chunk of cardboard and then scattered the diggings atop that so all was totally hidden. Roberto, who stays on that same beach long- term all winter, came walking down road as I'm in process of this, him walking right by some of my handy work without even noticing it.

He expressed worries and what-ifs in profusion but I just answered that I was tired of those ass-holes and if I just got one of those three vehicles with more than one flat, I'd consider the venture a huge success, a Mexican vehicle with more than one spare being almost impossible to imagine. "I hope you know what yer doing," Roberto walked away with. "I used to be a pretty good trapper," I hollered. And I had been, too. Fed my family and paid the rent with my skills through several winters back over 30 years ago.

My next move was to station Marcia's extended pickup in a spot where the front end was nearly up against bed-rock wall, the back end almost touching roots and trunk of large mesquite tree. There! The road was effectively closed. The windows were rolled up, the doors were locked. Now, if they wanted to add property damage to the list of charges we'd put against 'em, well, that would be the way we'd play it. The rancho might be easily entered, but let's see them get out of this. With camera in hand off I walk to finish job.

From Roberto's camp, which he's back at, I can see the unauthorized campsite. I ask him to pay attention, and if I holler, to at least make himself visible, just the fact that there are witnesses bein' in my favor. That camp seemed to be still sleeping as I closed upon it...but as I neared I did see human form that looked to be just getting started. A small hill, which I climbed, hid my advance quite well. From up and above things there I started working my camera.

Right down below me was a large shade canopy, a woman cooking french fries in a frying pan. Snap! She jumped in surprise as I said, "Buenos Dias," me moving on and taking two more shots before I went down below to get close-up of plates.

"What are you doing?" asked a bewildered young fella as I zeroed in on this task. "Alaska?!" I questioned aloud at my surprise at seeing the first one. Oh well, with this camps occupants watching, there were maybe six of 'em awake, most of these young, I continue to shoot the other two carros that were in fact Mexican.

"What are you doing?" in Spanish, asks a fella that's maybe in his late 40's, early 50's.

"I'm doing what my partners in this rancho have instructed me to do when people come in here and trespass." I boldly explain. I went on ta tell him that with pictures of plates and people we then inniate charges against 'em. I say to this seeming astonished gent that they were in a trap, no way out, and that the law had been sent for.

There was no question that this fella was having difficulty with the "why" in all of this. I'm looking around at all the other's whom, includin' this one I'm talking to, I realize I'd never seen before. That gate, that chain they rolled over getting' in there. I explained briefly as possible how tired I was of false parcel owners entering like they had. These false ejido people, I was sick of 'em.

But. But. This man stammers that the chain was down when they'd come rollin' in, way early on that morning.

I wasn't buyin' this jazz. No! "Well didn't you see a big white sign that said you have to ask permission. Guilty! Guilty as hell, that's how I'm treating him.

His explanation goes on that they are neither parcel holders or ejido members, that they know nothing what-so-ever about fights that went on in the area, and in fact that they knew nothing about this area at all, them just out exploring and stumbling around till they'd landed right there. And the guy is lookin' nothin' but sincerely honest in explaining their presence, so much so that I was helpless but to believe him. Too, the atmosphere of this camp was not as it had been when I paid the same type visit to the Chaparito's cluster of family and friends, two years back. No. These were decidedly different people.

"You say the chain was already down when you entered?" I re-questioned.

"Si!" It was down and there had been another carro that they'd seen in their wondering around, before them landing right there.

"Well, what about that sign?" I persisted.

He admitted to them not really paying that much attention to it, just following the open road in front of them.

"Ya know," I says, "I find it hard not to believe you. Both of us visibly relaxed at this point, me fully relieved that this was not the situation I thought it was.

"O.K.," I says. "I'm sorry I came barging in here like this. I'll open the trap. Don't worry about leaving. Enjoy this lovely spot, stay as long as you like. But, please, respect the place, leave it as clean as when you got here."

This he assured me they'd do and drew my attention to the neatness of their camp there right then. Essentially this was all one family; mother and father, some grown and married kids with grand kids. They were from LaPaz. When I mentioned my partner's names this gentleman claimed to know both Ernesto and Gabriel. The Alaskan plate got explained away by the presence of a young American girl who was living with them while finishing high school in LaPaz. Her whole life her parents traveled from Alaska to S. Baja; sailboat people.

Walking back on rancho road I pulled all my tire traps. Ten. Got 'em all. Flipped 'em in the back of the truck then, moving that as complete roadblock. Could hardly wait to get back and tell Marcia the story.

Later, a false alarm message was sent back to San Cosme. Luckily no law had started to move in our direction yet.

Email: david@dondavidonbaja.com