Another Travel Log - of sorts

"You're going to try and pull that off, here and now in Mexico?" perhaps not an exact quote, but, pretty close, that's what our Mexican business advisor Roberto came out with when first exposed to my hair-brained plan. His tone was decidedly that of incredulity.

And, yeah...from my perspective, this didn't look that crazy, impossible. From scattered locations all that had to be pulled together in its move towards the frontier was six metric tons, plus, of various type shell, round it all up for an all-in-one-shot crossing; this all to neatly dovetail with our loosely planned trip back to States. From where I stood there on the street in Loreto, knowing what I thought I knew, well...I didn't feel too far over my head.

So separating ourselves from our lovely camp there on Carrizalito, with this type adventure stretching out in front of us, wasn't all that difficult. Us, the three dogs and two cats, we all load in Marcia's big pickup, it quite packed, and make our way over to San Cosme. Saw our first rattlesnake right there in our yard just half hour before we pull out. A big one that I easily chased back into the bushes. It could have the run of the place soon as we were gone. The third dog is a street puppy we'd found in Loreto.

Once at San Cosme we do the "good-bye and see ya later" routine that us and Alejo's family there have become so accustom to. This is no big deal, we've all been through it so many times by now. Part of the family was on hand, part of 'em weren't. So many scattered missions there. While I hook pickup to old and road-weary travel trailer we've got plenty of time to chat, take last minute orders for next-season delivery, give some last instructions to those we're more involved with. We're in no hurry. Our first...or I guess our second move was just to make it 15ks up the road to Rancho Ultima Agua, Raul Quijano's casa, later...that afternoon. Last "Goodbyes" said we move out and up the way headed out from there. It was hot. Coyote Bob said it was first day that year when mercury hit 100 degrees.

I'm mildly worried about that old trailer visible behind me in outside rearview mirrors. Three and a half round trips, to that point. It was showing the abuse we'd subjected it to. It's frame was cracked and bent. It was coming apart at its seams, literally. I'd patched it some. Had intentions of patching it more…up the road and if opportunity presented itself. So it was a "slow and take it easy" ride up to Ultima Agua.

Raul and Juana, their two children and son-in-law, they all knew we were coming. Unfinished business, and pleasure. Raul, with the aid of his son and son-in-law, is the prime contractor on the straw bale casa we'd been building on our rancho for Chayo and Maria, son-in-law and daughter of Alejo's. He also collects herbs we need, mainly poleo and wild oregano. Too, using ancient methods he tans skins for us: brain-tanned. An almost lost art.

We park off their long rancho drive, maybe a two or three minute walk from their casa, the sounds of our stuff moving up that Agua Verde road, well in advance, forecasting our arrival. Juana has prepared a meal especially for us. They want to show off their new casa, built right next to their old one. It's way, way better than outback standard. They have every reason to be proud of it. Raul is a real artist with his tools. We have a good three hour visit before we walk back to our camp in the gathering "up in those cooler mountains" dusk.

Early next A.M., after me satisfying my curiosities as to trailer's road worthiness, we're off in attempt to try and make Loreto. After what little remained of that rough road was conquered, both Marcia and I gave sigh of relief. Not that the Baja road wouldn't pound away at our equipment, but nothing near the equal to that Agua Verde one.

We have multiple last-minute things to yet accomplish while passing this city of Loreto. We're playing things loose, somewhat laid back. We are yet not in any particular hurry. A visit with advisor Roberto is essential. How oh how did our lives there on Baja ever get so complicated!? Lawyers, accountants, shell business partners, Roberto all wrapped up in the middle of things. We stop at our shell biz partner Efren's casa. His boys help shepherd four large boxes of shells into secure positioning in our trailer. "Seashella Kuki," you talk about taking long shots!

We clear town by mid afternoon with, as far as we could tell, not a stone left unturned. We don't push our stuff up the road with haste nor reckless abandon. We know we'll encounter military so we're ready and relaxed when pulled over at road blocks. Before it's too dark we're safely pulled in desert for cool, star-bright night. Lots of surface water. There was a well with electrical lines that led to huge and humming electrical motor. Leakage in the water pipes is what accounted for the surface water. Flock after flock of white wing and morning doves swarmed in for evening drinks. We were just west of those extinct volcanoes north of Santa Rosilia. Bone dry country.

In the morning I talked to old guy who serviced pump. Ejido well. Small scale agriculture. Hadn't had a significant rain there for over 15 years. At El Vizcaino we pulled into Jr's welding shop. That crack in trailers frame. Too, we knew we could get a good breakfast right next door, while we waited. We'd used Jr's services before.

Our objective was to hit Guerrero Negro sometime close to noon. I felt I needed to make firm contact with this character by name of don Mario. Shells. Lion paws. Don Mario is the only person in that coastal area who can legally deal in such things. You might say that he sorta has a lock on the movement of shells and the scollops harvested from them. Mexico. One guy with a permit. Lots of others running less than legit.

I wanted to make sure that don Mario wasn't upset in any way with me, my activities. I'd sent Chayo to his city to buy two tons of Lions' paws. Instead of working with don Mario, he'd gone and gathered two tons himself. Him and Maria and young daughter with another couple's help. Don Mario, apparently not the least upset with Chayo's interlopership, even assisted Chayo in his efforts, and again lent assistance when that two tons got loaded on trailer truck headed north; it already carrying 900 kilos of abalone we'd had stored for years in Cd. Constitucion, along with 600 kilos of cut purple oyster that I'd stock piled there at San Cosme. This all being part of that round up headed north.

Nice guy, this don Mario. I was amazed he wasn't upset with Chayo's transgressions. He could have really thrown a wrench into the works at that critical point, but, he hadn't. I thanked him for his service. Promised to reward him, something he wasn't looking for. Bought two kilos of huge scollops from him: $1,300 pesos per kilo. The beach price! Only two places in the world with quantities of Lion paws: there and some place off the coast of Spain. At least that's what don Mario said.

We experience nothing but good luck as we cruise north then. Pretty good road, not much traffic, hardly any road blocks. By pull-off time we're well within the valley of San Quentin, us headed for spot we've held over for the night before at. Bare, flat ground between considerable habitation and the roar of Pacific breakers, less than a half mile distant. Salt laden soil not fit for agriculture. The dogs are nervous with the sounds of compacted humanity, especially the puppy, whose name is Puppy. A chorus of dogs, off in the distance, weren't ready to call it a full day yet.

Roosters, the gobbles of turkeys, the lowing of cattle and the braying of asses, those were morning sounds that easily made our camp before sun's rise, us doin' stretches while yet sippin' second cups of coffee. I'd insisted on warm up routine. I'm still laid up due to that damn sciatic nerve problem. Setting is my absolute worst positioning. Marcia'd insisted on my driving while we're yet there in Mexico. Exercises help, but what a pain in the ass.

Next on the list of objectives I was determined to click off was a visit to a Sr. Bayon, in city of Ensenada. He'd become "center focus" in this attempt to move gathered-together shells...to other side. Chayo, by my friend Isias, had been introduced to this player while Chayo'd been cutting shells for us in La Gloria, a suburban sprawl just south of Tijuana.

These shells had been stored there at one of Isias' Baja — long string of scrap-metal gathering facilities. Isias had sent word to us, through Chayo, shortly after our Baja arrival, that I needed to make some kind of move with these shells, roughly nine metric tons. That's what set ball in motion. We'd sent Chayo and a cousin to cut them, reduce the bulk. A month long ordeal for two country boys from the sticks. It was while there that Sr. Bayon told Chayo that he could move the resulting pieces cross border, something I'd had difficulty accomplishing. Ha!

He'd assured Chayo that he could move any quantity of any type of shell. Connections. A major player in the shell game mafia. We'd made a deal: $300. U.S. per ton paid on U.S. side. We'd been assured it'd be a snap. Now all that we'd shepherded north was gathered there in La Gloria at Isias' place. We'd see....

Chayo'd given me phone number and rough map of how to get to this shell mover's establishment there in Ensenada. As we closed I eventually made phone contact, something I was sweating just a little. If I couldn't talk face to face with this guy, I feared our load was going nowhere. Too many details yet stood in the way.

We don't find him right off but he tells us to set still and he'll come find us. In minutes he accomplishes that, leads way back to business enterprises about a block and a half on same street and in back of us. Salty old fart. Maybe seven er eight years older than me. Good hand shake. A pirate's glint in intelligent eyes. A crooked, easy smile. I liked the guy right off.

Its a large, high-fenced in area right in the guts of the city. There's a collection of mostly storage-like buildings with just sacks and sacks of various type shells all mounded up with walk ways loosely separating one kind from another. There's a small work crew making ready a cargo container of abalone bound for Italy. "All over the world!" that 's where this gent claims he ships things. Not much time was needed for me to get comfortable with fact that he could indeed move our shells.

His wife, a friendly old gal, has a small nursery and medicinal plant business there on premisses. We spend several hours chatting, nailing down details. We pay a $5,000. peso advance to sorta grease the wheels. We make a firm date for Tuesday next and on the other side. He knows where our load is, he talks it over with his truck driver, a pretty savvy seein' guy. Together they see absolutely no problema. This is all wrapped up there early on this Saturday afternoon.

His wife says business in general is lousy, her's no exception: "9-11", that war, the general turn downward of the U.S. economy. Lots of those working in those factories near the border were out of work. The tourist trade way, way off. In no way was this news to us. All places we'd touched upon had informed us the same.

O.K. Now we can continue towards the border, just 75 miles distant, and yet cross, with luck, that day.

We had no idea what to expect there at our crossing point of Tecate. In our minds, the things we'd heard about security crackdowns, we'd built this long wait in this long and snail's-pace line. Would they tear our load down? The possibility of such, it was hanging there on both of us. All three dogs in cab with us, the two cats back in still-holding-together trailer, they didn't seem ta give a rip.

Not only was this imagined line way shorter than we'd feared, it moved. Way quicker than we'd expected, there we were again stating that we had nothing that we wished to declare, and we're being waved into-pull off of secondary inspection zone. Once there I get out and unlock trailer door, and then wait doing hip limber-up exercises. Nobody there? For long time, eight er ten minutes, I'm thinkin' that maybe nobody's comin', nobody cares. But then a guy does stroll over and ask the usual questions and I confess to yet having half dozen eggs in trailer's fridge, which when produced satisfies situation completely.

Hey. Back in the U.S.A.!

Briefly, we celebrate, congratulate ourselves, salute our dumb luck.

We do a peso for dollar exchange, both of us surprised we've accomplished still having so many yet of the former. Then it's straight off to Dog Patch, U.S.A., Bill's place.

Bill's place is worth story in and of itself. It's a campground, maybe 20 minutes of slow, hilly, winding travel from where we cross, but not the kind where people come in and visit much on a short term basis. No.... Most of his spaces are full either with those seeking a long term parking spot for their campers, either because that's how they're living right then, or for second, weekend homes in the country on the cheap. Some of his sites look like resting spots for a whole bunch of junk. All this just off California 94 and tucked out of passers' sight.

From the highway there's this windy gravel road that follows down along small creek, then a steep dip down to a culverted creek crossing immediately followed by a steep ascent where area opens to a large circular flat spot, about the size of major league baseball infield. The way to the campground proper runs to the edge and past this flat spot to where, shortly, it disappears around a tall hill. This large flat is our spot. We've never seen anyone else using it. We may be the only ones. Even though there's scant traffic going to and from main camping area, it affords us a degree of separation, almost privacy. Just a parking spot without services but that suits us just fine.

Our plan is to stay there, use it as a base camp of sorts, while we go back and forth between the commercial border crossing at Otay Mesa and mobile casa. We knew it would take several trips to work out U.S. side details. It's Saturday, early evening. No sweat. Easily we could hang there to get business started Monday morning.

We do a proper martini time and Marcia whips us up heated chicken tamales that we'd purchased while yet in Mexico. Tradition, almost. We get to bed early, both of us wishing for good night sleep. The cats are out running, the two older dogs are positioned on guard duty. The puppy sleeps on the foot of the bed. Covered. Not long is required for us two to fall fast asleep.

But that didn't last. No. Chopper racket and it's right up above us. The outside dark is being stabbed er rather flooded with beams of ultra bright light. This monster is circling, hovering, all of this seemingly centered right around us. Racing vehicles then, screeching to a halt very close by, which sets the dogs off, this mixed with the crackle of radio transmissions, the crunch of boots beating up the steep rail road embankment right there to the north. And none of this stops quickly. No! Don't know how many times spot lights lit up inside of trailer that night. Just know that best we could we tried to deal with this. I got up ta take a piss with that huge machine whirling right on top of me. Damn. Fuckin' border patrol.

We're inside trailer, doing our first exercises, 'cause it's cold outside. We're waiting for sun to come up over close-up hills and strike us in that sunken bowl. Soon as first rays touch upon western perimeter of camp we're out in it, us there and the dogs. For hours white and green four-wheel drive vehicles have been zipping' through the area on a regular basis. No shortage, seemingly, of U.S. equipment and manpower. I've got it in my mind to talk to one of the hombres wheelin' one of these fast machines, soon as opportunity presents itself. It's not long before I get my chance.

He's a young blond guy, short and stocky with marine style crew cut. His bearing was straight Roger Rambo. He'd stopped not 20 yards from our positioning, by radio was relaying information to some place else when I saw my chance and immediately walked towards it. He seems slightly surprised ta see this old clown standin' next ta him, makin' sign like he wanted to talk. The window did come down, though, and I guess there was brief introduction. Yeah. We were with that obvious truck and trailer with the Illinois plates. And yes we were camped there, intending to stay numerous days, as a matter of fact.

"How's business?" I asked, me with big smile on my kisser, I'm sure.

"Eh...bus - oh! Great, I guess," he comes back, at first slow in catchin' my drift.

"Lot's of activity last night," I continue.

"Oh. Yeah. So I heard. Wasn't my shift. We just came on, but, yeah, I heard somethin' about it."

He was no fountain of information, all business, military stiff. I did get from him an average daily catch estimate of about 150 "bodies" for approximately a 25 mile stretch of that California Highway 94. He also informed me that that area right there was considered a hot spot. (No shit.) He told me to be careful. Not all that satisfying a conversation, but at least a start. I figured I'd have other chances.

Roger Rambo hadn't cleared the area better than 15 minutes when here comes this young Hispanic chick, wheelin' this black and sorta ratty mid-size economy car. She's in bound and when she hits this flat she whips a big circle turn and immediately heads back down over creek crossing and just before she makes turn that'l carry her carro out of my line of sight, her brake lights flash on. There's no more sound of tires on gravel so I'm sure she's stopped. Easily I pick up on the rapid fire Spanish bein' excitedly spoken, the slamming of car doors; this followed by a speedy take off.

Of course it was speculation on our parts but Marcia and I came to believe that, perhaps, some illegal aliens had just gotten ride out of there.

This act was shortly followed by another. A male this time. He's solo too and does a double take at seein' us there but goes ahead and whips around and as his wheels are crossin' back over that creek I hear him holler, "Pancho! Pancho!" down into thick up-stream, jungle-like vegetation. I don't get to see the brake light 'cause he's outta sight when stop is made. Again there's a rush of excited Spanish and the racket of car doors. And, varrom! a rapid departure.

So it's with stuff like this that I approach the next border patrol officer who stumbles, shortly there after, into our space. Much different character, this second one. Sorta impressed me as old hand at this game. Laid back, to a degree. Easily, with my bait, I engaged this gentleman in lengthy conversation. My stories of small carros stoppin' didn't surprise him one bit. "That’s the style now," he claimed. Small loads of five or six "bodies." Big loads, like in buses and motor homes were out. The body count was directly related to the sting of the bust.

They nailed two just such car loads the day before. Both drivers had been U.S. citizens. These were short distance haulers, sub contractors. At $85. to $150. a head, they can always find drivers willing to take the chance.

He claimed that with these small “body counts” it took about three offenses before these haulers were lookin' at any serious jail time. And then there were a lot of complications, especially if they had lawyers, trying for hard-time convictions.

Their favored hours were the work-day rush-times on the highway. Lots of single-person vehicles and with four or five bodies laying down the cars don't look over loaded. Most of the car loads they caught didn't have back seats.

Fifteen hundred a head is what he figured the main coyotes were charging for completed crossings, which, for Mexicans, even though it might entail numerous, repeated tries, was essentially guaranteed.

After a leisurely breakfast we, leaving the dogs to guard camp, take a short ride to this place that Bill, the camp ground owner, had told us was just loaded with white sage, an herb we pick and sell at Indian Pow Wows. People burn tight round bundles of it. Smudging is what they call it. There'd been a recent forest, or better yet brush fire in this area, though, and search as we did, all we spotted was this one little patch right along this lightly traversed secondary road. Marcia stops the truck and I'm out inspecting this, determining if it was the stuff we wanted, and here's this border patrol carro pullin' right up behind us. He rolls down his window and asks if he can help me with anything?

No. He really couldn't. I do tell him what we're up to, which sorta surprises him, especially the part about Indians and smoke. He tells me that this brush-lined road is a favored pick up spot for illegals. He'd been glassing our slow and erratic movement.

I told him that we were somewhat aware that business was pretty brisk throughout that close-to-border area. "Yes. Yes," he chuckled, "business was, is, 'red hot!' in that stretch. We got two from Poland and one from Lebanon yesterday. They're coming from all over. We get Koreans, lots from South and Central America." It seemed to him that the whole world knew about the sieve that that U.S./Mexican line really was. Nice guy. Older and well fed. On his collar he wore the bars of a captain.

Back on the main road, that Highway 94, we do spot a good patch of what we're after. We've parked off ta side and as we pick, maybe six er eight border patrol vehicles pass and eye us over pretty thoroughly. We get back to camp, the dogs glad ta see us, especially that wound-up Puppy. The cats, if they really cared, they didn't show it.

It's after our mid day coffee and break time. I decided to pick what white sage is scattered about on a couple acres of ground there right around that flat spot. Maybe I spent an hour on this and as I'm finishing up Marcia shouts that she's going to walk out near hwy., to some nice healthy plants that we'd spotted close to campground entrance.

"Be careful," I advised her. I'd heard conversations in Spanish comin' up to me from the deep cover of that creek bottom. She scoffed at my cautioning. "They're not going to be moving anybody in the middle of the afternoon," is given in reply. "O.K.," says I, "But I know there are people down in that steep ravine." The dogs hangin' with me there, off she goes....

Well, the little lady, right before her eyes, got a close up on the action. A single driver, male, young, Hispanic. He hesitates momentarily when seeing this lone woman gathering in bushes. But he does proceed with mission, does his turn around there by where we're parked, me aware of him. Marcia's right there where she can see the stop and the scramble from the brush. Five, all young Hispanics, is what she witnessed. The driver then pulled right past her to where she could look down into the back seat loaded like canned sardines. "Good luck!" she claims she hollered as they accelerated past. She got a big kick outta this, this closeness to such activity.

Later that same afternoon we get to see a helicopter spotting and chase that involved a number of green and white carros scrambling up a steep and winding road that makes its way up the huge, boulder strewn and chaparral covered hill top directly ta the south of us, perhaps a quarter mile distant. Maybe this activity went on for the best part of an hour. Finally that chopper broke off and I spotted those carros comin' back down that mountain side. A half an hour after that, I hear activity just down on road there on other side of creek crossing. I walk to where I can see and there's a green and white with a number of "bodies" standin' in a line, lookin' hooked together.

I stroll down to take a better look, naturally. "Is that what the chopper action was all about?" I ask the closest of three officers watching the captives. Six of 'em. Three young males, three young females. Oldest in the group wasn't 25. They're lashed hand to hand with white plastic strapping, the kind ya pull tight and it locks. Apparently, all Mexicans; calm, stoic.

Yes these were the result of the witnessed chase. They'd snagged the whole group, minus their crossing guide. These guides sacrifice their charges regularly, are very hard to nab. Yet that day, if there weren't any arrest warrants outstanding, these captives would be set free south of that line. They'd try again tomorrow. "They all know the score," says this relaxed, seeming jaded fellow.

As the afternoon wears on we continue to watch this little side show. For over three hours, other patrol vehicles being tied up in the activity, these illegals are formally questioned and processed. Then, finally, a tinted-windowed transport van shows, they all get patted down and get caged up inside. A helicopter and crew, no less then five or six vehicles and a strong half dozen border patrol personnel are tided up in lengthy process that seemingly makes not one lick of common sense.

And then the icing on the cake was (we'd set out folding chairs and enjoyed a martini time watching events unfold there before us), not 15 minutes after that load of six is hauled off, I mean the dust had hardly settled, and here came one of those sole-occupant carros that does the turn around and as it's headed out, just out of sight, we hear, "Wicho! Wicho!" hollered out, then the noisy scramble and the car door racket! I swear, it was like the border patrol had been monitored.

Bill, who makes it a practice ta stop and bullshit with us about once a day, showed zero surprise with our tale. Bill could go on for hours relating what he's seen go down there, and sometimes, unfortunately, got tangled up in. A joke, the governments efforts, he sincerely scoffs. He sees the waste, the nonsense. Bill thinks the government should just issue these desperate people a pass, good for six months, renewable, for like $1,000. He thinks that's a better idea than letting the coyotes get rich. And this way these people could pay legal taxes on what they earn in the States. That way, he believes the border patrol could be freed up to guard against those who might be a real threat.

I pointed out to Bill the flaw in his thinking. First...it made way too much sense to ever be adapted as government policy. Politically that would be too hot for those who owe their careers to this other insanity. Bill guessed I was right.

It's Monday A.M., early, and we make our way to that Otay Mesa commercial border crossing zone. On our list of must do's is to find the customs agent that Sr. Bayon has told us will be doing the American side paperwork. All we've got is a name, no phone number. Sr. Bayon could not give us more the day we'd visited, Saturday, because the customs broker he used on the Mexican side wasn't open. So we start by checking the phone directory which provides us with not one single clue.

To begin with, this morning, I'm not functioning very lucidly. No. Not at all. With my normal morning stimulants I've ingested a 500 milligram pain pill, along with a 600 mg Ibuprofen, all of this to quell the raging pain that continued to range from hip to big toe. Against that aggravation this combination was halfway workin'. My only big problem was that my mind was having difficulty staying focused. Several times Marcia had looked my actions over and questioned, "Smith, what the hell is up with you today?"

Little thing like figuring out how outdoor pay phones functioned, trying to get information, I was difficultly stumbling through. Trying to call Sr. Bayon on his cell phone from the U.S. side (nobody in that busy zone there seemed to know how to help me), turned to major stumbling block. Nothing that I was attempting, all which should have been fairly easy moves, was working. As the morning and then the early afternoon slipped away, I got frustrated in my efforts. To the point, almost, where I was willing to concede that this shell crossing indeed was too complicated, a bad idea that I was ready to chuck. And the more aggravated I got, the nastier that sciatic nerve started treating me.

By contacting Roberto back in Loreto I was finally able to figure the riddle of cross-border, land-to-cellular phone calls. By mid afternoon (somethin' I planned on accomplishing before 10 A.M.) I break through to Sr. Bayon, and after a number of communications we do get a phone number on the U.S. side. And then when I do call that the phone does get answered and we get directions to a custom agency about three blocks away from where I'd been fumbling through this.

We get there, like right now. We enter this joint (there's literally blocks worth of these agencies all crammed into this border-zone area) and are met by this hyped up young gent who talks a Mexican tilted English at near blow-away speed. We fill in some detail as to our visit, not having to repeat anything twice. In no time at all he gets the picture and jumps on his radio/phone for lightening like palaver with associate on other side. Way, way faster than I'd a guessed, I'm bein' told that there's no problems on horizon. All I had to do was sign a power of attorney statement, pay a $200. crossing charge, and show up in the morning with my rental truck.

I'm like waitin' fer this long string of further complication ta start comin' at me, ya know? But they really didn't. Could it be possible that, that next day, we were really going to see that load on north side of that line? Seein' was believing, that's how we were still leaning, playin' things.

That rental truck: A friend from Wyoming, Tom, the kind a guy you can count on to get detail work done, had reserved us a big one, starting that next morning. We felt it wise to go check on this while we were right there in San Isidro area. We poke around some in our efforts, eventually scoring right address. Closed for the afternoon. There was a number which got us a recording. We left short message that we'd show there when place opened next. Damn. Back to camp. My martini. At last...some relief.

Don't know what went on there at Bill's place without us, just know that the action kept on unabated with us there in camp. Plenty of border patrol activity, same on the part of those they were hunting and their transportation system. We spent a night without chopper activity, er maybe we'd just adjusted and slept right through it. Before there was defining morning light, we were sippin' coffee, makin' ready for the day.

The list of things yet needing to be done was minuscule. From a pay phone in the small berg of Potero I contact a Minnesota office of the U.S. Fish and Wildlife service to get a copy of my shell import permit faxed to that broker's. I was expecting a hassle but I didn't get even the slightest.

The day before I visited the Fish and Wildlife office there at border, trying to accomplish this same thing but had met a surely and quite unhelpful agent who seemed pissed off just to be having me interrupt his solitude there in cramped, stuffy office space. I did pry outta him this Minnesota number, but it didn't make this gent at all happy to be of service to me.

We get to "Rider" truck rental place too early. Maybe we have to wait 20 minutes before the joint gets opened. All is well with our reservation, a relative monster machine stands ready and waiting. Ouch! These things ain't cheap. Marcia following, I rumble off towards customs agency. Eight miles to the gallon is what this rental guy had told me. Ha! Would we ever! discover how full of shit he was.

We check in at agency, tell same fella we'd dealt with day before of our preparedness. His guy from the other side wasn't answering his radio yet so he had no news. Why didn't we go have breakfast, cool our heels fer just a little? He assured us he'd have news for us in less than an hour.

An hour later we're back and Beto, that was this agent's radio name, still was without word of our shipment. It was an extremely busy crossing day, he informs us. The next day was May Day. Everything on other side would essentially shut down. So all those needing something crossed were trying to cram stuff through a system that couldn't actually accommodate the traffic. Just sit and be patient, that's what he advised us.

By noon we get confirmation that the Mexico agent is with the truck, stuck in slow moving line, but definitely in line. Every hour or so we check back in. The day is definitely slipping past. I'm again shrouded in doubt as to if this thing is indeed gonna go down. By 4:30 P.M. I have to ask the owner of this enterprise if there's a chance that this ain't gonna happen. She's this fast talkin' Hispanic dame, Beto just works for her. "It will definitely be here today," no holds bared, she assures me. In lighting-speed fashion she converses again with other side. I thought my grasp of the language was pretty good. Whew! Not at how these people operate. She tells me that they stay open until 6 P.M., but even then if load hasn't arrived, they'll stay open longer. As long as it takes. Again I'm apologized to because of traffic jam with incoming lanes.

Marcia, bored near to numbness with all this waiting jazz, had elected to take walk around this hectically busy zone. I was reclined as far back as her truck's seat would allow, reading, dealing best as I could with that sciatic disturbance. All the sudden there's this raping on cab's exterior and there stands Beto and this other Mexican dude. Our stuff was there, that's message he gave me. I was really inta my book. The suddenness of this all sorta slams me.

There's a small matter of my full payment for Sr. Bayon's services that has to be taken care of. There's this other-side truck driver, then his helper, neither of 'em sure of exact nature of transaction. Marcia comes back right in here where I'd calculated what we still owed. Her being cashier she counts out loot to these two who aren't all that sure. Sr. Bayon was expected along any moment, they inform us.

We all go through this agency to back where loading dock with large overhead doors are. Outside there sets a cargo truck of about same dimensions as one we'd rented. Its back door is slid up and, jezous, there sets what looks like this seemin' mountain of full, white plastic sacks. For the first time...the enormity of what we'd gathered together sinks in. Marcia said somethin' like, "Damn. I never thought there would be that many."

We back trucks tail to tail but their idea won't work because their's has a higher bed than ours'. We both back up to loading dock then where shells, which are mostly on wooden pallets, can be moved either with fork lift or pallet jack. I tell these guys from other side that I can't do any lifting, at least not much, and they just tell me ta stand back. Work they're not afraid of. That driver and his helper, a guy older than me, tackled this problem with zeal, along with Beto runnin' the fork lift. “Damn, what a pile of shells,” that's what I kept mutterin’ to myself.

It was helter-skelter, sacks that had fallen off their original pallet being heaped upon another, an occasional bag leaking out its contents. The goods were getting well scrambled, a mess I'd have to straighten out later, but I didn't care, me in my elation of just seein' this stuff, at long last, here on the U.S. side. When the swift transfer was completed I made sure I tipped them two Mexicans well.

Right about at that point a fella pulls up, him claiming to be Sr. Bayon Jr. He checks cash we'd given others against his paperwork and comes up that we still owe $151. U.S., for some previously unheard of charge, somethin' his father assured us there wouldn't be. To be forever done with the deal, over Marcia's hesitations, I go ahead and gladly pay it. We thank all of 'em all around. Still a little stunned to be doing this, I crank up that monster of a Rider and with Marcia following me...head this all back towards Bill's place. Oh my aching ass....

Back in camp we do a delayed martini time, toasting our luck. I remember stating something dumb like, "You wanted trading materials...sweetheart, well now you've got some!!" We were both laughin', in pretty high spirits.

Next morning, us in the process of breaking from there, Bill stops by. After handin' him our five bucks a day, three day's worth (and well worth that for just entertainment value alone), I ask if he wants ta see what over six metric tons of shell looks like, me the super- proud owner. I raise truck's rear door and Bill's just a little shocked at the mass. "That truck gonna handle that load all right?" he asks with some show of concern. "Yeah," I assured him that truck felt like it could do it.

Me with my grand trophy settin' there, I wasn't in great hurry, felt at least that I had time to further relations with border patrol agent who'd been through camp at least three separate times already that morning. First pass through he'd been in unmarked car, he and its driver still real obvious. They hadn't more than done their circle turn back over creek and, close behind 'em, here came a group of bodies into my view, them quickly vanishing down in that lush ravine.

Third time through, this time with a regular green and white, he pulls over towards me. He wants to know if I've seen any action. We'd shared a number of conversations by then. "Ha!" I responded. I tell him of the ones he'd nearly run into with that unmarked-car pass. I laughed that I felt those moving these people had border patrol acts pretty well figured. In almost hang-dog fashion he conceded that I might be right. All this time I'm aware that our camp, with that big Rider truck, from high up on mountain side to the south of us, has been under border patrol surveillance. Another green and white and I'm sure with enhanced vision capacity.

I joked about wide open rear truck door, us just waitin' for a big load. Twenty, thirty bodies. We were really gonna make a killin'.

We're packed up and ready to roll, and just fer the hell of it (I don't know why I hadn't anxiously done this beforehand), I open one of the bags of cut shells that Chayo had graded there in La Gloria. Just a handful, ya know. With merely a glancing inspection, right off, I encounter pieces that I'm not at all happy to see; pieces that were of very low quality. In my opinion, pieces of junk. There wasn't supposed to be any junk in these bags.

Hummm....

I open a second bag...and then a third. I'm not at all impressed with these random, spot inspections. Chayo, I'm thinking, what the hell have you done? All three sacks I checked were supposedly of second grade material. Numerous times I'd questioned Chayo from afar about his work. Numerous times he'd assured me of the condition of these pieces. All the sudden there's this dark cloud that descends over this super-score load. Us headed down the road, this cloud hung with me, hung over my plan.

Just in the shells from La Gloria there were supposta be somethin' like 600 kilos of #1 pieces and 2235 kilos of #2. The #1 stuff is selling for $3. an oz. throughout the southwest. It's in short supply, like gold, and I'd thought about using it strictly for future trading material with the Indians. The #2 shell goes for considerably less, maybe like half as much. Some of it I was wanting to use for trading, too. But, we knew a guy in Gallup, John, who'd questioned me numerous times already about this load of shells. I was figuring on like maybe selling two metric tons outright, for the low price of somethin' like ten bucks a pound. This John guy could lift that much, I was speculating.

Scratch that. This John is no dummy, at least where shell is concerned. If those sacks were as poorly graded as I now suspicion they might be, I couldn't even show 'em; not if I didn't want to be laughed at. Bummer.... I'd initially seen us leaving Gallup with a lightened up truck but with our pockets bulging. Like I said, scratch that.

We roll through the last of S. California, across a huge swath of Arizona, that Rider truck seemingly designed to detect all defects in the Interstates. Eight miles to the gallon - Ha! It's 35 gallon tank, even with a strong tail wind, didn't want to carry things quite 200 miles. Ca Ching! Ca Ching! that load was gettin' more expensive by the tank full. East of Flagstaff we pull off for the night.

We're off before sunrise, our objective bein' a late breakfast in Gallup. I kept that truck's throttle at about the maximum, my sciatic takin' the slammings till my leg and foot almost went numb with pain. And I'm takin' plenty of medication in attempts ta over-ride this, too. Marcia's having' no trouble hangin' back there, still in sight, as I repeatedly kept checkin' on her in rearview mirror: That blue pickup with a boat up atop, that old but still rollin' trailer.

We make Gallup without hitch. I'm anxious to stop and check in on Ernest, the Indian jeweler who'd first taken time to show me something about working shell into jewels. Two springs back, after I'd thought we negotiated a pretty big trade with he and his wife Veronica, at the last minute, and I still don't know why, they'd killed the deal. And I was tradin' 'em low and fair, too! Knowing what we did about the shrinking supply of spiny and purple oyster, I'd told 'em they were crazy for not going through with the trade. They'd thought otherwise.

We hadn't been able to make contact the previous spring when passing through Gallup because their shop was closed, them out of town. However, last January, us on way south and stopped at Indian Jewelry Supply, Ernest and Veronica rediscover us in our resupply shopping. Gosh. Long-lost-old friends. Their manner was certainly more effusive than when we'd last parted.

We like Ernest with his friendly, warm Navajo face and his very lovely "Indian Princess like" Navajo wife. We were quite happy with this reencounter. We told them we'd stop at their shop, which is just up the street, and we did. Just like old times they tell us that we can camp out on their peaceful reservation land, which we said we might do if we were lucky enough to pass back through...come next spring. They said to make sure and show them our shells then. Certainly, we said we would. By then shell prices had essentially doubled since when they'd passed on that trade.

So here we are and it's spring and we're back, and, shells! man, we're just simply loaded up on 'em. Our luck is that Ernest and Veronica are there, and they seem genuinely happy to see us. All I want to do is see if they're going to be hangin' in the area. They assure us they are so we're off ta grab that breakfast. Got our favorite spot, ya know. Old Rt. 66 style restaurant. Pretty good juevos rancheros. Red or green chile sauce. The red - Wow!

Noses to the grind stone, literally, that's how we find entire work force back there at Ernest's. It's a small crew of five including owners'. Business had been good. In fact, super! Their made-up inventory display case sets almost empty. Part of this is defensive strategy. They'd been robbed before. They do take things from secretive locations to show us. We like it all and then Ernest unwraps this $48,000. gold, natural turquoise and red coral squash blossom neckless that about floors us. He hadn't kept track of time spent handcrafting it. He ventured months and months if he dared count the hours. The minute tooling and detail took my breath away.

They tell us gleefully that the next week they're off to New York where works of Ernest's are being featured in a museum collection. They're real excited about bringing some of Ernest's latest master pieces to display to people who could afford them. I bet him that he'd sell that gold squash blossom.

We asked if they had time to look at collection we'd built while down on Baja. They said they'd love to, so Marcia trooped out to trailer and gathered up the boxes from their hiding spots. I'm nervous student in front of master, ya understand. I know where all the flaws in my work are hidden. I'm expectin' him ta pick these out.

As had everyone we'd displayed this stuff to that far, they went nuts. Nuts! Veronica, who has her choice of any type ornamentation she desires, just simply flipped out! She danced to mirror with first this choker, then another, a stream of superlatives pouring from her. There was one red spiny oyster piece that look particularly fetching on this beauty with native brown coloring. With this she danced and twirled in front of female employees that seemed equally fired up by the effect. It was only my favorite piece.

What was I gonna do? She screamed and squealed with delight when we gave it to her. She wouldn't take it off. She talked about going home and changing to a more appropriate outfit. I'm tellin' ya, the girl was beside herself. Hey! What better compliment could our handy work get? Ernest was quite impressed, too. He thought I'd done a real good job on polishing.

So we're real pleased with ourselves as we're headed south of town ta go set up camp. The deal was that they'd stop out and look at shell on Saturday, this bein' a Thursday right then. We needed time to reshuffle our load, not just for right there but, too, for what we hope laid ahead. Figuring that big Rider truck too tall for the pinion-pine-lined roadway going back into their property, we'd made arrangements to park it at Ernests’ mother's place, several miles distant from "our" spot. She, a bright-eyed elder with an infectious smile, seems glad to see us back, too.

We set up camp, all the pets super happy with accommodations. Nice place. Nothing but natural sounds, if ya don't count an occasional man-made disturbance from high above. Dry. Bone dry. The cow pond down in valley was nothing but red dirt. There was no visible pasture for the few head of cattle that they still keep there. We'd have to be extra careful with any fires we built. It's not long before I'm into the business of sorting through shells.

I'd searched through that Rider truck for sacks of #1 grade pieces from La Gloria, found several without digging around too long, without lifting or tossing too many sacks. Along with several #2 sacks, and several others, we'd thrown 'em in that trailer and hauled 'em to that camp there. I set to work...confirming my suspicions.

Ugh. Not much fun. I sorted through a sack of supposedly #1's and found it contained at least 25% second grade material; along with a small quantity of distasteful junk. I did a second bag, this work quickly becoming drudgery rather than the pleasurable feeling one gets when laying hands on high quality stuff. Its percentages ran just about the same. It was with the weight of great reluctance that I entered into a bag of the lower grade material.

Because I'd trained Chayo, because I know he, after working a lot of shell himself and being my best shell student to date, knew better...this work was especially deflating. Had it been the fact of my form of payment for his work? I didn't want to think this but I was forced to consider it. For the work of cutting and sorting the pieces I'd been super generous, paying Chayo and his cousin $4. U.S. per kilo of #1 and $2. for #2. In a country where there's little er no work, I'd paid them royally. Was it that they couldn't resist the temptation to pad a really good thing? A good strong 40% of these #2 sacks were nothing but extra weight, some of it so miserably low-grade that my blood started to boil.

This was all so reminiscent of my fur-business past, times where the goods didn't match up with glowing descriptions. The same kinds of tensions crept into the muscles of my shoulders and neck. Only, back then the target of my growing displeasure was usually some young and aspiring fur buyer who was standing close by. It was hard to vent such frustrations with Chayo essentially beyond means of contact, like 1,400 miles back down the road. Good goods lift you up, have a way of drawing you through them. Lousy goods have a decidedly reverse effect. I struggled through till martini time before I threw in the towel.

It wasn't like we were gonna loose money on my trophy load. No. When I gathered those shells that Chayo'd turned into pieces, I'd paid very little for them. The price rise in this type material would more than bail out even this grading disaster, but now the extra, unpleasant work involved. Literally days and days of regrading now lay in front of me, somethin' I really thought I'd paid not to have to do. Oh, well...at least I now knew the score. I shrugged and decided to get over it. I'd deal with the problem from there. We laughed some about this during campfire meal that night.

We awoke to find the dog's water dish froze almost solid. I built a fresh fire for us to exercise around. When Ernest's mom and dad showed up to do cattle chores things had warmed to where I'd had to change sweats for T-shirt and shorts. I always make a dash towards them to lend assistance in unlocking and swinging open the pasture's drive-through gate. The old man can barely see so she's always at the wheel. They seem to appreciate my help, even though I know they do this nearly every day without me. Hay, grain and now water, everything these cows needed had to be hauled in.

We spent the day separating, grading and bagging shells; five pound bags, two pound bags, both #1 and #2 material. I took pains so that things I thought Ernest and Veronica would be interested in were cleaned and well displayed. Even with a long days effort we both doubted we had enough ready for others yet further up the road. Work I had to do lifting sacks, unpacking and repacking back of Marcia's truck...took its toll on that nerve. So much so that the next day it sorta laid me low. I mostly laid around reading, writing, waiting for that visit from Ernest.

They show late afternoon, them and four of the kids that make up just a part of the offspring that they'd brought from other relationships and together. I was struck by the beauty of all the mixed daughters. They both know what they're looking for when it comes to shell. Veronica has a super critical eye. They both seemed delighted with things I lay before them. "Go ahead! Go ahead and be picky," I encourage them, by now me understanding their conservative natures.

Before their N.Y. trip, I understood that they didn't have a lot to trade away. I told them to forget about trading right then. Just take what they wanted, needed, and we accept things...further down the line. I didn't see us leaving New Mexico short on made-up jewelry. They warmed to this approach slowly, but then did manage to select a pretty good pile. We never even kept a running score. I wasn't a bit worried about this, either. They're smart people. Honest. They could figure out value of what they walked away with. When they were comfortable with their inventory, I figured they'd send me some valuable stuff.

We're set to break camp early Sunday morning, after exercises and before we eat a breakfast. Easily we accomplish this. On way outta Gallup we decided to eat at "Earl's". Again, tradition, even though, perhaps, not long established. After all, we've only been doin' this shell jazz fer like maybe six years by now. At Earl's Indians are constantly wandering between the tables hawking their wares. Mostly cheap stuff. This bein' Sunday morning the place was crammed and outside quite a number of red/brown people were set up with tables loaded up with...again, mostly cheap stuff. I guess it's outta curiosity that we stop there. The food is tasty and generously served. The service is pretty fast, especially considering the joints normally busy condition; and then this sorta side-show atmosphere.

It's an easy run towards Albuquerque, a strong west wind still pushin' us. It's just past noon and we're north...past that city and turning off where sign says "west" for Pueblo Santo Domingo. We could hardly wait to get there, actually. Oh what fun we were now set ta have with amount of cargo on hand.

We make the turn and after crossing back over I-25 we're surprised at crowded tribal gas- and-goodies station. Not only is the place hoppin' but there's maybe 20 different set- ups of a folding table or two, ta one side of this action; tribal members sellin' jewelry. I pull in and stay as far away from high activity zone as possible, Marcia pulls in back of me. I start ta explain my motives but she's already anticipated my spur-of-moment thoughts.

Yeah. Good idea. Go round and tell them outside vendors that we'll be trading at the Pueblo square both Monday and Tuesday morning. Marcia and I had already made decision to trade two days instead of just one, this because of all that material. Our plan was to drop considerable weight here.

So I do go around and I start tellin' these outside vendors of our grand plan, lots of 'em that I recognize, lots that recognize me. The vast majority thank me for the info., like I suspected they would. They'd be there. One woman, though, tells me that she can't trade Monday because of a "tribal clean up". Well she could come Tuesday then. She needn't worry. I had plenty of shell. I wouldn't run out. She persisted that maybe Tuesday this clean up would still be going on. I didn't know what she was talkin' about. Clean up? Nobody else said anything about a clean up?

I'm walkin' back over to that big Rider and this guy who's directing traffic at the gas islands, it was that busy that it required a director, spots me and hollers out question as to if I'm there to do shells? Hey! Yeah! You bet I was! I pointed at truck I was wheeling and shouted out that it held like six metric tons. This had force enough to pull him from his labors there. I produced the key for the back door and slid it up.

"God, damn!" this gent uttered several times.

"Yeah. It's one hell of a load and tomorrow we're gonna be trading. And I'd appreciate it if you'd spread the word." Oh he'd do all of that, he assures me, he'd tell his brothers and a long string of relatives.

He came back with something about this clean up, too. He didn't seem ta think that it would interfere with our trading, though. Happy that we've kick-started the local rumor mill, it's towards the center of the Pueblo that we head. We want to make contact with my adopted Pueblo mother, Rosetta, and, too, we wanted to visit for a bit with the family of Jimmy Calabasa. This is mainly more "gettin' out the word".

After parking out front we quickly find Rosetta outside her little store. We greet with a hug and in a rush I tell her about that load and our plans on how ta play with it.

"Oh," she comes out with in sighing fashion, "I think you came at a very bad time. The new tribal governor says there can't be any businesss during the clean up. Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday," she clicked those days off on three short fingers.

"You've got to be kidding me!" is way I came back. There I was with my trophy load and now some tribal council was.... I'm mean, didn't she understand that we'd come so far, and we're only passin' through. Not only was I sure that all sorts of tribal members would be wanting to trade with us, but they needed to! I was sure I could explain my positioning at the tribal office next morning. After all, it wasn't like we could afford to hang around for extended time in area.

"Well...maybe you could do that," Rosetta smilingly gives me. Like if that was what made me happy to think, well, then I should go ahead and think it. Her store and house aren't connected, but close. She was busy with store chores, on the move. We hung there in close proximity ta talk with her a while. I noticed that she was not displaying any jewelry. I question her about this and she scoff's that one lady in Santa Fe was taking her total production. She couldn't make it fast enough.

We'd heard the southwestern jewelry trade had turned red hot, especially things with turquoise. John, that guy I was thinkin' about selling those #2 pieces to, us still down in S. Baja, city of Loreto, had told us the very same. John was buying shells from Efren, our partner in Seashella Kuki. He questioned me then about those La Gloria pieces, Efren having told him what I'd been up to: Chayo in that far off city.

Leavin' all our stuff parked in front of Rosetta's, cuttin' kitty-corner we walk through vacant, trash littered lot, us aimin' for the Calabasa's casa. We could see most of their vehicles settin' out front from a distance. A rap on the big wooden door gets us hollered in. Olivia is in the kitchen. Our entrance doesn't throw her inta delirium er nothin' like that, but she does seem glad ta see us. David and Marcia. Spring time. She'd thought about us several weeks back. She asks if we weren't runnin' late?

We try explaining. Jimmy comes in in middle of this, his eyes lighting up at the mention of truck load of shells. I motion them outside ta where ya couldn't miss that yellow beast I'd been pushin'. He whistled out a long breath at just the thought of such a thing.

We weren't there to eat er bullshit much either, our mission was to tell them we'd struck town, and that we'd be out at our usual camp, if that was vacant when we got there. If not, right there close then. Yeah. They knew somethin' about a clean up. But Jimmy didn't think it would effect us much. They'd come see us early evening. Jimmy has a prodigious hunger fer shells.

So we go out ta this "Corp. of Engineer" campground, just off this large impoundment they've fashioned, which is the headwaters of the Rio Grande. We find our usual spot vacant, the whole place only lightly occupied. We do another minor reshuffle, us gettin' ready for a Calabasa visit. We're in the middle of martini time, calm, kicked back when they pull up; Jimmy, Olivia and their younger daughter Naomi.

Like I've stated, Jimmy has a prodigious hunger for good shell. And people in the pueblo would be upset if they saw how we treat him, but we like ta see what our collecting efforts do to this man. His face, I'm tellin' ya, it contorts inta the brightest of smiles. To me he seems like kid at cookie jar.

Well, we can afford ta let him run pretty wild. Not as wild as he'd like to run, but, wild enough. After all his boxes and bag are loaded in his van, we get chance to display our recently made-up collection. And, Bang! same results. All three of 'em, Naomi really gettin' into things, gives us nothin' but rave reviews on production. Olivia can't get over how far we'd progressed.

We pass the night well, don't lose any cats to the coyotes, which had been yappin' close up and from most points of compass. It's cold outside but sunrise is early and it's striking rays permitted exercises outdoors. Everything packed away again, we're headed back for central Santo Domingo, nice and early; our little parade.

There are already other vendors setting up on Pueblo square when we come pullin' up. I'm glad to see it looking like a normal Monday trading day (although these others are trading almost strictly for cash). Marcia parks in front of Rosetta's place. I pull off to center of square, shut truck off and walk back the short distance to Marcia. We'd told my adopted mother we'd be there for breakfast. We find her in store which she locks up, leading way into casa's eating area. Like she'd said she would she starts whippin' up that breakfast. I remarked that it looked like a normal trading day was shapin' up. She didn't know what to say. Chilies, eggs, Indian tortillas. Another cup of coffee.

Leaving Marcia to chat with Rosetta and two daughters, who'd shown while we'd eaten, I walk over to tribal office to pay for trading permit: $25 bucks; nothin', really. My walk carries me past other vendors already with wares on display: turquoise, beads, silver, just about all supplies the local makers need. And there's John, who I'd last seen in Loreto, Baja, setting up tables of mostly finished shell products, most of it fashioned in China. We both react with some surprise. "Getting back in the swing of things," he says ta me. I guessed he meant gettin' out and actively trading. He asks me where I'm setting up? I point to big yellow Rider. This pulls a drawn out "Oooo...."

John doesn't really like the idea of us dealing in shells, especially spiny oyster. Openly he brags himself up as the "King" of that commodity. He tries to play the friendly game...but mostly we see through this. John sends large quantities of shell to China to be finished into beads, to be polished into ready made cabachons, even fully polished shells. Making it easy for these Indians, I guess that's his game; sell them things that in little er no time they can claim as "Indian made." Many now are losing the skills to do any of this stuff themselves. John and I approach this shell game from completely different perspectives.

I excused myself to continue on for that permit. You don't have to have this first. They eventually send someone out to make sure you buy one but I like to go inside tribal office, try to establish personal contact. The office is a beehive of activity. I patiently wait at reception counter until this pleasant, mid-aged lady asks me reason for my presence. Naturally, I tell her. She looks at me quizzically for a moment, then tells me that, by order of the tribal governor, there wouldn't be any business activity during that clean up. I go into my ultra nice guy explanation of why it's important for an exception to be made in my special case, me not finishing all my lines before she definitively shuts me down. "No trading. Governor's orders."

Well...O.K. Didn't have much of a follow up plan but immediately I set inta hatchin' one. I go back out and as I pass back by John I give him this news, he already well set up. John's just gaspin' out a, "Say, what?" when right behind me comes a tribal official who leaves no room for doubt. Not without grumbling, he and others there start packin' up. This was first they'd heard of this clean up. I go get my yellow truck, pull it closer to Rosetta's.

Because of words I dropped the day before, because there's a lot there in pueblo who know the looks of our pickup with boat atop and that beat up trailer, we'd been spotted. Six er eight vehicles pulled up around me there before I could make my way back into Rosetta's casa. They wanted to trade; right there, irregardless. I won't go fer that but I do drop the hint that they might be able to find us at the spillway of the dam that make's that impoundment we camp near. In the process of explaining my just-hatched plan a pueblo police officer pulls up to officially inform me that I can't trade there. I explain that I'm just going into Rosetta's, my adopted mother, to finish a visit, before I head out of town. Fifteen, twenty minutes and I'd be outta there. He eyed me with some suspicion, grudgingly allowing me my parking space, under those conditions. But again he cautioned me about making trades.

Then, while we're yet there in that casa, another squad pulls in, the officer actually coming to Rosetta's door, him checking on active trading. Rosette and her daughters had quick hid things we were showing one another. Just sippin' coffee and jawin', that's all he saw us doin' there. When leaving I tell all there to pass the word of where we intended heading.

This spillway is within another pueblo, Cochiti. That no-business edict was just for Santo Domingo. We didn't see a problem. We're mildly surprised at how many vehicles have beaten us out there. Maybe there's a dozen carros and 25-30 anxious individuals waiting for us. A crowd scene where there normally isn't a crowd. Right off I suspicion that my choice of spots maybe hadn't been the best. We pull in and try to set up fast, the press of mostly Indian females quickly settling in around us.

Those there had established trading order. They'd made a list that later arrivers were still jotting down their names on. In a rush we were ready and I'm just iniating the #1 deal and here comes an officious lookin' sports-utility vehicle zeroing right in on our action. The young and attractive blond female who was wheelin' this thing comes to stop right next to me, lowers her window and asks, "Who's the organizer of this trading?"

Act dumb, what else was there ta lean on as I fess up to being "he." Briefly I go inta song and dance about what went down in Santo Domingo, but...I guess you could say that my act failed to impress her. Her message was blunt and too the point. "Absolutely no trading without advance permission," she give me this while at same time pointing to chapter and version in official regulations.

Well, was there a chance of getting a permit, putting everything on hold there while I ran up to wherever it was that I had to go through to...then coming back and resume operations?

I could try to apply for a permit, yes. Up on top the hill at the village of Lake Cochiti, about a mile distant, there was an office where this might be accomplished.

O.K.!

That's where I was off to then! I go back to where Marcia is still engrossed in that swarm of over-eager Indians. I give them the news, this met with considerable moaning and groaning. Hey! What was I to do? I'm makin' ready to take off in that big yellow beast when this lady that I didn't recognize, a very gentle seeming and mild mannered creature, offers to chauffeur me; her with her compact carro that can certainly get me there and back just one whole lot easier and faster. "You bet!" says I, jumpin' on her unexpected generosity.

We're off! Like, in a flash, we're up where that cool blond had hastily directed me. I'm thinkin' that I'm lookin' for a Corp. of Eng. office but there's nothin' like that there. I ask at the "gas and go," them occupying the only functioning business in this tiny berg, and they direct me back to a building there in conjunction with that dam. We zip there, our arrival coinciding with that of the blond's. I explain to her my bumbler's confusion, her ruthlessly setting me straight: The place she'd sent me to was "not" in conjunction with the Corp. of Engs. They controlled other government lands. The Corps' never issued permits from their office there.

"Oh...jesus, there musta been a misunderstanding." Quickly as I can I grasp for some different plan.

Actually, it was this nice lady who was haulin' me through this that had sparked my next move. She'd suggested that I might ask for a trading permit at the tribal office of that Pueblo, Cochiti, which laid several miles south of that spillway. She's not balking at the extra hassle of getting' me there. We're off in that direction. I offer her gas money but she didn't want to take it.

We share rather pleasant conversation. She's related to many others we've traded with but because of our hit-and-run trading style, she'd never had the chance. (Later that A.M. she did and, believe me, she received preferrred-customer treatment.) She knew this other pueblo's governor. Related. Knew her way around this small village, too. You can't imagine how much time she saved me. Ten bucks a day, got me three days worth at the pueblo baseball diamond. Back down the road towards that spillway crowd we raced, us pulling in to expectant mob scene, two Corp. of Eng's. vehicles monitoring every move, that blond dame in command of one and in radio contact with the other.

I go over and excitedly tell her the good news. We were leaving. Headed for that baseball diamond. Some of those Indian vehicles were already fired up and headed in that direction. Without crackin' the slightest of a "thank you" smile, she gives me, "I don't care where you're going, I just want to see you out of here." Cold, I'm tellin' ya. This lady had absolutely no visible sense of humor.

So, finally, we're all set up on safe ground, all of us gathered there anxious to commence the action. The crowd had grown some through that whole process, its encircling nature pressing in on center stage. I'm, for the second time that morning, explaining the rules. I'd placed firm restrictions on quantities of certain articles; #1 pieces of purple or spiny oyster and whole #1 grade of both those type shells: ten lbs. and five shells, respectively.

"Did that mean that they could get ten pounds of purple and ten of spiny?" several there tried.

"No. Ten in total."

"Does that mean that my children, who are here with me, can pick too?" says another, looking for small loop hole.

I was firm. Ya have to be! These Santo Domingo ladies, and the crowd was mostly that, will chew you up, scratch fer any inch hoping' ta stretch it fer a mile. Half skinned and scalped is condition most I'l try ta leave ya in...if given half a chance. Boy. Have they ever schooled me, both of us.

We let #1 get a head start and then cut loose #2. I find myself admonishing several further down-the-list numbers to please wait their turns before they start selecting out goods. A second and more forceful statement I find myself making to several who resume fondling the merchandise soon as I'm occupied. Nothing short of a swift blow with a hard stick seems workable with some of these characters.

From a review of some of the first trading I can tell that I was, perhaps, anxious to be, at long last, accomplishing this. Everything gets jotted down on 5X8 cards; names, quantities of shells, etc. This then with what we'd accepted gets put in gallon size zip lock bag, which gets thrown in heap, in the trailer. The pace is rapid, there are attempts at number jumpin'. There where those that tried to get away with expanding some quotas, to be sure. But, generally, we're able to maintain control. This with the assistance of the Calabasa's youngest daughter Naomi.

Naomi knew everyone on first name basis. She helped Marcia immensely with keeping things neatly organized. When someone beckoned me to wait on them next, if they really weren't next, these two straightened me out. That morning and part of the afternoon evaporate in rather rapid fashion. Oh boy, ain't we havin' fun. We get through the press, to point where it's possible ta grab a sandwich, take a 15 minute break before a straggler rolled in. It became apparent that that's how the rest of the afternoon was going to go, some occasional flare up but mostly without sufficient action. The sun's positioning had eaten up our initial shade. I repositioned both that Rider and pickup pullin' trailer to where afternoon shade was thickening. The cats we kept restricted, the dogs got some freedom with us trying to keep track of them. Rather than set there twiddling my thumbs, I set myself up regrading sacks of those La Gloria pieces. That and trying to figure out where the sacks of abalone were buried in that load.

With the hastles of that day that nerve problem was sufficiently aggravating me. Tossing around 25 kilo bags was not an activity that I could stay with very long. Thirty-six bags? They had to be in there some place? I dug down in several areas before I said "screw it." Wasn't having much luck finding the 24 bags of purple oyster that had been stock piled at San Cosme, either. So damn many sacks....

Naomi has to take off. We thanked her greatly for her volunteer services. She says she'll be back the next day to help me reorganize back end of Rider truck, an offer I couldn't refuse. Marcia had offered to throw in some leather braiding lessons which Naomi wants. We hang there till after martini time before heading back towards camp. It had been a very different trading day.

Next morning, we didn't know what to expect. We'd told everyone to tell everyone they knew of our trading location. Halfway, I was expecting to see people waiting when we pulled back into parking lot at ball diamond. Empty it lay there, though, when we rolled back into cottonwood shade.

Ho hum....

La De Da....

I started to question self as to what I was doin' there. We'd already been moving north late. Spring time back in the woods. My gardens. This level of action wasn't fer me. By now Marcia and I had made decision to hang there until after that clean up, which apparently was being taken very seriously. The trades dribbled in. Naomi showed and we started that reshuffle. I regraded numerous bags of cut shell while she, no light weight, and not afraid of work this girl, moved sacks around in an orderly fashion. Her father had told her to grab a couple sacks of abalone for him when she found them.

Early on, me telling her what to look out for, she did stumble across two bags of those cut purple oyster. When at Ernest's place I found a bag of these, also. I remembered how good it felt to run through shell that had been graded correctly. There working with Naomi, again these came on as almost soothing relief. But those two bags would be the high water mark in her discoveries.

When truck was totally rearranged, organized, the score was those two and one bag of abalone. I can't say this came on as all that big a shock.... Roberto's words came back to me. Oh, well...live and learn, take yer lumps. It's all just part of education process. I explained to Naomi the complicated nature of these shell's movement up the Baja and then across the border. Chayo had accompanied the semi that was hauling the abalone and purple oyster to be joined with the two tons of lion paw that were sacked and waiting in Guerrero Negro. But that's where, as per my instructions, he turned back for home. The semi driver then had control of the load until it reached those pieces waiting in La Gloria. Then there'd been a transfer from Isia's secure premises to that Mexican freight truck that had met us on the U.S. side...all this unsupervised. I explained to Naomi the desperate economic situation now existing and deepening in Mexico.

"Ha!" I laughed. "We're lucky we got what we did across." But, in truth, my trophy load setting there, did lose a bit more of its luster. Real quickly, though, Marcia and I shrugged and wrote this off...er not merely wrote it off as a loss, but, rather, an addition to our experiential banks.

The lone bag of abalone gets loaded in Jimmy's van when he comes to pick up daughter. We share a laugh about his luck. Naomi caught on real fast to Marcia's leather weaving. Quite the outspoken young lady. She doesn't waste or mince too many words. She wasn't afraid to criticize my trading at times, my degree of gullibility. Tough, strong, opinionated, outspoken, not easily intimidated, we got along just fine.

In this other pueblo there was all of "one" guy who worked shell. His house was but a stones throw from where we're set up. He'd grown curious and walked over. "Abalone? No. Ya wouldn't believe it but I had some a while back but now...."

In a big way, I was pushin' lion paws. I took the time to explain its merits, show its vast range of possibilities, me always willin' ta show off my own work to make these points. I've got time ta do a complete sales pitch on this older gent and he bites fer a couple at a fiver each. He didn't have anything to trade. Shells were just his hobby. It's his birthday, he's 70, and since we've become such good friends he wants us to come eat a birthday meal at his casa that evening. Sure! Why the hell not? At martini time we close the operation down. Dogs and cats secured, carrying the makings we head on over. We drink, we visit and feast on some traditional cuisine's and generally have a pretty good time. (This would have been my first cash sale ever, but I ended up givin' them two shells as birthday presents.)

This pueblo, though right next door to Santo Domingo, makes drums, not jewelry. We didn't expect to run into this lack of mingled traditions. But that's what we ran into.

The slowness of that second day convinced us that we didn't want to repeat the experience. Marcia had been contemplating a trade with Jimmy: A pickup camper that he had for shells he'd already taken. With Naomi she'd gone over and looked at it, its resting place just several miles from were we set at that ball diamond. At first she wasn't sure but then when I explained how I thought it could be accomplished, she decided to go for it. She'd looked all the past fall for one. This one of Jimmy's was in real good condition, hardly ever used. So the plan was to accomplish this exchange this layover day.

The next morning I'm limpin' back from the clean and heated johns that are up hill and west of us. Hot showers fer a quarter there, too. And all this with the view of the lake fer only seven bucks a day. Soon as I get line-of-sight on our assemblage I can see that we've got company. They've tracked us down. Indians.

There's this elderly, smiling and good natured lady who I'd traded numerous times already with and this skin, bone and connective tissue, live-wire-sorta fella who was new to us. And, Oh! they were so happy that they'd found us.

Sure. I'd consider a trade that early in the morning.

When they see what we've got their want-list well exceeds the meager amount of trade goods they've brought along. Back at where they lived, though, they were neighbors and lived outside of Santo Domingo, they had much bigger inventories. Our plans were flexible enough to encompass a visit, especially since we were contemplating moving in that general direction, anyway.

By phone we arrange a meeting with Jimmy, he and Naomi and one of his three husky sons, at their farming operations' center. That's where this camper sets. All we have to do to accomplish this swap is take the boat from atop pickup, slide it in over stacks of shells, in the tall and spacious box of that Rider truck. Then it was a simple matter of emptying all that was packed in the back of Marcia's truck, which was jammed full, and cramming that wherever. We formed a human chain to accomplish the shuffle of this felt-essential mass. And, last, the stock rack that all that junk was canvassed under and within, that had to be lifted in its entirety and worked back into that big cavity, also. We'd lay it on its side.

Whew! It was hot. The air was discolored with red dust blown up in funneling swirls due to prolonged drought. Easy it was to detect grit between one's teeth.

Like I told Marcia it would, all fit. Past that it was a simple matter of sliding that camper into now empty pickup's box, securing it. A two hour operation and over and done with. Good workers, these Calabasas. Marcia was happy. Jimmy was happy, too, when I crumpled up the list of extensive shell selections he'd made. Don't tell me we ain't traders!

Once we've completed this task we're free to go pursue those trades with the two who'd showed that morning. To do this from Jimmy's farming operations we take the back way into Santo Domingo. We're both rather surprised by what a difference the tribal clean up has made. Though things weren't quite fine tuned, it was obvious that great effort had been made. Entering the pueblo we observed several, pressed into action, work gangs. One group of seven er eight women were gathered together in a knot that looked more like a gab feast than a clean-up operation, all of 'em huddled leaning on shovels and rakes. Seeing that by-then-recognized yellow Rider they all gave me shouts and big hardy waves. I tooted the horn and waved back, me feelin' good about such friendly recognition. Later, Naomi told me that if that had been John they saw passin', they'd a most likely flipped him the bird. None of the Calabasas’ like John. In fact, it's not uncommon to hear derogatory comments dropped about him from many in that village. Maybe I was trading too loose?

On the far side of town we encounter a pueblo-police road block. Not for us but for those who were tribal members. No one could leave the pueblo without a permit from the governor. That clean up took president over even going to outside jobs. The pueblo Gov. has lots of special powers. He was proving serious about his edicts.

Several miles east of the village there's a small settlement of perhaps a dozen structures, most of them collapsing, abandon. To the far side of this we did locate current habitation. This is where we pulled in; Marcia's still following me, her with her new camper. Henry, that's the wiry guy who'd shown with the dame I'd traded with before, he directs me in parking that obvious yellow beast. The idea is ta kinda half hide it. Marcia had to park out on the road.

Henry had bragged up his work considerably. A true artist is picture he'd painted of self. He invites us into his comfortable, modern house, the interior adorned with an array of his creations. Not only does he prove out his claim, but he displays its many facets. He sculpts large works from stone. He constructs miniature pueblo structures authentic in small detail. He does beautiful things with huge gourds. And, of course, he does jewelry. Silver and natural stones, and certainly, with shell.

Henry only works with natural things. While in his work shop, which held many works in progress, he pointed out that everything was made from scratch. He claimed he'd never worked a piece of stabilized turquoise. Obviously he's a man with quite high standards. Needless ta say I was nearly droolin' ta trade with this guy. And a considerable appetite he had for what we'd brought, too.

After extended show and tell, we do get around to looking at what I've brought. Henry's not bashful nor conservative. Already knowing what goodies he held inside, I gave him his head. No sense imposing limits this far through the game. He kept an ear cocked for traffic on the road. He'd already taken us over the ground, regarding what we were supposedly doin' there: Old friends, just visiting. There out in his bare and wind blown yard, various type shells scattered about on red-brown dirt, I didn't think that alone would fly. "We're still on reservation ground," he cautioned. That mandated clean up with its trading hiatus.

One of the cardboard boxes I'd been hauling shell in had come apart at the seams. While we were erasing evidence of business transaction, he grabs this and walks to his fence and heaves it into the near gale-force wind, consigning it to the dusty gusts. Apparently the message of that clean up hadn't sunk deeply in, right there, yet. "Every bit hurts" but for some it will take a long time to learn simply this. The woman who'd brought him to us, she was right there involved in this clandestine shell selecting, too.

The truck's closed up and we and the evidence are safely back inside the house. Now is when I learn how highly Henry holds his stuff. It was hard to argue, though, understanding how legitimate his work actually was. He had several things, hang the price, I just wanted 'em. One was an incredible, symbolically-painted huge gourd with perfectly fitted removable top that was ornamented with turquoise set in silver. I'd been looking for a special something for a special friend, an artist herself, and this certainly fit the bill.

My luck was that my top three choices, he already felt committed on. Candy will understand that I really tried to pry this gourd loose. No go. After that, it wasn't hard to satisfy the trade. It wasn't like he had anything junky, repetitious. We took enough. I wasn't all that easy on him. He did have to have a confab with his wife, this mean lookin', hefty white woman. She's cold, all business. Couldn't detect any warmth at all about her. I don't think either one of us got the better deal. And, like every other we'd consummated, we did shake on it, this with his wife there eyin' me with what seemed suspicion.

The trade with the smiling lady goes down easy. She just unrolls her towel and I pick out her less than master pieces till she starts to squirm, and then, maybe one more small piece before I back away from this. She's happy, I'm happy. My idea of a pretty good trade.

So there we were, three days invested, us still not thoroughly satisfied with the action yet...but the next morning we could set up and trade, once more, legitimately. Oh, our sack was nicely laden, don't get me wrong. What we wanted, though, was to plump it out more. We turn in early, anxious to get an early start.

The village is just stirring to morning activities when we come rollin' in. As much as we'd pumped this event to everyone we'd bumped into, we were fairly certain that we'd be dealing with a crowd. We'd reserved the services of Naomi, both of us were relieved that she'd consented. We hit Rosetta's for breakfast, another thing we'd prearranged. We catch her at her workbench stringing turquoise beads. She's got like five repetitions of the same thing going at same time. Like a machine she's cranking this stuff out to supply Santa Fe consumption. The only thing truly Indian made with these necklaces is the knots that hold the clasps. Go fer it Rosy! that's what we were thinking. Hard as we can, this type Santo Domingo stuff we try to avoid! And we're gettin' better at it....

We're fed and all set up on the square; and, yes, a small crowd has developed. We're not out in the middle of this space, extremely obvious as I'd like to be because we're sharing this large area with a massive mountain of junk that that three day clean up has netted: Hundreds of semi dump-truck loads, I assure you. Those in the tribal office, when I'd gotten my permit, were obviously pleased by what had been accomplished. I couldn't help but congratulate them on tribal effort. It really had made a dramatic difference. Looked almost like a different pueblo, really. Most we knew there seemed pleased with results with this forced action, also.

After an initial, hour long rush, things quieted noticeably. Fairly early yet we conclude that Naomi's services weren't that crucial so she got freed up to go pursue other things. I didn't know how to pay her. "Money?" I'd asked. She didn't seem too keen on that. I ended up giving her some good shells, made with her some other complicated deals. By noon things had slowed passed our tolerance levels. By then, too, we'd eaten enough dust from the dump-truck loading that had been nosily progressing immediately up-wind from us.

Not the most exciting trade day there on that square. No. But we did top off our sack.

We say our good-byes. North we head, away from there. No snow in the mountains when we pass Santa Fe. Almost no snow on the high peaks of S. Colorado. So much wind blown dust in the air as to create a discoloring haze. Once I lost Marcia in my rear view mirror. Turned around and found her. Flat trailer tire.

Stayed for a day in Wyoming with friends. Drought conditions there, too. The western two thirds of Nebraska laid bone dry, no sign of spring-time green. Then wet and in some places flooded all the way back to woods here in Illinois. The grass was close to foot tall when I switched key off and limped out of that yellow, gas-guzzling machine.

Next day, aided by my son and an employee of his, that Rider got emptied. That afternoon it got delivered to rental lot. Ouch! Those extra days. Next day I gimped into chiropractor's. Marcia, the dogs and cats, they're all doin' fine.

Email: david@dondavidonbaja.com