Immigrant trail

Every time I journey to my retreat site I get the sense I am in the middle of nowhere; close to nothing, in land that has been barely walked on.  There has been some ranching on the land, and some rare signs of the native Americans that lived in the region - but basically, not much of anything.  It is barren and desolate. 

I walked up the ridge to a peak thinking of how few people had ever been to this exact spot, how remote it is, how.....  wait a minute!  What the hell is that?  I stumbled across someone sleeping next to a very elaborate rock fire pit - one that had obviously been made long ago and used somewhat frequently.  I realized the traveller had come from Mexico and the trail he had followed was quite worn in.  It is hard to believe how far he must have come - as far as the eye can see there is nothing but rolling hills. 

We signs of immigrants in the washes often.  Water bottles.  Backpacks.  Discarded clothes.  Awile ago I was offered $1500 to drive someone 4 hrs to Phoenix.  He was injured and could barely walk.  He was trying to get to San Francisco where his wife and kids lived.  You could see the determination and resiliency in his eyes.  And also a lot of fear and suffering.  He was wounded inside and out.

I feel I am in the middle of nowhere, on the immigrant trail, journeying into something quite unknown, some idea of a promised land, and aware that I will have to lick some wounds along the way.