Northbound migrants head toward the Huachuca Mountains from Naco, Sonora; more illegals are traveling this route due to heightened surveillance in Douglas

By Ignacio Ibarra
The Arizona Daily Star

LA ANTENA TRAIL - By the time northbound migrants reach this spot, they have walked more than 12 miles along hot dusty trails that follow the rail line west out of Agua Prieta.

Or they might have come over the mountains to the south, a rugged hike of several miles that leads them past the radio transmission tower that gives this border crossing its name.

But for me and my hiking partner, Tom Wheeler, this place marks the beginning of a trek much shorter than anything migrants would typically attempt.

Our trip varies from theirs on a number of key points. We're better prepared than the average illegal entrant, carrying two gallons of water, some food, a cell phone and two pistols between us.

And we begin our walk shortly after noon, on a day when the temperature nears the century mark. This is a time migrants generally use to wait out the daylight in whatever shade they can find.

From the border crossing you can see north into the Sulphur Springs Valley, past the Mule Mountains and Dos Cabezas, to Mount Graham 100 miles away.

To the east, beyond Douglas, the Perilla, Pedregoza and Swisshelm mountains are dwarfed by the more distant Chiricahua range.

White gallon jugs of water purchased in Naco, Sonora, will be tossed on Arizona 80, if the migrants make it that far.

About two miles away is the limestone mine at Paul Spur, a landmark used day and night by migrants crossing here. Below us, maybe a mile to the north, is the Christiansen Ranch.

The immediate area is a more cluttered scene; plastic bottles and other garbage litter the trail as it crosses the border.

Two main trails follow a brush-covered wash north from a Sonoran railroad bridge, where migrants often seek refuge from the sun.

The trails split into several smaller paths at the border. Here it seems the people spread out to crawl under or climb through the U.S. government's rusted fence.

The many trails converge as they move across the fence line road and into the narrow, winding wash. It is lined with ample cover: mesquite, catsclaw and desert broom.

A second, smaller trail moves roughly along the same route, but is more direct, crisscrossing the wash several times.

Plastic bottles, soda cans and other litter under the thick brush mark former resting places.

We're sweating heavily just 20 minutes into our walk. The sun beats down on our heads and heat radiates from the ground.

About a mile from the border, the trail leaves the wash and veers sharply west in an apparent effort to avoid the ranch house, more than 100 yards ahead.

There is no shortage of places to hide from the Border Patrol here. The trail passes through stands of mesquite trees, washes and a field of sacaton grass taller than a man.

But there is no place to hide from the heat. I head for the shade of a mesquite tree for a drink nearly two miles into the walk, but it offers little protection from the heat and we move on quickly.

About a quarter-mile northwest of the ranch house, the trail begins to veer toward a dilapidated building that may have once served as a barn.

The soil here is hard-packed dirt that supports only scrubby mesquite and creosote bush and tufts of short, bone-dry grass.

By now my feet and head are burning, forcing me to stop to drink frequently. I resort to dousing my head with water to cool off - a foolish waste if I were a migrant with no idea where I was.

The trail winds through the sparse brush for another half-mile, after which we begin seeing more bottles and other items strewn about and signs of other trails running parallel to ours.

A cloud of dust kicked up by an old pickup truck grows eastward on Border Road, just 50 yards away.

A bag of canned fish was all this migrant caught by the Border Patrol east of Douglas had left after his grueling desert trek.

Where we reach the road we can see a dozen other trails. The edge of Border Road had recently been dragged by the Border Patrol and is clear of any tracks but our own.

Across the road, our trail and the others continue, heading toward a windmill and Twin Buttes, now less than two miles away.

Most of the migrants on this trail head to Twin Buttes and end up at Arizona 80, where they hide in the brush until they're picked up by a northbound vehicle.

If they make it that far, the only evidence they leave is the pile of white water jugs tossed under the brush along the right-of-way fence.

Others will walk another 15 miles through the desert to Davis Road for their ride. Some have been known to walk trails that take them to Gleeson, Pearce and even Willcox - more than 60 miles away.

But we'd had enough, so I call my wife on the cell phone and begg for a ride.

While we wait, I take a stick and scrawl a message in the dirt at the edge of the road to let the Border Patrol know it was a reporter who had walked the trail.

It's a wasted effort. Less than five minutes after we reach Border Road, an agent drives up to see who we are and what we are up to.