It was sometime near the end of the 1990s. I’d finished meeting with the network-security folks at Ft. Huachuca (“Wah-CHOO-kah”) in Sierra Vista, AZ and checked off all the items on our to-do list.
I found myself with a free afternoon and an opportunity to see a part of the country I’d probably never visit again, so I went exploring. First stop: climbing the dried riverbed to Coronado Cave.
🙶You don’t need to worry much about rattlers, as long as you can see your hands and feet.🙷 — Ranger at the welcome center
Next, I drove up to Coronado Overlook to see the spectacular views all the way into Mexico. Then, for some reason, I decided to drive the only road south, toward the border.
There were no other cars on the road for miles. At some point I realized that route might not have been the cleverest decision, so I turned around and headed back toward my hotel. Eventually I saw a car on the side of the road in the distance, lights flashing. An official-looking gentleman stepped out as I approached. He motioned for me to pull over. A border-patrol agent.
He asked what I was doing. I told him I’d had business at the Fort and now was just being a tourist. He wanted to know if there was anything in the trunk. “I don’t know; it’s a rental and I haven’t looked. Do you want to check?” He did, and of course it was empty. He asked for the paperwork as a final check. I commented as I handed it to him, “Wow, you guys are really serious out here.”
He raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”
“Well, back east, our idea of border security is just keeping out the folks from Pennsylvania.”
I don’t think he even cracked a smile.
He shook his head, pointed at the road ahead, and said, “Go. Just...go.”
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