Towards Saltillo

      Route 57

     On the way to Saltillo there is the desert that begins before Matehuala (Matehuala means don't come). Here there are broad flatlands, occaisional hills,, and the blue distant cordillera. Albarda cactus is the tallest plant around. It looks like a green coral that lost its ocean.

Albarda
    
     After Matehuala Joshua Trees, (Izotes or yucca), appear,, sparingly at first and then sometimes like a horde of people in the desert. My fotos cannot capture their movement, like an open air theatre of  dancers their trunks and unbalanced and crowns often bowed,,, their branches like arms,, flailing,,, trapped in awkward momentum. Some trees sport yellowish collars of dried penquas. Bunches of white flowers sprout like pom poms or elegant headdresses. On the small hills they might resemble jamaican carnival dancers. You can almost hear the drums beating out a ferocious symphony.  At other times they seem a spastic army thrusting their way down towards the highway.

    

         

     

     Eventually the Joshua trees give way to the mountains of Leon and Coahuila,, baldish

behemoths sometimes purple sometimes greenish gray. Where landslides have occurred silver plaques of pure stone have been uncovered like broad ice crystals, the plaques merging into deeply folded crew cut greenery. The mountains here border both sides of the highway. 

  Coahuilon

     Highway 57 is desolate except for truckers headed north to Monterrey and the States and Canada. It seems the roadside economy is divided into Vulkas (vulcanizadoras) and Cafes. Stunted buildings on the edge of the vast desert, that trails off like an infinite plate of spines, are sparse. Many seem closed.  

      We counted how many trucks passed us in the southbound lane in one minute. It varied from 15 to 20.  It's equal in the northbound lanes. Of course our velocity fudges the numbers. If we were sitting on a fixed point while counting it wouldhave been easier. I am not quite sure how to set up the math on this in order to calculate the quantity of trucks that pass in a 24 hour period. Instinctually it seems to add up to a heavy number. If each truck carried an average of $25,000 USD (that's a low estimate) then the money pile is substantial. Studies say 1,000,000,000 dollars cross the border daily.  No politician, however reactionary, could stop commerce on this scale.

     In Saltillo we picked up an aunt,, a gem. She's a talker, as if she has been locked up in a stainless steel closet for the last ten years. She has the face of a ceramic doll with cupid's bow lip lines. Her voice wavers and seems weak but she is sharp enough to know what time it is. The idea was to leave the city and head up to a cabin in Los Lirios much higher up in the hills and away from the infernal heat of Saltillo. This is a common weekend practice for people from Saltillo and Monterrey.

     The alpine forest near the cabin is flailed constantly with a wind sounding like waves ceaselessly caressing some fantastical ocean shore. It's an grieving wind combing the madroños, ocotes, and these bushes with lavender blue delicate flowers. Here the air is clean and aromatic.The trees are short perhaps new,, perhaps old or malnourished. All the stones (limestone it seems) possess a flat face sometimes three faces from which to choose,, a stonemason's candy store. The temperature is cool, unlike Saltillo which is very hot. At night it is cold,, a cold that lingers long into the morning until the sun is high enough for its light scale down the mountainsides and reach into the deep folds. The long ascending valley below the lofty cabin is given to growing apples and nectarines. Apple wine is very popular, not overly sweet like the fruit liquors of Tenancingo.

     The following morning I decided to take a walk. I followed the dirt road until it became a path. Up up with the wind as my companion like a god or a rapsody of memories. I crunched my way over pine needles and between bushes zig zagging to overcome the steep pitch until the trails ended at the very waistband of the mountain. From here the incline became almost insurmountable. Half the mountain was still before me its green face 

only broken by two sharp outcroppings. The valley below was sparsely dotted with cabins and apple orchards evidenced by black netting that protected the trees from birds. Just the wind, the wild flowers, and the stubby trees.