“We grabbed a couple of energy bars and a gallon jug of drinking water and took off. With no streetlights and the village half abandoned, Boquillas was like Terlingua Ghost Town, only more so. You could tell the houses that were still occupied. With soft light from low-wattage bulbs seeping out through the windows, they glowed like candle lanterns. The village was eerily quiet until a dog detected our approaching footsteps and erupted with a full-throated alarm. A couple more dogs joined in. The... hackles stood up on the back of my neck. A door squeaked open. “Quién es?” a man called. Rio identified himself. The man yelled at the dogs, and they quit barking. A few minutes later my cousin and I squeezed into the cab of a beat-up compact pickup, me in the middle, and headed down the dusty dirt road leading out of Boquillas. Fortino was the name of our white-maned driver. The old man didn’t speak English, but he understood some. He nodded along as Rio told me that one of his sons was in Montana right now fighting a forest fire, and another was working up at the lodge in the nearby Sierra del Carmen.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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