Borderline Lost: 85 Miles on the Rio Grande
“Paddle left! Your other left! Hold on!”
Bracing against the side of the canoe and trying to hold the boat steady, I duck my head as we crash into the towering 10-foot wall of river cane overhanging the Texas side of the Rio Grande.
I cover my eyes with my arm and lean forward, wincing as dozens of bamboo-like branches lash against my life jacket. I hear the long screech and violent thwacks as our heavy canoe is dragged through this jungle by the swift pull of the current.
Suddenly, I feel the canoe lurch to the right as Dave digs his paddle into the riverbank and pushes our bow clear of the last thicket. I open my eyes and smell the familiar, sharp sulfuric scent of river mud. Rotting organic matter, dropped from above, now litters our hair, our cold-weather gear, our boat full of supplies.
“You good?” I shout, as I wrestle my hat back onto my head, wiping the mud from my face and scanning the river ahead for the next set of rapids.
Dave raises his paddle above his head, Viking-style, and lets out a whoop that echoes against the sheer canyon walls around us.
We quickly settle back into the wordless rhythm we’ve become accustomed to over the past week of paddling. I steer us ahead to catch up with Gavin, who, despite volunteering to take our second boat today — an inflatable kayak now half-deflated and only marginally seaworthy— has been leading since we broke camp that morning.
“I wonder if all this was intentionally planted here to try to make it impossible to cross,” Dave muses during a quiet stretch of river that afternoon.
Since we first pushed off on this weeklong canoe trip down a remote 80-mile stretch of the Rio Grande this December, river “crossings” had become a regular topic of conversation.
Among our crew— a Northwest farmer, an NYC attorney, and a grad student—none of us brought any deep personal experience with immigration policy or the southern border. But throughout the trip, we faced regular reminders that our chosen paddling adventure was along a section of a major—and particularly tense— international border.
We stashed our passports deep within our dry bags in case of a wrong turn or a run-in with border authorities. Park officials and guidebooks warned us not to set foot on the right side of the river— Mexico— except in cases of emergency or injury.
Days earlier, hurtling along Route 90 in our borrowed, beat-up sedan, somewhere between San Antonio and Uvalde, I slammed the brakes as a pair of headlights suddenly leapt off the road ahead of us and pulled around violently. As we passed, peering out into the inky darkness, we spotted a white pickup truck with “US CUSTOMS AND BORDER PATROL” on its door. Over the next two miles, we saw at least a dozen more, their headlights peering out toward the road like the gleaming eyes of reptilian predators lying in wait.
An hour later, we slowed to a halt at a checkpoint, smiling at the Border Patrol agent as he asked me and Dave to confirm our citizenship. From the back seat, jammed between our mountains of gear— beef jerky, tents, charts, water, pans, beer, ice— Gavin casually leaned forward to confirm that he, too, was there and that he, too, was an American citizen. We were waved through without a hitch.
Back on the river, we soon forget the checkpoints and warnings from days before. Along this stretch of the Rio Grande, the terrain is dominated by soaring cliffs, deep slot canyons, and scorched flatlands for miles on either side. Many of the deeper canyons are overwhelming in their beauty, their stark geological features and alien landscapes preserved from some remote, distant past.
“Throughout the trip, we faced regular reminders that our chosen paddling adventure was along a section of a major—and particularly tense—international border.”
Our guidebook recommends stopping to explore local hot springs, noting one especially popular spot for local “fishermen, farmers, and Mexicans.” Given that these pools are all on the Mexican side, we laugh at the distinction. Waking up in our cliffside campsite after our eighth and final night on the river, we are abruptly reminded of the importance of the distinction between left bank or right by the sounds of helicopter blades rapidly approaching. I glance around at our gear strewn out around us as we sit basking in the morning sun, steaming coffee cups in hand. Suddenly, the chopper banks around a bend in the river a few hundred yards downstream, flying surprisingly low.
Drowned out by the wash of its rotors, I recognize the now familiar words “US BORDER PATROL” in blue lettering blazoned along the fuselage. It passes us and quickly turns right, hard, headed back the way it came. Moments later, it’s back, hovering over us even lower as the pilot leans out and peers down at us through his black-visored helmet. We wave and raise our coffee mugs in greeting, blinking against the sun and dust.
“Close enough to see the color of our skin,” I say, only half-jokingly, when the noise finally recedes as it carries on its patrol up the river.
Ten miles downstream, we pull aside for the final time and haul our boats out of the river. Our kayak is dragged, fully deflated now, along without sopping gear and bags of trash up to our takeout rendezvous point.
As we drive back into cell reception, I read headlines from the past week. In Eagle Pass, just a few miles downstream, a migrant attempting to cross the river drowned, allegedly in full view of border officials.
I begin to drift off to sleep in the back seat, warm and dry for the first time in eight days, and I can’t help but wonder whether my first trip to the southern border hasn’t provided me with more questions than answers.
One thing is certain— this grand river will forever hold starkly different associations for me and my crewmates than for hundreds, perhaps thousands, of others just around the next bend.
ABOUT THE RAPHAEL SMITH MEMORIAL PRIZE
The Raphael Smith Memorial Prize is given in memory of Raphael Smith, a member of the Class of 1994 who died in a motorcycle accident while retracing his stepfather’s adventure of motorcycling from Paris to Tokyo. The prize, established by his family and friends, is awarded annually to two second-year SIPA students for travel articles that exemplify the adventurism and spirit of SIPA. The winners of this year’s contest are Alice Lassman MPA ’24 and Ben Ritter MIA ’24.