cemetery hill

We died in your hills, we died in your deserts,
We died in your valleys and died on your plains.
We died 'neath your trees and we died in your bushes,
Both sides of the river, we died just the same.

- Woodie Guthrie "Deportee"

Alone, but not alone. Perched atop a barren, exposed and wind-blown ridge in the Sonoran Desert just a few miles north of the Mexican border in Arizona, the graveyard resembles a sepia-tone image from the 1930’s:  gray-blue sky, brown land. Mesquite, yucca, white thorn acacia, and cactus all struggling to survive on little rain in these rocky soils. But survive they do in this place of death.

The wind is constantly blowing, scouring the ground and bending low-lying creosote branches that act like brooms, sweeping the ground clean of all pebbles and detritus, creating angel wings on the hardpan surface. But the views are spectacular, particularly today when puffy clouds skirt the skies, migrating from west to east. In spring, after decent winter rains, things turn green and for a brief time life seems good in the desert. But not today.

On Cemetery Hill, some plants have found sanctuary inside the crude fencing surrounding 12 graves—a place where these memorials are also protected from semi-wild cattle that graze and trample this landscape. Fencing also provides a barrier of sorts to the migrating deer and javelinas. Not that they can’t breach the fence or any other barrier. Prevention through deterrence, but just as ineffective as our monstrous wall but not nearly so deadly.

Slowly, we creep up the rocky road in our Humane Borders water truck, already feeling the heat of the early morning coming in through the open windows. The wind provides some relief from the heat of this January day. Even in January, it can be hot here in the Sonoran Desert during the day—but also freezing at night. This desert is a place of extremes and extremists. 

Inside the makeshift fence enclosure, offerings in the form of colorful cloth pieces, flags, rosaries, and trinkets sway in the wind, beckoning to anyone passing by to pause and reflect on the ephemeral nature of all life. So, we stop. Our thoughts are small comfort to the deceased, but at least these people found a suitable resting place and, for the most part, their names endure. 

Sadly, this is not true for most migrants who perish in this desert. Many are nameless, lost, forgotten. No one comes to visit their final resting places because many times they can’t be found. In some cases, lone crosses created by Alvaro Enciso mark the sites where bodies are found—alone out in this unforgiving landscape—a land of open graves. Theirs is a different kind of graveyard. 

Migrant crosses are often vandalized by vigilantes. Migrants are perceived by some as threats, “others” who are criminal and lazy and are dehumanized and banished from the salad bowl of American culture. How much anger and hostility towards humanity do such people have to harbor to deface and destroy crosses for the dead?

Here on Cemetery Hill, we linger longer than usual at this family cemetery to contemplate the meaning of death and dying, both hidden and obvious. We can choose to pause at this makeshift memorial because we are not on a schedule. We’re here in our Humane Borders truck to resupply our water stations, and besides, the barrel is only a few hundred yards away. We can afford to delay and pay tribute to the dead—the least we can do on our monthly mission of mercy. 

This water run is one of many each month. By putting out water we hope to save the lives of those forced to escape violence, drought, corruption, and persecution, hoping for a better life elsewhere. As Steve Saltonstall, my truckmate, has said, there is something wonderful and pure about trying to help people we don’t know and whom we will never meet. “The work is love made visible, with no money or thanks either asked for or given in return.”  The work is not heroic or exceptional but more of a routine we are honored to perform.

Soon enough, on Cemetery Hill, we come to our water barrel, set on a small saddle between ravines where migrants are likely trekking on their way north to avoid detection. The barrel is intact as far as we can tell. We quickly disembark from the truck with our bung wrench, water tester and flashlight. Each 55-gallon barrel lies recumbent on a makeshift stand of cinder blocks and 2” x 6"  boards that cradle it and keep it from moving or rolling away. The upper opening is sealed with a bung plug and is protected by a metal locking cap to prevent vigilantes from tampering with the water. 

Such precautions are critical to maintain high-quality, clean drinking water for migrants, or really for anyone caught out in the desert without enough water—hikers, equestrians, hunters, even mountain bikers like me. Typically, there has been water usage (by migrants or recreationalists, we never know) because the water in the barrel is low, but it is there for whoever needs it. From the large water tank on our truck and with the assistance of a small gas-powered pump, we roll out the hose and top off each barrel and take a photo of the barrel to document our visit. Each barrel has a sticker of the Virgin of Guadalupe to provide something familiar and comforting in this lonely place. 

At the top of Cemetery Hill, I look out over the long, undulating horizon. Today, no one else is in sight. But there are likely migrants out there—hiding, waiting. Hill after hill rises to the south toward the border, carpeted with wheat-colored grasses waving in the wind. A false greeting of welcome. It is eerily silent, save for the wind. But if you listen closely enough, you can hear the wail of lost souls, fantasmas who are still looking for a home, for peace, for tranquility, for a life beyond persecution, violence, and abuse. These restless souls wander the desert, looking for their loved ones.

Here in the graveyard of Southern Arizona, they are alone, but not alone. 

Editor’s Note: “Life and Death on Cemetery Hill” is an abbreviated version of an essay by the same name that was a semi-finalist in the 2024 Tucson Festival of Books writing contest. You can read the essay in its entirety at The Right Launch.

Saltonstall quote from Renegade for Justice: Defending the Defenseless in an Outlaw World, Stephen Lee Saltonstall. Lawrence, KS: University of Kansas Press, 2022. p.226.