The trail head signs are overshadowed by a larger warning :
“Illegals and drug smugglers may be crossing in this area. DO NOT attempt to approach them, immediately call the police!”
The morning fog is thick as I make my way along the White Door in the southern bowels of the Sonoran desert.
A lone coyote howls.
Here in the misty mountains of Organ Pipe I don the comfort of the gas mask, strapping it on tightly before caressing the hollow bones of the Saguaro.
The hollow emptiness here is not conducive to even the bravest of smugglers, lest it be of the human kind or the other.
All souls just disappear into the mist.
