Over the course of multiple parts, our latest series looks at the daily intricacies and deep contradictions of life in a South Texas border town. Sharing tradition, culture, and family with our Mexican neighbors, writer Melissa Guerra takes us on a narrative journey of her homeland, sticking strictly to description and narrative and veering away from politics in a powerful collection of personal stories. Click here to catch up on all the stories in this series, Stories from a Texas Border Ranch.

Look deep into nature, and then you will understand everything better. — Albert Einstein

Protest

“Because you attended a protest, I am no longer following you…” the serene blue-framed social media message read. What did I post that a follower found offensive?

Turns out, I had posted a photographic still life study of red, plump tomatoes in an antique copper scale, luminous aqua colored glass canning jars, emerging from a dark, moody background. The casual comments under my food blog photo was a listing of activities from my hectic, non-sequitur of a week, and an “Oh, by the way, I went to a border wall protest where they were giving away free bags of organic broccoli and sausage tacos…Best protest ever.” That was the offending line. Hence, the unfriending.

Humph.

The day after my ride along with Border Patrol, there was a peaceful protest in support of the preservation of Santa Ana Wildlife Refuge, in anticipation of the construction of the proposed Border Wall between the U.S. and Mexico. The 2,088 acre refuge is squared up in the crosshairs of the surveyor’s transit and blocking the trajectory of the bridge construction. The refuge is home to countless bird, butterfly, and insect species, not to mention deer, snakes, and the elusive, endangered ocelot.

Water

Had I not been unfriended, I could have talked to my social media friend about my concern for our local water supply. Understanding our water needs is vital for anyone who is searching for our authentic local perspective on the construction of a Border Wall. What has been set aside in the political ruckus of international immigration is the effect a physical wall will have on every other locally living species, who are passport-free citizens of neither country.

As our only river, the importance of the Rio Grande to our local wildlife cannot be overstated. Heavily tapped by human population from its source in Colorado to where it releases into the Gulf of Mexico, the Rio Grande water supply is shared by both Mexico and the U.S. As it winds south away from its wellspring, the river shrinks and narrows, providing our area with a vital albeit measured water resource. We need every drop.

Although water treaties between Mexico and the United States are solidly in place, the treaties are respected by citizens when convenient. Lack of rain stresses not only the water needs of the growing bilateral riverside populations, but their ability to irrigate the crops needed to also feed these populations. People can argue for their water rights, but animals simply relocate, or cease to exist.

But where would the animals relocate to? Away from the river, water sources are scarce. In my kitchen at the ranch, the water that pours from our faucet is pumped from an artesian well. Small shallow aquifers exist across the ranchlands in the north part of our county. Drilling to levels of 30 to 40 feet, you can find water, although limited.

That scarcity of water wrote our local history. Before cattle were introduced to our area, the landscape was more of a grassy plain with occasional trees, and few cacti. The indigenous tribes identified the low spots where water collected, which many times were sunken indentations over artesian wells. A bit of digging could turn a sink hole into a water hole, which became a stopping point during a tribe’s nomadic hunting journey.

Once the Spanish arrived in the Americas, and pushed their way north from Mexico, they built well shafts into these watering holes, and next to them, established their ranch homes. As more cattle entered the picture, more grass seed and trees were disbursed, creating a thick brushland that hid most of the 17th and 18th century wells from view. But I see an 18^th century well every day from my kitchen window, and it taps the same artesian source as my kitchen faucet. Other than the river, the only alternative water source for the wildlife would be the occasional man-made agricultural trough whose source are these ancient wells.

Holding to the simple belief that water is meant to support life, then it stands to reason that the secondary function of the Rio Grande in our area is that of an international border. All living local creatures need access to this river.

Refuge

The refuge is set aside from the activity of farming or ranching. The riverside property is a primordial forest, untouched by electric pumps, bridges, or speedboats. It’s jade green tranquility supports the native animals looking for peace amid the hubbub of modern human water requirements.

I spent 10 minutes trying to get a good photo of an Altamira oriole feeding on an orange half affixed to a tall wooden pole. He was too shy to flit back to the skewered citrus. There were families strolling with babbling children. With Dad chatting with grandma on his cell phone and Mom calling out what snacks were available, the stream of visitors absentmindedly broke the tranquility of the feeding area. I watched the oriole watching them. The bird couldn’t get to the sweet orange. He flew to a higher branch and waited for the crowd of noisy pedestrians to leave.

I decided to walk along one of the path loops of the refuge to remind myself why protesters were here in the first place. Mysterious, pristine and untouched, I was a little overwhelmed by the refuge’s uncorrupted beauty. What was most striking was the change in terrain midway along the path. What started as thick, black ebony trees and gnarled mesquite trees weeping with sap that oozed out of their grey spotted bark became higher, taller trees bearded with Spanish moss. Native Sabal palms sprouted randomly at the base of ever more trees, and I began to hear birds such as Least Grebes and Chachalacas calling out to each other. The chartreuse and brown striped Kiskadee fly catchers chirruped while darting through the tree branches, as the hazy grey emerald water of a river inlet quietly flowed below them.

If but for a moment, I was in a time machine, transported to a prehistoric millennium before humans had ever touched this riverside property. And it was utterly beautiful.