I follow the sign and drive down a dirt washboard. Ten kilometers later I happen on a village of sorts. There are adobe houses, randomly spaced, giving testimony to the truth "from dust to dust." A kid gives me further directions and says, "There is a monument to Miguel Hidalgo," the Mexican priest who led the fight for Independence.

I was alone, both in my car and out on the highway, driving north towards Monclova. It's the kind of place that makes you wonder about where to get gas; it's nowhere.

The Grand Marquis is flashing down the highway and my mind is in neutral when I get this impression: I just passed a sign. It's brand new with just a symbol, a church or colonial building printed in blue.

It's a marker for something. I'm puzzled. I think, "What could it be out here in this lonely place?"

I stop, make a u-turn, and drive back. The sign points east. I look out over the desert and I can't spy a thing, nothing, not a village, no tall church tower, not a thing. Cactus, mesquite and chaparral, that's it.

But I'm curious. I follow the sign and drive down a dirt washboard.

Ten kilometers later I happen on a village of sorts. There are adobe houses, randomly spaced, giving testimony to the truth "from dust to dust." A kid gives me further directions and says, "There is a monument to Miguel Hidalgo," the Mexican priest who led the fight for Independence. He points me east in the direction where the road gets worse and it's already bad, narrow, and I'm not even sure when I hit a fork which one to take.

I feel like the Lone Ranger and spur on the Grand Marquis. I'm trying to miss the washed out ruts and zigzagging around, and darn if I don't see a guy with a donkey pulling a cart.

I feel like the Lone Ranger and spur on the Grand Marquis. I'm trying to miss the washed out ruts and zigzagging around, and darn if I don't see a guy with a donkey pulling a cart. We drive towards one another, and the donkey turns out to be a horse and the cart, a buckboard.

I think of John Wayne in The Red River. Thinking I'm in an old western movie, I raise my hand and say, "Hola" (hello). The driver pulls on the reins and the horse halts. He says he's hauling a few bales of sorghum and he's as friendly as a neighbor. I'm back in the 19th century.

I get out of the Grand Marquis, but leave the motor and the air conditioning running, and ask, "Where is the Hidalgo Monument?" He says I'm near the turn off, and we get chatting. I tell him, "When I was a muchacho, I worked on a ranch. We had a couple of these buckboards in the barn but they were never used." He says, "You want a ride?" "Sure," I say. "That would be a real treat." I ask, "What is your name?" "Roberto." He says.

So I step up, using the wheel as a ladder and hop on. The wheel is homemade. Re-bar is welded to an iron ring that looks like a bike rim without the tire. I seat myself, riding shotgun, like Andy Devine.

Roberto flicks the reins and off the horse goes across the desert. He tells me that his horse is named "Macho." It's smoother riding than my Grand Marquis on the rutted road. He runs the horse and buckboard and tells me that I should get a picture of the buckboard with the Grand Marquis out here in the desert. "Wonderful idea," I tell him and he drives Macho up on the road behind the Grand Marquis, makes a U and puts Macho and the buckboard in position for a photo.

I hop down, careful not to lose my balance, get out my camera and snap a few shots. I figure things can't get better.

Maybe they can't get better, but my luck continues. Roberto points out my turn off. It's marked, "Hidalgo Monument, 7 km." It's the site where the Spaniards caught up with Miguel Hidalgo and arrested him.

So I start down this 7 km getting-worse-and-worse road. I feel like it's 1811 and wonder how they ever found him or why he took this route. The road forks and Y's and I'm not sure if I'm on a path or just getting lost in the desert. I've got a plastic bottle of water so I figure I'm at least good for a couple of hours if I have to hike back. The road turns sandy, and that gives me more concern. Don't want to get stuck in soft sand. But onward I go.

I pull near a couple of adobe structures. I'm not sure if they were houses or are houses. Then I see a pig in the shade tied to a tree. There is laundry flapping, hanging from a back fence and a white roster strutting.

I drive about 400 yards past the place, and the weeds get tall and the road and the desert start to look the same. So I put the car in reverse ( can't turn around here) and back up. As I'm looking through the back window I see someone cross the road. I back up and park, get out and head toward the dwelling with it's bricked up window and weathered green door.

A lady opens the door ajar and pokes her head out. I greet her and tell her, "I think I'm lost in the desert. I'm looking for the Miguel Hidalgo Monument." She's friendly and chats, "We had people from Saltillo; they were lost too." She calls her son Antonio and tells him to be my guide.

Antonio and I go down a road that tapers into nothing. It's been a wet year and the desert is green. Two feet of grass, or shrub covers most of the road and not many cars keep the two tracks visible.

He hops in and out of my car opening the stretch-wire gates, the kind you put the pole in a loop at the bottom, stretch the barbwire taught, and then loop the top of the pole. There must have been 4 gates as we drove to the Monument. We could see the hill where the Spaniards hid behind (if I got the story right) and then the obelisk came into sight.

We got out and I took pictures. It is a simple and lonely place. Isolation created a sense of reverence. Antonio said that only once a year do many people come out to see this monument that marked the place where Hidalgo was taken prisoner. The pilgrimage day is March 21; the day Hidalgo lost his liberty.

It made a great ending to my trip. I had started in pursuit of Hernando Cortez, Villa Rica de la Vera Cruz, and the arrival of the Spaniards in Mexico. Now with my good luck, I ended with Miguel Hidalgo, the man whose "Grito" (cry) on September 16, 1810 ended 300 years of Spanish colonialism.

Dick Davis travels frequently. He has taught in both Mexico and Spain and is happy to share his experiences. A resolute companion in his Mexican travels is his Grand Marquis. He can be contacted at:  This e-mail address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it .