The chain and lock are brand new, so is my key. I drive forward, hop out and lock the gate behind me. I repeat the process at the next gate. It's four miles to the Rancho. The road is a challenge, I hit a dry arroyo, the bank is steep and sandy, and the Grand Marquis bucks on through. I'm careful not to gun the Grand Marquis but also to keep it rolling as if I'm driving in snow.

Tinaja: a pot, mouth and bottom smaller than the center, a water vessel.

Thursday I wrapped things up, made a fast dash to the Tourist Center, grabbed a few brochures and headed south for Rancho Las Tinajas.

With my blue-banded key in hand I was eager to visit the Rancho. "Keys to the car, a right of passage, keys to the house, the pride in ownership, key to the city, an honor, all important moments," I thought, "but I've been trusted with the key to the Rancho, what can match that?"

Sixty miles south of Hermosillo on the road to Guaymas, I follow Jesus' map, spot the Oxxo Minimarket, turn west and keep an eye out for the Rancho Las Tinajas sign. Six miles west I see the sign and pull off the road to take a picture. Across the road are a dirt road and a gate. I pull up, get out the blue-banded key and insert it into the Master lock. I give the key a twist, the lock opens. I uncouple the chain and swing the gate open.

The chain and lock are brand new, so is my key. I drive forward, hop out and lock the gate behind me. I repeat the process at the next gate. It's four miles to the Rancho. The road is a challenge, I hit a dry arroyo, the bank is steep and sandy, and the Grand Marquis bucks on through. I'm careful not to gun the Grand Marquis but also to keep it rolling as if I'm driving in snow.

Something scrapes bottom, the car pitches sideways, I hear a loud thunk. It's not all sand. I pull up on the far side and the road smoothes.

I'm thinking," This is truck country. I need high clearance and four-wheel drive." I look at the oil light. It's OK. But I'll check it again.

At the last gate I'm in for a surprise. The gate is fast, chained, but unlike the others, the lock and chain are old, not new. My key won't fit.

Ahead I can see the ranch house. It's about 400 yards down the road. On the right I see two small figures. Two men are irrigating avocado trees.

I drop my shoulder bag, stick my head between the horizontal slats in the gate and squeeze through. I've been spotted. Two dogs are yapping and one of the men starts coming toward me.

We met. "Buenos dÍas, you're Manuel?" I ask. "SÍ, senor." I explain that Jesus Felix invited me to see the Rancho and I'd appreciate it if Manuel would show me around.

He's as pleased to be my guide as I am to be his guest. He says we'll need my car since one of the men left with the truck and went to town.

I ask how many hands are working the ranch. Manuel says, "Seven men and one lady, the cook." "You're isolated out here," I say. "I like the silence and tranquility," Manuel says. And he tells me that every two weeks when the men go to town for their free weekend, he stays on the ranch.

Manuel reaches into his pocket for a key, but he's got a new one too and he mutters. He'll have to walk back to the ranch house and get the old key. He's surprised to find that he's locked in.

I start to walk with him but he stops. Manuel stoops, picks up a piece of black obsidian in the dirt, and wipes it off rubbing it between his thumb and forefinger. It's the tip of an arrowhead. "At the river," he points about 50 yards east, "the Indians used to camp here and make arrowheads."

"Take a look, you'll likely find something."

Manuel goes for the key and I'm hunting arrowheads.

It doesn't take me long. Chips and flakes of obsidian are scattered about. This was the ancient workshop. Broken pieces were left behind and they were all about. I found two nicely worked arrowheads that broke off and were discarded. Other pieces showed signs of flaking and were razor sharp.

Manuel was taking his time. I found 8 nice pieces. I look up and another ranch hand is walking up the dirt road. It's hot and he walks with a steady gait. He's got a foot-long, all-purpose key called a hacksaw.

I pull the chain taught and Martin, the new fellow, cuts the chain in about 3 minutes. Martin jumps into the Grand Marquis and we drive to the ranch house.

The ranch house is a cinderblock, modest building. There are two outbuildings guarded by dogs that calmed down as soon as I arrive. A rooster is leashed to one foot, and another penned.

Manuel tells me of his surprise about the key and offers to give me a tour of the ranch and take me to the "tinajas," the headwater spring pools.

Manuel explains: the river is a dribble this time of year. Summer rains will create a torrent. But the tinajas always provide a reservoir. It's the reason that there are so many wild animals on the Rancho.

It will be a hike. We'll take the car as far as we can, then climb.

I look out over the rancho. All I see is brown and soft green. This is not a John Wayne ranch, not a cow in sight.

Manuel climbs into the Grand Marquis and says it's about 5 kilometers to the trail and then we'll hike.

I pull forward following the dirt road. My eyes seem to adjust, like in a movie theater. The silhouetted mountains in the west became strongly defined crags, alive in 3-D. And the brown and soft green, I see, are accented with yellow. Then flowers, more yellows, blues, whites, tiny flowers. Bushes and shrubs start to define themselves in a plethora of individual plant species. Palos-verdes, common in the desert are in bloom. And there were palos-blancos, which look like birch trees with white paper bark.

Doves perch on the tip of an organ cactus and a bevy of quail scatter in front of the Grand Marquis. I ask Manuel, "How many types of birds are out here?" He says, "Muchos, muchos," and starts to run the names by me. He must have mentioned 15 different species of birds.

Manuel is telling be about birds and a javelina runs in front of the Grand Marquis. The javelina crashes into desert brush. We can hear it, but it's disappeared.

We pass workmen. They are building a dam on the river. Jesus wants to stock it with freshwater bass. Manuel says that 3 rivers empty into this main one and in September there will be lots of water. The dam looks like it will be at least 40 feet high.

We pass a lone pinto horse. Manuel says, "That's Preciosa (Precious), the horse belongs to the son." I ask, "How many wild animals live out here?" Manuel says two types of deer. I don't catch the name of the first one, but the second is white-tailed deer. He says, "There are coyotes, wild burros too."

The road is rough. The Grand Marquis sounds like it's grading the road. We sway and stagger over ridges and ruts. This is 4-wheel drive country. Manuel doesn't seem to notice my anxiety. We crunch forward.

Manuel hollers a warning. I run the car up the left side embankment to avoid a large bolder on the right and straddle a real hole. There is just enough room.

Then the road really gets bad. I said, "How much farther?" Manuel said, "No mucho, but you can park, we can walk from here."

I am happy to park. If we break down or get stuck, it's a long trek back to the ranch house, and then what?

The air is fragrant. Manuel grabs a bush and strips the leaves. "Oregano," he says. "And here, marjoram."

"What can you eat out here?" I ask. I'm curious. And Manuel mentions cactus fruit and "jojoba beans, you eat them like peanuts."

We might get stuck but we won't starve and there're tinajas full of water.

The road has become a path, and then a trail and it heads steeply into the mountain.

We follow a rock river bed cut out by the summer torrents. Manuel points out "porcelana" (porcelain). It's a white outcropping, featherweight. He picks up a stone and crumbles it in his hands. There is enough here for years of ceramic production. I wonder if the Indians used it for pottery making.

I'm getting winded. This is more than a hike. We are walking against a sheer wall when Manuel stops and points out Indian petroglyphs. There are two men and horses drawn on the wall.

"Here's the first tinaja," Manuel says. I climb up a massive rock on all fours. There is a clef in the mountains and a clear pool. In the pool, I can see small fish darting. Manuel tells me that there is also tilapia, a white fish, but we don't see any. Near the edge of the tinaja there are two sand rings, cones that nearly reach the surface. I'm puzzled. Manuel tells me, "The little fish build a dam that the large fish can't swim over, but the tiny fish can. The circle-dam protects their spawn."

He head higher up the mountain. The second tinaja is larger and I'm getting a little weak from the exertion, the climbing and my fear of heights. Manuel is ready to continue but I suggest that we've covered a lot and that I still have to drive to Guaymas. It will be dark.

We head back. We chat and I express my amazement at desert life. Walking, we pass some more flowers, when Manuel jumps and goes off into the bushes. He picks a passionflower. It's rare he says. It's a beauty and a marvel.

I've never seen such a flower. It's a three-part flower. The green stem and leaves are mounted by a white daisy like flower, but with twice or three times the number of thin pedals, and sticking out from the center attached like a spindle, is a yellow cross with pads on the ends. I presume they are the pollinators. The flower is beautiful.

Back in the car we rumble and grind and twist our way to the ranch house. I keep my eye on the oil pressure, but all is OK. I thank Manuel and head for the main road.

A herd a white cows stares at me and then at the first steeply banked, sandy, dry arroyo, there is herd of wild horses. Their stallions are alert and stare at me. I reach for my camera. The herd, mares and colts, divides and gallops off. I take my last picture on Rancho Las Tinajas of galloping horses fleeing down the dirt road.

They cut across and disappear into the desert.

I look back and the sun is setting. A red glow outlines the mountains.

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 . 

This story is from my Forty Days in Mexico.
The previous story in the series is An Encounter.
The next story in the series is Topolopambo.