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nevlec
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- Joined
- Sep 7, 2004
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- Houston, Tx
- First Name
- Charles
- Last Name
- Nevle
As I was making the decision to attend this year’s Round the Bend rally I was in the midst of reading a book I’d seen around for a while, but never managed to read – Drug Lord: The Life and Death of a Mexican Kingpin by Terrence Poppa. Being a long time visitor to the Big Bend region (as a youth my parents would bring my brothers and I camping at the park for 2 weeks each summer) I was mesmerized by tales around places I had visited as well as the colorful cast of characters. Of course Pablo himself, but also US Customs agent David Regela, the young female drug dealer Becky Garcia and her once husband, smuggler Sammy. And of course, Mimi Webb Miller, the artist who moved to the Big Bend area, bought a ranch outside Ojinaga which she still owns today (along with La Posada Milagro in Terlingua) and became involved first with the Customs agent tasked with taking down Pablo, David Regela, and then with Pablo himself, and became a de facto liaison between US law enforcement and Pablo working to get Pablo to become an informant for the US and ultimately to surrender to US authorities. Ultimately Pablo became a victim of his own product, his success, and his chutzpah – giving a tell all interview to the book’s author detailing who and how much he paid in the Mexican government to secure his concession – his rights to traffic through the Ojinaga “plaza”.
So with all of this swirling through my mind as I planned my latest trip to the Bend I knew I had to find Pablo’s grave. It became a quest. The book said only that he, after being killed by a joint US and Mexican operation in Boquillas, that he was buried near his nephew on a hilltop in a town called Tecolote. My original plan was to go a day or two early and search for the grave, but that later morphed into a pre Round the Bend trip to Copper Canyon – an epic journey with Fred B. – but that’s another story. So after making it back from Copper Canyon and riding around Big Bend for a couple of day’s, though the trip was amazing, an appetite remained unfulfilled – I had yet not accomplished my goal and I knew that before I left I must try.
What follows is an account of the quest to find Pablo’s grave. I mentioned to several folks of my quest and there was a mix of interest and bewilderment at the stupidity of engaging in what could be such a dangerous expedition. No photos exist of his grave, where really was it? Was it guarded by narcos? Would I come back alive? But those hardy souls who saw past the perceived danger and difficulties threw in their support. A date and time was set – we would meet at the restaurant in Lajitas before venturing to Ojinaga and the quest.
On the appointed morning I found myself eating alone realizing that better judgement had taken hold of those who had seemed primed to cast their lot on this journey. Just as I was about to give up hope, Ken and his son Brandon from Grapevine arrived. We made our final plans and headed to Presidio. While refueling in Presidio, three strangers approached – asking if we were headed to Mexico. Upon replying yes and explaining our quest, they immediately decided to become part of our band of adventurers. The newcomers were a man we will call Midland, from where he hails, his pillion from Colorado, Jennifer, and a man from Austin who for reasons that will become clear later we will refer to as The Translator.
Shortly after we crossed the border we were joined by one last adventurer who was late to our meeting in Lajitas but later caught up, David from Houston. And so we ventured, we seven, we ventured on to the unknown.
In preparation for this trip I had done extensive research on where the grave might be. The book mentions the town of Tecolote, but no such town exists on any map. After exhausting research on the internet I ventured to Washington DC where I spent weeks searching though maps in the Smithsonian to no avail. I befriended a researcher there who put me in touch with a colleague who had a connection at the Archivo General de la Nación – the Mexcian National Archives – located in a former prison in Mexico city. There I ventured, reading through texts, maps, dissertations and other works for any clues as to where this town may be. Nothing. Zero. Nada. The village was a true ghost town – existing only in whispered comments, rumors, folk tales and bed time stories. I realized that only by venturing on to the birthplace of Pablo, Ojinaga, could I find out where his earthly remains spend eternity.
So, we seven ventured into Ojinaga, ventured to the southern part of town I had heard was the family birthplace of Pablo. There, beside the road, as we road on, an old Mexican woman held my gaze as we road by. I felt her calling to me as she swept the sidewalk in front of her modest home. I motioned to the others to turn around and we cautiously parked near her house. Not speaking Spanish myself I was unsure how to proceed – but something told me this woman knew what we were after and how to find it. I surveyed my fellow adventurers, and it turned out one was fluent in Spanish – The Translator. I accompanied The Translator to the woman and asked him to ask her if she knew where to find Tecolote. Before he could speak the woman looked at me and The Translator, there back her head and let out a bellowing laughter that amazed me with its vigor coming from such an old and feeble woman. When she quit her laughing she said “Pablo – Buscas a Pablo” You seek Pablo. Yes, we seek Pablo. Fools she called us, but we persisted. She said we must go to Tecolote. Yes, we know, but where is this Tecolote? To find Tecolote she told us we must ride into the desert and we will come to a place where the air we be filled with a scent of persimmon and gooseberry – and there she told us we will find a man/woman who will guide us to our destination. Man/woman? Yes, man/woman she said. Ok – which direction in the desert we asked? How far? That way – she pointed to the south. How far – until you smell persimmon and a hint of gooseberry in the air.
Ridiculous we said. This woman is crazy. And she laughed again. And she pointed. And we rode, we rode into the desert alert for the smell of persimmon and gooseberry. We rode south into the desert across the sand and rocks, dodging cactus, snakes, and our own fears, and we rode. We rode until nightfall. As the bikes began to run out of gas we began to double up on the remaining bikes. The dual sport dirtbikes went first, leaving two GS’s and a Moto Guzzi Stelvio to carry the seven of us. Somewhere in the early night, my GS hit a large rock bending the front rim. Not being able to put all seven of us on two bikes, I decided the only option was to remove the front wheel and ride at a continuous wheelie and carry on, and so we did. Three of us on the GS, wheeling through the desert night constantly alert for the smell of persimmon with a hint of gooseberry.
Tragedy stuck sometime late at night as on the bikes hit a large bolder pinning David’s leg against the offending rock. It became clear that the would was serious and we were left with no option but to remove it. Finding an ample stick for David to bite down on, and after applying a crude tourniquet I used Paco’s knife to remove David’s leg just above the knee. We then made ice using a method I learned in the Boy Scouts where you distill the gypsum from sand, create a fire and the resulting heat drain when applied to a vacuum using a crude Venturi and applied to a source of water creates ice. We placed the removed leg within the ice and realized that for a permanent fix we needed to find an replacement for David’s tendon’s and ligaments.
Earlier in the evening we had seen a Mexican black bear. Midland came up with the idea to hunt down and harvest the bear’s leg to fix David’s. Clearly genius. Midland set off and no sooner than we had explained the plan to an alarmed, but calm, David, Midland reappeared carrying the bears leg. Using the collective pool of zip ties, duct tape, and safety wire we did a despicable job of reattaching David’s leg. David, however, did not seem to be doing well. We thought it best to wait until morning before pushing on.
In the morning, after a restless few hours of sleep, I roused David and asked him if he was doing better – he nodded. I let him know we need to push on and asked him if he thought he could walk. He stood up shakily and put limply put one foot in front of the other. Can you make it - “Yes, just bearly”. Trooper. What a trooper.
I realized that above I mentioned Paco without introducing him. Paco is a Tarahumara indian Fred B. and I rescued while traversing through Copper Canyon on the road between Batopilas and Urique. We came upon Paco after he had been bitten by a rattle snake. It seems Paco had been realeaving himself upon a rock cliff where, unbeknownst to him, the culprit serpent had been resting. While the insult rained down upon him in his shaded refuge behind a rock, the snake lashed out directly at the offending organ, leaving poor Paco in a bad place indeed. We happened upon Paco just minutes past the tragedy. Fred, having a solid background in first aid knew what must be done to extract the poison, and not having the necessary equipment heroically attended to the task in the only manner our current situation allowed.
We then, according to instructions drawn in the sand by Paco, built a sweat house where for two days Paco remained as we gathered firewood to keep the smoke billowing. After two days Paco emerged from the smoke house rejuvenated and grateful. He then pledged his life to Fred, stating he would accompany him to the end of his days in accordance with his tradition. Fred, though honored, wanted to distance himself from the whole ordeal and instead ‘willed’ Paco to me. And that is how Paco joined this trip, content to run beside my motorcycle, running at up to 70 miles per hour for hundreds of miles at a stretch. Amazing speed and endurance, just amazing.
As day stretched into another night, a moonless night, our search continued. The headlamps on the other two motorcycles had quit working, and though while mine worked it was pointed straight into the night sky by virtue of our need to wheelie as we had no front wheel. At this point David was in the driver’s seat while the other two of us on the bike tried to get some rest. I asked David if he could see anything. “Yes, just bearly” he replied. Paco, seeing our predicament produced a mirror which he said he used to signal others of his tribe in the mountains. As he ran along side of us he held the mirror above the headlight in such an angle as to shine the light ahead of us. Genius. Pure genius that Paco.
So on we went and then out of nowhere we were all struck by a scent in the air – a sent of… of… persimmon and something else – what was that? Goooseberry? David – do you smell that? “Yes, just bearly”. And then we saw him/her. In the desert was a hut and out of the hut came a man/woman who introduced herself as Maria. She/he said she was a transvestite who had been banished to the desert after being caught stealing from the local store too often. We offered him/her water and what little we had in terms of food and asked if he/she could help us. He/she just scoffed and asked why should she?
It was then that Jennifer from Colorado spoke up. She said she could help, it turns out she is from Trinidad, Colorado – the sex change capital of the world, and is a detective on the police department and as such is used to dealing with not only transvestites, but also criminals, and of course transvestite criminals. She and Maria developed a quick rapport and Maria. Maria informed Jennifer that on the morning before the Fourth Sunday of the Great Fast (St. John the Ladder) the first sun of the morning would stike a cross on a hilltop, and this the hill upon which Pablo Acosta is buried.
Having attended Catholic school all of my youth, I knew that the day in question was this very day, that the sun’s rays which were imminent would lead us to our path. And just then the sun peaked above the horizon and a path of rays worked across the desert and there illuminated a cross upon a hill which had until then been unseen in the backdrop of the vast desert. We quickly saddled up and road on, riding (wheeling) to the top of the hill and there upon this hill we found what we had been search for, we found the final resting spot of the notorious drug lord, Pablo Acosta. And there we took the following pictures before wearily heading back to the border.
As I related this story at the Saturday dinner to J.T, Phillip and Bob (tricepilot) a collective silence overcame the group, a silence before unknown to this gathering – a silence last perhaps two, nearly three seconds. After this exhausting period Phillip turned to David and asked – David – is this really true, to which David replied, “Yes, just bearly”.
So with all of this swirling through my mind as I planned my latest trip to the Bend I knew I had to find Pablo’s grave. It became a quest. The book said only that he, after being killed by a joint US and Mexican operation in Boquillas, that he was buried near his nephew on a hilltop in a town called Tecolote. My original plan was to go a day or two early and search for the grave, but that later morphed into a pre Round the Bend trip to Copper Canyon – an epic journey with Fred B. – but that’s another story. So after making it back from Copper Canyon and riding around Big Bend for a couple of day’s, though the trip was amazing, an appetite remained unfulfilled – I had yet not accomplished my goal and I knew that before I left I must try.
What follows is an account of the quest to find Pablo’s grave. I mentioned to several folks of my quest and there was a mix of interest and bewilderment at the stupidity of engaging in what could be such a dangerous expedition. No photos exist of his grave, where really was it? Was it guarded by narcos? Would I come back alive? But those hardy souls who saw past the perceived danger and difficulties threw in their support. A date and time was set – we would meet at the restaurant in Lajitas before venturing to Ojinaga and the quest.
On the appointed morning I found myself eating alone realizing that better judgement had taken hold of those who had seemed primed to cast their lot on this journey. Just as I was about to give up hope, Ken and his son Brandon from Grapevine arrived. We made our final plans and headed to Presidio. While refueling in Presidio, three strangers approached – asking if we were headed to Mexico. Upon replying yes and explaining our quest, they immediately decided to become part of our band of adventurers. The newcomers were a man we will call Midland, from where he hails, his pillion from Colorado, Jennifer, and a man from Austin who for reasons that will become clear later we will refer to as The Translator.
Shortly after we crossed the border we were joined by one last adventurer who was late to our meeting in Lajitas but later caught up, David from Houston. And so we ventured, we seven, we ventured on to the unknown.
In preparation for this trip I had done extensive research on where the grave might be. The book mentions the town of Tecolote, but no such town exists on any map. After exhausting research on the internet I ventured to Washington DC where I spent weeks searching though maps in the Smithsonian to no avail. I befriended a researcher there who put me in touch with a colleague who had a connection at the Archivo General de la Nación – the Mexcian National Archives – located in a former prison in Mexico city. There I ventured, reading through texts, maps, dissertations and other works for any clues as to where this town may be. Nothing. Zero. Nada. The village was a true ghost town – existing only in whispered comments, rumors, folk tales and bed time stories. I realized that only by venturing on to the birthplace of Pablo, Ojinaga, could I find out where his earthly remains spend eternity.
So, we seven ventured into Ojinaga, ventured to the southern part of town I had heard was the family birthplace of Pablo. There, beside the road, as we road on, an old Mexican woman held my gaze as we road by. I felt her calling to me as she swept the sidewalk in front of her modest home. I motioned to the others to turn around and we cautiously parked near her house. Not speaking Spanish myself I was unsure how to proceed – but something told me this woman knew what we were after and how to find it. I surveyed my fellow adventurers, and it turned out one was fluent in Spanish – The Translator. I accompanied The Translator to the woman and asked him to ask her if she knew where to find Tecolote. Before he could speak the woman looked at me and The Translator, there back her head and let out a bellowing laughter that amazed me with its vigor coming from such an old and feeble woman. When she quit her laughing she said “Pablo – Buscas a Pablo” You seek Pablo. Yes, we seek Pablo. Fools she called us, but we persisted. She said we must go to Tecolote. Yes, we know, but where is this Tecolote? To find Tecolote she told us we must ride into the desert and we will come to a place where the air we be filled with a scent of persimmon and gooseberry – and there she told us we will find a man/woman who will guide us to our destination. Man/woman? Yes, man/woman she said. Ok – which direction in the desert we asked? How far? That way – she pointed to the south. How far – until you smell persimmon and a hint of gooseberry in the air.
Ridiculous we said. This woman is crazy. And she laughed again. And she pointed. And we rode, we rode into the desert alert for the smell of persimmon and gooseberry. We rode south into the desert across the sand and rocks, dodging cactus, snakes, and our own fears, and we rode. We rode until nightfall. As the bikes began to run out of gas we began to double up on the remaining bikes. The dual sport dirtbikes went first, leaving two GS’s and a Moto Guzzi Stelvio to carry the seven of us. Somewhere in the early night, my GS hit a large rock bending the front rim. Not being able to put all seven of us on two bikes, I decided the only option was to remove the front wheel and ride at a continuous wheelie and carry on, and so we did. Three of us on the GS, wheeling through the desert night constantly alert for the smell of persimmon with a hint of gooseberry.
Tragedy stuck sometime late at night as on the bikes hit a large bolder pinning David’s leg against the offending rock. It became clear that the would was serious and we were left with no option but to remove it. Finding an ample stick for David to bite down on, and after applying a crude tourniquet I used Paco’s knife to remove David’s leg just above the knee. We then made ice using a method I learned in the Boy Scouts where you distill the gypsum from sand, create a fire and the resulting heat drain when applied to a vacuum using a crude Venturi and applied to a source of water creates ice. We placed the removed leg within the ice and realized that for a permanent fix we needed to find an replacement for David’s tendon’s and ligaments.
Earlier in the evening we had seen a Mexican black bear. Midland came up with the idea to hunt down and harvest the bear’s leg to fix David’s. Clearly genius. Midland set off and no sooner than we had explained the plan to an alarmed, but calm, David, Midland reappeared carrying the bears leg. Using the collective pool of zip ties, duct tape, and safety wire we did a despicable job of reattaching David’s leg. David, however, did not seem to be doing well. We thought it best to wait until morning before pushing on.
In the morning, after a restless few hours of sleep, I roused David and asked him if he was doing better – he nodded. I let him know we need to push on and asked him if he thought he could walk. He stood up shakily and put limply put one foot in front of the other. Can you make it - “Yes, just bearly”. Trooper. What a trooper.
I realized that above I mentioned Paco without introducing him. Paco is a Tarahumara indian Fred B. and I rescued while traversing through Copper Canyon on the road between Batopilas and Urique. We came upon Paco after he had been bitten by a rattle snake. It seems Paco had been realeaving himself upon a rock cliff where, unbeknownst to him, the culprit serpent had been resting. While the insult rained down upon him in his shaded refuge behind a rock, the snake lashed out directly at the offending organ, leaving poor Paco in a bad place indeed. We happened upon Paco just minutes past the tragedy. Fred, having a solid background in first aid knew what must be done to extract the poison, and not having the necessary equipment heroically attended to the task in the only manner our current situation allowed.
We then, according to instructions drawn in the sand by Paco, built a sweat house where for two days Paco remained as we gathered firewood to keep the smoke billowing. After two days Paco emerged from the smoke house rejuvenated and grateful. He then pledged his life to Fred, stating he would accompany him to the end of his days in accordance with his tradition. Fred, though honored, wanted to distance himself from the whole ordeal and instead ‘willed’ Paco to me. And that is how Paco joined this trip, content to run beside my motorcycle, running at up to 70 miles per hour for hundreds of miles at a stretch. Amazing speed and endurance, just amazing.
As day stretched into another night, a moonless night, our search continued. The headlamps on the other two motorcycles had quit working, and though while mine worked it was pointed straight into the night sky by virtue of our need to wheelie as we had no front wheel. At this point David was in the driver’s seat while the other two of us on the bike tried to get some rest. I asked David if he could see anything. “Yes, just bearly” he replied. Paco, seeing our predicament produced a mirror which he said he used to signal others of his tribe in the mountains. As he ran along side of us he held the mirror above the headlight in such an angle as to shine the light ahead of us. Genius. Pure genius that Paco.
So on we went and then out of nowhere we were all struck by a scent in the air – a sent of… of… persimmon and something else – what was that? Goooseberry? David – do you smell that? “Yes, just bearly”. And then we saw him/her. In the desert was a hut and out of the hut came a man/woman who introduced herself as Maria. She/he said she was a transvestite who had been banished to the desert after being caught stealing from the local store too often. We offered him/her water and what little we had in terms of food and asked if he/she could help us. He/she just scoffed and asked why should she?
It was then that Jennifer from Colorado spoke up. She said she could help, it turns out she is from Trinidad, Colorado – the sex change capital of the world, and is a detective on the police department and as such is used to dealing with not only transvestites, but also criminals, and of course transvestite criminals. She and Maria developed a quick rapport and Maria. Maria informed Jennifer that on the morning before the Fourth Sunday of the Great Fast (St. John the Ladder) the first sun of the morning would stike a cross on a hilltop, and this the hill upon which Pablo Acosta is buried.
Having attended Catholic school all of my youth, I knew that the day in question was this very day, that the sun’s rays which were imminent would lead us to our path. And just then the sun peaked above the horizon and a path of rays worked across the desert and there illuminated a cross upon a hill which had until then been unseen in the backdrop of the vast desert. We quickly saddled up and road on, riding (wheeling) to the top of the hill and there upon this hill we found what we had been search for, we found the final resting spot of the notorious drug lord, Pablo Acosta. And there we took the following pictures before wearily heading back to the border.
As I related this story at the Saturday dinner to J.T, Phillip and Bob (tricepilot) a collective silence overcame the group, a silence before unknown to this gathering – a silence last perhaps two, nearly three seconds. After this exhausting period Phillip turned to David and asked – David – is this really true, to which David replied, “Yes, just bearly”.
