Introduction
By April 2020, as the world grappled with the harsh reality that the COVID pandemic was not going to be over quickly and that not everyone who contracted the virus could be saved, I had been volunteering to provide humanitarian aid in the Sonoran Desert surrounding Ajo, Arizona for about two years.
I was also grappling with another harsh reality, no matter how much water I put out in the desert some of the people crossing were still going to die. In the end, although the capacity for providing humanitarian aid remained solid all through spring and early summer of 2020 and we put out a lot of water, that summer came to be known in the humanitarian aid community as the “Summer of SAR (Search and Rescue/Recovery).” Perhaps because, or in spite of the pandemic people continued to cross the border. The heat rose. The monsoons never really came to the west desert around Ajo. And the calls to the volunteer SAR line kept on coming.
Simultaneously, around the U.S. white activists were being asked to and beginning to question narratives of “white saviorism” in their work. For me the intersection of the reality that I could not put out enough water to save everyone’s life with the conversations surrounding white saviorism sparked an internal questioning of how I might reconsider my relationship to providing humanitarian aid. I very much wanted to move towards a perspective of solidarity – of recognizing, highlighting, and foregrounding the partnership of equals between U.S. based volunteers and people crossing the desert in an inequitable place and time.
Solidarity takes many forms. It means not victimizing, disenfranchising, or denying the agency of people crossing the desert in our narratives of the border. For me, this includes not using or co-opting their stories, their experiences, or their deaths in my own quest for personal or community resolution and redemption. It means taking to heart the guidance of Gangula activist Lilla Watson, who reminded us that “If you have come here to help me, then you are wasting your time… But if you have come because your liberation is bound up with mine, then let us work together.” It also means telling the story of my own experiences, thoughts, and feelings to give a glimpse into why I choose to show up for humanitarian aid at the so-called U.S./Mexico border. The following is an excerpt from a journal I kept for a week in April 2020.
The only experiences we can know, stories we can tell, thoughts and feelings we can share, are our own. (Not necessarily. Solidarity also means being able to empathize and use that understanding for advocacy when others can’t. This means being able to understand how to tell stories without co-opting them for transactional purposes). Perhaps something like: For me, this means not just using the stories of others or co-opting their experiences and pain to fuel my own needs for resolution or redemption, but understanding deeply that my own liberation is connected to that of everyone’s, and providing through my own experiences a way for others to understand why I show up for others in the way I do.
Thursday, April 16, 2020
Map of Migrant Mortality. A collaboration between Humane Borders, Pima County Office of the Medical Examiner, Colibri Center for Human Rights, many volunteer Search and Rescue/Recovery groups and migrants traveling through the desert. As of March 18, 2025 the map shows the recovery locations of 4,366 migrants who have died crossing the so-called U.S./Mexico border, many more have yet to be found.
Today was a chill day. It was a logistics day because we have received a waypoint (GPS coordinates) in the Bryan Mountains from one of the SAR hotlines of a person who was left behind by his group about a month ago.
There are many reasons (blisters, dehydration, exhaustion, death to name a few) that cause groups to leave one or more of their members behind. Sometimes, when we find someone who has died, I think about what the rest of their group could have gone through having to leave that person behind. I think about how clear and distinctive water drop locations seem in my mind in the moment. How quickly the image loses focus. How when I try to describe them to other volunteers, I forget details. Does this happen to groups? Do people tell themselves they are going to get help? Feel that the spot is ingrained in their memories? Only to find that when they call the SAR hotline and try to recall the location it has vanished like a dust devil into the enormity of the desert.
None of us has ever been to the Bryan Mountains. We will have to hike 11 miles from the nearest road, the Camino del Diablo, just to get to our search area. In addition to completing a thorough search, we will also take the opportunity to explore the area and try to understand how people are traveling through it. To accomplish all this, we are spending the weekend out there.
I feel that no one is interested in the details of my food, camping, COVID safety and truck preparations. So, I am going to take this opportunity to share something I get in my feelings about.
That something is – items left in the desert by people traveling. Generally, I believe in the principle of “leave no trace.” I pack out my trash and pick up water bottles that we have left in the desert at our drops. But, when it comes to items left behind in the desert by people traveling, I definitely do not pick them up and pack them out. Why not?
First, I do not consider these items to be “trash.” I think of these items as artifacts, tools that people have made a conscious choice about, for example, pantouflas. Pantouflas are carpet slippers that people wear over their shoes to cover their footprints and make it harder for Border Patrol to track them. Like pottery, or other cultural artifacts that you see in museums, pantouflas have a cultural relevance to life in the Sonoran Desert in the 20th and 21st centuries.
Pantouflas (carpet slippers) found on a Search and Recovery with Parallel 31.
Photo by Parallel 31.
Second, I see these items as providing signs and guides for others traveling through the desert. They might help someone to navigate the easiest way through an area. This is especially true when there are multiple apparent canyons going into a mountain range. Some of the canyons will dead end or lead to high cliffs. By following the signs of other travelers, people may be able to identify which canyon leads through the mountains. Items can also identify safe or unsafe places to rest depending on what they are or how they are arranged. For instance, randomly left clothing and blankets can indicate a safe place to sleep, but a circle of camouflage clothing, accompanied by small Kirkland water bottles can indicate a detention site – that is a place where a group has been arrested by Border Patrol.
Third, sometimes items can be reused, a water bottle that has recently been left can replace one that is leaking, or it could be cut in half to make a bowl for eating the beans that we leave or to collect water from rain or a natural rock tank.
I have ideological reasons for not picking up items too.
I want people visiting the desert to see the impact of Prevention through Deterrence [https://www.hrw.org/news/2023/07/26/statement-human-rights-watch-human-cost-harsh-us-immigration-deterrence-policies] on people and on the land. Sometimes the number of items can be overwhelming. Every water bottle, every tuna packet, every backpack, blanket, jacket, pair of jeans, shoe represents someone who has traveled through the heat and surveillance to save themselves or to search for a better life. It is hard to believe that anyone could see the endurance and resilience that these items represent and not feel compassion for their fellow humans.
The author and part of a missile dropped and abandoned by the U.S. military on the public access area of the Barry M. Goldwater Bombing Range.
Photo by Caraway
Tow dart dropped and abandoned by the U.S. military in the San Cristobal Valley on Cabeza Prieta National Wildlife Refuge.
Photo by the author
Finally, there is the hypocrisy of the land managers, who complain vociferously about the environmental impact of items left behind by travelers in a desert that is, and since 1941 has been, an active military training ground. We find all kinds of military trash, from bullets to tow darts, flares, and even full-size missiles. The military says it is too hard to collect their trash because of the terrain and distances they must travel to pick it up. Usually, I am all about community rather than individual responsibility, but as the military has dropped more “trash” in the desert than anyone else and as it is militarization of the desert that is causing people to travel through wilderness areas leaving items behind, it is, perhaps, the military’s responsibility to clean it up.
Friday, April 17, 2020
Summer is coming! Knowing that we had an 11.2-mile hike just to get to our search location in the Bryan Mountains, we left Ajo in the afternoon for the 40ish-mile drive to camp in the Agua Dulce Mountains so that we would be up and walking by 5 a.m. tomorrow.
By 7 p.m. in the evening, everyone was at the campsite. We ate dinner, then planned for the next day’s search around the campfire.
Saturday, April 18, 2020
This morning, we woke up to a beautiful desert sunrise. There was little time to enjoy it. We had a long hike and the heat of the day was coming. We loaded our packs, wolfed down some breakfast and set off across the San Cristobal valley towards our search location in the Bryan Mountains.
I know full well that when I talk about Search and Rescue/Recovery to people who have never participated in it in the Sonoran Desert, the term conjures up images of helicopters, well organized lines of searchers, 4-wheel drive trucks, drones, and high-tech navigation equipment. For us, however, SAR is a complex, messy tangle of information of varying degrees of accuracy and relevance and random groups of people walking on foot using handheld GPS units and distinctly low-tech walkie-talkies.
Normally on SAR we would walk in a line, each person spaced 50 feet apart. We would have a left and right line anchor on either end and a line manager in the middle making sure that we are all walking at the same pace and that everyone is accounted for when we go through washes or thick desert brush. Today, because we had such a great distance to walk just to get to the search area, we used a restricted administrative road – a road that the public is allowed to walk on but only the various arms of Law Enforcement are allowed to drive on – as the fastest way to travel across the valley. This strategy gave us more time to do a proper search once we got to the Bryan Mountains.
And we walked and walked, and it got hotter and hotter, and we walked some more. We stopped chatting and kept walking. After about five hours of walking, we hunted for lunchtime shade and ate and then started walking again. Finally, at about 2 p.m., after seven hours of walking, we arrived at the waypoint we had been given where the man we were looking for had been left behind. And there was nothing but desert. We did not find any sign of the man or any sign of his group.
Map showing the militarized context of our search area in the Bryan Mountains. The official visitors’ maps from Cabeza Prieta National Wildlife Refuge (CPNWR) and the Barry M. Goldwater Bombing Range West are layered with the Arizona Regional Road Network Maps. Icons depict the military context of the border wall, Border Patrol, and air and ground military operations in the area. The brown track indicates the approximate route to our search area at the red waypoint.
Like the desert itself, information for SAR can be an illusion. Time, space and distance look different from different places. A slight rise in the terrain or a wash with tall trees can make a mountain look closer or a valley look narrower than it really is. Also with SAR, one piece of information, such as a waypoint, can seem larger and more important than it is. Another piece of information that might seem small and insignificant can lead the search team to the correct place.
Just because we found nothing at the waypoint, we did not immediately decide that there was no-one or nothing to be found.
We rested, unpacked our packs, and set up camp. Then, somewhat refreshed, we set out with only essential items, water, a little food, GPS, marking tape and walkie talkies for a line search of the area north of the waypoint. We spread out with the west line anchor on the lowest slopes of the Bryans and the east line anchor (me) on the fringe of the San Cristobal valley.
We walked slowly, checking under palo verde and mesquite trees, looking in washes and stopping to investigate items left behind in the desert. Our line moved deliberately and thoroughly north for just over an hour. Then we stopped, the sun was starting to set, and the Bryan Mountains threw a big shadow over the valley. It was time to turn back to reach our camp before it got dark. We bumped the line out to the east to continue our search as we went southward. I moved about a quarter mile out towards the center of the valley and the west anchor, moved to about the line that I had taken coming North. We returned in the same methodical way that we had come.
We did not find the person.
Days like these in the desert bring up so many questions. There are obvious logistical ones like: Was the waypoint wrong? Did we look in the correct directions? Where should we look tomorrow? How much time should we spend doing general exploration to gain information that might be helpful for future SARs? There are also emotional questions: Is it OK if we do not find the person? Is it OK if we laugh, tell stories, and generally enjoy each other’s company while we are on a SAR? Is it allowable to love and appreciate the beauty of the desert while looking for someone who has died in it?
Sunday, April 19, 2020
Back in the day when I had a steady income, I used to play Texas Hold ‘Em. Not particularly well, but I was an almost decent recreational player. Aside from the obvious benefit of occasionally winning money, I learned a lot from the game which I have applied to my life as an humanitarian aid volunteer.
Texas Hold ‘Em Poker is, according to Annie Duke, and I concur, a game of “decision making under conditions of incomplete information.” What counts is the quality of the decision regardless of its outcome. Hold ‘Em also requires you to take the long view, to accept that the universe owes you nothing. Just because you have patiently folded bad starting cards for hours does not mean you now deserve to get dealt pocket Aces. Poker teaches you to maintain a Zen state of detachment, to hold the outcome you are looking for lightly and accept that it may or may not come.
All these lessons apply to doing humanitarian aid work in the Sonoran Desert. Not that people’s lives in the desert are a “game” in the frivolous sense of the word. Clearly there is nothing frivolous in the disappearance of thousands of people as a result of “Prevention through Deterrence.” It is a “game” in the sense that to recover the disappeared and deliver supplies to help people keep themselves alive requires strategy, adapting to change and trying to think as both your allies and your opponents might think, to aid the former and outsmart the latter.
Our SAR this past weekend required using all my poker skills.
We began the search with a waypoint. In the context of the Search and Recovery, a waypoint is very little information. With no corroboratory information, such as the starting location of the group, their destination, how long they had been walking before they left the man behind, which mountains they had passed or were headed towards, a waypoint is almost no information at all. In this situation of incomplete information, the first decision is, “do we go out and look for this person at all?”
In this case the answer to that question was “yes.” It was “yes” for some practical reasons. First, we had the capacity in terms of people ready, willing and able to mount a search. We also had a bigger picture motive of exploring an area (the Bryan Mountains) that none of us had ever been to before. It was also “yes” for existential reasons, even if we did not find him, the very fact of looking demonstrated that this man was a person worth looking for. That seven people hiked 22 miles to look for him (even though we do not know his name or family) hopefully went out into the universe and he and they got a moment of a sense that some people cared.
As we got closer to the waypoint the sense of expectation grew. It is human nature to get excited when you feel you are close to achieving your goal, especially one that has required the exertion of a great deal of physical and mental effort. Here is where poker comes in again: the fact of expending the effort does not equate to deserving the expected outcome. The person we were looking for was not at the waypoint. That does not invalidate the decision to look for him. It does not invalidate the effort expended. It is simply the unexpected result of a good decision.
Map 3 – Map of our grid search area north of the waypoint showing the maze of washes and palo verde trees, saguaros, and creosote bushes to check under. I created this map while editing and organizing this article to show the contrast between the depictions of the Sonoran Desert on maps created by the military and land management agencies that reproduce the concept of the desert as a dangerous and empty land, and the reality of searching for people who have died or been disappeared in a land brimming with life.
Map by the author.
Next we did a grid search, now a Zen poker mindset is most needed and hardest to maintain. You have been sitting at the table for hours, you have been getting dealt Queen/Three off suit for hours. You want something to happen. You envision Aces or Kings coming your way as the cards are dealt and you peek at the corner of the cards, Q3 again. This happens to me a lot on searches. I have been walking for hours, looking under trees for hours and I want to find the person. I start to imagine finding them under the next tree, in the next wash, over the next saddle. I look and there is still just the desert. I tell myself to let go, to hold the thought of the person lightly, to think about something else. Sometimes that works after a fashion. Sometimes I become so focused on trying to hold the person lightly I end up clinging to them tighter than ever.
Back in Ajo tonight, looking at the stars, I remember that this is a “long game.” I believe that the universe knows we looked for this man and I believe that one day, if we all hold him lightly and constantly enough, he will be found.
Now say his name aloud:
“Desconocido.”
“Presente!”
Epilogue
Reading this four years later brings back memories of the beautiful community we shared in the desert during the height of the COVID pandemic. How special it was to be able to walk with that group out to the Bryan Mountains. There are parts that I still agree with and parts where my thinking has changed since 2020. It would be a sorry thing if my thinking had not grown and evolved in the intervening years.
I continue to be drawn back to Ajo every year by my frustration at the inhumanity of U.S. immigration policy. And by my need to do something, anything to contribute to ameliorating the devastating human costs of “Prevention through Deterrence” I am also drawn by my desire to just be in the desert. I don’t know if I am any closer to resolving how to be in genuine solidarity with people crossing the desert. I cannot imagine the external pressures and internal strengths that would get me to pack just one backpack and leave behind the life and home I have built for myself. I do not like to think of people crossing the desert as “needy, desperate migrants.” I believe that humanitarian aid work and the language we use to describe it must recognize the agency, need and determination as well as the desperation in people’s journeys. As we move deeper into our technological and AI age, I become ever more acutely aware that people crossing the desert today are the vanguard. We will all be learning from them in a future where all our liberation is bound up in the freedom of people to move across “borders.”
My favorite day’s writing is Thursday, the day I talk about items left behind in the desert. I still stand solidly behind my arguments for not picking up items left by people traveling. I wince a little when I read that I wrote the words “leave no trace” and “wilderness.” When people say those words to me now my hackles rise. What wilderness? The Sonoran Desert has always been a place of people and communities and travel. Humans and their movement are as much a part of life in the desert as pronghorn, pack rats and saguaros.
The author walking through the poppies on the Public Access area of the Barry M. Goldwater Bombing Range.
Photo by a friend.
The intervening years have also added another layer of complexity to my relationship with humanitarian aid. I have been thinking and learning about the relationship between our work with the Sonoran Desert’s Indigenous O’odham himdag (way of life) and the land itself. Today, I try to think of humanitarian aid as the current iteration of a centuries old desert culture of giving assistance to travelers and caring for water sources. It feels important to me to be in solidarity with land and water as well as people. The Sonoran Desert once provided water for travelers naturally. Now it is unable to do this on its own due to climate change and the never-ending thirst of cities like Phoenix, Tucson and Buckeye. The honor of creating and caring for water sources is an opportunity to try and practice valuing and learning from Indigenous ways of living with the land and to reestablish and rebalance my relationship with my human, plant, animal, mountain, rock, and water relatives.
Joanne Coutts is an independent cartographer and activist whose practice is centered on the connections between our relationships with land and water, and commitment to humanitarian aid and solidarity in response to climate change. Her current projects use counter-mapping to support humanitarian aid at the so-called US/Mexico border and contribute to efforts for water rights, and rights for water, in Detroit.
