This diary is a companion to my ongoing series about Big Bend National Park. The photo diaries highlight the natural wonders of the area. But there is a dark side, too. We must not pretend it isn’t there.
North of Big Bend National Park on US Highway 385, pretty much in the middle of nowhere, sits a Border Patrol checkpoint. If you’re a northbound traveler putting distance between yourself and Mexico, you must stop. As you slow down, you can’t help but notice the bank of sensors next to the road. Every vehicle is scanned for whatever it is they’re in the mood to scan for.
Traffic is diverted off the highway and underneath a canopy. As you coast to a stop, an agent with a drug-sniffing dog checks your vehicle. Another agent greets you and asks a few questions. As long as you don’t arouse any suspicions, the agent tells you to have a nice day and sends you on your way.
Border Patrol checkpoint south of Marathon. Image courtesy Google Maps.
These checkpoints have sprung up all along the border with Mexico. They are separate from the Ports of Entry where you go through Customs, and are always located inland from the border, up to 100 miles. The checkpoints are now so numerous that travelers can hardly escape them, and that is by design. Oh, and if you take back roads to elude the stations, sensors will detect your vehicle.
Sensors at Border Patrol checkpoint. Image courtesy Google Maps.
A 1976 Supreme Court decision, United States v. Martinez-Fuerte, gave the Border Patrol broad authority to do this. From Wikipedia:
The Border Patrol's routine stopping of a vehicle at a permanent checkpoint located on a major highway away from the Mexican border for brief questioning of the vehicle's occupants is consistent with the Fourth Amendment, and the stops and questioning may be made at reasonably located checkpoints in the absence of any individualized suspicion that the particular vehicle contains illegal aliens.
Okay, the checkpoints are legal. But they give a third-world flavor to what we’re constantly told to believe is The Greatest Nation On Earth.
Curious about the origins of the War on Drugs, I again turned to Wikipedia. We often associate the term with President Nixon. However,
Although Nixon declared "drug abuse" to be public enemy number one in 1971, the policies that his administration implemented as part of the Comprehensive Drug Abuse Prevention and Control Act of 1970 were a continuation of drug prohibition policies in the U.S., which started in 1914… The first U.S. law that restricted the distribution and use of certain drugs was the Harrison Narcotics Tax Act of 1914.
This was the fourth Border Patrol station I had seen in less than a week, so I knew the drill. I was in a good mood from having spent two days in Big Bend National Park. I was on my way to Georgia, where the house I hadn’t seen in four months was waiting for me. And the agent was polite to me. Having to stop was no fun, but what could I do about it? I continued northward as the sun set over the hills to my left.
The last bit of sunshine disappeared when I reached Marathon. From there I went east to Sanderson, and then north and east towards Interstate 10. I’m not fond of night driving, mainly due to the glare of headlights from other vehicles. But these roads are nearly empty at night. On the 39 mile stretch of FM2400, I would meet a car every five or ten miles.
For readers unfamiliar with Texas roads, the minor highways have the FM designation, short for farm-to-market. In the western parts of the state they are also known as ranch roads. My experience with FM roads is that they’re well maintained; in fact, they are better than some of the major highways in other states. I make use of them whenever I travel across Texas.
Where FM2400 intersects State Highway 349, I found a wide spot to pull off the road. The Border Patrol checkpoint was some 100 miles behind me now. I was tired from a long day of hiking in Big Bend, followed by all this driving. Interstate 10 was not far away, and I’d be able to find a motel room at one of the exits. But in the meantime, I wanted to experience the rural West one last time. I stood outside my truck, breathing in the fresh air, letting my eyes adjust to the pitch black night. I looked up into a sky that was nearly unhindered by light pollution. The bright Milky Way divided the sky in two. Constellations both familiar and unfamiliar gleamed through the night. Our sister galaxy Andromeda, more than two million light years distant, was faintly visible. It would be many months before a night sky like this would present itself to me again. I took one last long look, and got back into my truck.
My map showed a small town named Sheffield about ten miles ahead, just off the Interstate. Perhaps the town had a motel, perhaps not. But the prospect of being near the end of a long day perked me up. The highway went through a series of curves in a hilly section, and then straightened out. A pair of headlights abruptly emerged from the curves behind me, and rapidly closed in on me. If I had to guess, I’d say the vehicle behind me was going about 90mph. No big deal, really. People drive fast on these empty roads.
Daytime view of Highway 349. Plenty of room to pass. Image courtesy Google Maps.
The headlights got close to my back bumper, and then backed off. They approached and receded a second time. Several straight stretches with room to pass came and went, and still the vehicle was behind me. By now I had concluded that the driver was distracted, on the phone perhaps. Or the driver was impaired by drugs or alcohol. But, to borrow a line from Arlo Guthrie, there was a third possibility that I had not considered. The mystery vehicle drew closer again. Then the blue flashing lights came on.
Probably Border Patrol, I thought. Wrong again. It was a deputy sheriff. He asked where I had been, and I told him.
“I see that you were driving 63 or 64. The speed limit is 60.” The deputy took my driver’s license and disappeared into the squad car. Was he really going to ticket me for driving 64 in the middle of nowhere? I had a couple minutes to consider the possibilities. Finally the deputy reappeared. Out of the goodness of his heart, he would give me a verbal warning instead of a ticket. This led to a semi-casual conversation in which I pointed out that I’d been driving about 60 because I was unsure of the speed limit, and I had sped up when he began tailgating me. And by the way, I asked, why is the limit 60 when it’s as high as 75 on other roads? Lots of deer on this road, he told me. Then the deputy pivoted the conversation to Big Bend. “You didn’t bring any souvenirs, did you?” Silly me, I thought he was asking whether I had stolen any cacti or minerals from the park. “No, I’m a natural resources guy. I leave everything the way I find it.”
The deputy, of course, was looking for another kind of plant material. Did I perchance have any drugs hidden away in all that camping gear that could be seen through the windows of the camper shell? After all, he said, plenty of otherwise upstanding citizens have been caught with drugs in these parts.
Now, at long last, was revealed the true reason for this traffic stop. Driving four miles over the speed limit while being tailgated gave the deputy “probable cause” to pull me over. I told him, “I don’t do drugs; I don’t buy drugs; I don’t sell drugs; I don’t transport drugs." Apparently that statement was emphatic enough to deflate any desire on his part to search the truck. He bid me his farewell and that was that.
I had been polite during the entire traffic stop. The more I thought about it, the angrier I got. Citizens are being pulled over for the flimsiest of reasons, and some of them see their lives ruined as a result. It so happens that I have no interest in using drugs. But anyone carrying a “souvenir” is at risk of losing everything.
I also pondered what a woman traveling alone would do. Seeing those headlights appear as if from nowhere, being tailgated for several miles when there is no other traffic, and no houses or businesses where one might stop for help.
This is the war on drugs, 100 years on.
A few hundred feet up the road was the town of Sheffield. I turned east on Highway 290. The speed limit was 75. Look out, Bambi! There’s no mercy for you on this road.
Daytime view of US Highway 290. Image courtesy Google Maps.