ADVENTURING DOWN THE WEST COAST OF MEXICO 



453 



ican goods can be transported easily to 

 the west coast, either by sea or by land, 

 while in return the agricultural products 

 of the coast find a ready market with us. 



That mountainous wall has insured the 

 western coast a partial immunity, like- 

 wise, from the high political fevers that 

 have from time to time ravaged the rest 

 of the land. 



The nine States of Sonora, Sinaloa, 

 Nayarit, Jalisco, Guerrero, Colima, 

 Michoacan, Oaxaca, and Chiapas rim the 

 Pacific coast-line, while Durango corners 

 over the Sierra Madres, so that it may 

 be considered in part a west-coast State. 



The peninsula of Lower California — 

 almost as large in itself as is the main- 

 land of Italy down to the heel of the 

 boot — lies across the Gulf of California, 

 which is one of the largest gulfs in the 

 world, and must be considered a part of 

 the entity known as the west coast. 



Mexican statistics are either non-ex- 

 istent or unreliable, but it is safe to say 

 that the west coast as outlined contains 

 almost one-half of the superficial area of 

 the Republic of Mexico and fully one- 

 third of the Mexican population. Yet 

 comparatively little is known of it. Rev- 

 olution, politics, oil, and ease of access 

 have directed attention toward the cen- 

 tral portion and eastern half of the coun- 

 try. 



GRIM SPANISH ADVENTURERS WERE MEN 

 OE HIGH COURAGE 



One starts down the west coast through 

 the State of Sonora. If one is not a sea- 

 soned traveler the first impulse is to turn 

 back. This enormous expanse of blow- 

 ing sand, white rock, and burning sun is 

 depressing unless one has a little history, 

 a little imagination, and some liking for 

 the desert. 



Sonora is the second largest State in 

 Mexico and one of the richest mining dis- 

 tricts in the world ; but, gazing out of the 

 car window, these facts at first leave one 

 cold. 



The desert hides its best. Far back in 

 the opal-tinted hills are green valleys and 

 golden mines. The stranger sees only 

 the numb misery of the half-naked In- 

 dians, sheltering like animals in the re- 

 mains of 'dobe huts that have been ruined 

 in the fighting of the past ten years. 



The wide plains are empty of life. The 

 herds have gone to feed the revolutions. 



Cabeza de Vaca was the first Spaniard 

 to find gold in Sonora, on his trip to the 

 Florida Everglades in the early sixteenth 

 century. It is not the fact that he found 

 gold that interests the traveler, but that 

 he was able to march at all through these 

 inhospitable wilds. 



The mere thought of the journey is 

 frightening. The Spaniards did not know 

 the trail ; they were encompassed about 

 by the most dangerous Indians in Mex- 

 ico — for the Yaqui, cousin of the Apache, 

 made this his home ; and they were bur- 

 dened by heavy armor in an arid and 

 savage land. 



The longer one travels through Mexico 

 the higher mounts one's admiration for 

 these grim old adventurers. No doubt 

 they were as brutal as they have been 

 charged with being; but it may be ques- 

 tioned whether their like can be found in 

 the history of the world for sheer, stub- 

 born, furious courage. 



To-day, Sonora must present much the 

 same aspect that it offered to the Cow's 

 Head — the literal translation of Cabeza 

 de Vaca — and his companions. It is hard, 

 glittering, and superficially inhospitable; 

 yet in the folds of the hills are hidden 

 the finest churches in North America — 

 churches as distinguished from cathe- 

 drals — whose altars were once plated 

 with gold and silver and hung with 

 jewels. 



They are abandoned in great part, it is 

 true. Many of those that are still open 

 to worshipers are served only at intervals 

 by priests who ride muleback over a wide 

 circle of weeks. 



It was because of these old churches 

 that the Sonoran mines were opened three 

 centuries ago. The friars built them in 

 villages that at their best cannot have 

 maintained more than a few hundred poor 

 Indians, and sacked the treasures of the 

 hills for the glorification of the Cross. 



ENTERING THE HORNED-TOAD BEET 



One establishes one's first real contact 

 with the land at Magdalena. It is but a 

 small, soiled, dusty Indian town clustered 

 about an old church. It is on the edge 

 of the desert, sun baked, specked with 

 the varying greens of mesquite and 



