Walk to the Southwestern most corner of the United States

It's been gnawing on me to explore Dairy Mart Road and visit the Southwestern most corner of the United States where the border with Mexico meets at the Pacific Ocean. I had contemplated the trip many times over the years but never thought anything worthwhile out there and I pictured an unkept ghetto-like scene in my mind. This idea was lurking in my subconscious but had no basis in fact.

I had been on Dairy Mart Road a number of times, usually just to turn around as it is one of the last exits before entering Mexico. I'd even traveled along its curves for a mile or two, years back, but never went to the end and beyond. On a lazy spring Sunday morning, I took the opportunity to explore the area with my eight-year-old intrepid son Aaron in tow.

The Dairy Mart Road exit is found on Interstate 5, just a couple of miles from the border crossing leading into Mexico. Most people exiting go east, across the overpass where there are numerous apartments and stores. We pick up drinks and a snack there and head west along Dairy Mart Road and its industrial park beginnings where the road is still wide for trucks with a sidewalk on one side.
Just a mile or so in you can feel the open space and the sky appears bigger with a soft blue hue, and it's quiet. We round a corner and come to a large bridge spanning the width of a swampy riverbed which I learn is the Tijuana River. On a flat dirt area is a line of cars and something hovering in mid-air. We pull over for a closer look, then head down a dirt road leading to the parking area. We've come across a model airplane group that meets here on Sundays to fly their planes and helicopters. It was a helicopter I saw hovering in the distance shielded by a cloud of white exhaust smoke.

After a few quick conversations and a turn at the controls of a model plane in mid-air, we hop in the car and continue our trek. Almost immediately we reach rural farms, livestock and signs of the Tijuana Estuary, a wetlands preserve and no-man's land between the two countries. It's this area that gets flooded in heavy rains as there are minimal flood control devices like dikes and levees. In fact, the bank of the river appears so low as to be non-existent. Over the years I've heard of horses getting trapped on sandbars by flood waters. Most are rescued, but some end up being washed away to drown.

Eventually, we reach a locked gate and a small vacant office building. Nobody is around but a sign clearly reads Border Fields State Park. I find the most convenient place to park, lock the car and through the fence we go. The paved road that had been called Dairy Mart is now Monument Road and within a few feet becomes dirt.

The dirt road is our footpath that continues straight to the ocean. The scenery is monotonously barren, broken up by pools of water and small tributaries off the main river. We see little wildlife and no sign of people in any direction as far as the eye can see.

At a crossroads junction we have a choice to keep straight or go left. I can visualize the road taking us to the ocean where we'll walk south to the border fence and hopefully find access back to the park entrance, making a giant loop. I tell Aaron to brace himself for a long walk.

But soon enough we start to hear waves breaking and men on horseback walking in the distance on the sand. Two men stand talking where the dirt road finishes off at the foot of the beach marked by a white plank fence. We exchange greetings with the gentlemen and head south behind a caballero on horseback who disappears into the brush with both of us wondering what the heck he's doing. He dismounts and sits. At that moment we notice that we're being watched by a border patrol agent in a small Ford Bronco.

After several hundreds yards of walking on the sand we reach the border fence that separates the United States from Mexico. At the point where the fence meets the beach begins a line of iron pylons sticking up out of the earth like bludgeons and extending into the water about 100 yards. A person could swim around it with ease if it wasn't for the fact they'd be instantly captured by Border Patrol.

As we reach the fence to look across to Mexico's Playas de Tijuana, another couple approaches from the other side. But they stop short and turn around. Aaron and I head up the bluff along the fence now numbered like it was put together as a puzzle. No attempt is made to beautify the fencing on the U.S. side. By contrast, on the Mexican side I've seen whole murals of horse scenes, mountain scenes and advertisements.

At the top of the bluff overlooking the gorgeous Pacific Ocean is a picnic area and two monuments. One, an obelisk, straddles the border and has words chiseled into it. It is the official border marker on the exact spot where the two countries meet. Expecting to read some official proclamation I stop and bend over to have a look. This is what it reads - "The destruction or displacement of this monument is a misdemeanor punishable by the United States or Mexico". Well, at least the two countries agree on something.

Reaching the border fence and the "Southwestern most corner of the United States" was not the highlight of the trip. The power and beauty of the deep blue ocean overshadowed the scene of rusty metal that reminds me of prison bars. And it's not lock tight as Aaron could pass between the vertical pylons at will.

We walk back where the slough water has completely engulfed the road. The Border Patrol agent keeps and eye on us until we are safely out of sight. The vegetation along the border is head-high and thick. My mind wonders how many people, men, women, and children have passed this way, in the night, hoping not to be discovered entering the U.S. illegally. Sadly we find a doll and the head of another in the brush. Could these have been dropped by children on the run with their parents? Whether they are or not the symbolism is there.

We make our way back to the car where another group has assembled and asks us questions about the walking trip. Our morning has turned into afternoon as we head back, stopping once to grab a shot of llama staring at the road.