Dennis Michelini is a U.S. Border Patrol pilot.

Mines Road follows the Rio Grande from Eagle Pass to Laredo. In some places the road is dirt and very desolate. About 20 miles north of Laredo the road becomes paved and begins to resemble a proper thoroughfare. In the dark at 5 a.m., agents pulled up behind a Ford F-150 while it drove toward Laredo on Mines Road. When they turned on the overhead emergency lights, the truck accelerated and passed three 18-wheelers. It then quickly swerved off the road to the right, and at 50 mph drove through an 8-foot-high deer fence. It disappeared heading back toward the Rio Grande. Two agents tracked the trail of the vehicle on foot into the brush while another went down the road a half-mile, unlocked a gate, and drove onto the ranch to search for the truck. I showed up at 6 a.m. I flew over the two agents walking on the ground and picked up the trail of the truck.

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The dopeIt had driven through a field of low, dry grass before ending up nose down in a 10-foot arroyo. The driver could not have seen the sudden drop in the dark. The driver's door lay open. The windshield cracked out in a circle right above the steering wheel where the driver's head had impacted. I directed the agents by radio to the abandoned truck. The back seat of the cab had been removed earlier and the space filled with tightly packed bundles of marijuana. The marijuana had been pressed down in a garbage compactor and hermetically sealed in individually marked and weighed 2-kilo black bags. The bags were in large canvas sacks. The agents guessed the truck contained about 500 pounds.

The agents looked slowly, without much luck, for the sign (the footprints) of the driver. The agents loaded the marijuana into a Border Patrol vehicle. The smuggler's truck was left in the arroyo. After about 30 minutes I left to work a group of 15 on the Galvan ranch. On the way I flew over the same trails on which yesterday I had seen sign. There was nothing new on them today. I could still make out the wind-blown tread from the day before. The sign-cutters had not had time to chase after these two groups.

Within these massive ranches of south Texas, there are "natural lines" of alien travel. Illegal aliens walk to specific towns (and specific safe houses within those towns), rest areas, roads, and intersections of roads. Soon after they cross the Rio Grande, they know their "sign" will be cut by an agent. From that moment on it is a race.

I knew the line (compass direction) of the two groups I had cut yesterday and as a result could guess where their line would intersect with Highway 83. I followed Highway 83 out to the Galvan ranch. I made one quick flight along the fence that followed the highway. I must have come across six or seven lay-up areas along a one-mile stretch of road. These are the places to where the guide leads as they wait for their transportation. Lay-up areas are full of rubbish: bags, empty water bottles, plastic wrappers, clothing, shoes, underwear thrown about as the illegal aliens discard everything not needed for the drive to San Antonio, Dallas, or Houston. Against the brown-red soil and green foliage the bright colors of the trash are easy to spot and resemble garbage dumps from the air.

I turn west to the Galvan ranch. Within 10 minutes the agents hear my approach and direct me to where the sign is. I fly over the agent tracking the sign. The ground is very hard and I'm having a difficult time seeing the sign from the air. That's not unusual. Soil in south Texas is baked clay. Sign cutters become very skilled at noticing bent grass, broken twigs, and disturbed pebbles; you may be following a group of 30 and only occasionally see a scuff mark or small corner of a heel print. As I fly over the agent walking out the sign I look forward and see a low radio tower on the horizon. There is a good chance that in pre-dawn darkness the group had guided on the blinking light of the tower as they marched cross-country through the brush.

I fly the line of the group as best I can. Other agents working this group get a bearing off my position and the line I fly. We work this group for three hours before coming upon them about a half mile from Highway 83.

A group under arrestThe agents on the ground make the arrests. The illegal aliens congregate around the vehicle, sitting at ease, drinking soda or water, and finishing the last of their food. Then as they are loaded into the vehicles they say in a friendly way, "See you tomorrow, or maybe we won't."

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