Voices from remote reaches of the nation’s migrant crisis
By Jena McRell
In the pre-dawn, it was difficult to make out their faces. Around 6:40 a.m., DA Harral stepped into his dark office, coffee in hand, and flipped on the light switch. As his eyes adjusted, the phone rang out. On the other end was his son-in-law, urging him to come quickly.
From the couple’s front window, Harral’s daughter, Kati, spotted movement about 50 yards away. Dark silhouettes and shifting limbs appeared against an otherwise still landscape. Their dogs immediately sounded an alarm.
“Be careful,” said Harral, rushing out the door. “I’ll be right there.”
Looking up the hill, where the young family lives with their baby daughter, a protective instinct took over. Harral set out in a run, boots slamming against the arid soil. It was dark, and the mid-November air was crisp and cool.
Nothing is more familiar to him than this West Texas ranch near Fort Stockton, home to the family for more than 135 years. And yet, the current environment never ceases to astound him.
Close Calls
Harral’s heart pounded as he approached the house and noticed shadowy figures gathered on the porch. Two men stood alongside his son-in-law, all visibly shaken.
The rising sun revealed that the unexpected visitors were teenagers around 15 years old. Once he could see they meant no harm, Harral lowered his guard and spoke in their native Spanish.
The young men begged Harral to take them to Fort Worth. He told them he would help, but that assistance was coming by way of law enforcement.
Coincidentally, a helicopter was already en route to Harral’s place before sunrise that morning.
For several days that week, Kati was conducting routine deer counts across their hunting properties, and the pilot was minutes away when the young men first appeared. He kept watch from the sky, later identifying three others in the brush.
When the U.S. Border Patrol agents arrived and began processing the five men, it was a scene Harral says he will not soon forget.
“They were shaking all over, petrified,” he remembers. “After they were cuffed, we handed them some candy bars. They were just kids, starving to death.”
As more of the story unfolded, Harral learned the young men had been involved in a roll-over crash two nights prior. They, along with several others, had each paid $4,000 to be taken across the U.S. border and into Fort Worth.
The crowded vehicle caught the eye of law enforcement and engaged in a high-speed pursuit ending in the wreck. After the accident, three passengers were life-flighted to a nearby hospital. The rest took off on foot, walking nearly eight miles through the vast country, where every piece of vegetation is covered by a protective layer of thorns.
While they did not know it at the time, Kati and the helicopter pilot had encountered a man from the group the day before the teenagers arrived at her doorstep. From the sky, they noticed someone, clearly distressed, signaling for help. So they landed.
Kati says she had an uneasy feeling as soon as they touched the ground. She held tight to a shotgun and raised it up in clear sight, serving as a warning in case there were others hiding in the brush. The pilot spoke with the man, who was injured and delirious. They called the Border Patrol.
Sensing his story did not add up and they could be in serious danger, Kati and the pilot left — telling the man to stay there, help would soon be on the way.
The Harrals later learned he was the driver of the car in the accident. Border Patrol agents took him into custody and he was arrested on several active warrants for trafficking people, drugs and firearms into the U.S.
While this experience was among the more extreme to happen on Harral’s property, it is not isolated.
Migrant traffic along the southwest border is at an all-time high. The U.S. Border Patrol reports nearly 2.4 million encounters in fiscal year 2022. An increase of 37% from the year prior, the number represents arrests or expulsions for unlawful entry along the border spanning from the Rio Grande Valley in South Texas to El Paso, Arizona and California.
What officials cannot measure is how many migrants enter the country unnoticed. While populations surge at ports of entry and illegal crossings rise, fewer resources are available to protect hundreds of thousands of acres of open range along the border.
The responsibility has shifted to the rancher.
“We are the main eyes and ears for the Border Patrol and Texas Department of Public Safety right now,” Harral says. “We are communicating with them all the time.”
On his ranch and those nearby, evidence of foot traffic is constant. Well-worn paths cut through mesquite trees and brush, around cliffs and deep canyons. Personal items and backpacks are left behind in makeshift camps as illegal crossers migrate north.
In this area of West Texas, Harral says many cross the Rio Grande near the border town of Sanderson, about an hour south of his ranch. After wading or swimming across the river, they often skirt the edges of town — quietly making their way in the darkness.
The majority seek only to reach their destination. But for those who carry with them more than a desire for the American dream, the danger is painfully real.
Private property and rangelands become expressways for drug smugglers, human trafficking and crime. This brings heightened risk not only for landowners, but also for migrants themselves.
“People are scared on both sides,” Harral says. “We haven’t been faced with a situation where you really think you have to pull a trigger to save yourself, but everyone on these ranches is prepared to do that.”
An uphill battle
Roughly 450 miles southeast of Harral’s ranch, the situation intensifies.
Just like his father and grandfather, Burt Bull runs cattle in several counties throughout the Gulf Coast region. In the mid-2000s, he purchased Los Jaboncillos, a historic operation established more than 125 years ago.
In this country, pastures chart far and wide. Endless miles of ancient prairie grass, brush and sand dunes touch the horizon in nearly every direction. A direct route for migrants passes through Los Jaboncillos land, too. Because of this, nearly every aspect of Bull’s business and his family’s personal safety have been tested.
One fall a couple of years ago, Bull and the Los Jaboncillos crew were five days into working cattle in Kenedy County. With pastures typically 10,000 acres or larger, gathering animals here is no easy feat.
When he and the crew arrived before sunrise on the final day, their hearts sank. The pens were empty, and the remaining 200 head were missing.
Bull called a local Border Patrol agent who told them they were in pursuit of 21 illegal crossers, who were believed to have busted the gates and set out across Los Jaboncillos property. From what Bull could tell, the group was headed right toward their camp — where his wife was alone.
The migrants did nothing more than pass through, fortunately, but that type of panic is not easily shaken.
“That’s when I noticed things were getting very serious,” Bull says. “If migrants have a record, then they are likely the ones who get into cars and drive through fences, because they know if they tried claiming asylum, they would be turned around immediately and deported.”
The headquarters for Los Jaboncillos is in Jim Wells County, located on U.S. Highway 281, not far from Falfurrias. South of town, large blimps with advanced camera systems monitor traffic from the sky. The sophisticated technology enables law enforcement to easily identify a vehicle’s license plate from overhead.
Bull says this positioning has decreased foot traffic across his property. But that is not because there are fewer people; migrants now veer east and west instead.
Contrarily, vehicle bailouts on his property have increased. Texas & Southwestern Cattle Raisers Association Special Ranger Joey Aguilar Jr. says highway pursuits are, unfortunately, a routine part of border life.
“From the minute I turn on the radio, it is nonstop,” Aguilar says. “We average, just in Hidalgo County, about seven to nine chases per day. And that is a slow day.”
Across his district, which spans the entire border region in South Texas, Aguilar estimates nearly 40 daily highway pursuits. Some last a minute or less, others go on for miles and stretch into neighboring counties. In these instances, the chase likely ends in a bailout, where the vehicle crashes and passengers take off on foot.
“For the most part in rural areas, almost every other chase is going to result in a broken fence or damaged property,” says Aguilar, who has 20 years of law enforcement experience. “The tactic right now is to get into the brush and drive as far as they can, so that law enforcement will have a difficult time catching up.”
It is not uncommon for one or two state troopers to be up against 50 to 100 migrants, Aguilar explains.
Recently, semi-trucks and trailers are trending in pursuits. The special ranger says these accidents occur almost weekly, and when they do, the large trucks can destroy vegetation, obliterate water troughs and hit cattle bedded down in the brush.
Liability is also a major concern when cut or broken fences result in stray animals on busy roadways. If an accident occurs with these livestock, property owners could be held responsible.
“One thing people do not realize is the damage that is being done to our producers and their land,” Aguilar says. “As a producer, at what point do you start to say enough is enough?”
In the past decade, Bull estimates he has lost $300,000 because of migrant crossings. Busted fences and water troughs require repair, and helicopter fees to regroup cattle rack up. He feels the impacts in the herd, as well. Pastures become overstocked, cows become poor and conception rates suffer.
Two pickups have also been stolen off Bull’s property. In one instance, the truck was taken from the ranch’s headquarters office in broad daylight.
Although, the most grim reality came last summer when Bull’s son, Dillard, was checking water troughs and windmills. He came on an unthinkable sight — underneath a mesquite tree, not far from the road, was a dead body.
Likely dehydrated from the oppressive heat, the man was assumed to have been left behind by a group passing through. He lay only 100 yards from an air-conditioned cabin that Bull says they keep fully stocked with food and water.
A second body was found soon after.
In the summer months, when temperatures average 95-plus degrees with intense humidity, Bull says it is common to hear of one or two bodies found each day throughout the area. According to Border Patrol data, fiscal year 2022 was the deadliest year on record for migrants crossing into the U.S. unlawfully. More than 850 deaths were reported.
“There’s no way for the rest of the country to understand how vast this problem is, how expensive it is,” Bull says, “or what a horrible humanitarian situation it is.”
Uncertainty & fear
The quiet expanse of her family’s ranch near Laredo was once a safe haven for Martha Santos.
Known for their entrepreneurial nature, the Santos family operated businesses on both sides of the border for generations. Along with ranches in the U.S. and Mexico, her great-grandfather owned a packing plant, grocery store, and fur-and-hide shop.
Every level of the supply chain, Santos describes.
When she was younger, visiting Mexico was like running to the local supermarket or mall. Traffic moved freely across the bridge, and in five minutes, they could arrive in Nuevo Laredo.
“It is a unique place to grow up because you have American roots, but you also have that very embedded Mexican, lively culture,” Santos says.
In the early 2000s, she noticed a shift in the environment. Cartel crime was on the rise in Mexico, and it became too risky to travel across. They stopped seeing family or visiting the ranches on the other side of the river.
With each passing year, the situation grew more dire.
“Even in the city, the quality of life has gone down,” says Santos, who graduated from Texas Christian University’s ranch management program before returning to the area to start her career. “Things that only used to happen on the Mexican side are now happening in Laredo — the higher crime, lack of safety.”
Before, the ranch was her escape when pressures felt too strong. A gift of peace and comfort only nature can provide, Santos says.
Now, not even their own private property is safe.
With land right on the Rio Grande, unlawful traffic is extreme. No longer operating in groups of tens or twenty, hundreds of migrants attempt to cross the river at once. One night 300 were caught, Santos says.
Those who make it across without apprehension set out across her ranch on foot.
“The liability issues have made it impossible for us to even fathom running cattle,” Santos says. “It’s become a hot spot for everything — drugs, guns and human trafficking.”
When gathering at a hunting camp, she says they caught five men cutting through a fence. Another time while sitting around a campfire, they heard rustling as a crowd of migrants walked through the brush.
Threats became so high that her family no longer allowed Santos to be alone at the ranch.
“You never know who you are going to come across,” Santos says. “And it is the ranchers, who do not have law enforcement around at all hours, who are coming in contact with some really dangerous people.”
The land she loves was no longer safe; no longer felt like home. Frustrated, she knew it was time for a change.
In fall 2022, Santos moved to Fort Worth to pursue a masters of business administration degree, focused on energy, from Texas Christian University. She hopes to share ranching’s perspective in discussions about greenhouse gas emissions, carbon footprint and other emerging topics.
A South Texan at heart, she keeps an active pulse on what is happening and shares her voice on behalf of ranchers living along the border.
“Migrants use ranch land because they are able to travel under the radar, and that’s been an issue forever,” Santos says. “But it doesn’t mean that you can ignore it forever.
“If we do not protect our working lands along the border and the people who work those lands, I do not know how long they [ranchers] can keep going. This is a food security threat, as well as a national security issue.”
Already facing the pressures of tight margins, high input costs and population growth, Santos says cattle raisers in the Southwest cannot afford to carry the weight as unlawful border crossings continue. Especially as the younger generation considers a career in ranching.
“We just want to live our life, to ranch in peace and safety,” Bull says. “We are providing a protein source for the world and do not think we should have to be armed to do it.”
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