Let me introduce you to Wilson. To say that Wilson worked for my father as a mechanic would be misleading. He could make or find anything, and solve employee, customer or logistics issues — whatever no one else could figure out. I had caught onto this by the time I was eight, and cultivated a close relationship with Wilson. He tutored me in the practical arts — welding, machining, scouting junkyards — all the skills needed for a young inventor with little money.
My father was the Lincoln Mercury dealer in Tucson but his real passion was ranching. He had a small ranch called The Umpire that overlooked the San Rafael Valley from the top of Canelo Pass. Dad needed skilled cattle horses for the ranch and word was that the best and cheapest were to be found in Mexico. So, Wilson and I got the assignment.
We went in a 4-wheel drive pick-up pulling a big livestock trailer. Our first stop was Harold’s Heavenly Donut Shop, where Wilson picked up two 144-count boxes of donuts. “What are these for?” I asked. “You’ll see,” he answered.
We headed toward Sasabe and Mexico. There were only a few shacks and a tiny cement block shed with a sign, “U.S. Customs.” Inside were a beat-up metal desk and three customs’ agents playing cards. Wilson presented them with one of the giant boxes of donuts. They were delighted. “I’ll see you on my way back later today!” he said.
On the other side of the barely marked border, we pulled up next to a similar shed of adobe. Inside were five officials, also playing cards. Wilson presented them with the second box of donuts. This was received with even greater appreciation and camaraderie. Wilson got some forms and off we went.
The road changed from asphalt to dirt at the border, and then became a single lane track. Three hours later we pulled into a clearing surrounded by mesquite log corrals. There was an outside cooking area, and smoke rising from the adobe house. There was no one in view as we pulled up, but almost like magic the truck was surrounded by kids, ranch hands, and women. We were ushered to a big table under a massive mesquite tree. “¿Le gusta machaca?” Wilson and I both nodded and one of the ranch hands left and next thing I know there was an unfortunate steer slaughtered and reduced to thin strips of meat that were hung over all the fences. While this was going on, the ladies brought a lunch of beans, cactus, and steak with chilies.
After lunch, Wilson got down to business. The horses were in the corral, and they were saddled and ready to ride. The vaqueros then demonstrated each horse’s skill at working the herd of cows. Wilson picked the three he wanted and they were loaded into the trailer.
In the several hours that we had been there, all of the meat hanging on the fence had completely dried for making machaca. It was put into two big burlap bags as a parting regalo. There were lots of handshakes and hugs before we headed off toward the border. Wilson told me, “Now these cows that we got, you may think they look a little strange but…they’re cows ‘til we get to the States, then they will magically turn into horses. Immigrant cows have a much easier time than immigrant horses.”
On the Mexican side, they stamped our forms and expressed their appreciation for the donuts. On the American side, one of the agents looked inside the trailer counting, “1-2-3,” came back and stamped the papers, saying, “Those were sure good donuts,” and waved us through.
Those three horses ran the ranch for years.