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No wonder I was filled with despair. I believed myself to be about the middle of the Jornada. I knew that I could never reach the other side without water. The yearning had already begun. My throat and tongue felt shrivelled and parched. I had lost all knowledge of the course I should take. The mountains, hitherto my guide, seemed to trend in every direction. Their numerous spurs puzzled me.
In this jornada, we had planned to reach La Frontera, the border of the state of Chiapas, at which place we had been promised we should arrive at 8:30 in the morning.
He had volunteered; and as I learnt that it would be no easy task to procure one at Socorro, I was fain to take him along. He was a coarse, shaggy-looking customer, and I did not at all like his appearance; but I found, on reaching Socorro, that what I had heard was correct. No guide could be hired on any terms, so great was their dread of the Jornada and its occasional denizens, the Apaches.
They have done so heretofore with more spirit than any of the other settlements, and hence their long exemption from being plundered. Partly that, and partly because our band has protected their neighbourhood for a length of time, which the savages well know. It is to be hoped that the fear of meeting with us will prevent them from coming into the Jornada north of the town.
In the rush that followed, a few prudent ones chose the longer détour; others, hardier and more temerarious, outfitted at Copah, and assaulting the hill barrier of the Little Piñons at Crosswater Gap, faced the jornada through the Land of Thirst.
Socorro was alive with Indian rumours, "novedades." The Indians had fallen upon an atajo near the crossing of Fra Cristobal, and murdered the arrieros to a man. The village was full of consternation at the news. The people dreaded an attack, and thought me mad, when I made known my intention of crossing the Jornada.
Reader, could you thus stand upon the summit of Orizava, and look down to the shores of the Mexican Gulf, you would have before you, as on a map, the scene of our "adventures." Anahuac is Mexico. Jornada is a day's journey. Pescador is a fisherman. Vomito is yellow-fever. Carbonero is charcoal-burner. Arriero is mule-driver.
Another long march followed, continuing until noon, then a rest of three or four hours brought the cool evening, when a fresh spell of marching brought the "Jornada" to its end, far on in the following night. Such is the mode of travelling still practised on the desert steppes of Chihuahua, Sonora, and North Mexico.
The scenes of starting and arriving, packing and unpacking, chaffing and quarreling, were all interesting. In the lagoons of Vera Cruz, our boatmen applied the term jornada to a straight stretch across a lagoon made at one poling; here among the carreteros, the word jornada means the run made from resting-place to resting-place.
Despite being second choice the remote Jornada was a good location for the test, because it provided isolation for secrecy and safety, was only 230 miles south of Los Alamos, and was already under military control. Plus, the Jornada enjoyed relatively good weather. The history of the Jornada is in itself quite fascinating, since it was given its name by the Spanish conquerors of New Mexico.
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