Friday, October 28, 2022

Cormac McCarthy's The Crossing: Comparative Book Review

Cormac McCarthy’s The Crossing: Comparative Book Review

By Armando Ortiz

Wolves once roamed freely in all of North America, and by the early-20 century they had been exterminated in the U.S. The novel The Crossing by Cormac McCarthy is set in the early-20 century right before the start of World War Two and years after the last wolf was killed in the U.S. It tells the story of Billy Parham who ends up taking three trips into Mexico, which in a way become his rite of passage. This essay examines Parham’s journeys into Mexico and explores the similarities and differences between characters in Cervantes’ Don Quixote de la Mancha and Rulfo’s Pedro Paramo, as they embark on unexpected adventures in their quest for answers in various landscapes. More specifically it will analyze the dialogue that occurs between characters and also the journey as a road where the story unfolds and parallels each other.

Parham initiates his journeys with the search of a wolf that’s been causing havoc throughout the community’s countryside which is located near the Animas Mountains in the Southwest corner of New Mexico. He catches the she wolf, and instead of exterminating it decides to repatriate the canine back into Mexico. It is believed that that is where she came from, and therefore belongs there. He ends up going into the Northern Mexico state of Sonora. His second and third trips are journeys into Mexico again. On his second time he goes with his brother in search of some stolen goods, but then he gets abandoned by his younger brother.

A unique aspect of McCarthy’s book is its similarities to Cervantes’ Don Quixote. It is as if McCarthy in some way taps into Cervantes’ energy in his descriptions of the rural landscapes, like the vistas or highpoints of mountain ranges. The landscapes that their characters see and the people they meet randomly while on their journeys are very similar. Both writers have characters that travel the countryside that seem to have been abandoned. In addition to their shared journeys through the countryside, both works portray characters facing significant migrations for different reasons.

In Cervantes’ world people have departed to other places, to colonize the Americas, joined the Spanish armadas, or gone into the church ministries. In McCarthy’s world, people are migrating north due to natural disasters like drought and earthquakes, as well as invasions by Americans and Apaches, which have ravaged Northern Mexico and its  towns. The steady stream of people that are emptying out the countryside end up in the U.S. In both narratives people have abandoned their place of origin to strike their luck in new lands. Nevertheless, the main characters’ journey begins in the places that people have abandoned.

Those that have stayed in the northern Mexican countryside are gypsies, communes where people share and work for the benefit of the community- ejidos, other people just stayed behind for various personal reasons, like mormons or native communities that resisted the Spanish, Americans and now Mexicans. In McCarthy’s novel the characters living in Mexico seem to be relics of a life that no longer existed in the US, a certain generosity that is open to any possibility that might arise.

In the U.S. Parham continuously comes across barbed wire fences, and homes have dogs that monitor all the activities, and Native Americans, like the wolves of the American Southwest, seem to be more a myth than a reality but still very much alive. In Mexico the land is there to explore and people seem more generous and willing to help- its a common characteristic. There are many meetings in Parham’s travels where people share their food with him.

In contrast to the sparse dialogues in McCarthy’s narrative, Cervantes masterfully depicts extensive dialogues between his characters. Similar to Cervantes, he describes what was and how people interacted with each other while on the road- offering and sharing with each other whatever they had to passerby in need of help. Yet in McCarthy’s world the danger and likelihood of being robbed or killed is there, like a shadow in the background. He paints images that were unique to the Southwest US and Northern Mexico in the mid-20th century along the same lines as Cervantes does when describing the Spanish countryside. 

In The Crossing characters rarely engage in lengthy dialogues, possibly because Parham travels alone most of the time. The experience of a poverty stricken solo traveler differs significantly from that of a pair of gregarious and loquacious friends like Don Quixote and Sancho Panza. Parham’s companions are his family, people who already know him well. Their brief discussions convey a sense of familiarity, often implying more than what is explicitly said. The dialogues that do take place are with people like the native shaman or the lone ex-Mormon living a hermit’s life from the perspective of the people that are talking to him. Not so much discussions as monologues to the various reasons we exist in this world. Yet his wanderings and his dialogues with people after a while begin to take the shape of a world that is devoid of conversation. Parham’s quest for his brother parallels the search portrayed in Juan Rulfo’s novel Pedro Paramo.

This sparse use of dialogues and the eerie atmosphere further echo the haunting journey experienced in Rulfo’s novel. As the narrative unfolds, a sense of familiarity begins to emerge. It's as if Parham, like Juan Preciado in Pedro Paramo, were traveling through a land created by Juan Rulfo. At some point you begin to wonder if Parham is a wandering soul in search for his relative, trying to find his way, in lands where he once called home, like Preciado experiences. As in Rulfo’s narrative, roads at times are empty, dangers exist, and you really don’t know who runs the places that Parham treads on. When a mozo brings him his horse the servant calls out for “el joven Parramo.” It is as if Cormac were making allusions between his characters and those that exist in Rulfo’s narrative.

McCarthy’s descriptions of Northern Mexico and Southern New Mexico follow Cervantes’ descriptions of the Spanish countryside. Lunch and breaks are taken along passes with vistas that one can almost see or along rivers where poplars border the water's edge and wave at you as you follow the flow of the story. In both there is kindness sharing, and there is compassion expressed by people willing to help Parham both in the U.S. and in Mexico. Even though, both Parham and Don Quixote have different personalities, their experiences and lessons learned are through their travels and interactions with other people. Just like Parham searches for places and relatives, so does Preciado, and both seem to explore lands that are dangerous, desolate, and ghostly. McCarthy skillfully fits his novel right amidst works celebrated for compelling characters, picturesque landscapes, and engaging dialogues. Furthermore, the story exemplifies the human instinct to search for answers even in seemingly barren places, leading to profound and distinctive experiences.

In conclusion, The Crossing by McCarthy, with its evocative portrayal of journeys, resonates with Cervantes’ Don Quixote and Juan Rulfo’s Pedro Paramo. Parham’s quest into Mexico reflects the human desire for meaning and connection in vast landscapes. The ghostly atmosphere, sparse dialogues, and eerie towns in The Crossing parallel the mysterious journey in Pedro Paramo, evoking a sense of familiarity across time and cultures.

While Parham and Don Quixote differ in their personalities and companions, they share the essence of travel as a transformative experience. Parham’s family provides comfort and connection, while Don Quixote’s companions offer contrasting perspectives.

The Crossing, Don Quixote, and Pedro Paramo stand as literary masterpieces that transcend time and cultural boundaries. Their exploration of human nature and the indomitable spirit of adventure provide enduring reflections on the human condition. As we follow the paths of Billy Parham, Don Quixote and Juan Preciado, we are reminded of the interconnectedness of all journeys, both physical and metaphysical, and the profound impact they have on shaping our lives. 

Ultimately, these works exemplify the human instincts to search for answers, even in seemingly desolate places, leading to unique and profound experiences. They remind us of the significance of human connections and the transformative power of our quests for meaning and understanding.




Saturday, October 22, 2022

Breaking Boundaries



 Breaking Boundaries

By Armando Ortiz


-Mountains

These words flow

like the water that cuts through 

the Manzanar detention center,


exiting rusted barb wire fences

hiking up the alpine trails

dreaming of swimming icy waters,


dead wind passing between bones

brittle and cold, a makeshift cry

a cairn shrine with jagged horizons.



-Deserts

These words wander

like sweaty bronzed bodies walking north

that are captured and caged,


brushing against the golden ocotillo

traversing strange desert canyons

digging for water to soak the mouth,


midnight howls between rock and femur

stinging nights, pounding afternoons

baked boulders glowing at night. 



-Seas

These words wash up on the coast

swollen bodies float ashore 

the last breath of hope is spoken,


determined they boarded

sailing north, crossing the gulf

anxious to step on land,


waves drown out wails

tempestuous night crashing balsas

paper boats drifting like torn flags. 



-Highways

These words hum

wails drowned out by endless rolling

exhausted, the car is spewing black clouds,


crammed like sardines 

every breath is a last stand

seeking air as tolerances squeeze,


each exhale closer to that edge of delirium

holding back tears, but other’s cries pass

bodily fluids mix and the journey is at the brink.



-Skies

If words were ants they’d fly on drones

hover over the border and celebrate 

a grand entrance from sky to the floor,


like tiny spiders we’d float in the air past the walls

climb up to the highest tree on a windy day

and weave a string that would take us away,


if we had money we’d buy a new identity

then go to an embassy and apply for a visa

better yet, we’d enter as tourist and never return,


clouds are puffy with no worries to ponder

too old and wasted, but our children 

youth and energy can still make it.



-Perimeter patrols

These words are surrounded by mountains

barren land amongst tattered buildings 

barbed wire making cages,


breakthrough the boundaries

cancel the reservations

and escape from the ghetto,


boxes where we get encased

mind boundaries of color and identities

legal walls surround the body and mind,


take back what was lost

regain freedom and reconnect with earth

communities unite and break the gates.


Wednesday, October 12, 2022

Hiking White Mountain Peak Trail: Road Trips From Los Angeles

White Mountain Peak Trail, The White Mountain Wilderness of California

By Armando Ortiz

The White Mountain Wilderness hike is a visit that brought me great pleasure. Driving from Los Angeles, I took Interstate 5 north and continued on highway 14 until I eventually reached U.S. Highway 395. From there, I drove on the 395 until I reached Big Pine, CA, and soon afterward turned on highway 168, which heads east. After a few miles of climbing, I reached a slight plateau that led me to the intersection with White Mountain Road. This road takes you all the way to the White Mountain Peak Trailhead. 

It took me four hours to reach Grandview Campground, where I camped for the night. The Ancient Bristlecone Pine Forest Visitor Center is about 15 minutes away from here, but this time does not include driving the final fifteen miles of gravel road, which can take up to an hour and a half.


One of the highlights of hiking this trail is the drive up to the trailhead, and how the terrain changes as you drive. Starting from the valley, I wound my way up to camp, driving through narrow canyons that took me through lime green pinyon groves. The road to this area is steep and winding, but the views are fantastic. Later, I learned that Native Americans seasonally lived in the pinyon sections of the mountains, harvesting the nuts inside pinecones and making homes from the bark of the tree. They also formed artificial ponds to have water accessible to them throughout the year. As you continue, pinyon trees get replaced by dark green junipers as big as oak trees, producing a purple berry that was also harvested and processed by the Paiute-Shoshone people. 

Additionally, this hike requires a car with good ground clearance to reach the trailhead. Although the dirt road to the trailhead is only 15 miles, the rocks and gravel  make it so that it takes more than an hour. So, as you plan this trip, take this into consideration. There is a camp 5 miles away from where the road turns into dirt - Grandview Campground. This place is an excellent spot for stargazing and a good rest stop.

The next morning, as I drove to the trailhead, I began to see fauna that you hardly see anywhere else in California, such as the ephedra plant, and mountain sagebrush. In addition, the juniper trees found at Grandview Campground were huge compared to other groves I saw in Utah on my visit to Zion National Park.  As these groves begin to thin out, ancient bristlecones begin to appear in small patches that top the slopes of the mountains. There is a grove of trees along this road called the Patriarch Grove that has a tree called Methuselah, and it is supposed to be 4,854 years old. You drive into an ecosystem that lives according to its own time, and its reality is far more enduring than all our lives.

Regarding the hike, make sure to pack snacks along with the 10 basic essentials for hiking. The fifteen-mile trail is a round trip hike with an elevation gain above 3,000 feet, so being well-prepared is of utmost importance. I remembered to put my phone on airplane mode to be accessible along the trail since the GPS continues to work even in airplane mode, making it convenient. Nevertheless, the trail is well defined, and seeing the directness of the path allowed me to focus on other matters.


As I started the hike, the trail’s grade was steep, but I paced myself, and all was fine. If you are unsure if you can make the hike to the top or because the fear of AMS is lingering on the back of your head, make the first section to the Research Center your goal. Then, try hiking about two more miles before you reach the high valley, where you will be granted a downward slope. 

Along this section of the trail, I occasionally spotted marmots watching my every move, and the clouds on both sides seemed out of this world. The ancient people would seasonally hike to these areas and hunt mountain sheep, processing the meat on top of the boulders laying across the ridge and valley. The brief descent was pleasant compared to the work ahead because once you hit the bottom, it will be all climbing, with the elevation increasing. Along the way, a runner passed me by, and a few minutes later a person who looked as if they had camped at the top of the mountain.

As I reached the high point at the other end of the valley, I began to see White Mountain Peak. Hiking this section feels like a dream because you feel like you’re walking on land floating in the clouds. The rocky trail that snakes itself to the top is also visible from here. Turning around, I could see the progress I’d made, enjoying views of the solitary valley that is peppered with boulders, wildflowers and unique wildlife. 

Next, I followed the trail down and soon found myself descending to the base of the ancient volcano, where I had to begin the climb once again. I ascended, and the air became crisp and thin, making breathing a conscious effort. At times I wondered if I was winded and needed to turn around, but my legs kept pushing forward. Upon reaching the point where there is an outcropping of black rock, the wind began to pick up, and I began second-guessing myself. The winds felt unusually strong, and looking around, I realized I was exposed to nature’s whims and desires. I paused for a moment, feeling the light drizzle, and could see the mountain ranges on the other side of the Owens Valley. 

I kept climbing, and the trail became rocky. The colors of the path seemed to change into darker and muted colors, black, rusty reds, and oxidized browns. I reached a point where there was a big snow patch blocking the trail, but the path took a sharp left turn, with small cairns serving as sign posts, reminding me that I was approaching a special place. The climb was steep, and at this point, I was taking breaks every couple of steps, but I knew that somehow I was nearing the top. 


Reaching the summit of White Mountain Peak, I was awestruck getting sight of melting ice forming trickling rivulets, splitting and flowing delicately towards the lower valleys thousands of feet below. This is where water originates, these mountains are sacred. But then again, our whole earth is just really a magical place. The views from here were incredible, with the Eastern Sierras in view, the southern mountain ranges I was hiking, and parts of Western Nevada. At the top. you look around and are in awe of everything. If you get near the edge, you’ll see drops that are hundreds of feet down- scary.

Driving to the trailhead takes you through many old trees, some of which look like they have been uprooted naturally, while others may have been affected by the road system that was recently built, according to human years, impacting these delicate groves. Driving through here is like a continuum into this other world, a vortex or earth ventricle of time and reality. You truly don't appreciate the sights until you drive through here and touch the trunks of these ancient ancestors. Later, as I was descending the trail, I suddenly heard the singing of a bird. As I searched for the origins of the sound, I saw a small bird with a yellow crest, and black horns. At this point, I felt like being at this high elevation was really having an effect on me. Later, I discovered that it was a horned lark greeting me along the trail. As I walked past the bird, I could see that I was actually walking on an Alpine saddle that was perfect for hunting.

Knowing that one can escape into such a different world that is actually tangible and yet so far from our daily lives makes hiking and the search for such adventures invaluable. It's one thing to visit temples and buildings that were built hundreds of years ago, but to drive through groves that are thousands of years old, to see rocks that had been in some way affected by humans that were in these areas hundreds if not thousands of years ago, made me reflect on how our interactions with nature are sacred and very special. On my return home, I did some research and found an online edition of the book Natural History of the White-Inyo Range: Eastern California published by the UC system, which provided me with valuable information in writing this piece. 



Wednesday, October 5, 2022

MacArthur Park: Santos



MacArthur Park: Santos 

By Armando Ortiz

Santos had recently arrived in Los Angeles. He’d taken the train to the U.S., the one they call La Bestia, and spent a few months wandering around Mexico to get to the US. Bella, his sister, found it odd that along the way he’d been stranded by several coyotes. Usually a coyote committed themselves to taking the person the whole way till they reached a destination where a known business associate would complete the trip for them. His journey had been different though, because after he managed to get to Guadalajara, he apparently got stranded, and turned up in Mexico DF a few months later. In between he’d call his loving sister and beg for money. Bella didn’t have much, but would figure things out, like find a cleaning gig in West Los Angeles or help clean the Laundromat that was two blocks away from her house on 3rd street. Every ounce of sweat that came out of that 5 foot figure was worth more than gold to her, since it was the family that was being helped. 

For Santos, it seemed that Bella had made it in the U.S., since every time he found himself in a bind he’d just dial the numbers and in a few days money filled both pockets. Santos was escaping Honduras. His parents thought he’d moved out and had been working at a tobacco company, which he had for a while, but he’d really started to gamble, drink and hang out with the wrong crowd. Circumstances made it necessary for him to relocate somewhere far as soon as possible, hence his abrupt decision to head north. It seemed that kind eyes were looking after him from above.   

When he finally arrived in LA he was sent to MacArthur Park to get his papers in order. Any person who had recently crossed the border and needed a fake identification card or green card went to the park to get them- a bazaar of illegal documents for sale. He’d been walking north along Alvarado Blvd. when suddenly he saw his elementary school friend, Jose, who was standing by the corner of the Botica Del Pueblo. He looked different, but his facial features were distinguishable. He wasn’t wearing shorts nor was his old friend barefoot. Instead Nike Cortez protected those running feet, and for some reason his hair was slicked back, like a cow lick. His brown slacks were ironed clean as if a black pinstripe ran along the front and back of his legs. 

“Jose, is that you? It’s me Santos from La Colonia Ceiba. We used to play ball.” Jose at first gave him a dirty look, a chiseled looking profile made of stone turned into astonishment, which as if elastic transformed into a smile of familiarity. 

“Santos, wassup foo, wachu doin around here?” 

“You know, work,” replied Santos in Spanish. 

Bella was familiar with the area, since she’d occasionally go buy toiletries at El Piojito, but she never really stuck around the area since she was too busy with work. She had given Santos a piece of paper with a small map that she had drawn. Santos knew he was near. Only a few more blocks to go before reaching the place his sister said reliable green cards were sold. He showed the sketch to Jose telling him he was sent to that location. Jose looked at the paper and spat on the ground and his face had suddenly become wrinkled - his cold stare returned. 

“Who the fuck sent you there, ese?,” inquired Jose, with a hard nod to the skies while keeping eye contact. 

“My sister said that’s where she got her papers,” replied Santos. 

“Well your sister is wrong ese. No seas bayunco, si tienes pedo ponte listo cabron” Jose sounded angry. 

“Calmado, calmado,” said Santos, slightly raising his arms and showing Jose his palms. “Mira loco, I just got here and all I am trying to do is get my papers to get a job. If you can help me with that then I’ll be grateful.” 

“How much you got foo?,” he was asked. 

“Pues, this is what my sister gave me. She said it was enough get a mica,” he replied. 

“Aver,” there was a moment of pause before his voice broke through the sound of passing cars, “esos cabrones te estan robaaando. I sell papers much cheaper than that, vente conmigo,” he swung his arm forward signaling Santos to follow him. Like a blind man following another blind man, Santos followed disappearing, into the alleys that were barren under the noon sun. 

To be continued…