When I launched my boat on the river at the access Texas-side about a mile below Falcon Dam, my anxiety over what I would face as I boated the infamous smuggling corridor of Starr County exceeded my relief over having finished with Falcon Lake.  Nearly everyone I talked to at Falcon State Park offered horrible stories of murder on the river.

Twenty miles below the dam the river divides Roma, Texas, and Ciudad Miguel Aleman, home of the Zetas, a gang/cartel which has been responsible for a continuing series of violent acts and kidnappings.  The Zetas' horrific acts had scared off every single person I talked with from even driving across the river in broad daylight to fill a prescription or eat lunch.

One source told me the Zeta leaders were feeding their enemies to a lion, and I have no reason to doubt the information.  Even officials in Mexican border cities had been warning Americans to stay away. 

I tried to build up my courage by remembering that one of the best trips in my life was hitchhiking through Central America during a period when every other country was in the midst of civil war.  Sometimes the very worst conditions bring out the very best in people.

Fran Bartle, the delightful woman in charge of the birding program at Falcon State Park, is the one person whom, among all the hundreds of gracious strangers who went far out of their way to help me in one form or another, I am going to make the most concerted effort to visit when she returns for next winter's birding season at Falcon Lake.  A retired schoolteacher, Fran now describes herself as "a gypsy" who travels with the seasons to parks in Texas and New Mexico to oversee birding and other wildlife programs.  I can't think of a better asset to the state park program than this wonderful woman who lives in the travel trailer she tows behind the pick-up truck she used to ferry all my gear down the long, narrow, winding road from Falcon Heights to the river's edge.  If she hadn't have been so busy giving birding tours at Falcon, I would have invited her to float the stretch between the dam and Roma.  Of course, as sensible a woman as she is, it's likely she would have politely refused the offer.  Her friends who live a couple miles below the put-in had recently found their home in the middle of a shootout, and one of the victim's bodies was dragged to the river, where presumably it  -as I was about to do- rode the current toward Roma.  I saw in her face that she didn't have complete confidence that I was going to enjoy this stretch of the river.

Below Falcon Dam, the river is not unlike the upper Guadalupe, the similarity beginning with the banks lined with bald cypress trees and the playful clear water.  Although I kept a close eye on both banks for signs of human traffic, I relaxed almost immediately.  Having current underneath the boat again after three and a half days on Falcon Lake gave me renewed enthusiasm for the long push toward the gulf.

I didn't make a long day on the river after I bid goodbye to Fran because I wanted to be at least ten miles outside of Roma when I camped.  At about that distance, the Alamo River enters on the Mexican side, and at the confluence sits three islands.  I camped on the one which evenly divides the river, and despite a rainy evening, enjoyed one of my best camps below Laredo.

In the morning while I was busying myself with packing and preparing breakfast, I was startled by the sound a man's deep voice seemingly right at my side.  I jumped up to find the comical site of an obese Mexican man wearing a woman's shower cap and paddling a flat boat in the channel to the Texas side of the island, not ten feet from my camp.  His dog swam after him, and together the two checked a number of fishing lines below the island, then at the mouth of the Alamo.  He appeared to be nervous about me until, sensing that, I engaged him in conversation about fishing.  By this point in the trip, my previously limited vocabulary of fish names in Spanish had grown quite large.

My plan was to boat about twenty miles so that I would camp about halfway between Roma and Rio Grande City, but the weather challenged me to stay in the boat.  Rain fell on and off, and the day was cool.  Still, I persevered, driven by my fear of camping in the path of a smuggling operation.

About mid-afternoon, I met two Mexican men armed with machetes and they hurried to the river's edge when they saw me approaching.  Taking a deep breath, I angled the canoe toward their shore to chat.  The one who did all the talking was very curious about my trip, and he wanted to know how the Mexicans had been treating me.  When I informed him that the treatment had been exceptional, he smiled broadly and said, "good, that makes me proud of my country."  I sensed, however, that what he was implying was that if he were to do the same trip, he wouldn't meet the same warm reception from us. 

Just before I made camp, the river narrowed suddenly and I found myself in the middle of the trickiest rapid since the ledges of Guerrero, a finicky Class II that tossed my boat as if it were an empty can of Coke, and I found myself bracing more than steering just to get through without capsizing.  As the current surged in a narrow rocky channel toward the second stage of the long drop, I hustled to shore and made camp on the Mexican side at the base of a steep bank.  If the water were to rise during the night, I would be in deep trouble, but I was willing to gamble because the steep, slick bank made it highly unlikely anyone could get down to trouble me, a gamble I won.  Even the pack of raccoons immediately above me didn't attempt the descent during the night.

About midday the following day, my third below Falcon, I arrived at Rio Grande City, the only town this side of Eagle Pass that has a public landing right at the river's edge.  Luckily, I found three nice guys working on a bird observation platform above the landing, and one, Tom Patterson, a Biology instructor at South Texas College in Rio Grande, offered to watch my canoe, while the others, Dan Treviño and Carlos Lara, drove me to the H.E.B. so I could re-provision for the long push to Brownsville.  We talked about the river, a subject which interested them as much as it interested me, for ten or fifteen minutes before going to the supermarket.  Dan related that the one time he had canoed beneath the nearby international bridge, some kids on the bridge had stoned him with rocks, and one hit him squarely on the head.  Ouch!

I found Tom Patterson particularly knowledgeable about the river, and his input will be invaluable when I begin my book later this month. 

When the river leaves Rio Grande, it is wide and slow, and for the first couple miles I had a sinking feeling that I might have 236 miles of a wide river without current to paddle before I reached the gulf.  Then suddenly, about three miles after the international bridge, the river bends to the left, and the current quickens. 

I recognized this pattern as a signal that I was about to enter a ledge rapid, and the last twenty or thirty of them all offered the same make-up.  A ledge would extend much of the way across the river, and the best course was to follow the fastest current and sneak around the large waves created where the ledge ended in the channel and the main force of the current dropped quickly through the narrow opening between the ledge's end and shore.

Unfortunately, I was caught wholly unprepared for the most menacing drop this side of Lower Madison Falls.  I followed the bend to the left as the majority of the river poured over the ledge, but when I reached the spot where the opening typically is, I found a terrifying sight.  At the opening, the river made a two-stage drop, each one steep.  The first ended in large waves, and immediately below it, which I saw too late as I battled to stay upright in the large waves, the river divided around a massive barely submerged boulder which evenly divided the channel.  Directly below the boulder, the river charged right into the Texas shore, and a deep tree trunk divided this push.  The inside lane eddied back to the base of the drop.  The outside lane offered the only escape.  And meanwhile, all the waves push toward the inside lane.  I fought for an instant (an instant was all I had), but then realized I was about to go right over the boulder, so I gave a quick correction and narrowly made the inside of the steep drop, swamping the boat as I hit the eddy.

With the canoe half full of water, I rode the circle of the eddy back to the base of the drop and tried to cut across in front of the dead tree.  The first attempt came up short, but at least I didn't get swept into the tree.  I summoned even more adrenaline for the second attempt, and just barely cleared the tree and found the outside lane, the canoe teetering dangerously close to a capsize as I muscled it past.  Suddenly, the prospect of 236 miles of wide, slow river seemed rather appealing.

I suspect few people will ever run this section below Rio Grande City, but if you know anyone who is considering it, please warn that person of this drop.  The  Mexican side of the river offers numerous easy walks over the ledge, and there is no need to risk destroying the boat trying to run the Texas side.

Another thing you should know if you're contemplating a run on this section of the river is that it's trashy.  Several small towns on the Mexican side between the dam and the big rapid dump all their trash over the steep embankment toward the river, accounting, in part at least, for large populations of raccoons and coyotes which can keep you awake nearly every night.  But the Texans aren't any more environmentally-conscientious.  Many dozens of junked cars are visible on the Texas side banks, and several are in the water.  At one point, I thought to myself, 'so this is what Ted Thayer's "classic car" depot in Marathon would look like with 1,500 CFS running through it!"

And the further move downriver, the more people you're going to see, few of whom speak English.  I found this stretch to be the least friendly of all the sections on the Mexican side.  Nobody threatened me, but the majority I saw were not warm.

So I was relieved to be well beyond Rio Grande City the next day, and especially since I had to pass La Grulla, a town where seemingly everyone was at the river's edge and few looked upon me kindly.  Worse, just below it, I heard 23 gunshots, and I had to pass directly beneath the ranch from which they came.

The following morning, now my fifth below the dam, I was in camp preparing to leave when I was again startled by the sound of a nearby voice.  Again I looked to the river and saw the comical sight of a young man floating downriver holding on to a stack of a dozen inner tubes he was collecting to sell.  When I told him I had been on the river for two months wondering why nobody was doing such a thing, he told me gleefully in English, "Man, these things are like gold!"

Although I was in the boat ten or fifteen minutes later, I never saw him again.  However, his presence not only drew my attention, but the attention of the Border Patrol, producing, inadvertently, my scariest encounter with people to that point.  About four miles down river that morning, I heard the motors of two fast-approaching B.P. boats, and when I saw the size of the wake the boats were spitting out, I started waving my arms in hopes of getting them to slow down.

The four agents, two in each boat, carried automatic weapons and glanced anxiously at both banks as I answered a battery of questions, all asked by the driver of the lead boat.  His tone bordered on angry.

Once they were reassured that I wasn't engaged in smuggling contraband on the river, the lead man asked, "Have you seen a dead body in the river?  We have a report of a body floating down the river."

I told them about my encounter with the inner tube scavenger in the morning, and they all seemed relieved, though not one of the four ever took either hand off his automatic weapon.  They trusted my report enough that they didn't continue upriver, and they allowed me to snap their picture.  It's not every day when you go canoeing that you share the river with uniformed men carrying assault weapons.

Around the very next bend, I found the charming Los Ebanos ferry, a motor-less ferry which holds exactly three vehicles and is pulled manually across the river by five men on board who go hand over hand on the cable connecting the two shores.  I docked just below the ferry as it came to the Texas shore, and instantly found myself the center of attention, answering numerous questions in both languages and posing for pictures.  Just after I tied my boat to the only tree stump in the area and started up the ramp toward the tiny U.S. Customs station, I found two Customs agents already on their way down to investigate me.

At first, I found them rather intimidating, though they were not impolite, merely very business-like.  I produced identification, then unloaded half the boat, opening my food barrel and my clothes wet bag before the senior agent told me he had seen enough.  I inquired if there were a store nearby (upriver people had told me there was) but the senior agent, Alfredo Ruiz Jr., a Laredo native, said the only nearby store didn't sell much, and he didn't even know if it were open.

On my way through the Customs outpost, all four agents that work there, asked many questions about my experiences to that point, and I sensed they thought I was out of my mind for taking the trip. 

I found the store open, but it had nothing but souvenirs and beer priced at two dollars a can.  I asked for a six-pack price, and the owner replied sarcastically, "multiply six times two and you'll get your answer.  If you can't do that, it's twelve dollars."  I can't print here the precise Spanish expletive which came to the tip of my tongue, but if you speak the language, you know what it was.

So I trudged empty-handed back to the U.S. Customs outpost.  When Alfredo saw I carried nothing, he asked, "do you want a ride to the store?"

Remarkably, we loaded into his SUV and drove four miles out to Highway 83 where I ran into the closest convenience store and used a credit card to buy ice, beer, tortillas, fruit juice, and chips.  Alfredo patiently answered my questions on the way back to the river and then all four wished me luck as I bounced happily down the ramp to the boat.  Due to my being in the company of the senior Customs agent, I didn't even have to pay the two dollar fee that the owner of the ferry landing charges everyone who walks on his property.

And so Alfredo joined the growing canon of men and women who I now considered the best part of my trip. 

Below Los Ebanos, the river starts to back up due to Anzulduas Dam, a Mexican diversion dam below Mission, Texas.  The resulting lake is at least twenty miles long, and even before it begins, the recreational power boats start to appear.  Like the two bigger lakes before, I experienced all manner of difficulty fighting wakes, but by this point I was getting pretty good at it, and their presence no longer bothered me so much.

Over the next two days as I paddled this lake, the same Border Patrol boats appeared twice a day, once going up river, once returning, and each time they would pull over to talk, each time with a new set of questions.  I really enjoyed their presence, even more so given that they were always careful not to cause any wake. The only down side of this new friendship was that they insisted that I not use the Mexican side to portage around Anzulduas Dam, meaning I would have to take the much longer Texas side portage route; call it half a mile versus two hundred yards on the Mexican side.

I was about a hundred yards into this portage, dragging the canoe first, then returning six times to the shore to carry gear to the first rest stop, when an SUV with Montana license plates stopped, and a woman asked if I would like help "with your portage."  She, Sherry, and her husband, Fred Kraeplin, had recently moved to Mission from their home in Columbus, Montana, and they were visiting the river when they saw my canoe.  Fred had floated many of the same rivers I often float during summers in Montana, and we became fast friends.  We loaded the canoe into the back of the SUV, half of the boat hanging out the back end, and we kept all the heavy gear stored in the front of the boat while we drove to the steep embankment nearly a half mile away. 

I don't want to guess this couple's age, but I'll just say 'retirement age.'  The only reason I even mention it is that Fred dove right into the business of loading and unloading like a man with a third his years.  Then despite Sherry's displeasure, he bounded down the steep embankment carrying the heaviest thing I had, the food box.  All the while he was dressed in good clothes and dress shoes.  I was so moved that I had to force myself not to stare.

We happily exchanged addresses and phone numbers, and my only regret is that we couldn't have spent the remainder of the afternoon together.

At the river's edge, I had another conversation with the Border Patrol, but by this point, I no longer needed to explain anything to an agent I hadn't yet encountered.  And for the record, the McAllen sector was, to that point, the nicest Border Patrol sector of the entire run.

Between Anzulduas and Reynosa, the river has good current, but you might feel like you need it because the banks are lined with shanty towns, trash, and pigs.  Lots of pigs.  One especially distressing sight was seeing hundreds of pigs feeding on an expansive (and foul-smelling) heap of trash dumped right at the river's edge. 

Right in the middle of all this, I came around a bend and found a dozen young teenagers who appeared to be brawling in mid-river.  However, as I drew nearer, I realized they were only pretending to fight.  They were acting out the sort of brawl you only see in Hollywood movies, and having lots of fun doing it.  When I approached, all the horseplay stopped, and they huddled around the canoe asking hundreds of questions.  When I had answered all of them, I asked if I could photograph them, and they happily began to line up for the shot.  I said, "No, I mean 'haciendo la Hollywood.'  They immediately broke into the most impressive staged donnybrook I ever seen, and I feel confident this will be my single best photo from this section of the trip.

That night I camped about six miles before Reynosa, the largest city on the river between the two Laredos and Brownsville/Matamoros.  I had been apprehensive about passing through there, but my experience with the youths relieved that apprehension, and that night I had a fine grassy camp, which I shared with hundreds of fireflies.

I had survived Starr County and Reynosa was feeling pretty good.  With only 160 miles remaining to the Gulf of Mexico, I was beginning to experience a feeling I hadn't anticipated, a growing regret that this trip was about to end.