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Thursday, March 6, 1997

Take the truck when visiting Old Guerrero

By PAMELA COLEMAN The Monitor (McAllen)

McALLEN, Texas - At what single place can you find monstrous potholes, wads of fishing line and stampeding bulls?

You'll likely encounter all three if you venture to Old Guerrero, the Mexican town abandoned and submerged when Falcon Dam was built in the 1950s.

Thanks to the current drought, the town has resurfaced in eerie glory. The lake has receded so far, in fact, that it's not even within an easy hike of the parched land where the town now stands.

The ruins - crumbling structures, a picturesque church and a deserted town square - stand lonely. But you can hear echoes of children, lovers and tradesmen who once crowded the streets and benches.

Take the trip - you won't soon forget what you see. But do yourself a favor and drive a truck.

We didn't.

Instead, four of us packed into a mini-van for the adventure on a recent Saturday afternoon. Driving south across Falcon Dam, we chuckled a bit as the paved road grew noticeably rougher. That should have been a warning.

About 40 minutes west of Guerrero on Highway 2, we slowed to read a tourist sign designating the turnoff to the once-submerged city. At the time, 14 kilometers didn't sound far.

Then we hit the really bumpy roads. Over gravel and cattle guards we sped (and I use the word loosely), rumbling up and down inclines and across jarring potholes toward the sunken city.

We stopped to admire an exotic cactus. We glanced at the sputtering clouds overhead. We gazed admiringly at a herd of tiny goats nibbling on greenery along the road.

And we shrieked as a snorting, galloping bull lurched out of nowhere in front of our car.

Luckily, the beast was on a mission, which didn't involve disemboweling our van. We followed him down the roadway, marveling as he shot back into a pasture through a crack in the fence.

Finally, after miles of hoping that the town would appear, mirage-like, beyond "the next hill," it really did materialize. We puttered onward, finally grinding to a halt on a dead-end road that overlooked the plaza.

We scrambled over rocks and tree stumps toward the church, which stood majestically among the rubble. And we stood in silence to admire the worn stones, cracked tiles and rotting timber that formed the structure.

Beautiful.

A glance downward illustrated what a rare opportunity the drought has presented. Fishermen once glided above the city, dropping their lines over the church steeple and among the benches outlining the town plaza.

Now, miles of fishing line are wound over the rocks, lodged between bricks and strung along the rubble. Look closely and you'll find the occasional fishing lure tangled among the scrub and sand.

Down a nearby rocky road, a dozen or so toppled tombstones dotted the town cemetery. Again, an almost palpable quiet surrounded the place.

The spell wasn't soon broken.

Only the tinkling of a distant bell, strung around the neck of a couple of wayward goats, snapped us back to reality.

That and the sound of our car jostling over the rugged terrain.

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Pamela Coleman is deputy metro editor of The Monitor.

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