Like many small Mexican towns, San Miguel shares the fairly ubiquitous
legend of a trunk full of gold and jewels buried deep within the
recesses of a local cavern. Many have wished to wrest these riches
from the cave, perceiving it an easy task to and enter and exit
with its booty. But as the story goes, many have tried and died
in vain. Yet others who have entered the cave and survived to tell
the tale have asserted that there is nothing there but a humongous
waste of time.
But sure enough, high above San Miguel, overlooking the valley where
our fair city resides, hidden among the foothills of the Las Tres
Cruces mountain ridge, lies a cave of mythical proportions. It has
been dubbed La Cueva del Diablo by the local gentry. And although
the cave may have been naturally formed, man’s presence is
certainly evident. The cave has seduced and invited visitors of
all kinds throughout the years. The legends vary widely and have
gone largely undocumented. And we had only aural traditions, rumors
and bar bullshit to rely upon when compiling this report.
 The
exact origin of the treasure is uncertain, but there are versions
that place it during the Mexican Revolution. Federal troops supposedly
occupied the cave during the war, utilizing it as a kitchen and
storage depot. In the chest they deposited riches that had been
procured during the pillaging of many small villages. But after
losing a battle against the rebelling Zapatistas, the trunk and
all its contents were left behind by the Federales and lost to time.
Some say this cave is the site where the Archangel San Miguel made
his last stand against the Devil. The Devil was vanquished to this
cave, thereby freeing the city of San Miguel from His power, and
remained trapped here and unable to escape for all eternity. It
is said that all you must do to recover the treasure is invoke the
Devil Himself and make a pact with Him in exchange for the treasure.
But this implies selling your soul.
It was about 3:00pm on a fine Sunday afternoon when we finally received
the call at La Jerga headquarters. “Hi Dan…I’m
really sorry…I’m still drunk…” Despite the
fact that his call was now three hours overdue, our mission clearly
beckoned. So Don Pappi Chulo and I left the comforting afternoon
coverage of the National Football League behind and made our way
to meet our contacts.
This sortie was to be headed by our fearless leader and local expert,
Chatto, who as a small(er) boy had visited the cave with one of
his elder brothers. Many years have since past, and Chatto has not
grown an inch, but the cave never-the-less remains. On this very
rare occasion, Chatto had been apparently up all night partying
and drinking heavily and steadily until only moments ago. Two more
field agents, Luis, spontaneously volunteered for the operation
and filled our car, as we swiftly made our way to the drop zone,
high above San Miguel. Now assembled, the La Jerga field team once
more embarked on another perilous mission with little or no regard
for the minimal cost, slight inconvenience, or hangovers that we
all endured.
Stumbling out of the car, our fearless leader insisted that we drive
through a closed gate and up a private driveway to park even closer
to our target. A brief mutiny was quickly raised and our drunken
leader, who was not completely of his own faculties, was overruled
4-to-1. It was decided we would walk the distance to the target
like men, and avoid certain slashing to my mother’s tires.
Armed with only a machete and humping a backpack full of rope, flashlight,
camera and emergency rations, we made our way up the treacherous
path.
 To
reach our destination, we had to walk along the mountain ridge and
through private property. Mean looking mongrels, which would have
surely bitten us had their masters not beaten them into submission
so regularly that they now cowered from us in fear, lined our path.
We would like to say we crossed a creek, river, sewage drain, or
some other mythical water source of symbolic literary significance,
but there was none to be found in this high desert environment.
But we did make our way through many spine-tingling cacti that could
have easily stuck or scraped us really badly at any given moment.
On the way there, Chatto reminded us of the many perils we would
potentially confront. He slurred something about Cholos, or local
gang members, having been known to hang about these parts. It was
apparently very common practice for Cholos to huff paint thinner,
gas, glue or take-your-pick-from-under-the-kitchen-sink-inhalants
and go hiking. And it was very important, our fearless leader continued,
that we all stick together and not separate, as there was apparently
more safety in numbers. He reminded us that the path ahead was incredibly
treacherous, and one small misstep could mean certain death for
any of us. He then tripped over a rock and fell flat on his face.
By the time we found the peak he had described, Chatto had tripped
over many more rocks, a few branches and injured himself at least
twice. He mumbled for us to continue down the hillside, as he bled
profusely from his knee. We ignored the three backpacking German
hikers that stood in our path and made our way through the uncharted
territory. The machete came in particular handy here, swiftly dispatching
the goat poop that stuck to one of our company’s sneakers.
Then Don Pappi Chulo, who had trudged up ahead, yelled he had spotted
something. I turned to confer with our intrepid leader but he was
nowhere to be found. We found him lying meters away, sunning himself
like a lizard upon the western side of a large bolder and curled
up in the fetal position. Leaving our fearless leader to nap and
sober, we marched on. We met Don Pappi Chulo by the entrance of
a narrow, vertical, vaginal-like crevasse hidden within the folds
of the rock cliff. Could this be The Devil’s Cave? we moronically
and predictably asked each of ourselves. The abundance of spray
paint tags, graffiti bombs and empty liquor containers indicated
it was a distinct possibility. It appeared to be the equivalent
of the local drinkin’ quarry. And sure enough, we found freshly
crushed cans of Tecate and shattered bottles of tequila. No Mad
Dog, however.
 Nor
was there evidence of any black magic, as we had found at El Puente
de Los Frailes. But there was this gaping, narrow and closing abyss.
Don Pappi Chulo was the first to enter. He made his way with flashlight
in hand and propped himself up with his legs firmly pressed against
the sides of the crushing walls. I followed him in with the camera,
which I promptly surrendered to Don Pappi, who is a much better
photographer than I. What we saw then was incredible: There was
nothing but ROCK, DIRT and DARKNESS as far as the eye could see!
We supposed a person (or a really smart trained monkey) could potentially
fit in there, but would they make it back out? And what would be
the point exactly? Even with our rope, none of us felt confident
we could enter and safely exit without recreating the “little
girl trapped in the Texas well” routine on the local evening
news.
So we without a second thought, we did what every great explorer
of the ages has done at some point or another: We made a b-line
for the local package store, bought a bunch of Caguamas and drank
the rest of the day away. As for our fearless leader, we heard he
was later found and harassed by some 12-year-old, gang-banging Cholito.
We haven’t heard from him since, but we assume he’s
just fine. (See this month’s Consejos de Lu to find out what
really happened to Chatto!) |
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