Night Train 26
It was late afternoon by the time we got to Rancho Peñasquitos. We parked near some pink tract houses with red tile roofs and dived quickly into the tangled underbrush of a steep canyon, lugging some bags of groceries we’d brought along. The migrants were a ragged lot, about eight of them, huddled around an open fire, roasting pepitas on a flattened sheet of tin. There was a hut made out of cardboard, chicken wire and black plastic. They were understandably leery of me so Pablito walked up on... Sign in to see full entry.