Wild Mountain of Death & Spirits

El Boquerón
We look for death. My Christian brother, Rigo, picked me up promptly at 9:00 a.m. for the final phase of my search to locate where Juan de Grijalva met his fate, presumably at the lost Spanish city of Villa Hermosa. We traveled east about twenty miles from Juticalpa into the forests of the mountain of El Boquerón. The Oancho River spills from this tall green peak. In the past the river valley witnessed numerous indigenous, Spanish, and modern settlements. All of them wiped out by the angry mountain.

El Boquerón mountain & Olancho River valley

Extreme heavy rains cause the river to swell and overrun its banks. Without notice, the ensuing rushing flood takes homes, livestock, and people into its wet embrace, crushing everything and leaves death, destruction, and dark memories in its wake. Rigo tells me that six to seven years ago after a major deluge seven people were consumed and flushed down the river. Only two bodies were recovered. The other five campesinos were never seen again, as if magical forces disappeared them.

It's the dry season & the river is placid & low, concealing its rage during flooding

El Boquerón is haunted by many souls seeking peace, rest and someone to guide them to the light. My Spanish ancestor is one of these spirits awaiting remembrance and peace. Will he find it? Will he guide me and allow me to connect with his tortured, lingering spirit?

We stopped at a gas station in the small community of San Jorge de Olancho to get exact directions to the entrance of the trail which runs along the river. There we met Erasmo, a humorous, youthful, strong, active gentleman of eighty years old. I noticed that Erasmo was wearing a Sacred Heart of Jesus medallion around his neck outside of his crisply pressed long sleeve dress shirt. I’m wearing a light weight T-shirt and in 90 degrees plus temperature I’ve already soaked my shirt with sweat. There are no beads of perspiration on Erasmo. He looks calm and as if he had just left church services - very formal and well dressed.

Rigo asked Erasmo for directions and immediately felt a kinship. Rigo wears a modest two-inch brown wooden cross around his neck. Sometimes it pops out of his shirt and dangles loosely in the open. He wears it proudly.  Rigo commented to me, “Erasmo is a man who has the Holy Spirit in his heart and soul. A good man who can be trusted.” 

Erasmo (on the left) & Rigo: my two honorable, trusted guides

Erasmo noticed Rigo’s cross and asked him if he studied “scriptures.” Rigo answered that he, “Serves as a deacon in the Catholic church in San Francisco de la Paz and benefits from the opportunity to learn from the Bible.” Without prompting, Erasmo recited from memory a biblical verse about the sanctity of life and the commitment to follow Jesus Christ and to love all of God’s creation. I, an agnostic, was moved and felt something special had come upon me. I was in the presence of a spiritual, holy man. Erasmo said he would come with us to guide us so we wouldn’t get lost. In a land of lawlessness and high crime, where violent murders are common, it’s rare to meet a humble spiritual man of God.

The main trail of El Boquerón is criss crossed by several animal trails. Without a guide experienced with the mountain one can end up going in circles. Someone sent Erasmo to guide us. Was it the Almighty, my lost relative, or both?

Start of the trail with 80 year old Erasmo leading the way

Rigo drove his truck as far as the rough, pot holed dirt road would allow. We crossed the flowing river twice. He stopped the truck and we continued on foot. When we started climbing the side of El Boquerón, Erasmo announced, “This is as far as I can go. You two youths (Rigo is forty, I’m sixty-one) continue on. Always take the trail on the right, staying close to the river.”

Crossing the river in Rigo's truck

Erasmo urged to always "take the trail to the right". What trail?

We climbed and climbed and climbed. The air became thinner, cooler and moist, with a slight breeze blowing off the top of the mountain. The forest was thicker and the trail narrowed. There were no sounds of cars or any modern distractions - no electrical or telephone lines, no houses, cows, or any evidence of human habitation. The only hint that humans had passed this way was the slight dirt trail, no wider than two feet, with jungle branches brushing your arms as you passed by. This environment has not significantly changed since the dawn of human existence. These are the same scenes that Juan de Grijalva witnessed when he passed this way, almost five hundred years ago.

View from partially up the side of El Boquerón

This same view was witnessed by my ancestor Juan de Grijalva

After one hour of hiking, I felt compelled to stop, not because of fatigue. Something prevented me from moving forward. A faint, slim path off the main trail curved down towards the cascading river. I asked Rigo to stop, “I want to explore the riverbank and dip my hands in the water.” Rigo stopped and found a decomposing tree trunk and said, “I’ll sit here in the shade and rest while you go down and look for your “tío” (uncle), “Buena suerte” (good luck).

Area where I felt an unexplainable urge to stop

I scrambled down the thirty foot embankment and found a wide open cleared spot. How odd that in this dense forest there’s a twenty by twenty foot cleared spot. I tip toed from rock to rock to the middle of the waterway. There I found a four foot large gray rock with red ants on it. I brushed the ants away with my hand and sat down in a lotus position. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath and remained silent and still. I thought I heard a voice calling to me from the opposite side of the river, away from the side where Rigo was resting, “Manuel, Manuel Grijalva. I’ve been expecting you. At last, you’ve come.”

Rock where I sat, heard a voice & began writing

Delighted that I was able to connect with my "tío"

I opened my eyes and brown leaves were fluttering down from the trees, covering my shoulders. It looked like tears were falling from the blue sky. Birds and crickets commenced a song of jubilation. It was a loud, joyful chorus reminding me of the songs of midnight high mass on Christmas Eve. Numerous butterflies started to dance above the river - some were black with orange tipped wings, others were bright yellow with brown and green strips across their wings, others were bright orange with two yellow ovals resembling eyes on their backs. They arose six inches over the river, circling each other in a figure eight and spiraled upwards to the sky and disappeared in the green and brown foliage of the trees. I smelled decaying wood, sugar pine from the living trees, and earthy dark black mud of the river banks. The flowing water was crystal clear and I saw small three inch gray fish swim by my big rock.

Dancing butterflies disappeared into the leaves of this tree

Not having any idea of what, I began to write . . . . I composed an account of Juan de Grijalva’s final hour of life. He inspired and guided my words. He shared some private counsels he wanted me to bring back to the Grijalva clan. I strongly felt his presence in this place of peace and natural beauty. This is what he related . . . . .

(Continued on the next installment)

The Honduran Expedition: Why am I the only one sweating?

At the river valley we collected wood for Erasmo to use in cooking. Wood is the main fuel used by rural people in Central América for cooking & heating their homes

After our excursion, Erasmo invited us to his home for a cup of excellent coffee & sweet bread

Erasmo raises pigs, chickens & has a subsistence farm where he grows corn, beans, & squash. Native people have been growing these crops for thousands of years in Central América.

A spiritual holy man & his grandchildren