Staring up through the branches of a creosote bush, I realize I've formed bonds with men on both sides of the line: the men I've pitched myself into this border crossing with,and the men who are no doubt hunting us. These are sympathies I keep to myself, as I contemplate the irony that these men are risking their lives to cross the ancestral land of the Sand Papago, the land that - before the Gadsden Purchase of 1854 - was their own country.

But I don't need to tell them what they know: If this were Mexico, there would be a pueblito, rancho, or pozo every ten or fifteen miles that would make sense out of the endless sweep of creosote flats which drift to the horizon in every direction.But here, there is nothing but the remains of those who died horribly from thirst, or went mad from the emptiness. I have seen it, and I have wept at the sight of those images in my camera lens.

Sated by a small meal of frijolis, tortillas, and chilies, we start marching again. But the hot air singes our parched throats, cracked lips, and blood-caked nostrils with every breath. In hoarse voices, the men whisper of families and home, as their footsteps crunch northward through cholla cactus, scorpions, scalding rocks and ankle-burning sand. But it will only be a matter of time before the desert takes each of us.

Guillermo is the first. In the parlance of Border Patrol trackers, he is about to "go down." I aim the long black lens, burning my fingertips as I follow-focus his deadly dance: He is limping across the desert in a pair of rubber shower sandals. He is out of water. And he is falling hopelessly behind, lost in a mirage of desperate hope. The motor-drive whirs. I must show his struggle, but I must go back and help. The group stops suddenly; fear for their friend masks their faces. They wait. They ply Guillermo with water. And, if need be, they will carry him out of the desert - or die trying.

Guillermo slowly recovers, and we continue trudging across the desert floor which hovers between 140 and 160 degrees Fahrenheit. The heat radiates through the flimsy soles of our shoes, and we start draining the last of our water in hopes of dousing the fire underfoot. But my water jug is the next to run dry and, after my last swallow of hot putrid water, I fall behind. I have run ahead of my companions too many times to photograph their struggle, and now I am spent, and I am alone.

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