Sonora, Mexico, where Murrieta was born, was initially under the oversight of the Jesuits, who, in their mission ethos, integrated the native peoples rather than dominated them. One of the practices was to use the vaquero, indigenous cowboys, who had, by the time of Murrieta’s day, learned to work the Spanish horse over generations. The mission culture and the church would have shaped his character at a young age, both as a horseman and in his education. This introduces the theme of racism from an angle that is nuanced, but significant. Racism is said to play a large role in understanding Murrieta’s actions as a thief and killer; it is a major aspect of the ‘gold bug’ culture, the Vigilance actions, and the lynchings of Californios, are examples, the slaughter of the grizzly, might be another – and he would not have seen himself as openly defying the church – or at least been able to make some justification for his murderous spree. Junipero Serra was a Franciscian; a fervent missionary who ‘relished physical suffering and self mortification’, and not the liberal ideals of the Jesuits. The church may have had little or no influence on Murrieta, but he may have been able to maintain at least some identity with the Catholic Church through the Jesuits, And even – and this is pure speculation – add this to his other well known indictments of racism. A further complexity lies in his ethnic identity, Murrieta would have seen himself as white, but also native to Mexico, able to trace his roots through Spanish blood, and also connected to the earth, as only an indigenous people can be. It is this lineage, the lineage of the Spanish vaquero, that would have given him a right of passage in California; a rite that would have led him to the Panoche Pass through the San Benito Mountains and along a road very near to the one I’m on now. We’re above the turn off to Clear Creek, and I have passed by, stopped, inspected, or scaled almost every gate that looks like it goes anywhere. All are locked, none have signs except: No Trespassing – no trail head, no opportunity no way, and it seems my quest to reach the ridge has been thwarted – but only for a time. I’m done for the day, I have to teach a zoom class tomorrow, and there is no wi fi out here, so it’s back to LA. I will reconnoiter and return as soon as I can, for another day – La Vereda del Monte.

May 23

I’ve jumped the fence and I’m standing in the middle of this field having a moment. It feels like I’ve been here before, maybe I was a seed on the ground, or maybe a tree, a long time ago, and now I’m in someone’s pasture looking for the mountain path of Joaquin…

I’m on Los Gatos Road, following the creek, headed east. The mountain is virulent and the earth is silt from the river washed down from the highlands where Murrieta’s trail follows the ridge above, and I’m looking for a way in. I stop and get out of the car and sit in a field and can feel the earth give way perfectly to the contours of my body and when I stand I see my impression as I walk away with the sand in the top of my socks sifting down into my shoes and two or three decent images in my camera.