Wednesday on the Migrant Trail is one of the hardest days for me. This is where so many migrants have died in their journey north. 

We climb down deep into the desert. The soil ground to powder by the Border Patrol vehicles coats my nostrils, my mouth, my ear canals. Even under the sheltering mesquite trees in camp, the bluest blue sky seems oppressive. 

Up north where I live, the skies are different. Smaller and greyer, they are softened by clouds and trees. In May, the blue overhead gently watches over a world waking up to life.

On Day 2 of the Migrant Trail, we leave the high desert grasses for the mesquite bosque. The air that sustains all life out there becomes impossibly dry and hot, and we inhale the ochre dust. 

Here in Michigan, the trees stretch their green rainbow praise to the skies offering thanks for the sun and the abundant spring rain. Those mesquite trees in Arizona crouch lower than their cousin elms and pines, humbled by the sun, but ever more grateful for the blessed rain that comes to a parched desert.

A week from today, I'll pitch a tent in Buenos Aires National Wildlife Refuge on Day 1 of the Migrant Trail. After an easy 5-6 miles from Sásabe, Sonora, I'll spend my first night of six under the dry desert sky wondering how a body makes it through the next 70 miles through a scorching and spiny landscape.

I ran 3 miles tonight under a sky heavy with rain. As my feet plucked away puddles in my Michigan home, Midwestern mosquitos emerged from a wet spring for a meal (of me). 

That border is a long way away.