Mystery at Mission Garden

Linda Doughty, Cohort 6

Land Acknowledgment: From the sweat of our brow to the mud under our nails everything we do is rooted in the acknowledgment that we are on the ancestral lands of the Tohono O’odham Nation. We
strive to protect and care for this land with the awe and respect that the O’odham have
inspired in us. We hope all who experience this place will honor and support the people who
have dwelled here through countless seasons, and that we may all thrive together.

https://www.missiongarden.org/

(The land acknowledgment and link above are from our partner organization, Mission Garden,
where I volunteer.)

It was a bright and scorching morning in the Old Pueblo. The heat radiated through the
windshield the moment I turned off the engine of Bluey, my Highlander. I pulled the brim of my
sunhat down over my forehead and snapped my fanny pack around my waist as I exited the car. Not
a moment too late, I remembered my 24-ounce water bottle.

There are secrets in the garden, and they aren’t going to reveal themselves to everyone. My
job includes giving tour groups an overview of the history and what I like to call the “cultural
confluence” of this place. I hadn’t known what I was getting myself into when I volunteered to be a
docent. New growth and cooperative efforts obscured any past horrors.

I stuck my magnetized name tag to my long-sleeved UV protection shirt. I strode toward the
entry gate until yellow barricade tape blocked my path. I paused a moment, then backtracked. I
continued walking the path along the west wall of the garden, unable to take any shortcuts. Lynette
and Maegan crouched over an indistinguishable crop. I waved. Maegan looked up, flashing the
famous smile found on the cover of the Tucson Official Travel Guide. They returned to their work,
heads together. I got the distinct impression that they did not have time for me and a bead of hot
sweat rolled down my back.

The Spanish name Tucson derives from the O’odham word “S-chuk son” which means “at
the base of the black mountain. “A” Mountain, also called Sentinel Peak. Early settlers would send sentinels up the mountain to watch for Apache raiders. From the top, you will find a spectacular
panoramic view of the Tucson basin.

I tried to put foreboding thoughts out of my mind. If there had been a recently committed
atrocity someone would have let me know. The garden would not be open.
Mission Garden is an agricultural and historical museum. For at least 4,100 years humans
have been living and cultivating crops on this very spot. “A” Mountain acts as a watershed, along
with the bedrock buried beneath. Water flowed in the irrigation canals for centuries. After
Europeans brought their wheat, grapes, and cattle, the water table declined. They shared what they
thought was a better way with the descendants of the Hohokam. Disease made their job easier, but
the Sonoran Desert is impartial. She sings a siren song in the summer with heat that feels inviting
for a moment, but she can cook your goose.

I wondered again about the blocked off area. If someone had failed to drink enough water
while visiting the desert, why would a barrier remain? There could not have been a body there, other
than those buried by years of mistrust.

I arrived early enough to refill my water bottle and chat with the volunteers at the gift shop.
Bill showed up, notepad in hand, to take inventory of the merchandise. I mustered my courage and
asked about the mysterious yellow tape. Bill asked me if I wanted to see. I asked him the same
question. He smiled and gestured for me to follow him.

We walked with the deliberate gait that heat insists upon, up the Garden’s central path. We
passed fields planted with corn, and grape vines, green globes bagged and ripening, protected from
bugs and birds. We arrived at the yellow tape, tied on one side to an arched trellis loaded with beige
gourds, and to a large prickly pear on the other. Bill took me around the back of the cactus. He
pointed.

Three feet above the ground and hidden in the depths of the enormous prickly pear was a
nest made of twigs. I saw at least three baby roadrunners snuggled and silent in a feathery mound.
The black shiny eye of one reflected at me. We call all the roadrunners at Mission Garden Kevin,
though in this case, one might question the accuracy of the moniker.

My tour group arrived. I showed them pomegranates, figs, sweet limes, Seville Oranges, and
stone fruit. We crossed the acequia, the rebuilt canal that models ancient irrigation systems. I
pointed out the endangered Huachuca Water Umbel and Gila Topminnow. I chided them to drink
more water. We skirted the yellow tape. Mission Garden keeps her secrets.\