(a version of this piece was published in The Green Valley News, on July 14, 2010)

In mid-March, I drove south from Nogales to explore Sonora, something I've done many times before. 

But as spring approached, the pull of this beautiful place became irresistible. That's because I kept wondering whether the huge "los álamos" trees that line Sonora's El Rio Magdalena were leafing out.

"Los Álamos" there, were indeed, leafing out - at least two weeks ahead of the huge cottonwoods that line the banks of the Santa Cruz River in the valley below my Rio Rico home.

My first stop was a Pemex service station at Imuris - about 60 miles south on Mexico's superhighway, Route 15. 

I climbed out of my car for a fill-up.  I greeted the attendant, shook his hand, and told him that for the first time in more than ten years, I'd actually seen water flowing in Sonora's Magdalena River. 

"Is that true, no water in Magdalena, this time of year, over the past ten years?" I asked in my passable Spanish.

"Yes," he said.  "But we've had 'mucha agua' since January."

"As we also have had in Arizona, where I live," I said.  "Which means that the hills here and there will soon be covered by wildflowers?"

"The already are, as you will soon see," he said, smiling.

I then drove south to Santa Ana, a crossroads city where Mexico's Route 15 meets Mexico's Route 2. 

I checked into my favorite "dog friendly" motel - Santa Ana's Motel San Francisco.  Via the Internet, I'd booked a suite ($500 MP or about $38.00 US) on the second floor, located just above the utility room that Carmen, Dora, Rosario, and Lupe use to keep this somewhat dated motel one of the cleanest - possibly - in all the Universe.

We exchanged hugs and cheek kisses all around.  As we did, Lupe asked, "Donde están tus niños?"  By which she meant, where are my two golden retrievers? 

I popped the rear door open on my van and out popped my dogs, tails swirling.  They were as happy as I was to greet this merry quartet of smiling women.

I then handed Lupe a package of Nabisco's Fig Newtons. And when I did, the women erupted in laughter, because they remembered that last time I'd stayed at the Motel San Francisco, I'd denuded a fig tree in the lot behind the motel.

Once settled in, I then planned another trip to the Sonoran village of Curcurpe. To do that, I'd drive along a secondary Sonora state road, a winding road, well engineered, but not very well maintained.

But there are no real hazards on Mexico's secondary roads, although when one dips down into a wash, it's wise to slow down to pass over ribs of earth and rocks and stones, which were no doubt deposited there by the same "monsoon storms" we share.

Anyway, when I left Santa Ana early on a sunny Sunday morning, I discovered, once again, that the road to Curcurpe is, a "road less traveled."  It passes through a region that is almost unpopulated.

During my hour-long drive, I met my first oncoming car midway. Its driver smiled and waved at me. I smiled and waved back.  (That's an endearing Mexican custom when driving rural roads: One must smile and wave.)

As I drove on, I glimpsed fault-block mountains (geologically speaking) streaking along my driver-side window. They had been anciently tilted up by the movement of cracks in the earth's surface. They were topped off by huge cliffs draped with stunning colors, like vermillion streaked with marigold-yellow.  Plus, patches of gunmetal gray lichens pasted on those dizzyingly high cliffs of pinked, mauved, lavendered, and russeted sandstone.  The heavy rains since January had brought greening, making the colors even deeper.

I passed by octotillo in full leaf, its flimsy branches drooping under the weight of bursting vermillion blooms.  A bit farther on, I passed a forest of sahuaros made pregnant by the winter rains, their tops silvered by the morning sun.

When I arrived at Curcurpe, I took a left turn to drive into a canyon carved out by an ever-flowing, shallow river.

On my way up the canyon, I smiled and waved at a family that was cooking up a carne asada in a cave alongside the canyon.

After my dogs had drunk deeply from the river and had romped around in its clear and pure water, I turned my car around.

When I passed by the family on my way back, a smiling boy of about ten, flagged me down.

"¿Tiene hambre?" ("Are you hungry?")

"Si, tengo mucho hambre," I replied. ("Yes, I am very hungry."

"My momma says you must come eat with us," he replied.

I remembered The Rule, which is: "When in Mexico, to decline an invitation to eat is a sin."

And so, I shook the boy's hand and accepted his invitation to enjoy one of the tastiest lunches I may have ever had.

The canyon on the River Curcurpe.  The river is shallow and firm enough for passenger cars.

On the trip, I stopped often to marvel at the vistas and to enjoy the huge displays of springtime wildflowers.