The Ambitious But Rubbish Guide to Moonlit Tunnels and Franciscan Escape Routes
Imagine a magical tunnel that appears on full moons, leading to The Alamo or across the Rio Grande. It's filled with gold, but don't get greedy or you'll vanish. It's the kind of barmy tale that makes you wonder if tequila is a hallucinogen. Absurd? Yes. But bloody entertaining.
There are many tales that tickle the ears of children, captivate the imaginations of adults, and ignite the dreams of treasure hunters. Some stories are so far-fetched that you’d have an easier time believing in unicorns selling ice cream at a summer fair. Others, however, find their charm in the tiniest sliver of plausibility—a creaking door that may or may not hide behind it a mountain of truth. The San Bernardo Mission and its supposed tunnel of gold, where the laws of physics and human greed duel to see who wins the day, is precisely one of these tales.
When I was a kid—back when the most serious life decision was whether to spend an afternoon climbing trees or digging in the dirt to find dinosaur bones that were, upon later reflection, rather disappointingly revealed to be sticks—I remember my classmates talking about this tunnel. The story was more enticing than a sweetshop with all-you-can-eat gummy bears. We would sit, wide-eyed, as some self-anointed expert on ghostly apparitions and secret passageways would recount the legend. If you were lucky (or perhaps cursed, depending on how you view these things), on a night when the moon hung round and bright in the sky, a tunnel would miraculously open at the entrance to San Bernardo Mission.
And this was no ordinary tunnel, mind you. It wasn’t just a convenient shortcut for Sunday service or a practical place for the friars to store their dusty wine casks. No, this was a passage of intrigue, a corridor that connected the San Bernardo Mission to none other than the San Antonio de Valero Mission, a place far better known today as “The Alamo.” Yes, that Alamo, the site of a battle so famous that even a hermit living under a rock knows the tale, likely told and retold until history and Hollywood twisted it into something only vaguely familiar.
But the story didn’t stop there. Some of my friends, whom I suspect harbored a flair for dramatic embellishments, claimed the tunnel took an even more perilous route, venturing under the Rio Grande itself. Can you imagine it? An underwater escape hatch, expertly designed by Franciscan friars to flee from wild bands of “barbarian Indians,” as the storytellers so colorfully described it. It was the sort of thing that sent your imagination whirling faster than a tumbleweed in a Texas windstorm. True or not, it was perfect fodder for those late-night storytelling marathons when ghost stories mixed with smuggled sips of Dad’s whiskey.
The tale didn’t end with mere topography. No, it sank its greedy claws deeper, weaving a narrative of unimaginable riches. You see, every good tunnel worth its weight in folklore must have some glittery bait, a gold rush buried deep within. According to local legend, on select moonlit nights, this tunnel wasn’t just a hollow passage but rather a treasury fit for royalty. There were whispers of mountains of coins, heaps of jewels, and enough gold to make even the most conservative investor drop his stock portfolio and reach for a spade.
But here’s where things got even more deliciously absurd. The tunnel, while undeniably a giver of riches, was also a ruthless taskmaster. Anyone venturing inside had to be quick, nimbler than a cat, and most certainly devoid of greed. If you dawdled, hesitated, or let your eyes grow too wide with dreams of wealth, the tunnel would pull a Houdini act and vanish, taking with it not just the gold but you, the hapless adventurer, forever. Poof! One moment you’re dreaming of gold-plated bathtubs, the next you’re trapped in some dimension where, presumably, the only things to keep you company are your echoing screams and regretful wails.
True or not, this tunnel remains the stuff of hushed conversations, of treasure maps drawn on napkins in the local tavern. Some people still whisper about the existence of this passageway, eyes glittering not with moonlight but the kind of feverish anticipation that only comes with the promise of hidden gold. For these hopefuls, the tunnel represents a potential fortune, a chance to strike it rich without the need for an honest day's labor. Others are less interested in wealth and more in the adventure. How far does the tunnel really go? Does it cut across the mighty Rio Grande, a river so stubborn it might as well be listed as a national monument of pure defiance? Or is the tunnel a mere figment, a shadowy whisper lost to time and the overly active imaginations of bored children and adults with a penchant for storytelling?
To those itching for an adventure, let me offer a slice of wisdom: history has a way of seducing you, of beckoning with its siren call, and if you’re not careful, you might find yourself digging holes in a barren desert, hoping to stumble upon a bit of long-forgotten magic. And while I’m not here to tell you what to do with your shovel and pickaxe, do be careful. If you do happen to find this elusive tunnel, don't be greedy. Snatch a gold coin or two, perhaps enough to fund a holiday where the most perilous thing you face is sunburn. Because, as the legend goes, linger too long, and the tunnel will devour you, leaving behind nothing but the faint echo of dreams unfulfilled.
And perhaps, just perhaps, that's how legends are supposed to be. Enduring, elusive, and forever a little bit out of reach. After all, what fun would they be otherwise?
In-text Citation: (Cervera López, 2021, p. 41)
