SUNLAND PARK, N.M. — At dawn, Border Patrol agent Claudio Herrera navigated his green-and-white Suburban up a rugged hillside to a rocky overlook once frequented by migrant smugglers. It was 6:15 a.m. on a weekday in mid-May — prime time during what should have been the height of illegal migration season in southern New Mexico.
Yet, the border was eerily silent. No smugglers. No migrants. Only two U.S. soldiers in a pickup truck kept watch over the slope leading down into Mexico, strewn with discarded water bottles and clothing—the remnants of a migration surge that now seems to have evaporated.
“We used to process about 2,700 people daily,” Herrera told USA TODAY, reflecting on last year’s peak. “Now, for comparison, we’re seeing only 60 to 70.”
The stark difference is clear. Former President Donald Trump’s tough border policies have reshaped the U.S.-Mexico frontier, particularly in the El Paso Sector, where Herrera works. This 264-mile stretch from West Texas to New Mexico was once a hotspot for border crossings.
Just two years ago, Herrera’s radio would buzz relentlessly as agents tracked migrants moving through the desert near Sunland Park, New Mexico, just a stone’s throw from El Paso, Texas. Groups regularly scaled the 30-foot steel border fence using rope ladders or squeezed through gaps cut into the old mesh fencing—hundreds crossing daily across a 20-mile stretch that begins at the rugged slopes of Mt. Cristo Rey.
But Trump’s policies—a mix of deploying military forces, restricting asylum eligibility, and widely publicizing deportations—sent a powerful message. So far, it has kept migration at bay.
Herrera paused at an old obelisk marking the border and surveyed the landscape. Currently, 6,800 soldiers are stationed along the southern border, working alongside 17,000 Border Patrol agents. In the El Paso Sector alone, soldiers operate half a dozen armored Stryker vehicles equipped with advanced optics capable of scanning miles of desert terrain. Trump even declared nearly 110,000 acres of New Mexico borderland a “national defense area,” placing it under military control.
Crossings have dropped sharply. At 6:49 a.m., Herrera’s radio crackled with a possible sighting near the mountain base. He rushed back into the driver’s seat—only to learn the figure was a local resident.
“We don’t process asylum-seekers here anymore,” Herrera explained, referencing Biden’s June 2024 restrictions. That month marked the start of a steep decline in crossings—a trend that accelerated after Trump’s administration began.
Border Patrol’s April figures show roughly 8,400 migrant encounters nationwide—down from nearly 129,000 just one year prior. In the El Paso Sector, encounters plunged by 93% to under 2,000, from more than 30,000 the year before.
“We used to spot groups of 20 or 30 on the other side,” Herrera recalled.
In those days, smugglers perched on high ground would monitor Border Patrol movements, adjusting their efforts to slip migrants across undetected. Now? Many agents joke about boredom—though the quiet radio tells a different story.
Herrera drove west along the border fence’s base, where it rises 30 feet near the mountain. South of the steel bollards, in a patch of Ciudad Juárez, a black hen wandered past houses made from plywood and pallets. Nearby, an altar to Santa Muerte faced north—a stark reminder of the region’s gritty reality.
Looking westward, soldiers monitored the fence atop a mesa from inside a Stryker vehicle. Its thermal cameras, under good conditions, could spot a mouse a mile away.
Since Trump took office on January 20, 2017, the military deployment along the southern border has cost an estimated $525 million.
Herrera pulled up near the Santa Teresa port of entry, to a stretch of desert miles from Sunland Park’s urban sprawl. Red-and-white warning signs—small, but unmistakable—marked the area as restricted Department of Defense property. Crossing illegally here can now mean trespassing on a military installation.
Nearby, a rebar-and-rope ladder still dangled over the steel fence—untouched.
Migrants and smugglers often wait and watch after major policy changes. Early in Trump’s first term, crossings dropped before climbing again. “It’s too soon to say what will happen next,” Herrera admitted.
Still, he emphasized the need for balance. “We have to combine infrastructure, technology, and personnel perfectly to tackle illegal immigration and other crimes at the border.”
Later, his radio buzzed again—reports of a group of eight migrants crossing during a dust storm the previous night. Thirteen hours later, they had yet to be caught.
“We’re seeing a big drop compared to last year,” Herrera said, “but we don’t have full control yet in the El Paso Sector.”
Driving past a stretch where the 30-foot bollards give way to 18-foot steel mesh patched with sawed-out cutouts, he noted how cartel operations have been impacted.
“Migration is a multi-billion-dollar business for the cartels,” Herrera said. “Their struggles to get people across illegally are hitting them hard every day.”
Just south of the fence, a man in a ski mask quietly collected steel mesh pieces—those cut from the wall and tossed aside. Herrera pointed out that a contractor is employed full-time to repair the fence, day after day.
The border remains a battleground, but for now, the relentless tide of migration has slowed to a trickle.
