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CU PhD candidate Chilton Tippin working to document migrant mortality in El Paso

With the desert sun beating down on the jagged trails of Mount Cristo Rey just outside El Paso, Texas, Chilton Tippin, a PhD candidate in cultural anthropology at the 91������, wipes sweat from his brow. His backpack is weighed down with bottles of water and food—not for himself, but for the people his research group expects to find hiding in the desert.

In the distance, he sees groups of migrants who just crossed the Mexican border, many of them exhausted and injured, pursued by Border Patrol agents on horseback and in helicopters.

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91������ PhD candidate Chilton Tippin spent the summer of 2024 documenting the crisis at a deadly crossing point along the U.S.-Mexico border.

Tippin recalls this almost-daily scene on the mountain, a pilgrimage site that has become the deadliest crossing point along the U.S.-Mexico border.

He spent the summer of 2024 . Though he originally expected to study the environmental impact of the Rio Grande, the unfolding humanitarian crisis was too important to ignore.

“My dissertation is about the Rio Grande, but since the river has been turned into a border and become heavily militarized, it has become a site for a lot of violence and death,” he says.

Yet, when Tippin tried to gather data on how many migrants were dying in the El Paso region, he ran into another problem: bureaucratic stonewalls. Many deaths, he discovered, weren’t being officially counted at all.

Without accurate data, the full scale of the crisis in El Paso is obscured, he says, and over the course of his fieldwork, Tippin saw how systemic failures, political pressure and logistical challenges combine to erase countless migrant deaths from public view.

He’s on a mission to change that.

Life and death on Mount Cristo Rey

“We would go up the mountain regularly,” Tippin recalls, “because a lot of the migrants and undocumented people trying to sneak across would be staged just on the Mexican side of the border.”

Mount Cristo Rey, the northernmost peak of the Sierra Juárez mountain range, is famous for the 29-foot-tall statue of Jesus on the Cross at its summit. With roughly two-thirds of the mountain in Texas and the rest in Mexico, it has also become a major hotspot for border crossings.

“When we would approach, often there were 20 or 30 people just sitting there in the desert with no shade, and it’d be 110 degrees (F). They would come running to us, and we would drop our backpacks and hand out 50 water bottles and any food we could carry,” Tippin says.

The migrants he and his team encountered weren’t just battling the elements. Many had endured days or weeks of travel, cartel-controlled smuggling routes and the fear of being caught and detained, or worse.

“Because of the whole process of being chased by Border Patrol in the desert, where the heat is up to 115 degrees, people are malnourished, depleted and exhausted,” Tippin says. “Then they try to swim across the river, and they’re drowning. Or they’re going out into the desert and getting lost and succumbing to dehydration and heat illness.”

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Water bottles are placed beneath a religious display on the border between the United States and Mexico near El Paso, Texas. (Photo: Chilton Tippin)

The mountain itself is a paradox, both a path to safety and a trap ready to spring. The rugged terrain provides cover from Border Patrol and makes expeditions up the slopes more difficult, but it also means there’s no easy escape if something goes wrong.

“The mountain itself is such a surreal landscape,” Tippin recalls. “We often felt like we were in The Matrix or The Twilight Zone because we could be up there just kind of walking on the trails, and people are getting chased and detained and tackled.

“It’s also weird because it’s a religious place. But at the same time you’re moving through that landscape, people are running for their lives.”

The cartel’s grip on the El Paso region

For many of the migrants Tippin encountered, danger didn’t begin on the mountain. In Ciudad Juárez, just across the border from El Paso, the Juárez Cartel has taken control of border crossings, turning human smuggling into a lucrative extension of its drug trade.

“I don’t want to push this idea that the violence is just a ‘Mexico problem.’ But the reality is that people wouldn’t be forced into these cartel-run routes if they had a safe, legal way to cross the border,” Tippin says.

Cartel smugglers, known as coyotes, lead groups of migrants across the border, often charging thousands of dollars per person. In the mountains, the cartel stations lookouts to monitor movements of migrant groups and evade the Border Patrol.

“They are just posted up on the peaks, watching for agents and guiding groups through,” Tippin says. “Border Patrol would try to menace them with helicopters, but they never actually go up there because it’s too dangerous.”

Even for individuals who make it safely across the border, the ordeal often isn’t over. Many are sent right back into cartel-controlled territory, where they face violence, extortion or death.

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A helicopter flies over the rugged terrain at border between the United States and Mexico near El Paso, Texas. (Photo: Chilton Tippin)

“That’s the deadly dynamic,” Tippin says. “People cross, they get pushed back and then they get extorted again. Women get assaulted. Families get separated. And they keep trying, because what choice do they have?”

The deaths no one wants to count

When the official numbers of migrant deaths didn’t match what Tippin was seeing on the ground, he quickly realized documenting the crisis would be harder than expected.

“I went through the whole summer filing open records requests, and I was told, ‘We don’t count migrants,’” he recalls. “Then when I tried to get autopsy reports, they said that if I wanted to see the records of drowning victims, it would cost over $4,000. And if I wanted a broader dataset—covering deaths in the desert as well—I got a bill for over $100,000.”

Tippin notes that U.S. Customs and Border Protection (CBP) , which may lead to underreporting. If a migrant drowns in the El Paso canals or is found in the desert by local first responders, the Texas National Guard or civilians, they aren’t counted in the official data. If they die in a hospital after being rescued, they also don’t make the list. Even if remains are discovered by CBP personnel but the person was not in custody, guidelines state the death isn’t reportable.

As a result, the official data can be off by hundreds—if not thousands—of deaths.

This isn’t just an oversight, Tippin notes. It’s part of a pattern. No More Deaths, a volunteer organization, , with actual migrant deaths sometimes exceeding CBP’s reports by two to four times.

For Tippin, the answer to why this happens is simple: Acknowledging the full scale of the crisis would shed light on the deadly consequences of U.S. border policies.

“I think that the deaths go uncounted because it’s inconvenient for the whole political and bordering apparatus to have it be known that, as a consequence of their policies and their practices, hundreds of people are dying in the United States, in the deserts and in the rivers that form the border,” he says.

Fighting for the truth

Despite the resistance, Tippin and several grassroots organizations aren’t giving up the fight. They’re using the limited data they have, as well as anecdotal fieldwork, to push for policy changes, local resolutions and new initiatives aimed at tracking and preventing migrant deaths.

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Clothing and water bottles left at shady spot on the United States-Mexico border near El Paso, Texas. (Photo: Chilton Tippin)

“It’s such a preventable public health trend,” he says, “and the way we attempt to address problems such as these is to gather data on them.

“We need to make what’s happening apparent and use the data to strategically implement interventions that could help reverse this alarming and tragic trend.”

One organization in Tucson, Arizona, , is using this approach. It works directly with the local medical examiner’s office to gather precise data on migrant deaths. That data is then used to strategically place water stations in high-risk areas.

Tippin and others want to replicate that success in El Paso, but without government cooperation, progress is slow.

“The medical examiner’s office in Tucson works with humanitarian groups,” he explains. “In El Paso, they won’t even meet with us. That’s the difference.”

But activists like Tippin aren’t waiting for permission. They continue to document deaths, advocate for policy changes and pressure local officials to increase transparency.

Recently, Tippin and his research team went before the El Paso County commissioners, pushing them to acknowledge the crisis and demand more transparency from the medical examiner’s office.

“We recently had them pass a resolution decrying all the deaths in El Paso. It’s a step in the right direction, but we need more than words—we need action,” he says.

In the El Paso region, migrants continue to suffer and die from preventable causes. The work to help them is slow, and the resistance is strong. Yet Tippin and others refuse to back down because, ultimately, it’s not about numbers.

“These aren’t just statistics,” he says. “These are people. And until we start treating them as such, nothing is going to change.”��

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