Backstory: The canteen man of the US-Mexico border

But critics say the existence of such a map sends another message – that there's help in the desert, so it's possible to cross. "We would not want to give anyone the impression that the desert is a safe place or that there are safe avenues through it," says Jarrod Agen, a spokesman for the Department of Homeland Security.

In Mexico, support for the Humane Borders agenda is unambiguous. When Mexico's National Human Rights Commission announced that it would nominate Hoover and two Mexican activists for their human rights award, new Mexican President Felipe Calderón offered to present the awards himself last month – and did.

But at home in Arizona, the politics of providing water and maps in the desert rouses strong emotions. "We have an obligation as a nation to prevent deaths in the desert, but what Humane Borders is doing is sedition," says Chris Simcox, founder of the Minuteman Civil Defense Corps, the self-styled border watchdog group based in Scottsdale, Ariz. "They're aiding and abetting criminal activity by giving out maps."

Hoover has had his share of encounters with anti-immigration protesters sitting in lawn chairs, and holding rifles, along the border. He gets plenty of warnings, too. "Some people send us checks; some send death threats," he says in his office at the First Christian Church in Tucson. After appearances on talk radio, hate mail also arrives on his computer, such as: "Don't be surprised, reverend, if your church blows up." He seems unfazed: "You do what you do because of who you are, not because of who they are."

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A native of West Texas (and proud of it), Hoover grew up in Big Spring. He's had previous jobs in nursing, photography, and commercial construction. He earned a BA from Texas Christian University, a master's degree from TCU's Brite Divinity School, and a PhD in political science from Texas Tech University. He wrote his doctoral thesis on migration policy and religious nonprofit groups.

Before moving to Tucson in 2000, he ministered to border communities in the Rio Grande Valley. The books in his church office in Tucson range from biblical studies and ethics to political theory and current events. When he works late, he listens to Leonard Cohen, the Canadian poet/singer-songwriter. "Leonard Cohen said it best: Love is the only engine of survival," he says.

Hoover preaches to his congregation every Sunday. Much of the rest of the time he's out in the desert in his double-insulated work boots (to protect against snake bites) and "Ex Officio" shirts with lots of pockets (to hold cellphones, GPS devices, and notepads).

Hoover has spent enough time in political science classrooms to know the competing immigration arguments. But he believes that Christian teachings trump political science. "We can analyze these things to death. But we're left with: What are you doing for 'the least of these,' " he says, referring to Matthew 25:45.

A natural storyteller, with a salty streak, he says he could not see what he has seen – tiny shoes left in the desert, near-miss rescues, close encounters with angry critics – without a sense of humor. "You have to have a sense of humor or you'll cry yourself into a mess," he says.

To be sure, the migration issue isn't only about poor people seeking a better life. It's also about drugs and guns, smuggling, human trafficking, and crime. Farmers' fences get cut, cattle are killed, families robbed. Debris piles up and so do costs to local communities and taxpayers.

"There's no one, no one, no one happy with the migration," he says. "I love the migrants, but I do not romanticize the migrants."

Nearly 3,000 people were rescued in the desert by the border patrol in fiscal 2006 alone. Last November, border patrol agents in the Tucson sector rescued four Humane Borders members, who failed to return to a water station. "We all help each other," says Hoover. "They [the agents] tell me they sometimes drink our water."

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