Mountain Biking The Trail of Death

An interesting turn of events while mountain biking some Copper Canyon singletrack.

Trail of Death 1-03
The Trail of Death

Afterward, we began to call it the Trail of Death.

For the longest time, Batopilas, Mexico, was connected to the small town of Cerro Colorado by just a little bit of dirt road and seven or so miles of trail, just barely wide enough for local burro traffic. Then, a few years back, that same dirt road was bulldozed into that little Copper Canyon town. Most of the old trail was “improved” for vehicle use, although the last mile or so was left untouched where the road took an easier route.

While the road extension did make it possible to drive vehicles into and out of Cerro Colorado, it made hiking or mountain biking into the dusty outpost significantly less appealing. For years, riding bikes out there and back had been a good day trip for many of our groups. We’d ride out from our hotel in Batopilas after breakfast, enjoy a pleasant mountain bike ride or hike on a mix of single and double track, and then arrive in Cerro just in time for lunch. Once there, we’d have a typical rural Mexican lunch prepared for us by one of the local ladies and served in her home. It made for an interesting and fun day trip.

On this particular trip, things did start smoothly. The ride to Cerro went like clockwork. From Batopilas, we first followed the trail along the old aqueduct, eventually joined up with the dirt road, and then followed it to the shortcut/old trail for the final approach to our destination. We ultimately rejoined the road near Cerro, just a bit before it became “Main Street,” and it was at that point that things started to get a little off-kilter.

Just as we rode up a small rise and entered the town outskirts, a herd of pigs blocked our intended path. Our organized entrance into town instantly became more of a confusing mess. We closed ranks and pulled it back together by the time we rode up to and stopped outside the tidy casa where lunch awaited. Senora Perez waited with serving spoon and dishrag in hand, just as the radio in the nearby store began blurting out the high noon chiming. At least we’re still on time, I concluded.

After leaning our bikes against her fence, we went inside the house and had an enjoyable meal. Life was good and simple, or so we thought, as we got up from the table, walked outside into a pleasantly warm mid-afternoon sun, and got back up on our bikes for the ride back. We then turned them towards Batopilas and began the return, ready for whatever might come our way. Or so we thought.

We took the shortcut/old trail again as it forked off from the road just outside of town. Just past the intersection, the dirt path lazily skirted a pasture for a few hundred yards. And then, it began to narrow and weave its way through the various shallow desert-like gullies (or arroyos as they call them down there). The arroyos progressively steepened and eventually became small canyons, which forced the five-foot-wide pathway to defy reason and cling to the rock, part of the way up the canyon wall. That whole rocky section is a pure marvel, and more than once, I’d pondered how it seemed to be carved right into the solid rock cliff. In a short space of time and distance, the riding went from relaxed and casual to something more on the tricky and challenging end of the spectrum.

Since I knew the route, I rode out in front. Our group of 11 continued to spread further and further apart. And by the time we reached a particularly significant section of cliff trail, we were all separated by 20 or 30 yards.

The riding was enjoyable and became exciting as we rode out onto the rocky part. A few hundred feet into the steepest and most exposed section, I rounded a curve, rode up and then over a small rock hump, and finally into a more mellow and predictable stretch.

As I entered the more moderate section, I allowed my mind to wander a bit, and for some reason, began mentally re-riding the rocky curve and hump. I hadn’t paid much attention to that particular rock or turn before, but there was something about it on this specific ride that caused it to stick in my mind. About 200 yards past it, I rolled to a stop and looked back at it across the canyon. From my vantage point, I could see how the whole curve complex just seemed to jut out of the cliff. And then, as I watched, the entire thing became almost magically highlighted by a beam of intense sunshine. It was right then that one of the group members, Rich, came around the corner, rode up onto the top of the rock, and then crashed and fell off of the cliff.

It was just that simple and straightforward. Initially, I was paralyzed and gazed motionlessly back at the curve. My biggest fears were confirmed as I heard his bike crashing and bouncing its way down the cliff and come to a suddenly silent and abrupt stop at the bottom. How, why, and don’t were words that came to mind, and my world went into slow motion as I let my bike fall onto the trail, and began running back to where he had once been. I had no idea about what to do in that sort of situation but felt the need to go and do something. I glanced back across at the rock one more time before taking off and saw the trail, rocks, and distant mountains filling-in the background, but no Rich. The sight of what wasn’t there caused a rush of adrenaline to begin free-flowing into my head. But then, after I’d only gone a short distance, from seemingly out of nowhere, he just reappeared, climbing up onto the cliff edge of the trail. Like his falling off, it was a seemingly simple and straightforward occurrence. I was excited, confused, and intrigued by the situation all at the same time. But I could see him across the way, standing by the rock in question, and apparently in the flesh.

I kept my eyes on him as I continued heading his way. And then I watched as he just brushed himself off and began talking and gesturing to other nearby group members. I had the thought that if I let him out of my sight, he might disappear again, and I certainly didn’t want that. So, I just kept looking at him as I moved.

It would be an understatement to say that I was overwhelmed, and I can likely speak for everyone else who witnessed the event by saying that they were as well. It’s just not that often that you watch someone fall off of a cliff and then reappear.

When I got to Rich, he recounted what’d happened. He’d ridden up onto the rock, lost his balance, and fell to the cliff-side. I can only imagine that he’s still reliving that moment of whatever it is that goes through your mind as you’re falling toward certain death. In his case, he fell onto a sizable ledge that was some eight feet below the trail. Somehow, he came unclipped from his pedals, untangled from his bike, and stuck on a flattish spot while his bike bounced on down to the bottom.

My first thought after hearing his story was that eight feet is a long way to fall but soon concluded that eight is way better than a hundred. He was bruised, scratched, and dirty, but had very much survived. I had difficulty coming up with something relevant to say. After only a few short minutes, a local Tarahumara man appeared right in front of us with something pertinent to show us. He had the damaged bike in hand and recounted how he’d seen the whole event unfold from down below. He told us how he was walking along the creek when he heard a noise, looked up, and saw Rich fall onto the ledge while the bike went on down to the bottom. He had gone over, picked it up, and was bringing it back.

Eventually, it was time to ride on. Everyone, except for Rich, of course, was particularly careful about how and where they got up onto their bikes. A few of the riders who hadn’t ridden the rocky curve at that point opted to walk their bikes through that entire section. Rich walked back to Batopilas, and while it’s true that his bike was messed up, I don’t think he would’ve ridden anyway.

As the trail turned into the road and the route became less dramatic, I had a bit of time for reflection. There’d been a lot that had happened in those few minutes at the rocky curve. I tried to put myself into Rich’s shoes, figuratively, but was unable, and decided to ponder it later. And so, I then focused on trying to comprehend what the Tarahumara must’ve thought. I couldn’t resolve that either. Finally, I looked down at the ground, which kept relentlessly disappearing ahead of my front wheel and just rode. It was at that moment that I came to realize that some things are beyond my ability to comprehend, and in those cases, I should just keep moving.

Mountain biking the Colorado Trail in the Fall.
Mountain biking the Colorado Trail

Author: David Appleton

I was born and raised in Texas and currently live in the Texas Hill Country, spent some 30 years living in the smack dab middle of Colorado, and have spent a lifetime adventuring and leading others on adventures in many parts of the wild world.

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