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 all the way into that little Copper Canyon town. At that point, most of the old trail had been “improved” for vehicle use, but the last mile remained untouched, where the road took a more direct route.
While the road extension made it possible to drive vehicles in 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 was a good day trip for many of our OWA groups. We’d ride out from our hotel in Batopilas after breakfast. Then we’d enjoy a pleasant mountain bike ride or hike on a mix of single- and double-track, arriving in Cerro just in time for lunch. Once there, we’d have a typical rural Mexican lunch prepared by one of the local ladies and served in her home. It made for an interesting and fun day trip.
Things started smoothly on this particular trip, and the ride to “Cerro” went like clockwork. From Batopilas, we first followed the old aqueduct, then joined the dirt road, and finally took the shortcut/old trail for the final approach to our destination. The trail ultimately rejoined the road near Cerro just a bit before it became “Main Street.”
It was at that point that things started to get a little off kilter. Just as we rode up a slight rise and entered the town outskirts, a herd of pigs blocked our intended path. Our organized entrance into town quickly turned into a confusing mess. We closed ranks and pulled it back together as we rode into town and stopped outside the tidy casa where lunch awaited. Senora Perez waited with a serving spoon and dishrag in hand, just as the radio in the nearby store began blaring out the high noon chiming from Chihuahua. 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 is good, “ we mused as we finished our meal, went outside, got back up on our bikes, and began the return. We were excited and ready for whatever might come our way. Or so we thought.
We retook the shortcut/old trail as it forked off from the road just outside 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, forcing the five-foot-wide pathway to defy reason and cling to the rock halfway up the canyon wall. That whole rocky section is a pure marvel, and more than once I’d pondered how it seemed carved into the solid rock. In a short 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 exposed section of cliff trail, we were all separated by 20 or 30 yards.
The ride was enjoyable and exciting as we rode onto the rocky section. Then, 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 and, for some reason, began mentally re-riding the rocky curve and hump. I hadn’t paid much attention to that specific rock and turn before, but something about it on this particular ride caused it to stick in my mind. Finally, 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 complex seemed to jut out of the cliff. And then, as I watched, the scene became strangely highlighted by a beam of intense sunshine. Just at that moment, one of the group members, Rich, came around the corner, rode onto the top of the rock, crashed, and appeared to fall off the 100’ cliff.
It was just that straightforward. Initially, I was stunned, gazing back at the curve motionlessly. My biggest fears were confirmed as I heard Rich’s bike crash and bounce down the cliff, then abruptly stop at the bottom. From my vantage point, I couldn’t see the cliff face, but I assumed he’d ridden his bike all the way down. The words “how,” “why,” and “don’t” 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 what to do in that sort of situation, but felt the need to do something. I glanced back 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 into my head. But after running only 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 seemed a simple, straightforward occurrence. I was excited, confused, and intrigued by the situation all at the same time. At first, I thought maybe it was an illusion of some sort, but I blinked several times, looked again, and there he was, 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 watched as he just brushed himself off and began talking and gesturing to other nearby group members and friends. It would be an understatement to say I remained overwhelmed and at a loss for words as I continued walking toward him. I can likely speak for everyone else who witnessed the event by saying they were as well. It’s not all that often that you watch someone literally fall off a cliff and then reappear.
When I got to Rich, he recounted what’d happened. He’d ridden onto the rock, lost his balance, and fallen to the cliffside. I can only imagine that even now, years later, he’s still reliving that moment of whatever goes through your mind as you’re falling toward certain death. In his case, he fell onto a sizable ledge 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 down to the bottom.
After hearing his story, my first thought was that eight feet is a long way to fall, but I quickly 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. Then, after only a few minutes, a local Tarahumara man appeared right in front of us with something pertinent to show. 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 down to the bottom. He went over to the creek, picked it up, and was now bringing it back.
Eventually, it was time to ride on. Everyone, except for Rich, was extra cautious about how and where they got up onto their bikes. A few riders hadn’t even reached the rocky curve when the fall occurred and opted to walk their bikes through the entire section. Rich walked back to Batopilas, and while his bike was certainly messed up, I don’t think he would’ve ridden it anyway.
As we rode, the trail turned into the road, the route became less dramatic, and I had time for reflection. There had been a lot that happened in those few minutes at the rocky curve. I tried to put myself in Rich’s shoes (figuratively), but I couldn’t, so I 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. As I rode onto wider and less technical terrain, I once again concluded that some things are beyond my comprehension. And in those cases, I should just keep moving.
