At this point, we were some 20 miles from the last little outpost of a town we’d been through. But theoretically, at least, we were about to come to another. Jerry had the best available maps of the area loaded onto his GPS. But it only told us where we were relative to the data it was loaded with. The adage “garbage in, garbage out” came to mind, and soon after, the vision of a web page that said “no data available.”
I was momentarily depressed as I looked at the convergence of three trails, all of which seemed to head up toward the top of a wrong ridge. Then, just as we were desperately searching for clues about it all, I was saved by one of my favorite quotes- “You’re not lost if you’re happy where you are.”
That combination of words again brought me peace of mind during a particularly small-feeling moment. I had an optimistic hunch about one of the trail options. And I followed it even though Arturo had already gone up another. Of course, I was somewhat bothered when the rest of the group followed him rather than me. But when the trail I was on made a sharp turn in the wrong direction, I realized they’d done the right thing and that I was utterly off-track.
The realization of my wasted efforts bummed me out, but I sucked it up, turned, rode my mountain bike back down to the intersection, and followed the others. Indeed, their trail looked solid and rideable from down at the intersection. But when I first saw it, I decided not to follow it. I wasn’t going to fall prey again to the siren’s call of heading up what seemed to be the right trail, only to realize that I was not going the right way. “Not gonna do that again,” I confidently reasoned.
In this instance, once again, my determination was wrong. At first, I was sure the trail the others followed would go to crap after just a short distance. But as I rode up it, the thing just got wider and appeared ever more developed as it rounded a corner and continued going up.
A long, open corridor soon appeared above me as the trail cut its way through thick forest. With the extended line of sight, I figured I ought to see at least one of the group members just up ahead, but there was only the green of the trees and the browns and grays of the ground for as far as I could see. “They’re moving fast,” I thought. For a moment, I even began to doubt they were anywhere up ahead. But then I looked down, saw their tire tracks, and was reassured.
That same thing had happened more than once before on our mapping expedition. And we’d all come to realize the importance of staying in contact or periodically regrouping as we each pursued our various exploration tangents. Understanding and evaluating tracks and trail signs are essential parts of the trail-hunting process. And we’d learned to never go too far in any one direction in that pursuit without accounting for each other. There was enough confusion as it was; we’d determined without adding any misplaced people to the equation.
As I ascended toward the others, the trail began looking like a road. And I saw what seemed to be unmistakable signs of human construction as it crossed a small ravine. It looked as though it’d been improved for vehicle traffic. But I knew that was impossible given our remoteness and the distance back to the last road. And so, I pushed the thought aside.
After the dip of the ravine, I just kept riding up towards the ridge top. The going was slow, but the weather was almost perfect—cool, calm, and sunny. And since I was riding through an old-growth forest with big trees, there was a lot of shade. So, while the riding was tough, the overall experience was pleasant.
After a few minutes of riding solo, I rounded a bend and saw the group ahead. They were stopped, appeared to be waiting for me to catch up, and were animatedly discussing something. Then, as I neared, they got back up on their bikes and began riding before I could even quite get there. “Hmmm,” I thought.
For a while, the trail was flat, and we all moved almost effortlessly. But within only moments, it switched back and began climbing even more steeply. The smooth, leisurely pace that we’d enjoyed for a few minutes slowed as the steep climb began. My first thought was that the grade was too steep for mountain bikes, and I soon began struggling with my breathing. Then, I remembered that the trail we were riding had evolved as a way for people, burros, and mules to walk between places. And it’d been doing that just fine since before the bicycle even existed. “If they could do it back in the old days, certainly I can do it with all this lightweight gear,” I thought. At that point, the term “wanker” came to mind, and so I just put my head down and rode with a faint drool-filled smile on my face.
Up to then, we had all guessed a lot about the jumble of interconnected local trails linking Batopilas and Carachic. Our main goal was to figure out how it all went, physically mark the most confusing parts, and map it.
There was another part or goal to the endeavor for each of us. Perhaps it was more of a result of focusing on the first, I’m not sure. But it was real and the driving force for our actions. It’s a simple, straightforward, and profound thought or idea. We were all doing it, at least partly for the adventure of it all. Some of us had been drawn in and intrigued by bits and pieces of the trail we had come across in the past and by stories we had read and heard about mule trains, grand pianos, and trail bosses with big knives. Some of us were there because of technical skills or work. And others were, partly because of who else was. The reasons varied, but they all led to the same place. The whole thing would be a good adventure, from figuring out logistics and what to pack to dealing with a lot of chaos and choosing which trail to follow.
I was especially intrigued by the history of the route during its early 20th-century heyday. During that time, teams of mules, often made up of over 100 pack animals, transported millions of ounces of refined silver along the route. Early on in our trip, it dawned on me that back during the mule train days, going the most efficient way was a primary concern. Back then, mules struggling or not making it up a climb was a significant problem, and backpacking and mountain biking were not even words.
And so, back to our uphill. Within minutes, we all came to a forced stop. It wasn’t one due to some physical hardship. But instead, it was one imposed by the situation, which was a particularly gnarly, steep rock hump that was just too hard to ride bikes up, that was staring us in the face. Such a thing had happened multiple times on this trip. So, it was nothing new. Without hesitation or struggle, we hoisted our bikes over our shoulders and began walking and picking our way up. We knew there was always a top and a more rideable section ahead. And in cases like this, just putting your nose to the grind and carrying your bike and gear was the fastest and most straightforward way to get there.
The trail was well established as it climbed up an open hillside, but loose rocks and dirt conspired with the steepness to make the walking tough and slow. The lack of vegetation let the sun beat down on us relentlessly, and I began to sweat well before reaching the clump of trees at the top of the hill. By the time we reached the shade, I was sweat-soaked, but thankfully, I began to cool down almost instantly. The shady tree canopy performed its cooling and drying magic in conjunction with a pleasant breeze. And within only minutes, I forgot the pain and suffering of the climb.
Looking ahead, I saw the trail continuing and leveling out as it traversed the ridge. It appeared to be heading toward our next landmark, which confirmed our current hunch. I was pleased to see that the trail appeared both rideable and went where it was supposed to. And so, I shifted focus to my bike and began reorganizing my gear. Once everyone was there, we got back up on our bikes and rode along another pleasant section. We were able to talk as we rode at a conversational pace. And it was nice to have something coming out of my mouth besides huffing and puffing.
Within only minutes, I’d forgotten my hour-long mistaken bushwhack, yesterday’s trail along the edge of the cliff, and the meadow without an obvious exit we’d experienced earlier that day. And I was exalting at the world-class riding we were doing at that moment. I knew the riding quality wouldn’t last, but I just rode and enjoyed what we currently had for the time being. The hard-packed dirt surface was free of loose rocks. My tires rolled smoothly along the wide and only slightly uphill track, winding between and around trees and through open forest. It took no effort to turn the pedals. For a brief instant, I felt like the bike was in control, and I was just along for the ride. Everyone, I thought, should have the same experience. But then, the magic abruptly ended as we came to another unridable section of brutally steep rock, and the struggles began again.
As we’d become accustomed to, we once again stopped, picked up our bikes, and began walking. There were comments as we started, but none meant to do anything other than lighten the tone. I did not doubt that any of our group could make it to the top, one way or the other. Even if the going got tough and tricky, I once again thought about how if we were indeed on the right track, then mules loaded with silver had once gone up that same trail, which meant we surely could.
About halfway up the rock section, we began to catch glimpses of the top and started speculating about what the trail up there would be like. We were a bit like working ants, slowly but surely working our way up. We followed several paths as we maneuvered up gullies, around boulders, and across exposed slickrock, but we were all headed for the same place. The higher we went, the more we pondered and discussed what the rest of the trail would be like. We all knew it could be more of the same loose, rocky crap. Or it could end on the top of some small, thickly forested, lonely mesa. But we were hopeful it would be more like the riding bliss we’d experienced only a few hundred yards back. We were almost to the top when he turned and looked off to the side. It was Quentin who noticed and said it first. We all stopped, looked his way, and then he spat it out, “Look over there, I think that’s the trail.”
I didn’t want to believe it, and half expected him to be messing with us as I looked in the direction he was pointing. But there it was, as plain as day. An obvious trail snaked its way across a lower ridge across the valley and intersected the big rock we’d been close to at the bottom. How did we miss it, I wondered? It wound its way lazily up through the trees and ultimately up and, most likely, over a small pass. In the distance, mesas of various shades of blue stuck up through an opening. The mesa top we were about to reach created a frame for the magnificent view. For the moment, we were content. Even though we were off track, we were in an amazing place and with good people. There was no doubt what would happen next. We climbed back down to the big rock, took the third trail option, and followed it in hopes that it would be the right one. And I didn’t worry about whether or not we were lost at that moment because I was happy and content to be where I was.
