Lost and Found

“You’re not lost, if you don’t care where you are.”

Mountain biking the Silver Trail
Getting directions on the Silver Trail

At that point, we were probably some 20 miles from the last little outpost of a town we’d been through, but were theoretically about to come to another. Jerry had the best maps of the area available loaded onto his gps, but it only told us where we were in relation to the relatively paltry data it was loaded with. The realization that we might actually be the first people ever out in that part of Copper Canyon trying to figure out and quantify where the hell things went, among other things, left me with the feeling of simply being overwhelmed. The old adage of, “garbage in, garbage out” came to mind and was soon followed by the vision of a web page that simply said “no data available”. I was momentarily despondent as I looked at the convergence of three trails, all of which seemed to head up toward the top of a wrong ridge. Just as we were each desperately searching for any sort of clues about it all, I was saved, once again, by the quote- “you’re not lost, if you don’t care where you are”.

That combination of words once again brought me peace of mind at a particularly small feeling moment. Without any further hesitation, I chose one of the three trails to head up and did so even though Arturo had gone up one of the others and was already out of sight. I was somewhat bothered when the rest of the group followed him, rather than me, but soon realized that maybe they’d done the right thing when the trail I was on made a sharp turn in an obviously even more wrong direction, telling me that more than likely, I was off track.

I was bummed by the realization of my wasted efforts, but just sucked it up, turned, and rode my mountain bike back down to the intersection and then followed them. Their trail had appeared solid and rideable at the bottom, but from the very first time I’d seen it, I’d made the decision that I wasn’t going to once again fall prey to the siren’s call of heading up an obvious, good looking trail, only to run into trouble. Not gonna do that again, I’d confidently reasoned. In this particular case, my determination was wrong. I’d been certain that the obvious trail would go to crap once it started going somewhere, but in fact, the thing just got wider and appeared ever more developed as it rounded a corner and began going up.

A long corridor soon opened up above me as the trail cut its way through thick forest. With the extended line of sight, I figured that 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 began to doubt that they were even anywhere up there, but looked down, saw their tire tracks and was reassured.

That same sort of thing had happened more than once on our mapping expedition up to that point and we’d all ultimately learned the importance of staying in contact or periodically regrouping as we each pursued our various exploration tangents. Understanding and evaluating tracks and sign of various sorts are an important part of the trail hunting process and we’d learned to never go too far in any one direction in that pursuit without the whole group being accounted for. There was enough confusion as it was, without adding misplaced people into the equation.

As I ascended, the trail almost took on the appearance of a road and I saw obvious signs of human construction on parts of it as it crossed a small ravine. It looked like it’d been improved for some sort of vehicle traffic, but I already knew that was an impossibility given our remoteness and the distance back to the last actual road and pushed the thought aside.

After the dip of the ravine, I just kept riding up towards the ridge top. The going was slow, but steady and the weather almost perfect for riding—cool, calm and sunny.  And so, while the riding was tough, the overall experience, pleasant. The trail was mostly shaded, as it cut its way up and through what appeared to be old growth forest of some sort. The trees were humongous and I could see that the mix included a species of fir that I couldn’t quite identify, pines similar to the the Ponderosas that I was so familiar with back in Colorado and the occasional juniper, which were called “Tascate” down in the canyons.

After a few minutes of riding alone, I rounded a bend, and saw the group just ahead. They were stopped, as expected, waiting for me to catch up and animatedly discussing options. As I neared, they got back up on their bikes and began riding, before I could quite catch up. For a while, the trail  became flat and we moved almost effortlessly. But within only moments, it switched back once again and resumed climbing. The smooth, easy pace that we’d enjoyed for a few minutes, slowed as the climb began. My first thought at that point was that the grade was too steep for mountain bikes. Just as I was beginning to physically struggle with my breathing, I once again remembered that we were on a trail that had evolved mostly as a way for people, burros, horses and mules to get from one place to another and that it’d been doing that since way before the bicycle had even been thought of. And so, I rode until the steepness got the best of me and I stopped, got off and began walking.

The concepts of recreation and trails built and maintained for diversion had initially confused my thoughts as we’d begun contemplating and planning the project. We’d been pondering, speculating, guessing and otherwise trying to figure out how, back in the day, the myriad, and still abundant network of local trails, had been pieced together to connect the silver mines of Batopilas with the Bank of Chihuahua, some 250 miles away. Our main goal all along had been to figure out how it all went and linked together, physically mark the most confusing parts and then finally, map it. The name it had assumed “was” and “is” The Silver Trail and our predominate hope was to help in creating a long-distance route for adventure travelers that would also tell something about the area’s history, bring unobtrusive commerce into the Barrancas and share a part of the area’s wild magnificence with the rest of the world.

There was another part or goal to the endeavor for each of us. Perhaps it was more of a result or some sort of inevitability from having focused on the first, I’m not sure. But it was real, and perhaps the driving force. That thing was the simple, adventure of it all. Some of us had been drawn-in and intrigued by bits and pieces of trail that we’d come across before and parts of stories about mule trains, grand pianos and trail bosses with big knives. Some came, at least outwardly, because of technical skills or work. And others were there, at least partly because of who else was. The reasons varied, but they all led to the same place. The whole thing, from figuring out logistics and what to pack to choosing which trail to follow- would be a buen aventura– a good adventure.

I should’ve known from the outset that the muleteers, vaqueros, guards and mine owners from back in the pre-vehicle era would’ve only been concerned about the steepness of any particular one of the trails they were using in regards to how a mule could handle it. Back in it’s early 20th Century heyday, teams of mules, sometimes made up of over 100 pack animals, transported millions of ounces of refined silver over the route. Going the most efficient way would’ve been a primary concern. Mules struggling or not making it up a climb were important. Backpacking and mountain biking were not even words or terms.

And so, back to the climb. Within only minutes we all came, more or less, to the same aforementioned stop. It wasn’t one of those done by some sort of choice related to the joy or thrill of the ride, but instead, one imposed by the situation- which in this case was a particularly gnarly and steep rock hump. Such a thing had happened time and again on this particular trip and after five days, we’d come to simply accept it. Without hesitation or struggle and once down on our own two feet, we each hoisted our bikes up over our shoulders and began walking and picking our way up. We’d come to realize that there was always a top and a more rideable section ahead, and that in cases like this, just putting your nose to the grind and carrying your bike and gear would be the fastest and simplest way to get there.

In this particular instance, I walked faster than the others and soon assumed the lead. The trail was obvious as it climbed on up an open hillside, but loose rocks and dirt conspired with the steepness to make the walking tough and slow. The lack of vegetation allowed the sun to beat down on us relentlessly and I broke out in a sweat, well before reaching a clump of trees, which were thankfully covering the top of the hill. By the time I got up there and into the shade, I was sweat soaked and began to cool down almost instantly. The protective canopy, along with a breeze that had only gotten stronger as we’d ascended conspired to perform their magic and within only minutes, the pain and suffering of the climb was forgotten.

The trail leveled out and veered off in a new direction as it traversed the ridge. Since it seemed to be headed at least in the general direction of our next landmark and the day’s destination, which was the old station at La Laja, our hunches and hopes about the route were once again momentarily confirmed. As I looked ahead, I was comforted by the combination of seeing rideable looking terrain along with a trail that appeared to be going where it was supposed to, and reorganized gear while waiting for the others. Once everyone was there, we got back up on our bikes and began riding along a pleasantly flat section that wound in and out among the trees while continuing to climb, but this time at a much more moderate rate. For a while, we were able to actually talk as we rode. It was at what is known as 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 the three-hour mistaken bushwhack, the trail along the edge of the cliff and the meadow with no exit and was exalting at the world class bit of riding we were in the midst of. I knew it wouldn’t last, but for the moment, I just rode and relished it. The hardpacked dirt surface was free of loose rocks and my tires rolled easily along the wide, only slightly uphill track that wound in and out between and around trees through mostly open forest. It took no effort to turn the pedals. For a brief instant, I felt as though the bike was in control and I was simply along for a magical ride. For the moment, I wished that people everywhere could have the same experience, but the magic came to an abrupt end when we came up to a completely unrideable section of tall, steep, and solid rock, and I realized that my hope (that others might have the same experience), given how it was playing out, would probably not be a good thing.

There was no real choice, so the six of us picked up our bikes and began walking up the next rock section. There were comments as we started out, but none meant to do anything other than lighten up the tone. I had no doubts that each person would make it up to the top, one way or the other. Even if the going got tricky, I kept thinking, if we were actually on the right track, that meant that mules loaded with silver had done it in the past, and so, surely, could we. And besides, we’d come to similar places before and everyone had just done whatever had to be done, and we’d kept moving forward. And this time, I was confident, would be no different.

Once we got about halfway up the rock section, we began to catch glimpses of the top and started speculating about what the trail would be like up there. We were a little like ants as we kept working our way up, following several different paths as we maneuvered up gullies, around boulders and up exposed areas of slick rock, but all headed for the same place. The higher we went, the more we pondered and talked about what awaited. We all knew it could be more of the same, or loose rocky crap, or could simply end on the top of some small, lonely mesa, but 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 and turned, and then he spit 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, plain as day. An obvious trail, snaking its way across a lower ridge and intersecting the big rock down at the bottom. How did we miss it, I wondered? It wound its way lazily up through the trees and ultimately up and, more than likely we assumed, over a small pass. In the distance, mesas of various shades of blue stuck up through the opening of a sort of sag in the ridge, framed by the mesa top we were about to reach and another one just off to the east. I couldn’t see enough of the distant peaks, ridges and mesas to come to any sort of conclusion about our route or whereabouts, but for the moment, I was content. Even though it was obvious that we were off track, we were in a good place and with good people. I had no doubt we’d just climb our way back down, find the other trail and follow it. You’re not lost, I thought to myself, if you’re somewhere you want to be.

Mountain biking Copper Canyon's Silver Trail
Hike-a-biking the Silver 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.