Nacho Kino

Missing a Tutuburi

Copper Canyon Kino Springs campsite
Camping at Kino Springs

             The countryside opened up as the Silver Trail left the Valley of the Churches. Our group of seven had passed a young Tarahumara man (the indigenous people of Mexico’s Copper Canyon) earlier in the day. And I’d asked about Nacho Kino, an old Tarahumara whom I’d met while mapping the Silver Trail a few years before.

“He’s not at his ranchito. He’s gone to the Tutuburi in Kisochi. I’m on my way there now,” he replied. {Tutuburi- An event held periodically in Tarahumara villages to ask Oruame (God in simplistic terms) for something, such as rain for crops. After dancing the Yamari, the people dance the Tutuburi. And afterward, the feasting begins}.

I’d hoped to introduce him to the others when we passed by his log house the following day. The wiry older man was the embodiment of pure happiness and a positive perspective. I’d stopped and visited with him several times previously. And the experience had always served to brighten my day, and I wanted to share that with the group. With a broad smile on his face, he’d once told me how he’d come back there to the valley of his birth to die. And how he had all the good stuff around him that a person could ever really want—a fine dog, prolific apple tree, and plenty of family and friends nearby. Since visiting with him this time around just wasn’t going to happen, I told the young Tarahumara to tell him, “Saludos de David, el gringo.” He said he would, and then we all moved on, in our different directions.

After the trail encounter, our group continued backpacking along the trail toward our anticipated campsite on a mesa just above Nacho Kino’s house. On the next day, we planned to go from there to a place on the Rio Conchos called Huajochic. That particular section was a long haul, but I figured that we’d break it up with a short visit with the old man. Doing so would still leave us with the better part of the day to get to our destination and with the bonus of having had a nice rest in the middle of it. Now, I reasoned that since we wouldn’t be making that stop, we’d have that much more daylight to work with.

As mentioned, we were a group of seven. It included five teenagers, myself, and another leader, Ryan and we were backpacking along a 40-mile long section of the historic Silver Trail. We were headed northward on the part of the trail that started near the remnants of the waystation named Pilares. Ultimately, we planned to pass by the ruins of another, known as Huajochic. And at that point, we’d cross the waters of the Rio Conchos and then head on toward our final destination, the town of Carachic.

At the northern end of the rock-spire filled Valley of the Churches, the trail made a marked turn to the north as the creek we’d been following joined another. Once we rounded the corner, I could see the Kino Springs mesa sticking up above the lower hills a mile or so ahead, and I knew we were getting close. We worked our way across the valley floor and soon passed just to the side of the small and seemingly deserted village of Siquerichi before beginning a gradual climb. The trail eventually steepened as we moved up onto the actual mesa. It crossed a rocky section and stayed just below the ridgeline before finally dumping us out onto a flat and scrub brush-covered area on top. Once there, we found a good place to camp and began setting up with just enough time to do so before dark.

Everyone put their packs down and immediately began setting up tents and fetching water from the spring. By 7:00 pm, we were all sitting around and waiting for the supper water to boil when the same young Tarahumara man whom we’d seen earlier in the day just appeared. He stood off on the edge of the firelight and obviously had something to say. I was a bit confused by it all initially. I’d never felt at all threatened anywhere in the Copper Canyon backcountry. And right then, we were in the Nacho Kino realm, so it just made no sense to me that there was anything negative going on, but I still had to wonder.

Then, he spoke. He said that Nacho Kino had invited us to come to the Tutuburi and that he, the young man, would take us there. I was immediately overcome and overwhelmed by the gesture and its prospects. Seven white boys from the United States attending a Tutuburi in the wilds of the Sierra Tarahumara. How could we not seize the moment? What would it mean to a 16-year-old from middle America or even a 50-year-old like me? My mind buzzed with excitement.

I seamlessly went into mental rationalization mode, figuring out the logistics of how to make it work. Just as a plan was solidifying itself, the slightly inebriated way in which he slurred his words while extending the conversation changed the situation. Visions of corn-beer drinking, teenage boys getting into a moment they weren’t prepared for, and me trying to explain it all to a parent in an Austin coffee shop suddenly overwhelmed my thoughts. And I turned down the offer.

“Thank him,” I said, “but we have a lot to do tomorrow and need to rest.”

True, it was late, and we still had a long way to go. A part of me said, a fantastic opportunity missed. But my pragmatic side told me, a profound disaster averted. The Tarahumara shook his head in acknowledgment, smiled, and disappeared back into the brush.

The offer and refusal part was simple and straightforward enough. Even though the boys didn’t speak a lot of Spanish, they could pick out a few words, feel the goodwill, and ultimately got the gist of what was happening. And so, for that moment, it was some sort of cut and dried event that they just weren’t going to be a part of, but felt good about, nonetheless.

After the Tarahumara vanished, everyone in our group began talking, asking questions, and mostly trying to figure out what’d just happened. We discussed it a bit, and I was convinced that both the details of the Tutuburi and the invitation for us to attend had captivated the minds of the five younger people. Even though none of them spoke Spanish or completely understood what had occurred, they each seemed outwardly fascinated by the events. But then, a discussion about Sardine guts started up. And for that moment, the Tutuburi episode drifted into the background. And I smiled to myself as I thought about the time that would surely come when one of the boys would be an old man and would recount what had happened. And I had to wonder how he’d tell the story.

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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.