Category: Copper Canyon

Marching Always

 

Backpacking in Copper Canyon

Marching to the drummer
Across the canyon
From where I walk.

Rhythmic echoes, pounding drumbeats
Like the ticking
Of a clock.

Miles of trails and distant rivers,
Manzanitas, Oaks, and pines.
Hardened heels and herds of goats,
And long-forgotten mines.

The only time that matters,
Is how long until the night.
Move like the Raramuri,
Who keep following the light.

Dancing fiercely o’er the mesas,
With partners
Made of rock.

Often soaring skyward,
Flying freely
Like a hawk.

Layer upon layer
Of color fills the sky.
The magic of the distance
Inundates the eye.

Subtle tailwinds urge me forward
And gentle headwinds hold me back.
But like the local people,
I maintain an onward track.

Then the drumbeat fades away,
Yet still, the land has much to say.
I close my eyes and faintly hear
A beating heart that’s somewhere near.

I realize it’s underfoot,
The sound is rising
From the dirt!

It’s good to know
That even though
The drummers come and go.

The land I cross
Lives on and on,
And the beat is never gone.

Audio Version:

Marching into the canyon

A Way of Giving Thanks

The Tarryalls

Embrace the time and place,
That puts a smile upon your face.

Wallow in it,
Soak it up,
Savor the moment,
Pour it in your cup.
Plant the vision in your mind,
Tell the story to remind.

The memories don’t have to disappear,
Or become less clear.

For me, I still….

Feel the river jostling my canoe as I marvel at the sunrise over the Del   Carmens.

Ponder the quiet of the Tarryall Mountains as I lean against a rock on the top of Bison.

Taste the Tuna Surprise we ate on Mount Borah.

Am amazed by the midnight sun as it finally begins to set over the Kahiltna   Glacier.

Hear the Popo Agie River roaring while I search for a good place to camp.

Feel the flow of the Puke Loop when I finally point my bike downward.

Make the right combination of moves near the top of the Rock Staircase.

Turn my eyes away from the blowing wind and snow as I near the top of       Huayna Potosi.

See the Milky Way come to life as I look up from my bivouac in the Winds.

Walk to the cadence of the Semana Santa drums in Copper Canyon.

Smell the campfire telling me how to get back.

Each instant a wonder,
A tale of its own.
Remember and treasure,
Help it be known.

 

Audio Version:

Ecuador

Re-finding the Silver Trail- Copper Canyon, Mexico

Hike-a-bike on the Silver Trail

From the mines near Batopilas,
To the bank in Chihuahua.
And then by train,
To El Paso.
Haul the silver,
Hide the gold.

125 miles of trail.
Trains of mules with steel shoes,
Tarahumara’s with none.
Five stations along the way.
Mountains with pines,
Canyons with rocks.
Following the path,
That leads,
To the wagon road,
At Carachic.

A generation of travel,
Stopped by time.
Trees grow,
Meadows change.
The route forgotten,
Except for what,
The mules cut,
Into the rock,
With their hooves.

Forgotten stories linger:
Pilares, El Patron,
La Laja, Los Conchos,
El jefe with the knife,
Teboreachi,
The piano,
Huajochi.

Eventually, the day arrives.
And we go.
60 years later.

Years of talk and wondering,
Turn into action.
How hard could it be?
Mountain bikes, walking, and camping
Many questions asked,
But few answered.
Is this the trail?

We do it backwards- from Carachic.
First to El Ojito, then on south.
Past La Herradurra,
Night with Gabino Flores at Huajochi Station,
Walk through the Arroyo de las Iglesias,
Camp at The Hot Springs,
The next night with support at Pilares Station.

On to Siquerichi.
Cold night at La Laja Station.
Camping near Teboreachic Station.
Past Coyachique,
Then down to the Batopillas River.
From there, it’s ten miles of gravel road,
Finally, we arrive in Batopilas,
And Casa San Miguel.

The trail re-found
Was it ever lost?
Reconnoitered, mapped,
Ridden, walked, photographed,
Written and talked about.

Then,
Like before, the Chabochis
Move on.

But the trail stays.

Audio Version:

Morning Dawns in Huahochic

Tarahumara- a poem about the indigenous people of Copper Canyon

Tarahumara men dancing during Semana Santa in the town of Norogachi in Copper Canyon, Mexico
Semana Santa in Norogachi

Drums,
Beating slowly,
And filling the air
With distant
Thumps.

A sound that connects
One canyon
To another.
One village to
The next.

Like a heartbeat,
Faintly pounding,
Almost rumbling,
As the people
Move their feet.

Walking
Somewhere, always somewhere.
Down the arroyo,
Across the meadow
To the big rock,
Never talking.

Soft, but hardened,
Mostly happy,
Sometimes sad,
And often burdened.

By others,
Who want something more
Than….

Semana Santa,
Matachines,
Tesguinado,
Raramuri.

Many
Places to go,
People to see,
Things to do,
And a world to ponder.

Audio Version:

Semana Santa, Noragachic

Mine Riding

033_Old_Mine
Porfirio Diaz Tunnel

The entrance to a horizontal mine shaft, which we could ride our mountain bikes into, was music to our eyes. The stone opening to the Porfirio Diaz Tunnel sat solemnly and quietly on a hillside in the middle of a barrio in Batopilas, Mexico. Sure, it’d been abandoned for 70 or 80 years. But that was of no consequence to us at the current time. The entrance was circular and about 12 feet in diameter, larger than we’d envisioned. A flat dirt surface/pathway —perfect for mountain bikes —led into the darkness. Even though the place had the ominous appearance of being almost eaten by the solid rock, its persistent beckoning won us over.

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Thirst

A mysterious thirst is quenched.

PENTAX Image
Wild Copper Canyon

Sixteen empty soda bottles sat on the counter in the Cerro Colorado store for two days before the shopkeeper finally moved them down with the other empties. They’d been a good conversation piece sitting there on the counter. But when he found a spider in one, he put them into some empty slots in the Fanta case on the floor. Later that day, while tidying things up, he dragged the box of empties out from behind the Sabritas rack so they’d be noticeable. That way, they could continue being the talk of the town. But, after thinking it through, he realized that if he did so, they’d get in the way and make things look disorganized. And so, once the case was full, he just stuck it in the back room with the others.

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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. Earlier that day, our group of seven backpackers passed a young Tarahumara man (the indigenous people of Mexico’s Copper Canyon), and I asked him about Nacho Kino. Nacho was an elderly Tarahumara man I’d met while mapping the Silver Trail a few years before, who seemed well regarded in that area.

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The Beer Truck

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Tarahumara house in Copper Canyon, Mexico

      I was in Mexico’s Copper Canyon leading a group of “Chavochi”  adventure travelers. “Chavochi” is basically the Tarahumara word for Gringo, non-indigenous, devil people. Various things happened while we were down there in Batopilas Canyon and the town of Batopilas, which may or may not be related. I think they are.

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Lost and Found on the Silver Trail

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

Mountain biking the Silver Trail

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.”

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Mountain Biking The Trail of Death

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

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 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.

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