Part 1
I set off from Batopilas, at the bottom of Copper Canyon in Mexico, intent on riding my mountain bike up the 40-or-so-mile gravel road to the intersection with the paved highway connecting Creel to the Batopilas area and Guachochi. My plan was to ride it as fast as possible and break the unofficial 4-hour record. Whether or not my quest was realistic will forever remain unknown.
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:
Out on the trail,
Leaning against a rock,
Cooking supper, and
Watching the water boil.
I’m hungry,
But have to wait.
And so,
I feast on tales.
We begin with a story
About noodling for Catfish.
Which seamlessly leads to
A discussion of Black Holes.
And then, there’s a description
Of how to set a cedar fence post
In rocky ground.
The lasagna will take 20 more minutes,
But no worries…….
Because there’s plenty more food for thought,
Waiting to be had.
Further proof
that dessert,
Is often
Best eaten first.
Audio Version:
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:
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:
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.
A mysterious thirst is quenched.
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.
Missing a Tutuburi
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.
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.
An interesting turn of events while mountain biking some Copper Canyon singletrack.
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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