Copper Canyon or Bust

Mexico

Copper Canyon
Photo credit: Getty Images

 

Copper Canyon, or Baranca del Cobre in Spanish, is a vast and deep canyon system in Mexico's Sierra Madre Occidental. This area, located southwest of the state capitol Chihuahua, is home to some fifty thousand indigenous Indians, the Tarahumara, and it is therefore named the Terra Tarahumara.

 

Canyons in general have a wonderful impact on me, and I want to go and explore them. In this case, the attraction is heightened by the fact that Copper Canyon enjoys a winter climate that must be considered balmy, especially when, like me, one wants to escape a particularly icy February in Philadelphia. Therefore, one winter morning, I set out for Mexico, intent on backpacking into and through some of those magnificent canyons that are often compared with, or against, the one and only Grand Canyon. I had read a couple of books, I had ordered some topographic maps, and I had stowed all my travel and hiking gear in my 1987 Dodge Ram minivan. I was ready. How was I to know that this simple backpacking trip was to become an epic that would cost me the car, almost destroy my tent in a little kitchen fire, send me to a foot doctor, have me hire a local to recover my cached equipment, and give me the opportunity to make new friends from across the ocean and across the country.

 

 

A New Engine or Bust?

"You need a new engine," D. C. declared matter-of-factly. It sounded very much like a final analysis. I had gotten D. C. out to my vehicle courtesy of AAA on Sunday morning after my car had died beside the road late the previous night near Kingsport, Tennessee. I had found shelter in a nearby motel, and I was already prepared for this undesirable outcome. News to me, though, was that some unlucky driver had plowed into the van, thus adding insult to injury. "A 1980 Buick, give or take a couple of years," D. C. decided after looking at a bunch of car parts that was scattered along the shoulder for some thirty yards. This little forensic detail had little significance, the policy officer agreed, because nobody was going to launch a major investigation to catch the perpetrator. Given these circumstances, I easily decided on my next steps.

I left the van with D. C. at his car repair shop, inviting him to either junk the thing or salvage all or parts of it as he saw fit. And then I got myself a one way rental car, transferred my belongings, and headed back home. It was a nice ride, too. No worries about the car holding up, much higher speed, and much lower gas mileage. But was I going to quit on my vacation plans because of this insignificant setback? No, siree, I just needed to reconfigure my gear and change my mode of transportation. Two days later I was in the air, en route to Ciudad Chihuahua, equipped with everything I needed for three weeks of vacation, including food and gear for at least twelve days of backpacking.

Second Try or Bust

Here goes my second try to reach Copper Canyon. My partner back home is letting me go reluctantly. To her, my miscues so far seem to scream, "Don't go, you moron! Can't you read the writing on the wall?!" But how can I stay home now, when all my senses are geared for adventure, and all my gear is ready for some more abuse?

A pleasant plane ride via Houston, and I alight in Chihuahua, in the center of the Chihuahuan Desert. As soon as I get off the plane, English becomes virtually meaningless and my utter lack of Spanish, a potential liability. A shuttle bus takes me into town and the driver is kind enough to drive me to the train station. I get a ticket for tomorrow morning's first class train and then get dropped off at the nearby Hotel Del Parque.

 

I expect a rate of, say $400 (four hundred pesos) and am delighted to pay only $120, which is around US$13 (thirteen U. S. dollars). It takes me a while to figure out that the Mexicans use the same symbol for their currency as the U. S.: the "$" sign. The current exchange rate of almost ten pesos to one dollar makes the math very easy. The bed is better than adequate, toilet paper is furnished, the shower works, and that is really all I care about.

Walking around town is a pleasure because of the warm sun that I just traded in for the Philadelphia ice and snow. Back at the hotel I have a few beers, still adjusting to the stunningly low prices, like, for instance, $10 for a bottle of XX (Dos Equis, or Two X’s, beer) in a bar. Also requiring an adjustment on my part is the fact that the four waitresses who run this place constantly engage the patrons in pleasant conversation. My waitress tries to converse with me, but how does one banter when one does not speak the other's language?

Next morning, the train to Creel leaves on time! Too bad that I had to get up at 5 a.m. to make the 6 a.m. departure. Most confusing to me is the train price table posted at the station. If I had a first class ticket, then what are Classa Economista and Classa Economista Sociale, and how come both are so much cheaper than my fare? According to the literature, there are supposed to be only two trains, not three. It takes me a good ten days to solve this mystery, and as frequently happens in Mexico, one can never get the right answer on the first try. The simple truth is, First Class = Classa Economista and Second Class = Economista Sociale, and the Chihuahua Pacifico Ferrocarril (CPF) simply had never gotten around to changing the price table to reflect the rate hike from some two years ago. Who knows? Maybe this is not the right answer either. Do not take my word for it. Find out for yourself. Oh, and welcome to Mexico!

A six hour ride transports us past the expansive agricultural plateaus around Chihuahua, Cuauhtémoc and beyond. Only once does the scenery suggest the vast canyon country we are approaching. All in all, the ride is a bit on the dull side. Fortunately, there are always travelers around for conversation. I talk to an engineer whose company was just awarded a contract to clear train wrecks on the CPF and who is on a reconnoitering mission to scope out his new domain. He has some pictures from train wrecks he had worked on elsewhere. Quite spectacular. Even our passing of a derailed CPF car along the way does not shake my confidence. How could any of this train wreck talk have anything to do with the train we are on?

We arrive in Creel around noon, and the platform hucksters take immediate control of my next steps. Before I can even begin to ask, I find myself at nearby Hotel Casa Margerita. The place appeals to me at once, not only because it is a real backpackers hangout but also because they charge an obscenely low $60 for a bunk bed, including dinner and breakfast. And while there seems to be no toilet paper, the showers work beautifully! Later, I have an interesting lunch at Restaurant Gaby. From the menu, I order frijoles con cheso (refried beans with cheese) and a burito (a tortilla with refried beans inside). Limited variety? Not really. Just limited familiarity on my part.

Headed for Copper Canyon

By 9 a.m. the next morning, I am on my way hiking to Copper Canyon. A dirt road and trails lead me out of town past the local ball field and cemetery and on the way to Lago Arareco. Apparently, this is some kind of a preserve or park because just beyond the first rise is a tollbooth where the attendant is happy to exchange $15 for a receipt. Reconciling the terrain with the map proves tricky. I am not used to the map's scale, and reading the topography correctly is posing some difficulties. Also, maybe I should use my compass sooner rather than later. A few more rises and turns, and I find the lake pastorally situated at my feet and take a breather.

Giving the GPS (global positioning system device) a first field test, the little gadget confirms my location fairly accurately. Onward to Cusarare. With a few errors and a few corrections I pretty much proceed as planned, or so I think, until I connect up with the paved highway much sooner and much farther north than I had intended. I simply got sucked into the last drainage I used for the descent, almost by gravity, never double checking my progress with map or compass. Guess I am still learning to use the map correctly, and with sufficient frequency. I cool my heels in the remnants of what, during wetter times, could be called a river, and I start wondering if I can reach Cusarare before dark. In the fading moments of the day, I finally call it quits next to a little river. There is barely enough time to salvage some daylight for my dinner preparation, and it is definitely too late to complete this first day without blisters. How stupid! I am barely out of the starting blocks and have already handicapped myself without any need for it. Nothing left but hitting the sack and admiring the starry sky and very bright half moon.

My first night out was quite chilly, especially since I chose to use the tent as a blanket rather than a tent. When I finally got up, I found that the water in my bottle was frozen. It was a cold night, indeed. The sun's impact is immediate and the temperature rises nicely so that I can dry the hoar frost off my gear. Breakfast consists of hot tea and the reheated second half of last night's "Asian Fried Rice" with Ramen dinner. Culinary delights or just fuel for the trail? Cusarare is due east of me, and I figure the best way to get there is on a straight line, right over the intervening "hill" and its little farm buildings, cave dwellings, fields and lots of trails. An hour later, I am in town, admiring its scenic valley setting. There is a school, as always painted in the official government turquoise with the adjacent official government concrete basketball court as well as a church and a store.

After a rest and water and sweet rolls, I head down the Rio Cusarare, the real beginning of my hike into the depths of Copper Canyon. Down river a bit, the Cascade Cusarare announces itself through signs and several Tarahumara women selling their crafts. At this time of year, there is a mere trickle rather than the voluminous waterfall I have seen on picture postcards. It is, however, a pretty trickle and a dramatic drop. As I move on, I get my first taste of Tarahumara trails. Apparently, I can hike in the canyon bottom, hopping boulders, or I can hike on a trail parallel to the river, getting snared by branches and scratched by thorny bushes. At this elevation, the Ponderosa pine and Douglas fir forest has begun to give way to pinons, oaks and junipers, which then are succeeded by what the experts call the tropical deciduous thorn forest. At least, now I know what is tangling and clawing me up.

When the trail crosses the river, I opt to stay low, along the canyon bottom, for a change of pace. Boulder hopping can be tricky though, especially when the boulders are car sized and have five-foot deep plunge pools beyond and below. I quickly learn that whatever trail I am on always seems much harder than any of the alternatives below, above or across from me. Something about the grass always being greener elsewhere, I think. Tarahumaras eke out a living down here by establishing little fields whenever the canyon widens. Rarely are there any living quarters nearby though, and there is not a soul in sight, no human soul, anyway.

There are some cows, maybe a few goats, and I see an old wooden plow and a couple of abandoned cave dwellings at river level. Things are definitely remote and deserted. Also now appearing for the first time, at least to me, are tire marks. 4x4’s in the wilderness? Not quite. These are the foot prints of the Tarahumara, who fashion their footwear, called Huaraches, from old car tires. A bit further downstream, I find a spring that turns out to be a hot spring. Perfect for a camp site! Within minutes I am stripped down and luxuriate in perfectly tempered water with a bit of a sulfuric smell to it. My aching body and sore feet really appreciate the soothing treat.

After a comfortable and warm night, the first thing this morning is another hot bath, particularly refreshing in the cool morning air. Before moving on, I check out a cliff dwelling I had spotted last night from the pool. As I scale the canyon wall, I stumble onto a couple of granaries. One contains a bunch of bones, maybe from a deer, but without the skull. I find some shards. With a little re-assembly, they add up to three quarters of a pot, about ten to twelve inches in diameter. The pottery is red, with some black parts from uneven firing, smooth finish inside and out, and no glaze decorative patterns. Age? Who knows? It could be fifty, or five hundred, years old. I am very excited about this find, and, of course, I leave everything where I find it, just a bit rearranged. The actual cliff dwelling has a mano and metate (stone tools for grinding plant materials) but not much else to offer. The masonry, such as it is, is very poor, a fact that I have noticed on other buildings and caves in the region. The Tarahumara do not appear to expend much effort to build a solid stone wall or stone fence. From the inside looking out against the bright sky, this wall almost looks pretty, like lace work.

Soon the canyon widens enough to accommodate a real farmstead. Fields, a dog, two pack saddles on a fence, clothes on the line, mother and child herding a bunch of goats. Maybe this is the home of three donkeys I had seen grazing at the hot spring last night. I deduce that the fields, like all the other fields, are created by stone walls that catch silt carried down by rain and gravity, as well as by a lot of work. It all adds up to a single-tier terrace with enough area to allow growing corn and beans, even fruit trees. One wonders why the Tarahumara do not use any kind of pump to get water from the nearby river onto their fields.

At lunch time, I come to a tributary that invites exploration. I drop my pack, grab a water bottle and head upstream. It is steep but easy going on sheer rock with many water pockets that beckon me to keep on going. A trail emerges, then some fields, and within thirty or forty minutes I am on the very top of the canyon rim, overlooking Tarahumara farmsteads, a couple of people there, and a bunch of dirt roads, connections to the outside world. I have had similar experiences in other canyons and it never ceases to amaze me when I find a trail that offers such quick escape from the depths of a deep canyon. Back at my pack, I break for lunch, feeding on a string cheese, a Yogurt Strawberry Ironman Bar, and a few prunes. (I can't believe the prunes I brought are unpitted.)

A trail takes me down river, high on the right side, with views down into a steep and tight chasm. Then the trail switches to the left side, again climbing high above the canyon floor and overlooking a waterfall and some bright blue plunge pools. Finally, the trail becomes rather faint, requires some scrambling and dirt climbing, then it runs out entirely. Once more, I must have read the terrain improperly. I turn around and pick up a track back down. Any of these extracurricular efforts always come at a price in blisters, blood, sweat and tears. Tears, as in my clothes, not body tears. This is a vacation! I am rather doubtful, though, that I would be doing any of this if someone asked or ordered me. Adventures like these can only be done through motivation from within, through curiosity in oneself, and in the environment at hand. As I reconnect with the Rio Cusarare, I find a great spot for some rest in the sun. Time to do some washing, of myself and of my clothes. High cliffs are towering on both sides, and the sun is hitting me so nicely, I cannot believe this is February.

For the remainder of the day, the going is very hard. Actual trails are of help at times, but even then, things are hard enough to always make me wonder if another trail on the other side or the canyon bottom itself might be an easier way to go. Following another promising but obscure trail, I climb a really steep hard section that peters out into nothing. I turn around, find another way back down, and looking at my scratched legs, question the wisdom of having opted for this trail over the boulder hopping below. I shall never know the answer. Maybe down there, I would have had to swim, float my pack, or who knows? At times, I see those "tire" marks on the canyon floor, and I think, "Looks like even the local experts sometimes have to grind through the hard stuff themselves."

I make camp in the middle of Tarahumara fields and animals and take advantage of the remaining sunlight. How come the donkeys around here always come in threes? As I cook my dinner, a pig rumbles by, and then some eighty goats, herded by two women. The two stop to water some fruit trees before encouraging their animals to climb out of the canyon and out of sight. A few well aimed rocks are their only means to control the goats. My guess is that the Tarahumaras use the ever-present dogs strictly for companionship, not for herding the goats. A little later, a couple follows in the goats' tracks. They take a little breather up high to exchange a few hugs and kisses, as best as I can tell in the now rapidly fading light. Judging by the gait, none of the people here seem to even notice any of the climbs up the hills. Their steady pace belies any effort, and perfect balance in each step defies the treacherous footing.

Since leaving Creel, my diary announces each new entry with a repetitive "Another Day," without a record of any dates. Another attempt on my part to lose track of time a little bit and to organize my days around nothing but my progress against the sun's progress. Who needs dates and times when there is food for two weeks in the pack? My solo adventures work out great during the day. I have no one to consult, to argue with, to complain to, with or about, no one to compromise for, no one to support, just the trail and me. The two of us are not exactly a tight unit yet, but I am working on it. At other times, mostly in camp, I miss company greatly. It is almost as if I am good for about two or three hours of socializing per day.

Almost Bust
PANIC!

Here I am, writing my trail log and boiling water in my tent, to stay out of the wind.

Suddenly, BOOM, the heat generated by the stove ignites the dry grass with a little explosion and then sets my tent on fire too, with me in it.

Fortunately, I am able to blow the flames out, save the tent and possibly myself. There are only two surprisingly small holes that will not even affect my trusty shelter's usefulness. Cooking in the tent is pretty dumb, I conclude. Come to think of it, I remember setting my old foam pad on fire in a hut in the Italian Dolomites years ago. What do we have here, a back country pyromaniac bent on self destruction?

Moving On

I find abandoned single shoes, mostly in kids' sizes, all over the place, often in the most unlikely locations. And yesterday, I found a piece of truck tire in the middle of nowhere. And I occasionally spot some kind of Indian Paint Brush with bright yellow blossoms emerging from the red leaves. The trail I take this morning is the very same one that the Tarahumaras I had seen last night were taking on their way home, I just take it the other way. It stays high above the gorge, skirting a series of benches (long, relatively narrow strip of relatively level or gently inclined land that is bounded by distinctly steeper slopes above and below it - Wikipedia), often rather exposed, sometimes even requiring some significant climbing. As trails go, this is as hard as it gets, but it is still a lot easier than the boulder hopping and river crossing I did yesterday. And the canyon below me looks eminently impassable anyway. Right here, the canyon walls, technically not Copper Canyon proper yet, are nevertheless towering. Comparisons with the Grand Canyon are inevitable.

As I follow the trail's course along the benches, I pass several seeps, some with catch basins made by Tarahumaras to trap drinking water. Suddenly, the trail ascends steeply and then peters out. I sit down for a rest on a little promontory, scope the surroundings, and listen to a dog barking and a person yelling from across the canyon. Even with my binoculars, I can locate neither. Upon returning to the trail, I find that it descends back to the river, down, down, down, some one thousand feet, to a little cornfield. I cross the Rio Cusarare to pick up a trail I had spotted from up high and find a little spring. It generates only maybe one gallon per minute but it is enough for some local farmer to have it tapped with a polyethylene hose to bring water to some homestead further down river. I move on, gaining the prominent trail above and then fatefully opt for a downhill branch as I reach a junction. Bad choice.

I never find the wide track again, even when I climb quite high looking for it. I do come across a little shepherd's shelter though, with branches trimmed and driven vertically into the dirt so that it looks like the frame for a hammock. Eventually, this bitch of a non-trail, this combination of many overlapping cattle trails, takes me back down and I finally reconnect with the wide path I had meant to take all along. After a steep descent with many tight switchbacks, I end up right at the confluence of Rio Cusarare and Rio Urique, a pretty spot with a beach and lots of cool water. It is only February, but down here in the full midday sun, it is plenty hot for me. I go for a swim, just a dip really, because the water is a tad too cold for total immersion.

Copper Canyon, No Bust

Today, I really enter the desert. At one thousand five hundred meters and below, organ pipe cactus, palo blanco and palo verde dominate the flora. And then there is this hideous piece of thorn bush that just loves to snag my gear and clothes and to puncture or scratch my skin. Velvet mesquite, my guide book says, but I have little confidence in this counterintuitive identification. Late in the afternoon I come across a nice piece of beach property and decide to build my house on it for the night. This is not exactly a flash-flood-safe spot, but flash floods are too uncommon in February to be of concern, at least, that is what I tell myself. According to my GPS, I am exactly where I thought I was based on my map readings. I get a four-satellite read without a problem, even down here in canyon central.

Just before supper, a dog appears with much fanfare, and sure enough his master is right behind him and so are his seven goats. We exchange an "Hola!" and a smile. Certainly, my language skills do not support any more interaction, and he seems to want to get home. The good man shoulders a ten-foot log with his left hand and carries an ax in his right hand. Smooth as silk he negotiates boulders, trails, trees and thorns without so much as a stumble or a trip. Such grace, such balance. I wrestle my way through this on all fours, at times. After dinner, I have a little driftwood campfire for entertainment and stretch my tired bones.

Next morning, the going is fairly easy for a while, though measured against most other trails I know, the word "easy" should not be used lightly around here. After fording the Rio Urique several times without getting wet, a feat worth mentioning because this river is considerably wider than the Rio Cusarare was before, I finally have to give in. The next crossing takes me in up to my hips, and immediately thereafter I trip and get almost swept off my feet by the strong current. Easy? Huh! I have never felt so beat up, scratched up and worn out.

A Rest or Bust

After lunch, I truck on down river, spotting a black and white duck and a slick and shy river otter. Neither are listed in that fabulous desert guide book of mine. Two pounds of useless gear I will leave at home the next time. Crossing the Rio a few more times, I am now resigned to wet feet and legs. Once, the water reaches above my chest, and with my pack high overhead, I struggle to keep it dry and myself upright. Coming close to the trail head to Divisadero, I see the first house with a metal roof, the first in a week. The silvery corrugation shines brightly in the midday sun. It must be the relative proximity to the Chihuahua-Pacifico Railroad that allows such luxuries in this seemingly remote location. I decide to leave my pack down here and hike up to the Hotel Divisadero for a beer, a shower, a bed and a phone call home. Later, I figure, I can come back down and either resume my hike or hike out and go exploring other parts of this astounding area. It is already 4:15 p.m. and I have at most three hours of daylight left to reach Divisadero. I hustle on up and out, working hard to get to my beer. Here too, the trail is always easily lost, adding time and effort to this excursion.

As daylight begins to fade, I start to realize that this little side trip is either overly optimistically planned or poorly executed, or both. I am nowhere near Divisadero as darkness descends upon me. Just to underline the harebrained nature of this scheme, I see a glistening up on the distant canyon rim, a reflection that no doubt stems from the large windows at the Hotel Divisadero. A few moments later I can even hear a train announce its arrival up there. I am so close, and yet so far. Only halfway to my goal, I now find myself seeking refuge in a shepherd’s cave. A quick inventory lets me wonder about the night ahead. All I brought are my sweater and long pants, a water bottle which is full (courtesy of a little spring I passed a mile back), some pepperoni and string cheese, some hard candy, a book, a map, and most importantly, a lighter. Soon, I have a little fire going, which I feed continuously with dead wood (some of the obsolete lumber that once gussied up this shelter) and two kinds of ovine chip fuel.

Carefully feeding the fire and trying to stay warm without getting burned or asphyxiated, I manage to actually sleep for about two hours and twenty eight minutes. This reminds me very much of a similar bivouac in Arizona's Paria Canyon back in 1993. Both of these overnights are the result of overly ambitious, nay, foolhardy planning. I know I can be fast and steady, but this environment is not exactly Broad Street back in Philly. Hiking here takes its toll in a major way. Fortunately, I am the only one to bear the consequences. I seem not to mind these small measures of self-inflicted discomfort, and eventually, this too passes.

As soon as dawn announces a new day, I am up and out. True to form, I immediately scale a steep gully and within half an hour I rejoin what I believe to be the original trail. From here on out the track rises gently, passing a couple of farms, and skirting a number of benches below Mesa Mogotabo. Pleasant going, and great views into and across these vast canyons. Still, it takes another two hours before I finally reach the hotel. By now, I have made up my mind. I will not continue my slow hike down Rio Urique to the town of Urique, and I will not even try to reach Batopilas and Sinforosa, all part of my original loose plan. Instead, I will retrieve my pack tomorrow, then take the train back to Creel, then the bus to Batopilas and hike from there to Urique. This will leave me a few days to get out of Copper Canyon and maybe to visit the Menonitas near Cuauhtemoc before returning to Philly. But before any of that comes to pass, I have to cool my feet. Soon I sit at the desk in my US$130 luxury suite, three meals included, with my feet in cold water, logging my adventures.

R&R

The Hotel Divisadero is a really nice place, exorbitant rates notwithstanding. All the rooms have a lot of feel, the public areas are well laid out and artfully decorated, reflecting local traditions and displaying indigenous crafts. The buildings are situated right on top of a one hundred-foot cliff and a steep drop down several thousand feet beyond that. From here, one can follow the sun's course without ever having to leave a bar stool or porch seat. The trains roll in several times a day and hordes disembark, either to stay for a day or two, or for a fifteen-minute stopover at the station's many stalls with crafts and food right across the street from the hotel.

The rest of the day I laze around, vainly try to take a nap, and I chat with fellow travelers at the bar. At 6 p.m., we are being entertained with a margarita on the house and by some Mexican music. Fortunately, from my view, it is only one man and his guitar, not one of the noisy Mariachi bands. As it turns out, this is management's ingenious way to not only lighten people’s spirits, but also to get them to show up for dinner on time. After his last song, the musician simply asks all to move into the dining room. Dinner consists of a cream of carrot soup, an entrée with refried beans (something new right there!), delicious shredded meat, and a pepper and onion side dish. For dessert we have a piece of sweet bread. Quite a tasty meal, certainly when measured against my recent fare on the trail. I try to stick around and enjoy the bar scene but am entirely too tired.

In the morning, I modify my plan of action. First and foremost, I have to see a doctor to get my busted feet treated. Then, I have to find someone to retrieve my pack. Who would be more qualified for this, I figure, than a Tarahumara Indian. They are fabled for their feats in speed and endurance, and for their ability to carry heavy loads. And then, in a day or two, I can begin to resume my travels to Creel and Batopilas. Before breakfast, I talk to Leticia, the hotel manager. She has to go to San Rafael and see the doctor herself, and I can tag along. And she hooks me up with Victorino, a Tarahumara as diminutive as any of them, who will get my pack today. Wonderful! What an easy solution to my most immediate problems. My caper is sufficiently outlandish for a group of bus tourists to make it an immediate conversation piece. So here I am, with five-day old clothes, three-day old teeth, an eight-day old beard, and smelling like Smoky the Bear, trying to explain myself to clean-shaven well-rested "softies."

At 10 a.m., we leave for the doctor’s office. Dr. Artemio Aragon Molina trims, cleans and bandages my feet, forcing me to carry my shoes and spend the rest of the day in socks. He then writes a prescription with the most beautiful signature I have ever seen. After picking up the drugs, we return to the hotel just in time for lunch. I literally spend the rest of the day just sitting around, drinking a few beers, reading a little, working on my New York Times puzzle, looking out the window, and generally waiting for my pack to return. As day turns into night, Victorino finally emerges with clear signs of dejection and fatigue. Receiving his pay and a US$5 tip does not lighten up his face noticeably, but then again, Tarahumaras are not very expressive around white people, a trait that they share with many other indigenous cultures.

Speaking of which (how whites and Indians relate to each other, that is): Yesterday, two white female tourists, within a minute of each other, gave out candy to the adult Tarahumara women who are weaving and selling baskets at the train station. Today, one guest at the hotel asked Leticia for a bunch of small change to give "to the kids." She said to not give them anything lest they learn to become beggars, and that fortunately, seemed to make sense to the guest. Some people are weird when confronted with an unfamiliar culture. One more beer, and I retire for the night, heading for nearby bushes, trading the fancy hotel room for my trusty, and much more affordable, tent again.

Back to Creel

I crawl out of my bag exactly as the sun rises above the distant canyon rim, into a bright blue sky. Back at the hotel, I wait for the bus to Creel, chewing on some string cheese and prunes for breakfast. The ride is an experience in itself. It is an old school bus with all the lack of comfort Americans remember well from their school days, and it has a gearing that keeps the driver quite busy on this hilly road that fortunately was paved just last year. It takes us more than an hour for the forty four kilometers. The crowd is rather quiet, looking towards another day at work, I presume. One poor fellow got up late, too late, and is left in the dust when he comes running out of his house and across the field to catch the bus. When I arrive in Creel and check back in at the Hotel Margerita, it almost feels like coming home. These backpacker hotels often have a wonderful spirit of fellowship and friendliness. They even serve me a belated real breakfast.

To give my feet more rest, I do little today. A very casual stroll in the afternoon takes me up "Jesus Mountain," to the big statue on top and the views over Creel. Other than that, I sit around the plaza to watch, read, talk and fill in some more of the puzzle. Dinner and post-dinner beer and tequila is the usual chatty affair with fellow travelers from far and wide, including three fellows from Japan. As the evening progresses, they become more and more willing to endure my broken Japanese.

Batopilas

The drive to Batopilas leaves Creel at 9 a.m. Six hours in a packed Suburban van is still a much more tolerable mode of travel than the school bus that goes on alternate days. The first leg is paved, a smooth and fast ride, that leaves us speechless at times as we gape at the spectacular landscape below and beyond. The second leg is dirt, quite rough at times, and it takes us down a hair-raising set of switchbacks. If not for the construction related delay, it would only take us fifteen minutes or so to descend from the pine forest on top to the desert environment along Rio Batopilas. What a road! After a quick soda stop at La Bufa, we follow the river to Batopilas past mine tailings and trails, marihuana fields (according to one fellow traveler) and small water diversion projects.

We arrive in Batopilas at 3 p.m. The Hotel Manse into which we are ushered is a neat place with a patio shaded by palm, mango, papaya and other trees. At this elevation of seven hundred meters, it is decidedly warmer than Creel and very pleasant. A first stroll through town gives me a first impression of this unusual old silver mining community. Batopilas is jammed in between the mountain and the river, and there is often only enough space for the road and buildings on the mountain side of it. Only around the square is there enough room for side streets.

The only bar in town has a great beer garden in the best Bavarian tradition, right on the river and with a spectacular elephant tree as its focal point. The tree looks a lot like a huge jade plant. As everywhere else I have been to this trip, there are all kinds of construction projects going on all over the place. I do get the distinct impression, though, that they very much tend to proceed at a glacial pace, making headway only if and when money, material and willpower coalesce. And they all use earth in some form – adobe, brick, blocks, concrete, river rocks – rather than wood. Over dinner we are treated to another Batopilas specialty: brownouts. Everyone is accustomed to this and prepared for it. Kerosene lamps and candles are brought in to create new sources of light. A few generators are started up to provide alternative electricity.

After breakfast the next day, a group of us hike south along the river to the famous mission church at Satevo. It is a very unusual building, very well designed, built with real bricks and whitewashed walls, much too large and entirely out of place with all its glory. Any records that may explain these inconsistencies were burned long ago, and today we can only wonder about the who, when and why. All day we see women washing their laundry in the river. It is a most arduous task that seems so utterly out of time. Later we see a guy washing his fancy pick-up right in the river, with the pedestrian suspension bridge as a backdrop. I am sure he would not be caught dead doing laundry, but washing a truck is a much more manly thing.

In the afternoon, I walk through town back up the road a bit, scanning an hacienda from across the river. This place was the mining headquarters in the 1800s, and it is now a campus of ruins with tremendous development potential as a hotel resort. Another fancy place in town, the Copper Canyon Lodge Riverside, is insisting that I cannot just walk in and sightsee. It looks really good, and they live from tourism, but only if it is prepaid and booked in the U. S. In the evening, a bunch of us get together for dinner at a small restaurant. The food is good, the tortillas are even better, and I find two companions – Dave from Belgium and Paolo from Italy – to tackle the hike to Urique with me tomorrow.

New Friends, Another Hike

The usual pre-dawn cacophony between cats, roosters and dogs echoed up and down the valley last night. Sometimes, all three species to sang together. Sometimes, the racket died down entirely. It made for an interesting way to sleep. People around here are quite oblivious to night noises. In three weeks of listening to barking, meowing and general clamor, I have never heard a human voice discouraging such racket or expressing disagreement with it. Our hike gets off to a slow start. The trail is called El Camino Real and supposedly was used by miners, farmers and others for centuries. This does not mean, though, that the route is obvious. In fact, for the first stretch we stayed on the dirt road that was built partly right on top of the old trail a few years back.

By middle afternoon, we reach the old mining town of Cerro Colorado. There are all kinds of buildings and ruins in the area, there is some bright red color in the water entering into the creek below, and we can see some mine tailings and adits up high. All of this is history. Today, this hamlet serves us as the last rest stop and soda supplier before Urique. We get a couple of hours of steep trail climbing in before the setting sun urges us to look for a campsite. With David's initiative, we find quarters at a local farmstead with curious folks and lots of water. We all retire after dinner, us hikers outside under a stunningly starry sky. With the full moon not up yet, the stars twinkle so brightly that they compete with even the most prominent of constellations.

After an early breakfast, we say, "Muchas gracias," and we are on our way. The going is very steep and rough right off the bat, and we appreciate the low early morning temperatures. The area below and around us is so rugged, in some ways it looks like the Grand Canyon, in other ways it reminds me of the wild Galiuro Mountains in Southern Arizona. Up and up we go, reaching the top of Piedra Redonda at noon. We are a little bit off trail, but, man, this is quite possibly the best view I have ever enjoyed, anywhere. We can trace our path all the way back to Rio Batopilas and scan distant vistas far beyond that. We linger for a while, struck by the stunning scenery and stroked by the warm sun. A farmer points out where to regain the Camino Real, which here seems to take a course entirely different from the one marked on the map. Maybe we should have consulted people in town about the alignment before heading out. Too late for that now.

A little later, we rejoin the trail that is on the map and reach the watershed between Rio Batopilas and Rio Urique, the high point of this hike. It is another awesome view, this time going west toward the Baranca del Cobre, taking in a vast array of mountains and side canyons, and we can make out the Camino Real in the distance. The only trouble is a distinct lack of a trail close by, one that we can use to begin our descent. With a little searching we find a track, and upon our following it, we promptly lose it. I look around for a while and get us into some thin, steep, dubious terrain. David simply has enough of this and without much ado bids us farewell and turns around. Paolo and I push onward and downward for a little longer before also going back. David is gone by now, and we are on our own.

One of the two shacks at the watershed give us shelter for the night. We use some creative ways to gain entry to the two rooms, and we find baskets, big earthen pots, some clothing, some food staples and a few woven mats. Only the latter are of use for us since Paolo brought no padding for his sleeping bag. We share our food and light a little fire. Paolo is quite sore. He does not quite have the right gear for this kind of hike, and he also does not really have the conditioning. Whatever he lacks, he makes up for it in positive attitude. There is no stopping this young man.

Rice pudding for breakfast, and after returning the shack back to the way we had found it, we soon climb down an arroyo we had inspected last night. It is steep at times, a real challenge for a non-climber like Paolo. Once we even have to lower our packs by hand. After an hour or so, we reach a drop-off that is too steep and too big to be down-climbed or even rappelled with my fifty-foot rope. We are stuck and loathe the thought of returning all the way to the top. Again, I look around. Over here. Over there. Before long, I find another trail, follow it a little further, and lo and behold, I almost bump into a Tarahumara who is standing there watching us with curiosity and with a sense of incredulity, no doubt, about the silliness of our doings. He confirms that the trail I had spotted gives us a way out and leads the way. It is amazing to see the locals negotiate this most difficult terrain. A smooth gait no matter how steep the slope or how loose the footing. All on a piece of tire. A few minutes later we join a prominent trail, and the gentleman now inquires if we might be interested in his guide services all the way to Urique. This display of entrepreneurship is most likely prompted by our giving him a twenty-peso tip for saving our skin in the first place. With our sense of adventure still intact, we politely decline his offer.

For several hours, we wind our way northward without losing much elevation, generally heading toward what we believe to be the Camino Real. Whenever we encounter an occupied house, none of which is larger than ten by twenty feet, we count eight to ten people, half of them kids, most of them enjoying their leisure. And there are always dogs, at least two, and goats in the vicinity, and small bean and corn patches. Twice we walk through little farmsteads to rest, replenish our water and inquire about the trail. Paolo's Spanish may not be great but it is good enough to communicate with the locals. In fact, it is a saving grace and helps us logistically, and it establishes a little bit of cross-cultural bonding. At the second rest, where the family has a big pot of beans on the fire, I get the GPS out and we can fix our location on the map. As expected, we are far off the trails on the map, but we also have a very clear sense of direction now. We know which way to go and where we will end up. The "when" is a little less clear.

The day drags on and so do we. Paolo is visibly tired, but his spirit is still burning bright. Not a word of complaint, though he does shake his head at times about this adventure that I have gotten him into. Eventually, we do rejoin the Camino Real, and we relish the easy going. It still takes us another hour before we reach the Rio Urique. We take an extended break across from town to cool our heels in the refreshing stream, wash some clothes, and generally rest up before heading into town across a long suspension bridge. We are beat and it does not bother us one bit when we are told that this is only Guapalaina, some five kilometers south of Urique. Reaching that town will have to wait until tomorrow. We had much rather watch the sun set, admire the colorful gardens, take in some ice cold Pepsi and have a few smokes. We move into the Hotel Larena where we both get a room with a light bulb for $35. The shower does not work, but the mattresses are soft. Before it gets too dark, we get ourselves a couple of beers and then have a delicious fried chicken dinner at the only place in town. Man, what a day. Paolo can barely walk, it seems, and I am quite done in, too.

This must have been my noisiest night since my friend, Spike, and I slept in that jungle motel near Chichen Itza three years ago. Donkeys, roosters and more dogs than I cared to count created this nocturnal concerto. The first rooster hit the air waves at 1 a.m. So much for "pre-dawn!" Nevertheless, it was a restful night. Paolo felt likewise, and he even heard coyotes on top of everything else. After breakfast, we gingerly cover the three miles to Urique. While waiting around for the town's long distance phone office to open, a farmer turns up who is driving to Bahuichivo within the hour. Super! Soon we are on a bumpy three-hour ride that starts off with a tremendous one thousand five hundred-meter climb up from Urique to the canyon rim. It is a one hour grind, all in second gear. Farmer Jeffrey Jones drops us of right near the two hotels and the train station in Bahuichivo. Checking into the Hotel Viajeo, we head straight for the shower, my first since Batopilas. It does not even matter that the shower is across the yard and produces a mere trickle of hot water. I even shave in acknowledgment of my pending return to civilization. This should be the last dust and dirt town on this trip.

We spend the morning ambling around town, such as it is, and then hang out for another three hours, waiting for the train. The high point here are the chimichangas – large cracker bread with mayo, lettuce and bologna bits – available at the depot. We double up our order. A custom luxury train pulls into the station, the Chief Engineer gets off to urinate, and the train moves on out again. What a man! We are very impressed by this display of authority over the entire train. Then our scheduled train picks us all up, and we mosey on down the track to eventually reach Cuauhtemoc at 9 p.m. A lively place, a real city-like town. With only ten minutes of walking we get to the Hotel Princesa on Avenida Allende, a place I remembered reading about in Fisher's Copper Canyon book.

Dinner at a cheapo restaurant nearby is interesting. Paolo orders a platter for both of us and soup for himself. Only problem is, the platter is soup, too, the same soup. A soup that looks an awful lot like chicken necks in broth. We politely decline and settle for a couple of the more familiar burritos. Here they serve them with lettuce and meat again, as opposed to Creel's version with refried beans only. A stop in a hotel bar down the street is another little culture shock. The patrons are all male, the wait staff all female, overdressed, over made-up and overweight. Very much like the Hotel Del Parque on Day 1, only more so.

The Zona Menonita

We get kick started the next morning not by animals, for a change, but by a parade. It originates from the Municipal Building two blocks away. A small band and a group of women cops in marching order blast away, the Mexican flag is hoisted at half mast and some politician gives a speech. Something to commemorate Chihuahua's independence, I believe. We start talking to people about going out to the Zona Menonita, and a local agronomy teacher named Oscar offers his help. Oscar ends up driving us out there in his old VW beetle. It is only a fifteen-minute drive to Campo 1A and Abram Peters store, where Oscar leaves us. We talk with Mr. Peters a bit about the Mennonites, their lot here, the distinction between them and the Amish, etc.

The most intriguing fact to me is that they did not resolve to allow rubber tires until 1985. Next big issue: TV and video. Engines and electricity and such never were a contentious issue, but over the rubber tires, some families even left the area, presumably to join a community elsewhere that was more conservative. Central to all these discussions seems to be whether they enhance and/or enable a more leisure oriented life, thus detracting from a productive and goal oriented life. Leisure is evil. Fun is devil's work. Abram then shows us the local cheese factory in Neuendorf (aka Campo 1A), and I buy some cheese for home. Later, back in Philly, I talk to a Mennonite friend about the cheese and its bland flavor. Her straight faced response is a nonchalant, "It's Mennonite cheese, you say? Of course, it's bland." And we pay a brief visit to Campo 3A, aka Hamburg, named after my hometown in Germany. I notice with sadness that there is absolutely no resemblance between my fair place of birth and this little dusty row of gray farm houses.

On the way back into town, we bid Mr. Peters a heartfelt farewell. He has been most generous with his time, sharing information freely and openly. And he has a sense of humor that is reflected in his face and in his eyes. As an early dinner, we sample a local bakery. Better than most in the U. S., I observe to Paolo, and add that only French and German bakeries are any good. Or Italian, Paolo adds, and we laugh. Then we run out of things to do and energy to do it with and retire to our room. At 6 p.m., Paolo calls me out on the street, and we witness the daily return of the stornos, as he calls them. These are black and white/yellow birds, about the size of robins, which perch by the thousands in the trees of the town's Central Plaza. They arrive with a lot of noise and in many separate swarms. It takes a good while for them to settle in and when they do, pedestrians are behooved to avoid the plaza, unless they bring an umbrella. Just like in Rome, according to Paolo.

Coffee and Pastry

Next morning, the bus trip into the rising sun ends at a bus terminal north of the Centro in Chihuahua and leaves me with one more hour of vacation. Paolo has gone on his way. I stroll around the part of downtown just north of the cathedral, around Independenceia and Ninos Heroes, an area full of shops, stores and supermarkets. And there is a farmers’ market with scores of stalls that slowly come to life at this early hour. Lastly, I spot the Café Imperial. A commanding name for a hole-in-the-wall bakery that specializes on just four kinds of pastry. And they brew a nice coffee, hot and sweet. Coffee and pastry thus close the door on this most memorable vacation. It turned out to be an unusually challenging mix between hard and soft, and it had a decidedly more exotic flavor than canyoneering in Utah, my usual vacation adventure of choice. Will I be back next February? Very likely.

Facts and Figures

Books
There are the usual travel guides for Mexico, all of which cover the Sierra Tarahumara and Copper Canyon to varying degrees. For more information, you can peruse these two sources:

Mexico's Copper Canyon Country, A Hiking & Backpacking Guide, by John Fahey

Mexico's Copper Canyon, by Richard Fisher

Both have a lot of useful information, but neither presents the material in a very organized and logical manner. The reader almost has to cross index while reading to be able to retrieve anything later on.

Maps
Topographic maps, scale 1:50,000 are available in Creel (for $60) and from mapworld.com (for US$12 per map)

For hiking the segment from Creel to Divisadero, I used these two maps: Creel, Chihuahua, G13A22 and San Jose Guacayvo, Chihuahua, G13A21

For hiking from Batopilas to Urique, I used the map Batopilas, Chihuahua, G13A41

Bilingual tourist map Sierra Tarahumara, no scale, is available in Creel and from International Map Company, UTEP, Box 400, El Paso Texas 79968

Note: Save yourself a day of travel and take the cheaper bus to Creel after arriving in Chihuahua, rather than the much advertised train. The train ride connecting these two cities is not worth the extra expense and not worth waiting until the next day and then getting up needlessly early to catch the train at either 6 a.m. for first class or 7 a.m. for second class.

Related Pages
Desert Hiking & Climbing Trails
Hiking Books

 

 

The Desert Environment
The North American Deserts
Desert Geological Terms