16

Above: Mapswere some-what prob-lematic in

the Mexicanbackcountry.

Right: Thedescent to

the RioBatopolis.

And ofcourse, what

goesdown…

Mexico's Copper Canyon system may be anadventurer's paradise, but it's not a great placeto get lost. Twenty major gorges, at least fourof which are deeper than the Grand Canyon of

the Colorado, rake the forested mesas in a maze of impass-able ravines. My friends and I, four bike messengers fromWashington D.C., were halfway into a two-week loop of thearea when it just seemed to swallow us up. We had jour-

neyed to the canyons to testourselves outside the context ofmodern civilization; but, to tellthe truth, at that moment wewere getting more than we bar-gained for.

It was our second day ofportaging, only by now we hadlost our views to the thickstands of Ponderosas. Our sup-plies were perched on the slen-der tubes of our mountain bikes,which dug into our backs likeaxe blades. The day before, wehad toted our mounts a milestraight up, then got into anargument with our guide, whoturned around and went home.Our trail had branched a few

times, fading as it supposedly crossed the mesa, leading,despite my weakening protests, to the conviction that wewere lost. This, combined with the unrideable nature of thetrail, so rugged we had to carry our bikes about half thetime, brought home the complete idiocy of taking a bike tripthrough the Copper Canyons.

Then salvation appeared, as it so often does out West, inthe form of two horsemen approaching on the dusty trail.

On the Trailof the

Tarahumara

You may find moreadventure than youcan handle in Mexico’s legendaryCopper Canyon

By Drew Walker

17

The groupfinds shelterin an aban-donedTarahumaracave.

Swamp Rattakes in thestunningsceneryabove theRio Urique.

Finally, I thought, Keheban, Swamp Rat and the Professorwill stop giving me dirty looks. This whole trip had beenmy idea, and over the last ten days my mental health hadbeen called into question several times. The Professor and Ispoke pitiful pidgin Spanish, and went forward to ask direc-tions.

The Mexicans, mustachioed men in their 20s whoresembled mythical coffee grower Juan Valdez, were walk-ing next to their heavily loaded mounts. After telling us thatwe were, after all, on the righttrail, they laughed and said,"Hey, gringos, give us aCoke."

Which I thought wasfunny at least, out here in themiddle of nowhere. But theProfessor wasn't laughing. Infact he looked spooked, hisswarthy complexion drainedto alabaster. After happilywaving goodbye to our newfriends, I turned to him.

"What's the matter, Professor? You look like you've seena ghost."

His eyes were on the horsemen, fists choking his handle-bars.

"Did you see their shotguns?"Sure I had seen them. They're common in the backcoun-

try and nothing to worry about. Which I told him.

18

The Tarahu-mara migrat-ed into theCopperCanyonregion in the16th centuryto escapeSpanish rule.

He shot me an intense look. "But Gordo, didn't you see the bales?" Now it was my turn to lose color. In one

of the remotest parts of Mexico, far fromthe nearest authorities, we had just enjoyeda casual conversation with a pair of armeddrug runners.

Although drug cultivation is new here,Las Barrancas del Cobre, as the CopperCanyon system is known south of the bor-der, has always been a hiding place. Themassive folds of this West Virginia-sizedregion shield amazingly diverse ecosystems,from lush mountain highlands to hot Sono-ran desert, and more than 400 varieties ofoak tree alone. The uneven topographycamouflages everything from tropical birdsto mountain lions to the legendary (andprobably extinct) Mexican grizzly. And, for400 years, the labyrinth of abysses managedto conceal the world's best runners, theTarahumara Indians, from the world.

In the late 16th century, the Tarahumarabegan migrating west, from the high plainsinto Copper Canyon's tangle of gorges,where they became impossible for theSpanish to rule. They became the largestgroup of native North Americans to survivewith their traditional lifestyle largely intact.Today, many of the roughly 50,000 Tarahu-mara still live in caves and use primitivehandmade tools for hunting and farming,praying and dancing to the gods to ensure agood harvest. Somehow coexisting withtheir amazing athleticism is a notorious rep-utation as heavy drinkers and wild drunks.Tesguino, a corn-based liquor, is a sacredpart of drinking rituals that last for severaldays.

The Tarahumara's vigorous yet decadent

existence sounded a lot likeour lives as bicycle messen-gers. Looking for an inex-pensive, yet world-class,winter trip, Copper Canyonwas our unanimous choice,for its challenging andscenic terrain, the Tarahu-maras, and also the realiza-tion that this part of Chi-huahua is changing fast. Wewanted to see the placebefore they paved the roadsand put up a KOA.

I boarded a flight to ElPaso with my three couriercronies. Swamp Rat Pat wasa Louisiana bayou boy who

earned instant respect for his savvy, junglecat instincts. Professor James becameknown for poetic soliloquys about medievalliterature interrupted by passionate demandsfor the joys of barley malt and the flesh. ElKeheban, which means "Kevin" in our pid-gin Spanish, was an expert traveler and ourtoken hippie, who loved to sleep late andtake his time. And, bringing up the rear,yours truly answered to El Gordo, "the fatone," so named for my belly, which if I eatenough swells out like a snake's. Togetherwe would travel the canyons under our ownpower, like the natives who long ago mas-tered this country.

We crossed the Rio Grande in the sub-freezing dark, then got lost in Juarez,which, as we were all too aware, is theMurder Capital of Mexico. Using keenmessenger instinct, we found the bus sta-tion, about two miles from the border, injust over two hours. The Juarez terminalwas our gateway to one of the best-keptsecrets in Mexico — the buses, which areclean, fast, punctual, and cheap. Bylunchtime the next day, we were rested andrelaxed, full from the wares of a half-dozentamale and churro vendors, practicing ourSpanish with two friendly Mexican girls sit-ting behind us, and rolling into Tarahumara-land.

Nestled amid rolling hills of slickrockand pine, the high Sierra town of Creel wasmisty and quiet, the main plaza empty aswe made our way across the wet cobble-stones. None of the usual international trav-elers and Tarahumara from distant ranchoswere about the commercial center of theSierra Tarahumara that afternoon.

Once checked into Margarita's, whichhas the feel of a European backpacker hos-

19

Lizards findperches onan adobebrick wall towarm them-selves in themorning sun.

What, liverand onions

again?

porch hanging over the rim. Across thechasm, a precipitous gray rock wall meldedinto steep green hills that rose far above us.Below lay the derelict mining village ofBarranca del Cobre, which gave its name tothis section of the Urique abyss and theentire region.

Back on the main road, the pavementended at sunset a day later, atop a 2,000-foot descent to the Rio Urique. Searching invain for a campsite, we spied a Tarahumaracave near an empty house. Swamp Rat builta fire, Keheban and the Professor cookedthe rice and chili, and I descended the cliff-side trail by moonlight for water, eyespeeled for sea serpents. The Tarahumarabelieve in many spirits, one of which is aman-eating sea serpent who lives in thewaters of the Rio Urique and only comesout at night. But the modest stream just bur-

bled softly as Ifilled up our bot-tles and glimpsedthe glow of aTarahumara fireon the far side ofthe canyon.

For the biketourist, there isnothing quite likewaking up at thebottom of a long,steep climb. Butfueling us wasthe knowledgethat an even big-ger descent lay infront of us. Sureenough, thatafternoon theroad bent to theleft and droppedaway below us.Goats near thetop appeared assmall as insectsas the road aheaddisappeared down

cornstarch. Outside of town I stopped at acave dwelling, a hollow beneath a ten-storyboulder, where two ladies were hangingclothes to dry. They let me take their picturebut were embarassed, calling their home"feo" — ugly — over and over.

The pavement wound past LakeArareco, where two shy Tarahumara chil-dren were selling handmade baskets andwoven cloth. Hot springs, waterfalls, andpictographs near Cusarare made for a trio ofworthy detours. Soon after Cusarare weturned onto a dirt road for three hours ofroller-coaster riding through mountains andsnow until we began getting glimpses of ahuge canyon behind the trees. At El Tehe-ban, a luxury resort we found empty, theRio Urique has sliced a narrow, rocky gorge— here a mere half-mile deep — thatopened dramatically from El Teheban's

tel, we unpacked and pared down our gearbefore loading up our bicycles. In a land of5,000- and 6,000-foot climbs, carrying toomuch weight is almost as dangerous as notcarrying enough. We could bring only themost basic camping gear and minimumamounts of food. In late afternoon, weexplored some of the challenging mountainbiking terrain around Creel, including Mex-ican slickrock that rivals the thrills of Moab.Keheban kissed the statue of the VirginMary standing guard above Creel as a trainsnaked in below us.

Rooms at Margarita's come with two tra-ditional Mexican meals, and at the commu-nal table, a pair of Swiss women regaled uswith tales of their hiking adventures. Thenext day we took off, still debating the con-tents of our pink breakfast soup, which tast-ed like hot Strawberry Quik laced with

20

The groupchanges thepace withsome duneriding atMaviriBeach.

a dizzying series of switchbacks. As we descended to theriver, 6000 feet below, multilayered red rock mountainsgrew taller, and the surroundings mutated from alpine forestto fields and scrub oak, to desert, and, finally, at the bottom,to riparian woods.

Batopilas was another two rough hours down-canyon,during which we rode on a 700-foot-tall pile of mine tail-ings and swam in a frigid green pool below a waterfall. Thecanyons were a wonderland and we were four pedalingAlices loving the ride as we coasted into rough-and-readyBatopilas. Three miles long and only one block wide, thisold mining town has the feel of the Wild West, and is filledequally with soldiers, miners, pot growers, and Tarahumara.We bunked at the Hotel Mary, with its soothing interiorcourtyard filled with palms and colorful tropical birds. Keithand Ayn, two guides who work for the renowned (and out-rageously expensive) Copper Canyon Lodge, shared ourcourtyard along with gringo miners Jaime and George.

Though I generally sleep like a corpse, that night I layawake for hours, gazing into the darkness of our large Vic-torian room. I chalked it up to the evils of indoor living untilthe next day, when Ayn asked, "So, how did you enjoysleeping in the haunted bed?"

It turns out that the fellow who built the hotel died in thesame bed I occupied. When he was found, two days afterexpiration, his sheets were pulled up and his feet uncovered.The legend has it that he pulls the covers down on whoeversleeps in his bed. Sort of an impish ghost, one who thank-fully left me alone the second night.

Downstream lay Satevo, the "lost mission," constructedso long ago (c.1630) that no one knows for certain whobuilt it. Soft-spoken boys near the imposing church directedus to a series of ladies who tracked down the key to thechapel. Meanwhile, the kids took turns riding our bikes.Even though our mounts were much too large for them,they handled our machines with prodigious grace, and weshuddered to think what a full-grown Tarahumara, with alittle practice, could do on a mountain bike.

Once inside, we climbed ever more rickety ladders to thebell tower and a commanding view of the valley and sur-rounding mountains. We had heard stories about what lay inthe church basement, namely, the bodies of local unbeliev-ers. But, perhaps fortunately, we were unable to translatethis question into Spanish for the sweet old lady who had letus in.

After two nights in decadent Batopilas we were thor-oughly spoiled and content, not ready for the three-day bikeportage to come. But the trail over Manzano Mesa was theonly way to the village of Urique, where a dirt road wouldlead us back to Creel. After our encounter with the drugsmugglers we camped on the cliffs at the top of UriqueCanyon — here, five miles across and just over one mile

21

22

MexicanSlickrock in

the Valley ofthe Monks.

Andale!

TRANSPORTATION: Creel is the launch point foralmost every trip to the canyons, but thereisn't a fast way to get there. The closestmajor cities are Chihuahua and Los Mochis,but each of these is at least four hours fromthe Sierra Tarahumara. As far as we couldtell, airfare to El Paso is much cheaper (ourtickets from D.C. were $140 round trip)than to anywhere in Mexico. Buses go allover Mexico and are clean, cheap and gen-erally punctual, much more so than thetrains. We took buses all the way to Creel. Itis also possible to take the justly famousChihuahua al Pacifico, or Copper Canyonrailway from Los Mochis, Chihuahua, orOjinaga, which is across the Rio Grandefrom Presidio, Texas. The first class trainruns in both directions every day. The sec-ond class train, which is a lot more fun,runs in each direction every other day. Thisis a long trip that is often delayed.

BIKE SHOPS: There is one bike shop, Expedi-tiones Umarike, in Creel, located near therailroad tracks. It has some spare bike partsand most bike tools. Arturo Guiterrez,owner of the shop, rents mountain bikes andguides hikers, rock climbers and mountainbikers who come to visit. He speaks Englishwell and makes a mean latte.

ACCOMMODATIONS:There are a varietyof places to stay inboth Creel and Batopilas, butaccommodations are scarce atUrique. Creel now has a BestWestern and a KOA, but the insider'schoice is Margarita's, a backpacker hostel.Slickrock can be found in the Creel vicinity,but make sure you are not trespassing.Remember if you go bush that English is adistant third language in the canyons, afterTarahumara and Spanish. Backcountrycamping is permitted pretty much any-where, but don't be surprised if someonewanders up during your stay and asks for 20pesos (about $2.50) for use of the site. Mili-tary personnel are all over the canyons, sup-posedly to combat the drug problem. As arule they are very respectful of tourists.

THE ROUTE: The road from Creel to Batopilashas been called the most spectacular inNorth America. The problem is, once youare in the canyons, several thousand footclimbs become de rigeur. A road has recent-ly been completed between Batopilas andUrique, but is so indirect that our shortcutover Manzano Mesa is still faster. To accessthe shortcut, follow the road to Cerro Col-

Nuts and Bolts

orado andtake the burro path amile straight up. Fees forany guide service should benegotiated in advance.

WATER: Water is a crucial concern. Muchof the Copper Canyon area has been heavilymined. Our rule was always to ask thelocals which streams were safe to drink.Even then we filtered it.

MISCELLANEOUS: Riding a loaded bike in theCopper Canyon system is rarely easy. Itwould be foolish to leave the United Stateswithout everything you think you mightneed for your bike. Similarly, althoughsome American food can be found in townsand cities, if you don't like Mexican food,bring your own. And, especially if you gooff the beaten path, expect the unexpected.

The CopperCanyon islocated in oneof the mostremote areasof SierraMadre.

Mexico’s Copper Canyon

Mexico’s Copper Canyon

23

deep. The moon was full, and coyotes howled up and downthe immense valley as we slept in human-sized depressionsin the rock.

Everyone was having a great trip until we started carry-ing our bikes. This hardship severely tested our spirits, butthe worst lay in front of us — the ancient foot trail down themesa was worn three feet into the rock and was too narrowfor our bicycles. We couldn't even ride downhill! At the endof a long and frustrating day we were about to cross theriver when Pat broke his derailleur.

A temporary fix got us going again, only to be stoppedon the trail by a band of children who swarmed us scream-ing "Dulces!" (candy) at the top of their lungs. Other for-eigners have often showered them with sweets, and we grin-gos have begun to look something like Pez dispensers tothem. Sadly, we had no candy.

In Urique, dusty and torpid even in January, we foundJohnny Rio, a pro wrestler who went by the name El Fan-tasma and traded a Huffy-quality derailleur for Pat's sun-glasses. That night, the Professor, whose thirst grew sharperwith each foray into the wild, asked the patron of ourrestaurant about finding a few cervecas. As in Batopilas,alcohol is illegal, but, as in that town, the only effect thishas is to raise the price of a cold one. The Professor handedsome pesos to the patron, and, ten minutes later, a truckwithout lights squealed to a halt in front of us. An eight-year-old boy jumped out with a bucket of ice and bottles,then disappeared into the night.

By this time, after 11 days on the trail, the prevailingmood of our intrepid adventure team was "I'm sick of thepain!" I was in no mood to browbeat them into further hero-ics. So, after a four-hour climb out of Urique Canyon, werolled across the sierra to Bauichivo and took the CopperCanyon railway to the coast for some beach time.

Disappointed by the views coming down, we were mes-merized on the way back up, as the train bore through long,twisting tunnels, over precipitous bridges, and along the ver-tical sides of canyons as it fought its way onto the high Sier-ra. Back in Creel, the joys of Mexican slickrock took us toisolated ranchos and rocky spires, mountain lakes, and agame of pickup basketball at a nearby ejido (collectivefarm), where the Tarahumaras beat our team of four mes-sengers and two gringas three games in a row.

Our ride out of Creel was two hours late, severely over-crowded, and swarming with soldiers, who searched belowthe train at every stop as we made our way through the driz-zly night. A trio of musicians seranaded our car with joyfulrhythms and soulful melodies as the train lulled us to sleep.

The messenger experiment had been a modest success,despite being burdened by my slightly unrealistic expecta-tions. Each adjusted differently to the hard work and primi-tive conditions of our journey. Swamp Rat seemed like hewas born into the life. The Professor rode like a banshee,but after a while had to be peeled away from even the hum-blest outpost of civilization. And Keheban, well, let's justsay that he's not planning any more mountain bike ordealswith us.

Before we got out of Mexico, three of us, at least, werealready plotting our return to the magical, mystical canyons,a place where the land reigns supreme and you can still goback in time. ●

Adventure Cycling member Drew Walker is working on a bookabout his two-wheeled travels in Australia, which he wroteabout in the November/December 1997 Adventure Cyclist.

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