The Real Mexico: Copper Canyon

Mazatlan first: we'd asked a bunch of people about Maz. before we'd left La Paz, and gotten fair to poor reports. "Go to Puerto Vallarta," people said. "It's much better." Well, they were half-right: Mazatlan comes in 2 parts, Old Mazatlan and "Zona Dorada" or "The Gold Zone." The Gold Zone is dedicated to mining gold from Gringo tourists. The buildings are new, the prices are high, the signs are in English, and everybody wants to sell you something or -- preferably -- take your money *without* selling you a thing. Yech. Not the reason we came to Mexico.

Old Mazatlan, however, is a town with dignity and history. You can almost smell the history ... except when the wind is blowing from the NW; then all you can smell is the sewer plant (but that's another story). A 30 cent bus-ride will take you from one end of the town to the other; by looking out the windows you can see thousands of little stores filled with beans or tools, donuts or bicycles, fresh fish or drugs. (There seems to be more pharmacies than necessary; I'm not sure why.)

If you get off the bus, you are mixed into the clatter and confusion of a Latin city. The sidewalks are narrow and crowded, and people are not at all concerned about clearing a path for pedestrians. So people tend to walk in the streets, where the traffic isn't moving that quick, anyway. There is just as much -- if not more -- selling going on as in the Zona Dorada, but it is with a much better attitude. If you would like to buy something, great. If not, "Que le vaya bien" -- the Mexican equivalent of "Have a nice day." If you go to the local Mercado, you will be assaulted at the entrance by T-shirt vendors, but beyond that you can enjoy a true Mexican market with true Mexican prices: 50 cents for a kilo of oranges, $1.50 for a kilo of ground beef; while you are buying your hamburger, you can either enjoy or ignore the sight of a side of beef being dismembered right there on the countertop. A backpack full of fruits and vegetables cost us 31 pesos -- about $3.50. If we could just stop maintaining the boat, we could live here forever!

The walk along the waterfront is also very nice. Since most of the tourists (and their money) have left for the Gold Zone, the downtown waterfront is a little run-down. Most of the hotels could use a bucket of paint, and some are completely abandoned. It's amazing to me: the old waterfront has nice beaches, rocky headlands, beautiful overlooks, paseos, statues ... yet a lot of what I would call prime real estate is deserted. People have moved to the Gold Zone, which is a flat beach next to a swamp.

We have not really spent that much time in Mazatlan. As soon as we got here, we started gathering information and making plans to visit Barrancas del Cobre, or Copper Canyon to us gringos. Having now been there and done that, I can tell you that Copper Canyon is one of the most impressive geological features I've ever seen. I've not visited the Grand Canyon yet, but I'm told that C.C. is bigger and better.

A long-distance bus took us on the 6 hour trip to Los Mochis. (The long distance busses here in Mexico feature videos -- when the VHS is working, that is. The first video, which apparently starred Arnold Schwatzenegger appeared on the screen as snow; we could only listen. The driver then banged the player really hard, and we got to watch a horror flick about -- apparently -- some crude oil with a bad attitude which terrorized a small western community. I would rather have watched Arnold.)

After a stay in a sleazy hotel in Los Mochis, we took an early morning train ride to the town of Creel. This long train ride (10+ hours) is worth the effort: it runs up one of the branches of Copper Canyon. The scenery was spectacular: the railroad clings to the sides of the canyon, with many tunnels and switchbacks, and many places were you don't want to look: crumpled boxcars down at the bottom of the canyon tended to make me shiver. We stopped in several small towns, and locals came out to the train to sell their wares: coffee, apples, baskets, enchiladas. Since the windows of the train were sealed, all transactions had to take place on the boarding platform at the end of the car: about 10 people on the ground were shouting at 6 people crammed into a small vestibule, who were shouting back at the vendors. But it seemed to work, and we bought some coffee on purpose and some apples by mistake.

We soon fell to chatting with Jesus and Mati, a retired Mexican couple from Mexico City, who were seated across the isle from us. They seemed surprised and delighted to find a gringo couple who could speak Spanish ... but we had to keep telling them to "Habla mas despacio! (Talk slower!)" They became our traveling companions for the next several days. Apparently, their son got tired of them sitting around the house in Mexico City, so he gave them a video camera and told them to go see the country. They were having a blast. Their son told them to take a plane, but they decided to use buses and trains instead; on the ground they could see more. They told us about a previous trip to Oaxaca, and a planned trip to Cuba. They told us that when we were in Acapulco we HAD to come visit them at home, with the classic invitation, "Mi casa es su casa." I realized that they were sincere when I noticed that every time Jesus referred to their home in Mexico City, he called it "su casa": our house.

The train ride is both too fast and too slow. The train travels slowly, and on some of the cliffs you are very thankful. But the individual scenes go past very quickly, and you barely have time to take a photo before some spectacular cliff has disappeared around a curve, never to be seen again. There is only one stop -- Divisadero -- where we had 15 minutes to get out of the train, walk to the vista point, click some photos and walk back. The stop is at 2300 meters of altitude (about 7500 feet), so the walking has to be a little slow. But the view is well worth it.

(In describing all the views, I know I'm going to run out of superlatives. I wish I was a poet, so I could do justice to the scenery ... but you will just have to wait till you see the photos to really appreciate it. Or, take some time and go see it yourselves -- you won't regret it.)

We arrived in Creel just before sundown. I have no idea why, but Creel struck me as Mexico's version of Jackson Hole, Wyoming. The air was cold and thin, and smelled heavily of wood smoke. We checked into Casa Margarita, which is something like a youth hostel, but with individual rooms available. 200 pesos (about $22) got us a heated room with a double bed and a private bath, along with breakfast and dinner. Meals were served in a large, noisy communal room which was warmed by the wood stove in the corner. We shared the two tables with college-aged kids from around the world.

As it was starting to get dark, we quickly toured the main street of the town, bought some beer, took our showers, and had a nice dinner. A loud party was in progress inside (and outside) of the communal room, but we had enjoyed ourselves enough for one day, so we went back to our rooms to collapse.

In the morning we decided to go on a tour to the town of Batopilas with Jesus and Mati. We had planned to explore Creel, but they were returning to Mexico City as soon as they got back to Creel, and we wanted to spend the time with them.

Departure was a little late: Shauna, another passenger, was traveling by bicycle and we needed to figure a way to get her bike and trailer into the back of the suburban, along with all our bags and a spare gas can. Daniel finally solved the problem by tying the gas can on the roof of the truck. As we left the town of Creel, Les and I commented how much the landscape looked like Eastern Oregon: Ponderosa Pines, volcanic rock, brown grasslands. Shauna added that it looked like Saskatchewan ... not what you'd expect from Mexico.

(I'm going to get into descriptions again. Here's a bunch of superlatives: impressive, moving, majestic, imposing, inspiring, magnificent, thrilling, grand, striking, exhilarating, extraordinary. If I happen to get stuck on one adjective, please substitute one of the above. Thanks.)

We left the paved road, and the driver started to earn his pay. For about 2 hours we enjoyed the scenery while Daniel navigated the one-lane dirt road. We chatted with the other passengers, marveled at the vistas and cringed every time we went around a sharp corner: Daniel seemed to favor the outside edge. Just as we were starting to get a little bored, we got to the edge of the real canyon. Yow. The sides of the canyon seemed to go straight down for 2000 meters. The road got narrower, the pitch steeper, the curves tighter. The walls on the side facing us were colored rose and orange, with green trees and grass breaking the cliffs into segments. Daniel pointed out a cave on the other side, with a thin trail leading to it. He told us a family of Tarahumara Indians lived there ... the tiny white spots near the entrance were their goats.

Daniel hurried us along, not letting us dally over the vistas. Work was being done on the road, and it was only open during lunch hour, 1 to 2pm. After that, blasting resumed.

At the bottom of the canyon, the view was just as impressive. We stuck our heads out of the windows to get the full view. Daniel started driving: we were being followed by a Mexican Army truck and he would rather they ate our dust than vise-versa.

"Why is the Army here?" we asked.
"Marijuana," was the reply.
"Are they eradicating it, selling it, or smoking it?"
"All three."

Batopilas is a quaint little town, tightly stuffed into a narrow canyon. An ancient, abandoned hacienda greets you at the up-stream end, and for about a mile the town runs along a single street which parallels the river. The canyon walls rise quickly: on the side of the river opposite the road, the "waterfront" house is 100 feet above the water. Kids run up and down these cliffs like goats. When we walked the same trails, we felt like feeble old grandparents.

A room at Casa Monse cost us 100 pesos per night. (approx. $11) We shared a bathroom with Shauna, who paid 30 pesos for a cot under the trees. This was a luxury for her; she'd been camping in her tent. We dropped our stuff and wandered about the town. People were sitting in the town square, watching each other and gossiping. The town teenagers were engaged in a cut-throat game of basketball. People stood or sat in little stores and booths, watching the world walk past ... and selling you something only if you asked. A committee was hanging Christmas decorations ... or at least discussing where they should go. Dogs lay in the cobblestone streets, unimpressed by the trucks driving past their noses. Chickens clucked and pecked, roosters strutted and crowed.

If I ever want to write a book. I'm going back to Batopilas to do it. The peacefulness of the town invades your soul.

A poster in Casa Monse advertised the services of Polo, a horse guide. We had seen his horse around town, but had never seen Polo in person. The last day of our stay, we finally hooked up. "We're sorry," we said, "We'd love to ride your horses, but we're leaving tomorrow." Not to be deterred, he haggled and promised and cajoled ... but we really wanted to get on with our tour of Copper Canyon. Then I noticed the poster he carried. It was the same one we'd seen in the hotel, but Polo had written "Tours to Urique" on this one. Urique was our next destination.

"Do you really go to Urique on horseback?"
"Yes, yes, of course."
"How long?"
"It takes about 4 days"
"How much does it cost"
"Uno momento..."

After some calculation and discussion, we came up with a figure: $200 for the services of Polo, 3 horses and 3 burros, plus $50 for food. Leslie was very interested, but thought I was nuts to want to spend 4 days on horseback. We talked to each other, counted our money, calculated if we could pay for this trip and still pay for the train ride home, and gave Polo the nod.

"Can you be ready to leave tomorrow?"
"Yes, yes, of course."
"We don't have any sleeping bags."
"No problem, no problem. We can get blankets."
"Can you carry all our stuff?"
"Yes, of course. The burros can carry 100 kg. each."

We gave Polo one-half of the money, and he took off to his house, 1 hour's ride away. He assured us he would be ready at 9 am.

The next morning, we started our trip by heading up the river bed. Five people, four horses, a mule and 3 burros ambled up-stream, crossing several times from one side of the river to the other. At one point the burros, chased by a local dog, ran away from the pack and startled a bull which was tied to a fence. Some quick horsemanship by Polo and his brother Frederico brought the burros back into the fold, but the bull snorted angrily as we rode by.

We crossed the stream a final time when we reached the hacienda. We followed a road which paralleled the river, right next to a stone viaduct filled with water. We had been told that the viaduct was built a hundred years ago to bring water to produce electricity for the local silver mines. The natives are proud of the fact that they had electricity 100 years ago, and are still using the same water channel to power the town. Sadly, the lights have a tendency to flicker, fade and go out -- the locals said that it was done to conserve electricity in the dry season, but I wonder if it doesn't happen year 'round.

We started to climb, with the sides of the canyon getting quite steep at spots. We were following a dirt road which looked like it had been graded recently. Polo liked to point out this tree, that bush, another bird, and tell us what the name was in Spanish. Sadly -- but predictably -- I forgot all the names immediately, but I enjoyed the monologue anyway

We stopped for lunch at stream side, a lovely little spot which Polo called Arroyo Calera. Polo and his brother Frederico released the horses, and had a fire going in an instant. I was surprised that the horses and the burros did not roam; they just stood there and watched us eat. If coaxed to the side of the stream they might drink some water, but they might just stare at you, too.

Lunch was an odd combination of whatever we could find in our disorganized packs. We ended up eating tortillas with chilorio, which is canned, spiced, shredded pork. (For those of you from the South, it tastes just like Barbecue.) Cheese and crackers were also handed around, and Polo brought out a can of sardines, which we declined. After lunch we picked up our mess, packed up and moved on.

We arrived at a little town called Cerro Colorado, nestled in a valley under a bright red hill -- hence the name. (Cerro = hill, Colorado = red) Here we stopped and bought grain for the horses, and cokes for the humans. Vicky, the Brit who had been accompanying us, had to turn back at this point in order to get back to Batopilas before the sun went down. Vicky and Frederico turned back on two horses, and Leslie, Polo and I continued on the narrower path with 2 horses, a mule and 3 burros.

Up and up and up we climbed. At this point I was very glad for the horses, even if my butt was sore. If we'd been walking, my feet would have been much more sore. We rounded a corner and saw a mountain which reminded me of the photos I've seen of Torres del Paine in Southern Chile: vertical shafts of granite, grouped together, thrusting up higher than all the surrounding peaks. Polo pointed to the peak:

"That's where we're going."
"You're kidding. We don't have any climbing ropes."
"Not the peaks, but the saddle right next to them."
"Oh, OK. That's a little better."

Before we got to the peaks, however, Polo called a halt by the side of a dry creek. The sun was lowering, and -- since there were no streetlights in this neighborhood -- we had to set up camp and start dinner before it got dark. We unpacked the horses and burros, spreading our stuff over a convenient, flat-topped bolder. None of our stuff had been packed with any planning; everything had been thrown together at the last minute. So every time we needed something, we had to search through several boxes to find it.

Dinner was a "One-pot Glop" cooked up by Leslie. (She's gotten pretty good at that on the boat.) Polo was hesitant at first, asking for just a little, claiming he wasn't very hungry. After he tasted the stew, however, he asked for a lot more, admitting that he wasn't sure if he'd like the gringo food -- so he just wanted a taste at first.

By now it was full dark, and it was time to go to bed. We had set up some blankets for Leslie and me up away from the fire. Polo had put a rope all the way around the bed, saying that it would scare off small animals: it looked like a snake to them. Leslie and I snuggled under the thick blankets for warmth. Thick they were, but warm they weren't. I think the weave was loose or something, because they wind cut right through the blankets and chilled us to the bone over the course of the long night.

Morning finally came, and we got up to make coffee. Polo was worried: clouds were being blown off the top of the mountain. "Very bad," he said, "those clouds mean it is going to rain." We ate a quick breakfast, rounded up the horses and took off. The path seemed much steeper, and often we were asked to dismount the horses: Polo was worried that if the horses stumbled, we might fall off. Falling towards the mountain would not be a big deal, but if we were to fall off away from the mountain ... it might take a long time to hit bottom.

Polo hurried our little group along, constantly goading the burros: "BUrro! BUrro! BUrro! Sh-sh-SHK! Sh-sh-SHK!" We (the humans) felt Polo's haste, but could not keep ourselves from stopping occasionally and staring at the views. (The burros would often stop for a nibble on a tasty bush, only to get whacked by a stick.) We all stopped for a brief snack at the top of the saddle, where we took several pictures. Polo tolerated the stop with barely concealed impatience, and we moved on after 15 minutes.

The views continued to astound. The land was crumpled, abused over the years by the rushing waters, changed from flatlands into a corrugated mess. The sky added a feeling of anger to the scene: it was dark and fierce, blowing with cold, gusty winds.

As we started down the far side of the mountain, we continued to see small farms, now a 2 day ride from town. The work that went into creating these little holdings was immense. Literally tons of rock had to be moved -- by hand -- to make a small pasture. Maize could be planted amongst the rocks, but planting, harvesting, drying and grinding of the corn was all done by hand. The pride of ownership was also obvious -- the farms were tidy and well kept, without a speck of garbage to dirty the scene.

The day wore on. We were walking in front of the horses as often as we rode on top. Polo said we were doing 2 days' ride in one day, because there was nowhere we could rest out of the weather. The scenery constantly changed, the views were still spectacular, but now exhaustion was starting to take its toll. Leslie twisted her ankle, but kept trouping along. My knees were giving me fits, but I had my braces on and they held together. Finally, at the bottom of a long trail which seemed constructed entirely of basketball-sized rocks, we stopped at a little adobe hut. "Here is where we will stay tonight," Polo said, to our relief.

We took the packs off the burros, found some cokes and granola bars, and Les and I enjoyed the view while Polo went inside to talk to the owner of the adobe. We didn't want to wander far -- one cow seemed very interested in our bag of grain -- so we sat on rocks and took in the scenery. The view was, again, incredible. We talked about how lucky the family was to live in such a beautiful setting, ignoring for the moment the fact that the life of a subsistence farmer is brutal at best.

After half an hour, Polo returned from the house, looking agitated. "We have a problem," he told us. "We were not invited to stay in the house. We are welcome to sleep out here in the field, but it is still too cold for that at this altitude. There is another house about 45 minutes down the trail, further down the mountain, but it will be almost dark by the time we get there."

We decided to push on. At this point I was getting very concerned about exhaustion, with the added problem that the falling light was making it more difficult to find good footing. Leslie wasn't complaining, but I could tell that her ankle was hurting a lot by the care with which she moved. We were in a bind: we had to go fast to get to the other farm, but if we pushed too hard one of us could easily break a leg or fall off the side of the hill. It seemed like 2 hours to get to the farm, but our clocks said it took less than an hour. I was following the burros -- Polo said they knew the trail -- but at one point they decided they had had enough, and turned off the trail to get a drink in the stream. The whole train stopped, then had to back up a little so I could shoo the stupid beasts back onto the path. More time wasted, more light lost. Polo gave Les a flashlight so she could pick her way amongst the rocks, but I stayed ahead, warning her what she was going to encounter next.

Finally a fence appeared by the side of the trail, then a gate, and beyond a building. We stumbled into the farm, and tiredly unpacked the burros and unsaddled the horses. The caretaker of the farm appeared, and started talking to Polo in a dialect I had difficulty understanding. The building nearest the trail was an abandoned farmhouse, with a cement floor and a wood stove -- luxurious after spending the previous night on the ground. A quick warm meal, and all of us were ready for bed.

The next day started slow. After coffee and oatmeal, I wandered back up the trail to get some photos of the parts of the trail we missed in the darkness. Les was invited down to the home of the caretaker and his wife. The farm had recently been bought by a person who was going to turn it into a campground. In the meantime, the caretaker lived on the farm in typical subsistence fashion. They raised their own corn, dried it, ground it, then used the paste to make tortillas. Very little was bought in town, but little was needed.

When I got back to the farm, Polo was agitated once again. He was a little upset that I had wandered off without him -- "There are Banditos out there!" -- but he was very upset that the caretaker had presented him with a bill for our visit. Polo had stayed for free at the abandoned farm many times, but now that it was a "campground" we had to pay for the privilege. The amount asked was way out of line: "One hundred pesos? We slept on a cold concrete floor last night! In Batopilas we paid 100 pesos for a warm bed with clean sheets, and a shower with hot water! This is outrageous!" We eventually paid a much-reduced fee, and we all figured the owner would never hear about it -- the money was going to end up in the pocket of the caretaker.

The weather had cleared, and we hit the trail again under blue skies. The path was easier, and we had to dismount only a few times, and then only briefly. Our sore butts and feet were feeling much better, and as the sun warmed our bodies we began to feel great. We followed the stream-bed until it joined the Urique river, down in the bottom of another spectacular canyon.

People were much more common, now. We saw more farms, more fences, and eventually started riding along a dirt road. "Buenos Dias!" we greeted everyone we saw, and most people smiled and waved in reply. I heard a couple giggles from the children, and I fear they were laughing at my riding technique. Leslie was born in the saddle, and Polo is a professional, but I looked about as comfortable as a basketball player on a tricycle: I'm not a horseman by anyone's measure, and Mexican stirrups are just too short for my long legs.

We arrived in a small town, and Polo arranged for a truck to take us to our final destination of Urique. The rest of the road wasn't that interesting, so he thought a truck ride would be nicer. Plus, he wanted to get back to the animals he'd left at the farm: he didn't quite trust the caretaker. A quick good-bye, and we went our separate ways, probably never to meet again.

Urique is a rough town, very "Wild West" in nature. We were dropped at the Hotel Canyon: 60 pesos ($7) for a room. As we were making arrangements for our room, a cowboy saw our bags -- covered in burlap sacks for protection -- and asked if they were bales of marijuana. Er, no. I asked the Dueña if there was hot water, and she put her hand on the water heater. "Yes, it's still hot," she replied, but just in case, she put another log on the fire underneath.

A quick walking tour of the town, and we got the impression the locals were not as friendly as we'd become accustomed to. Later we realized we were wearing shorts on a Sunday, and wondered if that was the reason for our less-than-warm reception.

The next day we caught the bus to Bahuichivo, the nearest train station. The bus took us on another breath-taking ride up the side of a canyon. As we went up the windy road, we could see the switch-backs gather below us. The bus would turn sharply left, then sharply right, and every second turn we could look out the windows and see the town below, getting smaller and smaller, and the river glowing in the morning sun.

About an hour into our trip, our over-loaded bus developed a problem: the driver could not get first gear to engage. The vehicle ground to a halt in the middle of the road, and after much discussion a helper went back to town -- running. We wondered if the runner was a Tarahumara, the indigenous tribe of the region who's idea of fun is a 200 mile footrace.

The driver would start the engine occasionally and test to make sure the transmission still wouldn't engage. A couple of men caught a ride on a passing pickup. Then, miraculously, first gear engaged, we all piled on the bus, and we took off. I still wonder what happened to the runner when he returned with help.

As we climbed higher and higher, we began to see something we hadn't seen since we'd left Oregon: snow. In places there were several inches on the ground. "I guess that storm was worse than we thought!" We tried asking a nice old gentleman how often it snowed in these parts, but I couldn't remember the word for "often", so I settled on "How many days of snow are there a year?" He replied with a definitive "Three!", so I'm not sure we achieved good communication.

The bus stopped in several villages and small towns, and we got a back-yard view of rural Mexico. Some people got off, others got on, and at one point I gave up my seat so a nun could sit down. It was actually no sacrifice: my knees did not fit behind the seat in front of us, so I was very uncomfortable. And besides, the spare tire I found to sit on was nice and soft, and the view was better.

Finally we arrived at Bahuichivo -- cold, tired and hungry once again. The train was not due for several hours, so Les stayed at the train station with our bags as I tried to find some food. At the only restaurant in town which was open, I haggled with the dueña and we settled on scrambled eggs, beans and tortillas for 2 people -- 30 pesos. While I waited, I met 3 guys with backpacks -- not Gringos, but natives of Barcelona, Spain. They were touring Mexico for 3 weeks, and we had a great conversation. Interestingly, Leslie and I could understand them better than we could understand the Mexicans, in spite of the famous Barthelonan Lithp. Very nice people, we talked with them about everything from soccer to the European Economic Community.

The train ride back to Mochis was uneventful, except to note that "tourist class" is almost as nice as first class, but half the price. At Mochis we stayed in a different, nicer hotel, and in the morning we caught the first bus headed towards Mazatlan. At this point we were "barn-bound," and were not interested in much except getting home to Kestrel.

A long bus ride, a short bus ride, and a long walk and we could finally see Kestrel -- but we couldn't get to her. We'd caught a ride in to shore from a friend, so we could leave our dinghy safely stowed on deck. But getting back to the boat proved a problem: nobody was about to ferry us back. We got some beers from the bar, sat and waited. An hour went by, and temptation finally got the better of us: there was a dinghy tied to the dock, with oars and everything, just waiting to carry us to Kestrel. The only thing we didn't have was the dinghy owners permission to use it. Finally we agreed that Les would stay on shore, watching for the owners, while I would row out to Kestrel, put our dinghy in the water and tow the other dinghy back. This all went off with out a hitch, and we left a note of thanks and a couple of beers in the dinghy as payment.

Home again! We aired out Kestrel, happy to be home after a long hard trip.
       Jay & Leslie