You may find more On the Trail adventure than you can handle in of the ’s legendary Tarahumara Copper Canyon

Right: The exico's Copper Canyon system may be an descent to adventurer's paradise, but it's not a great place the Rio to get lost. Twenty major gorges, at least four Batopolis. of which are deeper than the of And of M course, what the Colorado, rake the forested mesas in a maze of impass- goes able ravines. My friends and I, four bike messengers from down… Washington D.C., were halfway into a two-week loop of the area when it just seemed to swallow us up. We had jour- neyed to the canyons to test ourselves outside the context of modern civilization; but, to tell the truth, at that moment we were getting more than we bar- gained for. It was our second day of portaging, only by now we had lost our views to the thick stands of Ponderosas. Our sup- plies were perched on the slen- der tubes of our mountain bikes, which dug into our backs like axe blades. The day before, we had toted our mounts a mile straight up, then got into an argument with our guide, who turned around and went home. Our trail had branched a few Above: Maps times, fading as it supposedly crossed the mesa, leading, were some- despite my weakening protests, to the conviction that we what prob- were lost. This, combined with the unrideable nature of the lematic in trail, so rugged we had to carry our bikes about half the the Mexican time, brought home the complete idiocy of taking a bike trip backcountry. through the Copper Canyons. Then salvation appeared, as it so often does out West, in the form of two horsemen approaching on the dusty trail.

By Drew Walker

16 Finally, I thought, Keheban, Swamp Rat and the Professor The group will stop giving me dirty looks. This whole trip had been finds shelter my idea, and over the last ten days my mental health had in an aban- been called into question several times. The Professor and I doned spoke pitiful pidgin Spanish, and went forward to ask direc- Tarahumara tions. cave. The Mexicans, mustachioed men in their 20s who resembled mythical coffee grower Juan Valdez, were walk- ing next to their heavily loaded mounts. After telling us that we were, after all, on the right trail, they laughed and said, "Hey, gringos, give us a Coke." Which I thought was funny at least, out here in the middle of nowhere. But the Professor wasn't laughing. In fact he looked spooked, his swarthy complexion drained to alabaster. After happily waving goodbye to our new friends, I turned to him. "What's the matter, Professor? You look like you've seen Swamp Rat a ghost." takes in the His eyes were on the horsemen, fists choking his handle- stunning bars. scenery "Did you see their shotguns?" above the Sure I had seen them. They're common in the backcoun- Rio . try and nothing to worry about. Which I told him.

17 The Tarahu- mara migrat- ed into the Copper Canyon region in the 16th century to escape Spanish 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 from the nearest authorities, we had just enjoyed a casual conversation with a pair of armed drug runners. Although drug cultivation is new here, Las Barrancas del Cobre, as the Copper Canyon system is known south of the bor- der, has always been a hiding place. The massive folds of this West Virginia-sized region shield amazingly diverse ecosystems, from lush mountain highlands to hot Sono- ran desert, and more than 400 varieties of oak tree alone. The uneven topography camouflages everything from tropical birds to mountain lions to the legendary (and probably extinct) Mexican grizzly. And, for 400 years, the labyrinth of abysses managed to conceal the world's best runners, the Tarahumara Indians, from the world. In the late 16th century, the Tarahumara began migrating west, from the high plains into Copper Canyon's tangle of gorges, where they became impossible for the Spanish to rule. They became the largest group of native North Americans to survive with their traditional lifestyle largely intact. Today, many of the roughly 50,000 Tarahu- mara still live in caves and use primitive handmade tools for hunting and farming, praying and dancing to the gods to ensure a good harvest. Somehow coexisting with their amazing athleticism is a notorious rep- utation as heavy drinkers and wild drunks. Tesguino, a corn-based liquor, is a sacred part of drinking rituals that last for several days. The Tarahumara's vigorous yet decadent

18 Lizards find perches on an adobe brick wall to warm them- selves in the morning sun.

existence sounded a lot like our lives as bicycle messen- gers. Looking for an inex- pensive, yet world-class, winter trip, Copper Canyon was our unanimous choice, for its challenging and scenic terrain, the Tarahu- maras, and also the realiza- tion that this part of Chi- huahua is changing fast. We wanted to see the place before they paved the roads and put up a KOA. I boarded a flight to El Paso with my three courier cronies. Swamp Rat Pat was a Louisiana bayou boy who earned instant respect for his savvy, jungle cat instincts. Professor James became known for poetic soliloquys about medieval literature interrupted by passionate demands for the joys of barley malt and the flesh. El Keheban, which means "Kevin" in our pid- gin Spanish, was an expert traveler and our token hippie, who loved to sleep late and take his time. And, bringing up the rear, yours truly answered to El Gordo, "the fat one," so named for my belly, which if I eat enough swells out like a snake's. Together we would travel the canyons under our own power, like the natives who long ago mas- tered this country. We crossed the in the sub- freezing dark, then got lost in Juarez, which, as we were all too aware, is the Murder Capital of Mexico. Using keen messenger instinct, we found the bus sta- tion, about two miles from the border, in just over two hours. The Juarez terminal was our gateway to one of the best-kept secrets in Mexico — the buses, which are clean, fast, punctual, and cheap. By lunchtime the next day, we were rested and relaxed, full from the wares of a half-dozen tamale and churro vendors, practicing our Spanish with two friendly Mexican girls sit- ting behind us, and rolling into Tarahumara- land. Nestled amid rolling hills of slickrock and pine, the high Sierra town of Creel was misty and quiet, the main plaza empty as we made our way across the wet cobble- stones. None of the usual international trav- elers and Tarahumara from distant ranchos were about the commercial center of the Sierra Tarahumara that afternoon. Once checked into Margarita's, which has the feel of a European backpacker hos-

19 tel, we unpacked and pared down our gear cornstarch. Outside of town I stopped at a porch hanging over the rim. Across the before loading up our bicycles. In a land of cave dwelling, a hollow beneath a ten-story chasm, a precipitous gray rock wall melded 5,000- and 6,000-foot climbs, carrying too boulder, where two ladies were hanging into steep green hills that rose far above us. much weight is almost as dangerous as not clothes to dry. They let me take their picture Below lay the derelict mining village of carrying enough. We could bring only the but were embarassed, calling their home Barranca del Cobre, which gave its name to most basic camping gear and minimum "feo" — ugly — over and over. this section of the Urique abyss and the amounts of food. In late afternoon, we The pavement wound past Lake entire region. explored some of the challenging mountain Arareco, where two shy Tarahumara chil- Back on the main road, the pavement biking terrain around Creel, including Mex- dren were selling handmade baskets and ended at sunset a day later, atop a 2,000- ican slickrock that rivals the thrills of Moab. woven cloth. Hot springs, waterfalls, and foot descent to the Rio Urique. Searching in Keheban kissed the statue of the Virgin pictographs near Cusarare made for a trio of vain for a campsite, we spied a Tarahumara Mary standing guard above Creel as a train worthy detours. Soon after Cusarare we cave near an empty house. Swamp Rat built snaked in below us. turned onto a dirt road for three hours of a fire, Keheban and the Professor cooked Rooms at Margarita's come with two tra- roller-coaster riding through mountains and the rice and chili, and I descended the cliff- ditional Mexican meals, and at the commu- snow until we began getting glimpses of a side trail by moonlight for water, eyes nal table, a pair of Swiss women regaled us huge canyon behind the trees. At El Tehe- peeled for sea serpents. The Tarahumara with tales of their hiking adventures. The ban, a luxury resort we found empty, the believe in many spirits, one of which is a next day we took off, still debating the con- Rio Urique has sliced a narrow, rocky gorge man-eating sea serpent who lives in the tents of our pink breakfast soup, which tast- — here a mere half-mile deep — that waters of the Rio Urique and only comes ed like hot Strawberry Quik laced with opened dramatically from El Teheban's out at night. But the modest stream just bur- bled softly as I filled up our bot- tles and glimpsed the glow of a Tarahumara fire on the far side of What, liver the canyon. and onions For the bike again? tourist, there is nothing quite like waking up at the bottom of a long, steep climb. But fueling us was the knowledge that an even big- ger descent lay in front of us. Sure enough, that afternoon the road bent to the left and dropped away below us. Goats near the top appeared as small as insects as the road ahead disappeared down

20 a dizzying series of switchbacks. As we descended to the river, 6000 feet below, multilayered red rock mountains grew taller, and the surroundings mutated from alpine forest to 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. The The group canyons were a wonderland and we were four pedaling changes the pace with Alices loving the ride as we coasted into rough-and-ready some dune Batopilas. Three miles long and only one block wide, this riding at old mining town has the feel of the Wild West, and is filled Maviri equally with soldiers, miners, pot growers, and Tarahumara. Beach. We bunked at the Hotel Mary, with its soothing interior courtyard filled with palms and colorful tropical birds. Keith and Ayn, two guides who work for the renowned (and out- rageously expensive) Copper Canyon Lodge, shared our courtyard along with gringo miners Jaime and George. Though I generally sleep like a corpse, that night I lay awake for hours, gazing into the darkness of our large Vic- torian room. I chalked it up to the evils of indoor living until the next day, when Ayn asked, "So, how did you enjoy sleeping in the haunted bed?" It turns out that the fellow who built the hotel died in the same bed I occupied. When he was found, two days after expiration, his sheets were pulled up and his feet uncovered. The legend has it that he pulls the covers down on whoever sleeps in his bed. Sort of an impish ghost, one who thank- fully left me alone the second night. Downstream lay Satevo, the "lost mission," constructed so long ago (c.1630) that no one knows for certain who built it. Soft-spoken boys near the imposing church directed us to a series of ladies who tracked down the key to the chapel. 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 we shuddered to think what a full-grown Tarahumara, with a little practice, could do on a mountain bike. Once inside, we climbed ever more rickety ladders to the bell tower and a commanding view of the valley and sur- rounding mountains. We had heard stories about what lay in the church basement, namely, the bodies of local unbeliev- ers. But, perhaps fortunately, we were unable to translate this question into Spanish for the sweet old lady who had let us in. After two nights in decadent Batopilas we were thor- oughly spoiled and content, not ready for the three-day bike portage to come. But the trail over Manzano Mesa was the only way to the village of Urique, where a dirt road would lead us back to Creel. After our encounter with the drug smugglers we camped on the cliffs at the top of Urique Canyon — here, five miles across and just over one mile

21 Nuts and Bolts Mexico’sMexico’s TRANSPORTATION: Creel is the launch point for ACCOMMODATIONS: Copper There are a variety Copper The Copper almost every trip to the canyons, but there Canyon Canyon is isn't a fast way to get there. The closest of places to stay in Canyon located in one major cities are and , both Creel and Batopilas, but of the most but each of these is at least four hours from accommodations are scarce at remote areas the Sierra Tarahumara. As far as we could Urique. Creel now has a Best of Sierra tell, airfare to El Paso is much cheaper (our Western and a KOA, but the insider's Madre. tickets from D.C. were $140 round trip) choice is Margarita's, a backpacker hostel. than to anywhere in Mexico. Buses go all Slickrock can be found in the Creel vicinity, over Mexico and are clean, cheap and gen- but make sure you are not trespassing. orado and erally punctual, much more so than the Remember if you go bush that English is a take the burro path a trains. We took buses all the way to Creel. It distant third language in the canyons, after mile straight up. Fees for is also possible to take the justly famous Tarahumara and Spanish. Backcountry any guide service should be Chihuahua al Pacifico, or Copper Canyon camping is permitted pretty much any- negotiated in advance. railway from Los Mochis, Chihuahua, or where, but don't be surprised if someone WATER: , which is across the Rio Grande wanders up during your stay and asks for 20 Water is a crucial concern. Much from Presidio, Texas. The first class train pesos (about $2.50) for use of the site. Mili- of the Copper Canyon area has been heavily runs in both directions every day. The sec- tary personnel are all over the canyons, sup- mined. Our rule was always to ask the ond class train, which is a lot more fun, posedly to combat the drug problem. As a locals which streams were safe to drink. runs in each direction every other day. This rule they are very respectful of tourists. Even then we filtered it. is a long trip that is often delayed. THE ROUTE: The road from Creel to Batopilas MISCELLANEOUS: Riding a loaded bike in the BIKE SHOPS: There is one bike shop, Expedi- has been called the most spectacular in Copper Canyon system is rarely easy. It tiones Umarike, in Creel, located near the North America. The problem is, once you would be foolish to leave the United States railroad tracks. It has some spare bike parts are in the canyons, several thousand foot without everything you think you might and most bike tools. Arturo Guiterrez, climbs become de rigeur. A road has recent- need for your bike. Similarly, although owner of the shop, rents mountain bikes and ly been completed between Batopilas and some American food can be found in towns guides hikers, rock climbers and mountain Urique, but is so indirect that our shortcut and cities, if you don't like Mexican food, bikers who come to visit. He speaks English over Manzano Mesa is still faster. To access bring your own. And, especially if you go well and makes a mean latte. the shortcut, follow the road to Cerro Col- off the beaten path, expect the unexpected.

Mexican Slickrock in the Valley of the Monks. Andale!

22 deep. The moon was full, and coyotes howled up and down the immense valley as we slept in human-sized depressions in the rock. Everyone was having a great trip until we started carry- ing our bikes. This hardship severely tested our spirits, but the worst lay in front of us — the ancient foot trail down the mesa was worn three feet into the rock and was too narrow for our bicycles. We couldn't even ride downhill! At the end of a long and frustrating day we were about to cross the river when Pat broke his derailleur. A temporary fix got us going again, only to be stopped on 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 to them. Sadly, we had no candy. In Urique, dusty and torpid even in January, we found www.adv-cycling.org Johnny 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 sharper Cycle our website: with each foray into the wild, asked the patron of our restaurant about finding a few cervecas. As in Batopilas, International Event Calendar alcohol is illegal, but, as in that town, the only effect this has is to raise the price of a cold one. The Professor handed some pesos to the patron, and, ten minutes later, a truck Adventure Cyclist Archives without 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. Cycling Resources By this time, after 11 days on the trail, the prevailing mood of our intrepid adventure team was "I'm sick of the pain!" I was in no mood to browbeat them into further hero- Bike Clubs ics. So, after a four-hour climb out of Urique Canyon, we rolled across the sierra to Bauichivo and took the Copper Canyon railway to the coast for some beach time. Bike Maps 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- Tours tical sides of canyons as it fought its way onto the high Sier- ra. Back in Creel, the joys of Mexican slickrock took us to isolated ranchos and rocky spires, mountain lakes, and a game of pickup basketball at a nearby ejido (collective farm), 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 below the train at every stop as we made our way through the driz- zly night. A trio of musicians seranaded our car with joyful YOUR BIKE CAN FLY FREE rhythms 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- ON DELTA AND NORTHWEST tions. Each adjusted differently to the hard work and primi- tive conditions of our journey. Swamp Rat seemed like he was 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 just say that he's not planning any more mountain bike ordeals with us. Before we got out of Mexico, three of us, at least, were already plotting our return to the magical, mystical canyons, Adventure Cycling members can avoid expensive airline bike han- a place where the land reigns supreme and you can still go dling fees when they book their Northwest and Delta airline tickets back in time. through the Adventure Cycling Travel Service. This special offer can save Adventure Cycling members more than $100 per roundtrip. Call the Adventure Cycling Travel Service today for the program details: Adventure Cycling member Drew Walker is working on a book about his two-wheeled travels in Australia, which he wrote 1-800-735-7109 about in the November/December 1997 Adventure Cyclist. (Offer valid only when booked through the Adventure Cycling Travel Service)

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