GILBERT, MEXICO

can’t say riding dirt roads across the Sierra Madre Occidental, northern Mexico’s remote mountain range, had been my original idea. Yet once I’d rode the Great Divide Mountain Bike Route, which had guided me all the way from Canada to the Mexican border via a web of forest tracks and desert trails, I couldn’tI imagine any other way. By the time I arrived, I was firmly hooked on unearthing the most off-the-beaten path to cross a country, even if it was the most challenging. Luckily, I wasn’t alone.

Meet the Dirt Bags Because of our tight budgets, our love of roughing it, and our desire to ride off pavement as much as we could, we’d named our band of misfit riders the Dirt Bags. The group consisted of myself, two brothers from Philadelphia, Jeff and Jason, whose endeavors included hiking the Appalachian Trail and riding across Africa, and Anna the Australian, who’d lived in a Brazilian favella for three years and counted circus acrobatics amongst her previous job titles. All four of us shared Alaska as our jour- ney’s start point, the same free spirit and wanderlust that sparks and drives so many bike tours, and the ambition to cycle all the way to the southern tip of Argentina. And as paths often have a habit of doing over long-distance journeys, ours had all crossed in the months it had taken us to reach the Sierra Madre. I’d first met Jeff and Jason in Fairbanks while stocking up on supplies Riding the Dirt Roads of Mexico’s Sierra Madre for the Dalton Highway, also known as the “haul road,” then again months later at a forlorn forest junction just as night had fallen in wintery New Mexico. Anna had Photos and story by Cass Gilbert taken a different route south, following the Pacific Coast through Oregon and California before cutting inland across Death Valley and Arizona to meet us in time for a pie- themed Thanksgiving — apple, cherry, pear, pumpkin, pecan, you name it — in the wonderfully named and time-warped community of Pie Town, New Mexico. Widely renowned for drug traffick- ing and the narcotrafficante cowboys who have corrupted its mountains, we’d been warned about traveling in Chihuahua, Mexico’s most northerly state, and through the Sierra Madre Occidental, an histori- cally wild, lawless range that harbored Geronimo’s renegade Apaches as late as the 1930s. As one of the world’s largest produc- GILBERT, MEXICO

ers of marijuana, opium, and heroin, the across these mountains; our trail was at Along the way, manzanita trees with area is rich in gruesome tales — shootouts, times barely more than a jumble of baby- smooth, red bark and twisting branches, killings, and kidnappings — both past and head–sized rocks and rutted, tire-grabbing caught our eyes amongst the scrub oak present. Yet, we also knew that the major gullies. Dotted sparsely along the way and juniper. We resupplied in Ejido el media’s portrayal of an area and how it’s were quiet, forgotten pueblecitos, and we Largo, a dusty settlement built around experienced on the ground — especially camped on the edge of one of these, Colonia logging where dilapidated, grungy haul- when on two wheels — can be two dif- Hernandez. It couldn’t have changed much age trucks cruised the streets. It was also ferent realities. For starters, we wouldn’t since the Mexican Revolution in 1910, reported to be one of the many areas in the be venturing anywhere near the notorious when large tracks of privately-owned farm- north controlled by the drug cartels. Ciudad de Juarez, cited by some as the most lands were divided up and redistributed Barrancas, or deep ravines (many larg- dangerous city in the world. Conveniently, to villagers. Set in a peaceful river valley, er and deeper than the Grand Canyon), the Great Divide Mountain Bike Route ter- men still rode on horseback, fires were lit at pushed us in roller-coaster fashion from minates at a remote border crossing where central Mexico. From there, we planned night, and only the occasional old and sun- 10,000 down to a lowly 1,500 feet — then just a couple of friendly Mexican immigra- to continue west to the wild beaches and faded pickup truck hinted at the passing back up again. Pine forest, a powdering tion officials waved us onwards along an pounding surf of the Pacific coast before of time. With no electricity in the village, of Christmas snow, and nighttime tem- inviting dirt road, wending its way toward continuing on our respective journeys thick smoke billowed through the slender peratures that hovered around 14 degrees the midday sun and our first pueblecito. toward Central America and beyond. chimneys of its mud-brick houses into the Fahrenheit gave way to tropical vegetation As far as we could tell, the Sierra Madre soft evening light. As we warmed fresh and grapefruit trees, all in the space of Occidental had an undefined beginning The Adventure Begins cornflower tortillas around our own fire, and end — depending on what we read, Just a handful of miles away from an elderly man with a thick white mustache the maps we poured over, or the locals we its Americanized center, Nuevas Casas and a spotless white sombrero, looking spoke to. So for the first Mexican leg of our Grandes’ new and spotless highways gave resplendent on his white horse, made his adventure, we’d declare our starting point way to the undiluted rough and rugged way over to greet us and inspect our camp. to be Nueva Casas Grandes, just 125 miles mountain tracks we hankered for. In fact, It must have passed muster since he stuck from the border. We’d piece together our it may even have been a little more rough around for a bit of pleasant, if sometimes own Sierra Madre Mountain Bike Route to and tumble than we were expecting so undecipherable, conversation. lead us all the way to Zacatecas, a colonial early in the journey. It was hard to imag- As we continued on, we passed through way to Guachochi, another spit-and-sawdust town perched atop a hill on the edge of ine how trucks could make it in one piece swathes of forests en route to Copper Canyon. town that boasted only a handful of shops and a few hole-in-the-wall eateries. Here, sombrero-wearing narcotrafficantes, obvious to all around in their gleamingly new, dark- tinted trucks, gathered to pass the day. As if to redress the balance, occasional groups of sunglass-wearing, body-armoured federales swaggered by, brandishing assault rifles, machine guns bolted to their equally shiny pickups. Without a doubt, the cartels are part of the fabric of life here, but somehow, despite this accepted undercurrent of vio- lence, I never felt threatened. In any case, keeping to quiet backroads seemed to be working for us so far. Venturing once more off the confines of our map, we corkscrewed down another rock-strewn descent to Ejido Guazarachi, a set of warm springs cupped in Hello Mexico. Crossing the border at Antelope Wells, New Mexico. the base of a canyon. We may have been in sunny Mexico and one long, tortuously steep dirt-track descent they secured first, second, and fifth place pushing toward the warmer climes of the to Urique. Once a mining town, Urique before going on to set a course record in south with every pedal stroke, but it was now draws tourists and athletes alike, home 1995. According to local legend, it was this January, and up at 7,000 feet the nights as it is to the Tarahumara Indians. Here, running ability that resulted in these canyon were still intensely cold, so each evening loincloth-garbed men run barefoot, or with areas largely escaping the influence of the we gathered dead wood and lit a fire. shoes cut from old truck tires, covering 170 Jesuit missionaries, as the locals simply ran Laying our pots on the embers, the air was miles without stopping. When hunting, the off when they’d heard enough. soon rich with the smell of sizzling garlic as Ramaruri (“those who run fast“) chase their we dissected the day‘s riding. Riding as a prey until it collapses from exhaustion. Narcotrafficantes, Federales, and group was beneficial for our social dynamic In 1993, they were invited to compete in Cheap Mescal — as well as for security. Our soundtrack Colorado’s grueling high-altitude race, the Continuing along on an impossibly steep was the spine-tingling call of coyotes, and Leadville 100. Fueled largely on their uncon- track newly hewn from the canyon face, we we warmed ourselves further with fiery Local accessories. Improbably pointy boots and the classic sombrero, as worn by all discerning vaqueros in the Sierra Madre. ventional diet of pinole, beer, and cigarettes, climbed back out of Urique and made our mescal and tangy lime. At 20 pesos a liter,

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just a dollar and half, it was the ideal dirtbag alternative to tequila for dulling the pain of our battered and bruised bodies. The dirt roads here were unusually rough in places, a gamut of loose stone, bedrock, and sand, and could make for slow, filling-loosening progress. Jeff and I rode with suspension forks, while Jason and Anna had stripped- down rigid setups. All of us experienced racks and panniers rattling loose or rico- cheting off the bikes as we rode the same grueling profile: up and down, up and down. When the King of Spain asked Cortez to describe Mexico, he was said to have crumpled up a piece of paper and thrown it on the table. I could understand why. It was almost with relief that we hit pave- ment again at the junction settlement of Baquiriachi, beginning a fast and winding descent that unraveled through an increas- ingly dramatic, sheer-sided gorge for 15 miles. It felt like we were finally leaving the Fuel stop. Resting up and resupplying in El Vergel, after a grueling 15-mile climb back up the Continental Divide. steepest of the barrancas behind. Or per- haps we were being hopeful. Still, 70-mile- black hair tied tightly back, the snuggest the outskirts of this cantankerous town, ously back into the undergrowth. an-hour wind gusts did their best to steer of jeans embracing her somewhat portly avoiding the clutch of wild looking bars It had been an terrific few days of rid- us off the road as the last light of day bathed figure, stilt-like high heel boots, and a that serviced the nearby silver mine. Our ing, and by the time we made it to the the landscape in a warm glow. lurid striped top of pink, turquoise, and evening also proved eventful. In the midst civilization of Tepehuanes, on the far side As we camped that night in a dry gulch, black. With impressive attention to detail, of setting up camp, two military soldiers of the main cordillera, we felt we finally I was again struck by how making the she’d finished off her look with matching crept silently up on us, stepping ominously deserved a celebration. Stepping into the effort to track down these often overlooked earrings and a hair bunch, while stick-on out of the darkness into the flickering nearest hat-and-boot shop, it was immedi- alternatives to the highway had enriched glittery nails provided the final distraction. light of our fire. Dressed in full combat ately apparent by the hundreds of nearly our experience. In most cases, these terrac- El Vergel also marked, finally, our tran- gear — balaclavas and body armor, with identical offerings that we had entered a erías weren’t even marked on our maps, so sition into the state of Durango. It led us handguns and knifes strapped to their whole new realm of millinery subtleties: we relied on Jeff, a fluent Spanish speaker, across a high, forested plateau, up and over sides — they cut a menacing figure. “What the world of the Mexican Sombrero. Tight to keep tabs on our progress. For instance, a mountain pass dotted with pueblecitos. are you doing here?” demanded one in a weaves and open weaves; high fronts and take the shortcut to Los Janitos that we fol- Except for the improbably large trucks surly tone, pointing his assault rifle at us. low fronts. Some even had nicknames, lowed the next morning. for such narrow trails, their loads swing- Once we explained our journey, however, like the classic cinco en trocas, its curled Along this quiet and mellow dirt road, ing precariously from side to side as they ‘‘they soon relaxed, and even proved to be brim the result of what happens when five we nodded to the cowboys who shared our pumped their brakes, we had the forest to curious about our journey. “Watch out for cowboys sit in a truck. Not to mention way and picnicked by a clear river on torti- ourselves. After negotiating the pothole- the rattlesnakes and cows,” they advised the enviable display of impossibly pointy llas, avocados, tomatoes, and hot local salsa. strewn tracks to Guanaceví, we camped on ambiguously, before disappearing mysteri- cowboy boots lined up before us — cow, Around us, the architecture was changing, ostrich, crocodile, and turtle skin — all with the painted concrete blocks that typi- in a wild assortment of decorative finishes fied most of the villages in Chihuahua giv- and colors. An hour later, and the selection ing way to more traditional adobe build- process finally made, we emerged, feeling ings that I associated with Mexico. Quite like a million pesos. What a sight we must simply, this was backcountry touring at have been. A bunch of cycling, sombrero- its best but would have been missed if we wearing gringos, in an off-the-gringo-trail simply followed the highway map. town. “Que padre!” intoned one elderly lady as we clambered aboard our bikes and Beware the Cows and Rattlers rode off. “How cool!” Of course, our massive, indulgent Tepehuanes was a colorful, rambunc- descent hadn’t gone unnoticed by the pow- tious place compared to the settlements in ers that be, and a stern reprimand came in a Chihuahua, which felt closed and cold in brutal 15-mile climb to El Vergel. Arriving comparison. Here, people wandered the exhausted and hungry, we ducked straight streets and plied their wares, like local into the first truck-stop restaurant that honey and succulent agave. Choppy, uplift- promised to refuel us with platters of ing norteno music piped out from the shops. burritos. Our waitress wore what seemed But we weren’t home free quite yet. A man Lonely roads. Colonies of agave plants keep a rider company. the height of Mexican fashion: slick, jet- Group ride. Heading out for a Sunday ride with the Coconos Sovajes of Santiago Papasquiaro. with a thick, Tex-Mex accent pulled up

22 adventure cyclist august/september 2010 adventurecycling.org adventure cyclist august/september 2010 adventurecycling.org 23 we would never have found ourselves. Our this strange duality that has taken hold of Nuts & Bolts: Sierra Madre bike contacts even smoothed things over Mexico. As tourists we were unaffected by with Mexico’s notoriously corrupt police. this struggle for narcotic control, yet, while At one point, two cops in a shiny sports it was clear that these nefarious activities When to go: You can ride through the distances accordingly, and check direc- car and body armor pulled over for a chat. weren’t as common as the media depicts, Sierra Madre at any time of the year, but tions with passing traffic. The Copper When they left, our host chose his words knowledge of it was always there, simmer- expect cold temperatures at higher eleva- Canyon region offers excellent singletrack carefully. “Those guys are nice — one of ing in the background. tions in winter. Spring and fall are best. day trips, especially out of Creel. You can them gets his hair cut by a bike-club mem- In turn Pancho passed on the baton of hire a guide from Los Trees Amigos (www. Maps and Routes: For an overview, get amigos3.com) ber. But don’t trust all of them. There’s a hospitality to local route expert Miguelito, ahold of a Guia Roji Mexico Tourist Road saying in Mexico: the river will carry away who rode with us out of town on a choice Atlas — available in Oxo stores — which is Bikes: A hardtail with a coil sprung front whoever sleeps.” selection of terracerías. From here just a relatively accurate for paved roads. Use this suspension fork is best, along with a Mexico was always full of surprises. couple of hundred miles lay between us in conjunction with the excellent state maps robust chromoly rack. We ran Schwalbe Passing through a community of some and Zacatecas, the end of our Sierra Madre from the Secretaria de Communicaciones y Marathon XRs and Extremes, a worthy 6,000 Mennonites, settled here almost a adventure. What a finale it proved to be. Transportes to hone in on dirt roads. These investment — you’ll need a tire with tough century ago, was just one. Known for their Sublime hard-packed tracks wended their are only available directly from their offices, sidewalls. Carry a spare, too. There are diligent hard work, the Mexican govern- way past colonies of agave plants, through situated in each state capital. Check out decent bike shops in most major towns. ment gifted swathes of land to bring money corridors of prickly pear, and around hun- www.whileoutriding.wordpress.com for an in- into the local economy. Amid the context of dreds of boney-fingered yucca trees. By depth explanation of the routes we followed. Accommodations: Hotels are available muscle pickups, loud and jangling norteno now those infamously buckled mountains in most towns; expect to pay up to $20 for Road Conditions: Expect everything from a basic room. Camping opportunities are music, and macho Mestizo cowboys, their had finally melted into the heat-parched recently resurfaced paved roads to rough, good, though you’ll need to stock up on conservative manners and European looks desert around us. Steering clear. The Sierra Madre Mountain Bike Route mostly avoided paved roads. boulder strewn jeep tracks. Profiles can water from villages. Carry a warm sleeping seemed otherworldly; pale-skinned women As we looked over the map and traced be brutally steep, so adjust your expected bag as mountain weather can be variable. were dressed in flowery robes and wore our journey, it was clear that strands of the known dirt roads of Mexico. A ride that introduction that I’m sure will lead me wide-brimmed bonnets while the men Sierra Madre continued on. But, unfortu- had revealed a completely different side of back for more. donned old-fashioned farming overalls and nately, every adventure has to end some- the country than we’d have experienced by next to me in his truck and advised us to This, in turn, began a series of incred- checkered shirts, nodding cautiously as we where, and the gently rolling desert that following its busy, ever-expanding paved Cass Gilbert is an avid bicycle traveler, photographer, take care. “Don’t take any photos of people ible displays of hospitality as we passed passed. spilled out around the picture-perfect, cob- roads. A ride that had forged new cycling and writer. He is currently continuing his journey some- where in South America. For more about Cass, visit around here. Lots of men come down from through each town on our way to Zacatecas. bled colonial town of Zacatecas seemed as friendships in the unlikeliest of places. www.whileoutriding.wordpress.com. the Sierra,” he said, referring to the narcos Each club offered us a place to stay, with Bidding Farewell to the Sierra good a place as any. It had been an awesome And, although for now, my journey con- who hole up in the mountains we’d just invaluable advice on connecting the dirt- Our man in Durango, Pancho (an appro- ride, a fitting introduction to the little- tinues in a southerly direction, it was an been through. road options ahead, and in Durango, they priate name given that the state is home Thankfully, we only met Abrahim, who, even set up an appearance on local televi- to Pancho Villa, hero of the Mexican as the town’s only fully-fledged mountain sion. Who would have guessed that this Revolution) immediately set about tuning biker, was more than happy to be photo- state had such a fledgling but thriving our bikes the moment we arrived at his graphed. Even better, he pointed us to a mountain-biking scene? workshop. There was time, too, for a local disused mining train line to avoid the main This was exactly what I’d been hoping ride and a taster of Durango’s best single- road out of town, joining us for a few miles for — that we’d tap into local bike commu- track. before we set up camp under a full moon. nities and learn more about the country, its “We only ride in groups,” said Pancho. people, and the best places to ride. Like our “Many of the most beautiful areas are Hanging Out with the Wild Turkeys experience with the Coconos Sovajes, the also the most remote. We wouldn’t want Abrahim scribbled some phone numbers Wild Turkeys of Santiago Papasquiaro, who to see something we shouldn’t have by down for us, promising to get in touch with invited us on their Sunday ride, feeding us ourselves,” he said, referring to the kill- the bike club in Santiago Papasquiaro and and offering a place to rest before pointing ings that take place out in the desert with let them know of our imminent arrival. us on toward the city of Durango via trails alarming regularity. Again, I was struck by

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