Mexico’s Copper
Canyon and Baja California
The
organization of the holiday
The holiday originally started off as a tour of the Sierra Madre but distances proved to be to great and was refined to be limited to a single crossing of the sierra taking in Copper Canyon and a few others and to also tour the end of the Baja. Journey Latin America was used to arrange flights from Birmingham and Manchester to Chihuahua and to open jaw returning from La Pas on the Baja. Air France was offered to Mexico City return via Paris and Aero California from Mexico City to Chihuahua and La Paz to Mexico City on the return. No accommodation was booked as usual for these wild sorts of holidays. Seven keen cyclists including myself showed interest in this venture initially, one chickened out leaving my globetrotting companion Hugh from Stratford, Dave Hill from Chester and John Wilson from Patricroft my regular long haul holiday companions, Jeff Stone from Lutterworth who I toured with in Vietnam and his mate Peter from Coventry.
The journey to Chihuahua – 36 miles in England, 9 miles in Mexico (plus thousands of air miles).
I left home at two o’clock in the morning to catch the 6.40 flight to Paris, passing Bilstone gibbet at some unearthly hour very quickly, on my way to Birmingham. Within minutes of my arrival at the airport Hugh arrived having cycled a similar night ride from Stratford with Jeff and Pete coming some time later, but being more civilized by staying in a hotel near the airport. No problem booking in with boarding passes through to Mexico City with Air France but I was amazed to find that we boarded a British European 50 seater Canadair Regional jet and just how they managed to get 4 bikes into the luggage hold of this tiny aircraft I do not know but they did.
50 seater Canadair
Regional Jet which somehow 4 bikes were carried
We met Dave and John at Charles de Gaul airport in Paris and I was again amazed to find we boarded, not an Air France plane, but a rather old looking 767 from Aeromexicana. This noisily thing groaned and grunted its way across to Mexico City taking a full 12 hours for this normal 10-hour flight. Being rather later we hurriedly claimed our bikes and baggage and rushed through to the Aero California desk to book in for the flight to Chihuahua. When they saw we had bikes they asked to weigh all our baggage, which they found, came inside our limit, but not satisfied with this they insisted that we should pay an extra 30 bucks because of the bikes being abnormal baggage. An argument then broke out where we insisted that they showed us some form of documentation of the charge being levied, as none of us had ever been charged for a bike as luggage before. Remember the whole thing was conducted in Spanish so you can imagine the goings on that occurred. Eventually they turned up with a booklet that stated that skis, surf boards, golf clubs and unfortunately bikes had this extra levy so we paid up but in the heat of the argument forgot the 20 bucks airport tax that we expected to pay so we weren’t so bad off. The next tragedy was that the plane that was supposed to take us had broken down, so we learnt second hand. Two hours later we boarded on a rather old DC-9, probably one the first, it certainly looked like it, but it was certainly well maintained and was much quieter than the 767.
Chihuahua to Cuauhtemoc – 68 miles.
We arrived at Chihuahua airport at about 9
o’clock at night in the dark after a series of flights I hope never to repeat.
A ride down a flat straight road for about 6 miles brought us into the city
where we found accommodation fairly easily. We awoke late the following morning
in what was an uninteresting city with the exception of the cathedral, which was
a brick built affair with two spires and incorporating pillars and arches.
Chihuahua Cathedral
With the lack of road signs and detailed maps, we found it difficult to find the road out of town, and strangely no one seemed to know where Cuauhtemoc was, which we were pronouncing as ‘qual-ti-mock’ which is probably why. Anyhow with the aid of the sun and a consensus of opinion from the poor maps we had, we found the right road identified by a small sign giving the correct road number. A steady ascent, made more difficult by a headwind, up a busy road, which gradually became narrower, we reached a place called Gral Trias, which sounded German rather than Mexican and not marked on any of our maps, where we had our first rather spicy Mexican meal, and an introduction to the latest pop music in that part of Mexico – a sort of upbeat form of ‘umpar’ music as I called it. Brass band music with heavy emphasis on the euphonium or double bass pounding out the beat and Mexican style singing, the resultant being played many decibels too loud for comfort. A mile or so later we reached a junction where both roads pointed to Cuauhtemoc, and after careful examination of all our maps, we decided that one was the old road which followed the railway and went up a valley and the other was a new and busy road that traversed over the top of the hills. With the strong headwind, the sheltered route up the valley looked the better bet, and it certainly proved to be a scenic route. However the route wound backwards and forwards along the valley and ended up being much further than the new road hence we ran out of daylight and traveled the last few miles in darkness coming across a motel in a place called Anahuac, goodness knows how you pronounce that, some 8 miles short of Cuauhtemoc. I don’t think we missed anything as the dark part of the ride appeared to pass over a flat plateau and an industrial area containing a very large cement works. We found a very small café later that evening in a lean-to building with a welcomed gas heater, as it was turning very cold, and they supplied us with a much required hamburger meal.
Anahuac to La Junta – 46 miles.
We awoke the next day with the same headwind, though much colder, and made our way through Cuauhtemoc, which was about as interesting as Chihuahua. The scenery improve after that, but the weather deteriorated as it started to rain which eventually turned to snow and we ended up riding the last seven miles to La Junta in a blizzard after a welcomed stop at a tyre depot in the middle of nowhere, to get a warm, run by a helpful guy from California USA, goodness knows what he was doing there. We knew there was accommodation at La Junta (La Hunter) but it took a bit of finding, being behind a café and only partly built. Between the café and the partly built accommodation was a small pen without any shelter, containing two ostriches. Somehow these poor birds survived the night outside looking none the worse in the morning; I certainly wouldn’t outside as it snowed on and off all night. Looking in the paper that evening this abnormal weather was caused by a typhoon in the Pacific, which was called Rosa.
La Junta to San Juanto – 48 miles.
The following morning we were greeted by a 2-inch blanket of snow but the sun was out and the roads quickly cleared.
2 inches of snow as we
left La Junta
A long climb with a flat summit eventually gave us our first proper view of the Sierra Madre made more spectacular by the snow. A cold descent was followed by a series of climbs and falls but overall gaining height as we entered pine forests made more picturesque by the bows being covered in snow. There was hardly any habitation in site and just when I fancied a coffee, like magic, a café appeared from the middle of nowhere. The people there stared at us with curiosity and I am sure they were thinking what on earth are these mad group of cyclist doing up here. Anyway a good cup of coffee with other goodies likes crisps and biscuits were supplied for practically nothing. Further climbing through sparse pine forests with the appearance and disappearance of the Chihuahua Pacific railroad and an odd saw mill here and there preceded a descent, which was finalized by the entry into San Juanto. The road surface disappeared as we entered the town and replaced by potholes and pools of water with the railroad running down the left hand side of the road.
The main street at San
Juanto
On the other side of the railroad was a shantytown, which turned to be the Red Indian quarter. On the right side were slightly more substantial buildings with sidewalks on the frontage. We reached a smart looking church with a large pool of water which was the road in front and up a side street was an almost new motel which we made full use of. After a good wash and a drying off of all our wet clothes in front of the air conditioner turned up to maximum heat we explored the town. Dodging the puddles and crossing the railroad we entered the Indian quarter finding a real cowboy bar complete with swinging half doors and a long polished wooden bar, ordering bottles of beer which came sliding down the bar cowboy style. News quickly got round that gringos were in town and two guys soon appeared with typical Mexican hats, each bearing a row of large gold teeth and carrying guitars. They proceeded to play us a couple of Mexican songs, one of which I recognized from my previous visit. The guitar playing was quite good but the singing wasn’t up to much and they soon realized that we weren’t that interested, handed round there hats into which we threw a few pesos to keep the peace, after all we were in the Indian quarter, and they cleared off.
The next day we climbed to the top of the Sierra Madre at almost 2500 meters. The mountains near the top resembled a small version of the tabletop mountains of South Africa with flat-topped peaks surrounded by cliffs. Other than these peaks the rest of the landscape was cover in pine forests with the exception of those valley bottoms, which were large enough, to be devoted to pastureland surrounding the wooden shacks of Red Indian farmers. We allowed ourselves plenty of time this day as we were climbing at altitude but it turned out to be much shorter than we thought arriving in Creel for lunch. The entry into town was much the same as San Juanto in that the surface disappeared and the railroad was on the left but over the railroad instead of a shantytown was a developed tourist street of cafes and junk shops, as a call them, selling handicrafts and mementoes, and a concrete road with paved footpaths in the main. The first rail stock we saw on the railway was an odd looking thing, which resembled a miniature guards van complete with single cylinder diesel engine used for track maintenance followed by an even queerer looking road lorry complete with crane which also had a set of bogies at each end which were lowered so that it could run on the railroad. It was pleasantly warm as we explored the town in the afternoon sun but as soon as it was dusk the temperature fell rapidly. The hotel consisted of rooms either side of a long corridor from front to back and the heating consisted of two large oblong steel boxes on top of each other the lower one open at one end which contained a log fire and the top one was a giant heat exchanger. Crude as it may have been it was very effective.
Creel to Samachiqua – 46 miles.
Over the next four days we planned to ride down
to Batopilas and back, 86 miles each way possibly on rough roads across an area
occupied by the Tarahumara Red Indians. In our planning of the tour we read that
the road crossed three canyons and down and along a fourth to Batopilas and a
couple of books suggested there was accommodation at a road junction at about
half distance near the village of Samachiqua. We set off early next morning
wearing shorts for the first time as the cold wind had at last abated. After
traveling down a wide valley with strange rock formations in the cliffs to our
right and a parkland like area to our left we came to a bright blue lake, known
as Lago Arareco, surrounded by pine trees. The lake was at least partly
artificial as it had a small dam at one end of which the overflow formed the
start of the Rio Taracaua and eventually flowed into the Copper Canyon. A short
winding climb took us up into pine forests where the road straightened and
crossed a series of small valleys in a big dipper fashion followed by a descent
into the Cusarare Canyon. As we descended deciduous trees became more prevalent
with odd shaped towers of rock sticking up amongst them. The canyon was not very
deep and more like a valley although extremely picturesque with a small flat
bottom where cows and donkeys searched for grass on poor quality pastures. Small
farms, which were little more than wooden shacks, were dotted along the valley,
many of them accessed by a rackety wooden bridge across the river.
Indian settlement in Cusarare Canyon
As we progressed the valley deepened and high cliffs appeared at each side with the road hugging the side at the bottom of the cliffs. The road surface was good and looked as though it had only just been built. The climb out of the valley was a steady drag with views to the left of the canyon winding between tree-covered flat-topped mountains with cliffs all round and screes below, partially covered by vegetation. No sooner had we reached the top than we started another descent down a deciduous tree covered ‘v’ shaped valley that turned out to be a tributary of a main canyon as we reached the bottom close to the village of Basihuare. At the Estrella Blanco (white star) bus stop serving the village was a small very welcome café where a good meal and coffee was obtained. This deep canyon without a name on the map but probably named after the village, as most were, is yet another tributary of the Rio Urique (Copper Canyon).
After lunch we crossed a bridge over the river as it disappeared down towards the Copper Canyon and started a four mile climb out of the canyon with spectacular views into the canyon where we had had lunch to the left
Copper Canyon at
Basihuare
With the aid of a couple of hairpin bends and long ascents in between we rounded a large bluff climbing onto a saddle where we could see that the canyon had took a massive ‘u’ bend round the bluff. The views from here were incredible. To the north upstream the main canyon and many tributary canyons wound between rock pillars and table top like mountains with cliffs and screes everywhere. To the south the canyon straightened and deepened as it made its way toward the Rio Urique. From the saddle the road climbed upward straight towards a 500-foot high cliff, which it passed beneath and round the side to reach the rim of the canyon. No sooner had we reached the top than down we went again, more steadily this time, into a tributary of another main canyon at a place marked on the map as Humira. This canyon was not so gorge like as the previous having a relatively flat bottom some ½ mile wide with a river meandering along, but once again not being marked on the map though I expect it was called the Humira canyon. The sides of the valley consisted of cliffs with awesome bluffs protruding into the valley and screes below supporting a scattering of deciduous trees. The village of Humira where we thought we might find accommodation turned out to be many shack like farms scattered along the valley with no real center to the place. A steady climb out of this canyon took us over a headland and immediately down into the upper reaches of the Rio Urique, a real gorge of a canyon with only the rapid strewn wild river at the bottom. The road clung to the side of the canyon using natural ledges where it could and in between was chiseled out of the rocky sides. Where the gorge was particularly narrow the road climbed steeply then suddenly dived across the gorge on a spectacular bridge with the raging torrents some 100-feet below. This was followed by a steep climb up to the rim of the canyon for the most part being chiseled out of the steep sided cliffs, then climbing more gradually onto the highland of the Sierra Madre with occasional descents into what were more English looking valleys, finally reaching the junction where the hotel was suppose to be.
After making a number of enquiries the hotel turned out to be only a shop now although faintly written diagonally across one door of what looked little more than a cow shed was the name of the hotel we had read about in a couple of books. The tarmac road from here continued southeast some 80 kilometers to Guachochi and the road to Batopilas, some 60 kilometers away, was a stoney track opposite. As it was becoming dusk neither of these places could be reached and besides which we were all very tired after climbing in and out of twice as many canyons as we originally expect to have encountered at this point. A number of ideas were put forward as to what to do and it was eventually decided to stand just inside the stoney track to Batopilas where we wanted to go and stop the first vehicle and ask in our best Spanish whether there was any chance of a bed for the night in that direction. The first vehicle to turn up the road was a large Yankee pick up truck containing two Red Indian men. They stopped and they assured us that we would find somewhere to sleep in their Indian reservation village called Samachiqua, which was 2 kilometers down the track after a right fork. We picked our way down the track in the fading light, found the fork and descended down a valley covered in pine trees to the edge of the village through a couple of shallow fords. As the lights of the village appeared, with wood smoke gently rising from the log shacks, so did a new brick built structure to our right with a couple of people milling around outside. “Hang on lads” I said, “I will go and see if there is any chance of a bed in here”. As I got closer, a notice said ‘Hospital Mision Tarahumara’ but not to be daunted continued up to the most official looking of the gentlemen and explained in my best Spanish that we desperately needed six beds for the night. The reply came back in broken English with a heavy American accent that he would let us have six beds but I had better look at them first. He guided me down a long corridor past a number of doors, the labels on which some of them I could understand, to one that was labeled women’s ward, in which were two hospital beds on wheels bearing clean sheets. We carried on to the men’s ward to find three similar beds and in a corner a thick piece of foam rubber that would make a sixth bed. I said “That is fine” and thanked him for allowing us to say in his hospital as by that time I realized that he must be one of the doctors. As we walked back down the corridor I asked him how much money he wanted for the night’s accommodation but he would not accept a peso. I shouted the lads across saying that I had found six beds and in we pushed our bikes into this brand new almost completed hospital carrying our bikes across the entrance hall which was being mopped out by two Red Indian ladies and preceded to sort ourselves out for the night with a faint glimmer of fading light through the window and rather dull emergency lighting to see by. To my amazement when the ladies had finished their chores, doctor and all retreated to some brick built huts on the edge of the property some one quarter of a mile away leaving us entirely alone in the hospital. We got out our cycle lights and went exploring around the place, found some blankets but no pillows and thousands of pounds worth of electrical hospital equipment, some of it still in its boxes as it was delivered. How they allowed and trusted six total strangers in the place with all that equipment ceases to amaze me – imagine that happening to 6 Mexicans in Britain! Further exploration we found a kitchen with a gas stove, gaslight, coffee and sugar but no milk – you can’t expect everything! And preceded to get warm, as the temperature dropped rapidly, by drinking gallons of black coffee and consuming our emergency rations of biscuits and cakes.
This
is me asleep in a hospital bed at Hospital Mission Tarahumara in Samachiqua
Samachiqua to Batopilas – 40 miles.
In the morning we woke early and decided that we must leave something to the hospital for their generosity. We found the doctors desk diary in surgery number one so we each left 10 bucks in it with a note written both in pidgin Spanish and English asking the doctor to donate it to the mission and I also left a few pesos under the sheets of my bed for the ladies who would have to wash the sheets in the morning. We set off retracing our steps to the fork and picked up the main track to Batopilas, which was easily rideable at this point as it undulated over numerous small climbs. A Tarahumara Indian on horseback rode by, eyeing us suspiciously then nodding acknowledgement, that turned out to be the only traffic that morning. The pine forest around about was meager and interspersed with stunted evergreen oaks struggling to survive on the poor soil. Trickling streams were crudely culverted under the track. John suddenly stopped ahead pointing to a small brown snake basking in the brown earth of the track. At one point as the sun’s rays gained early morning warmth we crossed a moonscape of red mud surrounding a large Indian settlement. Dogs yapped in the distance and stands of parched maize looked out of place in the desolation. The pine forests gave way to scrubland with the odd cactus plant here and there as the descent steepened. We crossed a fast flowing stream that continued to run at the side of us down a “V” shaped valley among luxuriant foliage. The descending stream picked up momentum, tumbling energetically over huge grey boulders, and then disappearing beneath us to drop away rapidly leaving us high on the side of the valley once again with thorn and many more cactus plants either side. Quite suddenly the view opened up and we were on the edge of a massive canyon, the road grabbing the side of the cliffs as we went round a series of headlands with a frightening drop of 500 or so feet off the right hand edge of the road. Turkey vultures and buzzards wheeled effortless in the thermals way above us. Round the last large headland through a new cutting, avoiding the old road round the headland that had disappeared down the mountainside, gave us a view right down to the river a couple of thousand feet below with the rough road hairpin bending its way steeply down a large scree which contained little vegetation. Slowly we edged our way down having to use both brakes, as it was so steep and rough.
20 hairpin bend descent on a rough road into Copper Canyon
Pete suffered an impact puncture on a large stone fortunately right outside the only small farm on the scree situated on one of the hairpin bends. Pulling off the track, we stopped for a welcome cup of coffee served by a wrinkled Indian lady with the only food on offer were some bags of snacks eagerly consumed whilst Pete sorted out his bike. The farm looking building with the exception of a few hens and a donkey was really a roadman’s cottage containing a number of tractors with haulage rope attachments and a road grader for leveling the road which I image needed continual attention being built on this loose scree. The stop at least gave our hands a rest that ached through continual braking. The views from the cottage both up and down the canyon were electrifying. The immensity of the height of the sides of the canyon at over 4000 feet were almost incomprehensible with cliffs, buttresses and screes everywhere on top of which towered rocky peaks some 6000 feet above the river bottom. At the bottom of the scree, after 20 or so hairpin bends, the track took a more direct line down, hanging onto the side of the canyon. A final hairpin back in the direction we came took us down to an steel supported bridge with wooden sleepers as the surface laid across ways and strengthened by planks nailed longitudinally where the wheels of the vehicles went.
One of the bridges
over the Rio Urique in Copper Canyon
. We rode across the center between the two rows of planks with the river below showing between the sleepers. A bridge which crossed a tributary cascading down from the mountains some two miles further on was even more dodgy, being built much the same but with two tree trunks as its main support and no sides to it. The road continued to cling to the south side of the valley just above the river below and where water from the steep sides above had crossed the road, the road had broken away leaving only just sufficient width for vehicles to get through. In other places large boulders had rolled down onto the road, and had been pushed aside so that vehicles could edge past. Insect life abounded, iridescent blue butterflies were on the wing and dragonflies buzzed lazily above the sound of the river. At a place called La Bufa an ochre revetment tumbled down to the canyon bottom, intricately carved by a century of water erosion turned out to be a spoil heap from silver mining early in the 1900’s. A climb up to an inkling of a village center produced a soft drinks shop. Here a toothless man in a pucker white cowboy hat cracked open the 1950’s fridge revealing ice cold bottles of pop and 5 ham and cheese cobs between 6 of us – so our luck continued to remain true, well almost. The daily Creel to Batopilas bus gasped to a halt outside being only the second vehicle seen all day, disgorging its occupants who were in search of a ham and cheese cob no doubt. They were unlucky.
We pressed on climbing a number of times some 500 feet to get round headlands only to wind our way back down to river level. At the last of these major headlands is the deepest part of the canyon with a promontory containing a cliff face 7500 feet high – over twice the height that Snowdon is above sea level – and the average depth of the canyon from the rim was 5400 feet. From this headland the canyon straightened so that we could see directly down the canyon for several miles where the sides lowered to more modest proportions. The road dropped back down to river level where it remained for the last 7 miles to Batopilas but looking back at the Sierra Madre made one realize how much earth had been eroded away to form this incredible canyon.
Batopilas was eventually reached after one of the most scenic days cycling I have ever done, crossing the bridge back into civilization after two long days hard riding. A hotel was found that turned out to be one of the cheapest of the holiday at ten pounds a night for 6 of us, two rooms with three double beds, and a welcoming tin of beer thrown in as well. After 36 hours with only a ham cob, a few biscuits, a couple of bottles of pop and gallons of coffee at the hospital, we were famished and raided the nearest restaurant eating two diners each, which took a bit of organizing as the owner could not understand how six hungry cyclists could eat so much. A few pints of beer later in a bar overlooking the river, all our aches and pains of the previous two hard days were soon forgotten.
Rest day with return trip to Salevo – 9 miles.
Time was required to recuperate so the next day was taken as a rest day with just a 4.1/2 mile ride down the canyon to find the lost cathedral of Salevo. After testing out a rather dodgy looking suspension footbridge crossing the now wide river on the outskirts of Batopilas, we set off along the road that had become a dirt road with no stone dressing, lined by the largest pillar type cacti we had seen so far. The village was soon reached and the over sized church for the size of the village looked quite impressive. However going round the side of the smart frontage the rest was a little dilapidated although quite fascinating with a number of domes all built out of brick. A pop bar was found nearby and soon all the local children surrounded us, so John did his normal trick by producing a number of balloons from his bag, which we inflated and gave to the children followed by a photo session capturing their smiling faces. It was very hot down here at less than 1000 feet above sea level so sun hats were worn and some of us applied sun tan lotion for the short ride back. The thought of climbing back to Creel some 6000 feet above us through all those canyons with nowhere to stay overnight soon made us realize that we must use some form of motorized transport for the return trip. The local bus operator was tracked down to see if he could carry our bikes, which he agreed to and informed us that he would leave from in front of the church close to our hotel at 5 o’clock the following morning for Creel.
Batopilas to Creel by bus – less than one mile cycled (86 bus miles).
The following morning we rose at 4 o’clock, not much trouble though as the bar in Batopilas closed at 8 pm. so we had had an early night, and walked down the unmade road to the church for 4.45 am. The bus arrived at five on schedule, having already been down to Salevo and back to collect passengers from outside the lost cathedral. The bikes were loaded onto an oversized roof rack using a permanently affixed ladder up the rear of the bus. The ground clearance of the bus was about a meter and the tires, although almost new, had large scores down them where they had caught sharp rocks on the track. It had an American school bus appearance with bonnet out-front, that seemed to be in an open position every time the bus stopped, but was painted grey with dull blue and red stripes lengthways rather than plain yellow.
Bus used to take us
back from Batopilas to Creel
Although the make was labeled Chevrolet, inside the bonnet I was amazed to see a six cylinder Perkins engine. We left a quite Batopilas in the dark, bumping and bouncing our way back up the track, passing the places where the road had fallen away with great care and edging passed the many boulders on the road, to arrive at La Bufa as dawn broke. Bonnet up and water added to the radiator, we were soon off again over those dodgy bridges and up the long climb out of the canyon. Three stops were made on the climb at conveniently placed streams to apply more water to the hard working Perkins engine. The rest of the journey was uneventful other than the continual stops for water, the picking up and dropping off of passengers at times where there appeared to be no habitation whatsoever and the picking up of the driver’s fancy bit who throughout the rest of the journey made a fuss of him and was responsible of collecting the small amount of eleven pounds for this 86 mile 8 hour journey. The journey acted as a recap of the wonderful scenery we had seen on the way down, but lacked the magic of riding it on a bike. We loaded the bags back on our bikes that contained the odd twig of pine, which the bikes on the roof rack had caught on the journey and cycled back from the place where the bus dropped us the ½ mile to the hotel, with the odd but efficient central heating system, just after lunchtime. The rest of the day was spent wandering around Creel, stocking up with good food, and finding out that we could get on the train at any station with our bikes so long as we caught the second-class train that ran more slowly some two hours later than the tourist train.
Creel to Divisadero – 32 miles.
Bearing this in mind, we decided to spend the next two days following, what at this point seemed to be a well-surfaced new road, roughly following the route of the railway, downhill towards Los Mochis. The surfaced road wound picturesquely through pine forests crossing a number of forested valleys and small gorges that presumably drained down into the Copper Canyon, without any view of the canyon itself. A long climb onto what turned out to be a large promontory into the Copper Canyon suddenly gave us the most incredible view of the canyon, a whole area of eroded peaks and gorges almost as far as one could see. Behind this cliff edge view, the railway had somehow wound its way up onto this promontory and in the station, built on a long curve, stood the two tourist trains, one traveling in each direction each day. On a bluff of rock to the left stood an expensive hotel restaurant that we entered to obtain a glass of beer, which turned out to be very reasonable, although accommodation prices were well out of reach. We acquired seating in front of a massive picture window that overlooked this breathtaking view, made even more spectacular by the hanging of honey pots just outside the window onto which flew humming birds from the canyon below - a truly magnificent place to enjoy a glass of amber nectar.
Copper Canyon at
Divisadero
After consulting our ‘lonely planet’ and ‘rough guide’ (two guide books that acts as our bibles), a more reasonably priced accommodation was suggested 2 miles down a rough track along the rim of the canyon. I don’t know whether we were all distracted by the view or whether the accommodation was not clearly marked, but we missed it, and landed up in a place called Areponapuchic. Here we found a number of what looked expensive hotels built for the Yankee tourists. Once again a Red Indian in a large Yankee pickup truck appeared and seemed to be offering us some reasonable accommodation in a cabañas, so we followed him along rutted roads through this partly developed tourist village to a collection of huts which made up the accommodation. Initially what was offered was overpriced and we managed to knock him down a few pesos, but with a good meal provided at a reasonable cost and log fires lit in each of the three twin bedded cabins, to take off the evening chill, it turned out to be a reasonable deal. An evening walk in the dark took us to a posh hotel built like a castle, and quite out of place with the surroundings, where we obtained a few beers at a not to expensive price with the sound of a Mexican live band playing to a group of rich American punters from the next room.
Areponapuchic to Bahuichivo – 31 miles.
After breakfast, the next day, that also turned out to be part of the deal, we cut across a track and regained the tarmac road west towards Los Mochis. The tarmac did not last long however because as we entered San Rafael it changed into a stony track, tarmac never to reappear again for two days. Outside the town the road became almost unrideable, as the grader had been down leaving loose stones in its wake. We climbed up into pine forests once again, the weather becoming colder and a hint of rain in the air. As we descended into a deep valley the skies darkened and it began to rain in earnest. Following the descent was a long steep climb that reduced us to walking. The second vehicle of the day was a lorry, heavily laden, trudging up the hill throwing out black smoke and squeezing us into the culvert at the side of the road. As we reached the summit we caught the full blast of the cold wind, and with the rain, chilled us to the bone. An Indian settlement appeared after about three miles by which time one or two of us were shaking with cold. A road junction with neither track looking more used than the other brought us to a stop. An Indian log cabin stood on the junction so I knocked on the door to ask if I could obtain a coffee. A little old Indian lady invited me in and the rest eagerly followed into this crude shack that was home for this dear old lady. The shack had no wall covering, just pine logs with the gaps between filled with mud. The cabin had no windows, just a door at each side, one of the doors did have two pains of glass but one was broken and replaced by cardboard. The back door that was on the leeward side of the icy blast outside, and was left ajar to give more light Almost in the center of the room was a cast iron stove, the stove pipe disappearing through a crudely cut hole in the roof with water dribbling down, that evaporated before reaching the stove.
Indian lady’s shack
somewhere between Divisadero & Buhuichivo
She called, what I assume was her son, who brought in a pile of logs and built up the fire. She placed a large kettle on top of the stove. In no time at all the cast iron was glowing red and warmth returned to our freezing bodies. The raging gale outside lasted two hours, with the rain at times blowing almost horizontally through the settlement. During this time we consumed several cups of coffee and munched our way through two packets of biscuits that she had kindly supplied. With the wind and rain abating somewhat, we left the cabin reluctantly after treating the dear old lady to a few more pesos than she asked for. For a further 15 miles the road continued to duck and weave around the pine covered wilderness. I was having to walk up most of the hills and carefully picking my way down the steep descents. I was really tough going, but somehow Pete and I found ourselves way in front of the rest, and had to keep going in order to retain body warmth. A couple of cows appeared in a clearing so we knew we were approaching habitation, and around the corner, way below us, some lights twinkled in the fading light. A steep descent followed by a plateau area still high above the town where the track became muddy and the wheels slipped uncontrollably from side to side was followed by another steep descent to a ‘T’ junction with a few shacks scattered around. We looked about us and noticed a small sign left saying Cerocahui which is where we originally was aiming for when we left Areponapuchic and the hoot of a train convinced us that a left turn was the one to take. We skirted round a hillside and down onto a bit of flat, which had the same effect as the muddy plateau before, finally to reach a river, by which time it was almost dark. Looking across the ford we could see that the track sloped up to the railway station some forty feet above on the other side. I carry my saddle bag on top of a rack at the back and my front bag on a rack at the front, fairly high up, so, as my feet were sopping wet anyway, I did no more than walked through the ford which came up to my knees and was bitterly cold. Pete was more unfortunate because he had panniers front and rear so had to make two crossings, one carrying his four panniers and the other carrying his bike. We arrived in the station waiting room with the second-class train still in the station and watched it leave some ten minutes later. The other four had not arrived so I decided to explore Bahulchino to see if there was any accommodation leaving Pete in the waiting room looking out for the others. After crossing the railway track and climbing an unmade road, that was eroded into a series of channels where storm water had ran down, up a hill through the village, a building on a right hand bend appeared with the wonderful word ‘hotel’ on it. I climbed up the rampart like stairs to the front door, fitted in the center of the second floor of this three-storey building and knocked without reply. I opened the door with a piece of string that went through a hole in the door and down to the latch to operate the catch on the other side, a typical fitment on most doors in Mexico, and into a corridor with a door at the far end which went down some stairs out the other side into a yard. There was just two other doors in the corridor, one each side, both of which led to twin bedded rooms. Not a soul about. Out in the back yard, steel fire escape like stairs led up to an equally lifeless third floor and some stairs went down a hole to a door of what looked like a cellar on the ground floor. Across the yard was a muddy passageway between two buildings that led to a driveway. The right hand building was a general stores and the left was an open fronted ‘hambergesa’ stall, both of which were open and quite busy.
Main street at
Bahuichivo
To the right up the driveway was a restaurant that was closed, and in between was the owner of this little complex’s house. I booked a room and returned to the station to fetch Pete who had now been waiting for the others for over an hour. We left a note in the station waiting room as to where we had gone and climbed up to the hotel where I had booked the room. After finding a set of dry clothes we raided the hamburger stall and consumed the young lady’s remaining stock of food. Pete and I were just finishing the last ones of many when the others arrived. They had been stranded on the rough track when darkness came and had hitched a ride on a bottled gas lorry. The lorry driver had bought them into the town a different way to avoid the ford and had dropped them off outside another hotel on the same rough street. Infact there was a third hotel in this tumbled down town, quite astonishing as the only sensible way of reaching the place was by rail.
Bahuichivo to El Fuerte – 9 cycled miles (about 120 train miles).
I looked at my speedometer the following day to find I had spent all the previous day achieving 31 miles, that’s how hard it was. The planned ride down to Cerocahui and back along further rough wet tracks did not appeal to any of us, so we spent a lazy day wondering round the streets of this dump and catching up with our food intake in the local restaurant before going down to the station to catch the train at four in the afternoon. We found out that the tickets for our bikes were purchased from the station yet our tickets were obtained on the train! The train came more or less on time so we calculated that we would get at least one hour in the light for what is suppose to be a fantastic train journey. We boarded the train on time and purchased our tickets but the train never moved from the station as we expected. After sitting on the train for about an hour, still in Bahuichivo station, another English speaking passenger on the train, who could obviously understand Spanish better than us, informed us that the tourist train, that had left some two hours before our train was scheduled to leave, was stuck somewhere down the line in a landslide. It was pitch black before we finally left the station so we saw nothing of this fantastic rail journey that took forty years to build the line, except to notice that the train creped very slowly down a steep gradient for a good hour continually snaking first left, then right. I must find time in my life to travel this line again in the light, possibly in the other direction, as there is more chance of covering the exciting bit in the light. We arrived at El Fuerte station just before midnight and we realized the station was not in the town although we were not too sure how far outside it was. A further seven miles in the dark brought us into the city center but finding a hotel that would accept us at one o’clock in the morning proved very difficult. Even with the help of the police in a big Yankee pick up truck no accommodation could be found. When it looked as though we were destined to sleep on the streets we tried a hotel we had had a go at locating previously that night, and found it tucked away in a corner on top of a hill. The young lad in charge offered us one room with three double beds, which we accepted realizing this was the best we were going to manage that night.
Rest day in El Fuerte – 25 miles.
Breakfast was taken rather late the following morning, on a patio at the back of the hotel overlooking the river Urique that instead of being a furious torrent, as it was in the mountains, was a series of almost stationary lagoons some 100 feet below. The patio was surrounded by cactus plants with butterflies and humming birds flying around our heads, a tranquil spot, well out of the bustle of the town. It was decided to have a rest day but some of were getting withdrawal symptoms having only ridden our bikes 9 miles the previous day and that was in the dark. Four of us thought we would explore a reservoir some 10 miles out of town so we set off finding the correct road out of town quite easily passing a typical Spanish rubbish tip on the edge of town. The tip was covered in turkey vultures, about the size of a turkey but black and these could fly, some of them hovering above us. A long straight steady climb was follow by more undulating countryside covered in scrub with the occasional cactus. Something moved on the road in front with a comment from one of us that it was a crab but it turned out to be a giant spider as big as my hand with a bright orange body. A photo session was had with one of us daring to use our foot by the side of it to get some comparison of size. A sharp climb up a cobbled helter-skelter of a road took us to a large statue of Hidalgo, the man who led Mexicans to freedom from Spanish rule, mounted on the reservoir dam. The dam held back the river Urique and the reservoir was large, probably 30 miles long and at the widest point 10 miles wide. In the distance we could see the Sierra Madre mountains where we had spent the early part of the holiday. The view in the other direction was much flatter though there were odd ranges of mountains, some we calculated to be on the Pacific coast some 60 miles away. A different route was used on the way back involving rough tracks, as though we hadn’t had enough of them, but these were dry and easy to ride. With a good sense of direction that most of us have developed we found our way back to a tarmac road some 8 miles north of El Fuerte with the railway close by. The railway followed a valley away to the left and we took a steady ride through some foothills to arrive back at the hotel for a late lunch. The town itself had a couple of interesting buildings, the town hall that had a large internal courtyard with all the council offices around the outside and a rather smart colonial styled hotel a little beyond our means or requirements. The square was quite smart too with a small church at one end, what looked like a bandstand in the center and palm trees all round.
El Fuerte to Topolobampo - 73 miles.
With the wind at last behind us and lovely warm air and sunshine a fairly boring ride, with the exception of a small range of hills near San Blas covered in aerials and wind generators, passed by very quickly. We rode round the outside of Los Mochis, probably as well, as our guide books suggested it was a bit of a dump and soon found ourselves in Topolobampo. This port town was interestingly built over a hill, spilling down the side to a deep natural harbor. To the north west of the town on a flatter piece of land was a more modern passenger and cargo terminal port served by both road and rail. Here we purchased our boat tickets to sail across to the Baja during the night. Hugh and I choose the ‘touriste’ class expecting to spend the night in a lounge chair whereas the other four choose to have two berth cabins paying an extra 200 pesos for the privilege. The bikes were free. Once our ferry was sorted out, we took a ride into Topolobampo and found a bar on the side of the quay for a beer. The bar looked very rough so instead of leaving our bikes outside we wheeled them down the stairs and leaned them against the wall in the bar. Nobody seemed to mind but we caused some attention, as we were all wearing cycle shorts. It was a noisy place, with American pop music playing loudly rather than the ‘umpar’ music we had become accustomed to. The bar was waiter served by a buck some wench of about 30 selling as far as I could make out only one brand of beer “Pacifico” in two sized bottles. The majority of customers appeared to have had far too much to drink including two transvestites who looked too tall to be ladies and had a raucous deep laughs. The beer was very cheap and the people in there were friendly so it passed an entertaining hour by while we waited for the boat. After another large beer in the refreshment bar at the terminal we boarded the boat after leaving our bikes in a small room on the vehicle deck. To Hugh and I amazement we were escorted to a 4 berth cabin which we had to ourselves. The cabin did not have a shower, only a small washbasin, but it did have a porthole window, which the dearer 2 berth cabins hadn’t being situated in the center of the boat.
Boat used to cross
from Topolobampo to Pichilingue
Pichilingue to Todas Santos - 66 miles.
After a reasonably comfortable night as the boat sailed across the Gulf of California, I awoke the following morning to see land passing by through the porthole. By the time we had packed our bags the boat was maneuvering into port. Although we were only traveling from one part of Mexico to another we had to pass through customs, who were surprisingly strict. All our bags were searched although the only thing they objected to was the odd banana we were carrying, which we ate on the spot rather than have them confiscated. After initially setting off in the wrong direction down a main road that would have eventually ended up in an industrial complex, we found the correct road to La Pas. The harbour quay was a strange affair built across a channel between the mainland and what was once an island. On one side of the infill, the channel had been dredged out to form a very sheltered harbour. On the other side was a large area of shallow water populated by a number of small boats. An early breakfast was taken in a café that was situated on the mainland bank with a splendid view of the harbour. Breakfast took some time to arrive, which was to our advantage as we were treated to a wonderful display of pelicans feeding in the shallows between the small boats.
Pelicans at
Pichilingue
The undulating road to La Pas skirted along the channel with more opportunity to view a large selection of water birds feeding in this obviously richly fish populated water. The channel opened out as we reached the promenade at La Pas that stretched for a number of miles round a bay with the town sprawling out to the left in typical uniform squares of calles and aviendas. The main road from La Pas to Todas Santos was found easily and although very busy was wide as we rode through the outskirts of the town. Unfortunately as we left the town the road narrowed and became quite dangerous with heavy articulated lorries squeezing past us. To make things worse the road was straight and steadily uphill with a strong head wind so progress was slow and the views either side was of flat scrubland. The situation improved the further we went with the scrub being slowly replaced by forests of cactus plants containing a wide selection of bird life. By the time we reached the fork where the main road round the southern end of the Baja divides, the traffic had reduced considerably, mountains could be seen in the distance across the forests of cacti and the head wind had slackened considerably making the rest of the ride to Todas Santos a very pleasant experience. Soon after our first views of the Pacific in the distance, we came across a bar thumping out our sort of pop music rather than the ‘umpar’ music we were getting use to and not only that but they were selling relatively cheap beer. A stop there was inevitable particularly as it was one of the first buildings we had seen after 30 kms of cactus forest. Suitably refreshed we rode the last few kms to Todas Santos finding a smart but cheap motel at the top end of town.
Todas Santos to Cabo San Lucas – 49 miles.
As we ate breakfast around the corner from the hotel the following morning a procession appeared marching in front of us in a never-ending stream, representing almost every organization in the town and surrounding district. There were acrobats, jugglers, footballer, cyclist, dancers, horse-riders, youngsters carrying guns, floats representing schools, fire service, police and local industries, you name it, it was there.
The procession at
Todas Santos
The procession delayed our ride somewhat as it happened to be going in the same direction as us but eventually dispersed and we set about climbing a long hill out of the town. I was expecting the road to skirt the Pacific seaboard but instead dropped into a valley that ran parallel to the coast eventually running into the sea some thirty miles later. The valley was covered in cacti though a little more sparsely than the previous day. The road stayed on the seaboard a mere couple of kms before diving back up into the hills on a never ending climb up a perfectly straight road eventually reaching a plateau covered in cacti bearing a marvelous collection of birds. Reaching the edge of the plateau Cabo San Lucas came into view. An idealist setting of a harbor spoilt unfortunately by tourism. A peninsula stretched out to the west of the town with some very interesting shaped chalk rocks at the end not too dissimilar to the Needles on the Isle of Wight.
End of peninsular at
Cabo San Lucas
Moored out at sea was a luxury cruiser and between it and the harbor hundreds of boats plied back and forth. Looked a bit on the expensive side at first glance though cheap accommodation looked possible in the old part of town behind the seafront and harbor so we descended and headed in that direction. A couple of abortive attempts where they were only interested in us if we were stopping of a week led us to a reasonable hotel on a noisy one way street to find a place for the night. The buildings and warehouses on the harbor front had all been converted into expensive bars, restaurants and junk shops loosing what I am sure was a quaint little port, but in saying that still retaining the architecture of bygone years. I recall being persuaded to by an ice cream that for a small cornet cost the equivalent of about £2. The foot of the peninsular was cover in luxury holiday homes and expensive hotels but beyond that was a wild life sanctuary with seals and sea lions intermingled with a wide collection of seabirds.
Cabo San Lucas to San Jose del Cabo 35 miles
A large part of the day was spent in San Lucas as the thought of tackling this busy dual carriageway between the to towns was not what one looks forward to. Although one can see the ocean most of the time the actual coastline is hidden from view as the land dips sharply down to the sea. Along a large part of the road plots of land between it and the sea are for sale to build luxury homes. The odd plot that is developed was more pleasing to the eye as it was green with lush tropical plants in contrast to the barren wasteland of the undeveloped plots. A new deep road cutting part way along is impressive made necessary because the old road fell into the sea in the early 90’s. Approaching San Jose one sees a series of tacky beachfront hotels and time-share apartments along the coast behind which is a golf course and swampy low-lying land. The old town lies behind all this on a bit of a hill but really is not much better. A cheap hotel called the San Jose Inn was found in a back street with a fat young wench on reception who thought she was God’s gift to all men. Not very impressed with the place myself and the thought of continuing along this busy road the next day cheered me up none.
San Jose del Cabo to Santiago Los Barriles 62 miles
The next day off we went along the busy road for about four kms out of the town but after passing a large industrial estate the wide road continued but strangely without hardly any traffic at all. The road wound its way up a valley, the further we went the better the scenery became. It was rather barren, almost devoid of even cacti, yet with the mountains in the background it had and ear of beauty about it. Eventually we climbed onto a plateau with a wide valley to our left and the high mountains beyond. We were heading for a place described as a modest hotel in tranquil Sandiago which was reached by descending into the valley to our left, crossing a dried up river bed, the road covered in sand and almost impossible to ride on and climbing into a smart tree lined village totally out of character with the area. We found the modest hotel that turned out to be an expensive modern affair in posh grounds on the far side of the village. It was full anyway and not the sort of place we were looking for.
Without any other sign of accommodation in this strangely beautiful place we crossed back across the valley and climbed back onto the plateau. The road dropped steadily off the plateau down to the sea. A partially developed estate dropping down to the sea with sandy roads suitable only for 4-wheel drive appeared. The estate consisted of poor quality holiday homes and a plush American styled hotel in the middle. First of all we tried the hotel that appeared to be almost empty of punters but after much negotiating still required big American dollars for a room. Below the hotel the sandy road dropped down to the sea with a number of what turned out to be surfers beach cottages scattered around. ‘Give me half an hour’ I said to the others ‘I can surely find something in all this to stay’. I asked a darky tending the verges whether there was anything for rent and he directed me to a house of an American guy who turned out to be a caretaker for most of these surfers’ cottages. In no time at all he sorted me out some American ladies cottage that had six beds charging me 50$ plus 5$ vat for the lot, that was only half the price of a room in the hotel so it was definitely a good deal.
Los Barriles to La Pas 70 miles
Another long climb back into the hills followed a good breakfast in a shanty roadside café in the village of Los Barriles. The road was still quiet at this point but I realized if we continued we would eventually end up back on that narrow road with the heavy lorries. Part way up the hill a road appeared that upon investigation on the poor maps we had was unsurfaced but joint a surfaced minor road to La Pas. None of the others seemed interested preferring to face the lorries but I had withdrawal symptoms to get back on a good rough track and set off down what turned out to be 12 miles of almost all downhill on a tricky loose surface. On reaching the tarmac again a left turn confronted me with a 600 meter climb up a dead straight road with initially looked like a brick wall but on getting closer leveled out into a reasonable climb. Looking back at the top a strange afternoon heat haze gave the massive view an eerie appearance. A plateau area was found on top of the hill with horse racing stables and training runs weaving between the small hillocks. La Pas eventually appeared reached by an even longer straight road that steadily descended into the city. The first bar as I entered the city bought on a desperate thirst that was gently quenched by several half litres of cold lager. At the second choice hotel I found the others after finding my way across the grid of streets so typical of Spanish cities.
The journey home 9 miles in the Baja plus 36 miles in England
A spare day had been carried throughout the holiday just incase. In spite of the difficulties experienced we still had this spare day at the end so a quiet day was spent in and around La Pas. The flight home was comparatively uneventful. We didn’t have to pay for our bikes on the Aero California flight to Mexico City or any additional airport taxes. The long haul flight from Mexico City to France was on an Air France 400 series Jumbo thank goodness and a Bae 146 took us back to Birmingham that was only slightly delayed. The 36 miles home was completed again in the dark including passing the gibbet just managing to reach Heather before closing for a wonderful pint of Marston Pedigree.
It is not often that I manage to put pen to paper about my holidays but this one was extra special and thought it a good idea to record it for posterity if only to show what can be achieved with the aid of a bike.