So: did I give more than I took on this trip? No. I did make people happy with my photos. The family running the restaurant in Real de Catorce served me Mezcal — poured by their twelve-year-old, steady-handed and dead serious about the job. I loved every drop. So many moments like that on this trip. Two friends said that following me took them back to their childhood. However, I need to find more ways to give going forward on these trips.

Michael, who blessed the bike and me before I ever left, worked his magic. I traveled safely. My wife isn’t fully convinced that any of this is brilliant, but she remains supportive.

Four more legs. 15 more states, one increasingly real deadline. Next stop’s north — Nuevo Leon, Coahuila, Chihuahua, Sonora and Sinaloa, leaving early September when rainy season tapers off.

Signed,

Nucking Futz

Recorriendo la vida para ver qué sucede (riding through life to see what happens)

Photos From Round One

The Pinos Municipality is one of Zacatecas’ key Mezcal areas, working primarily with the salmiana (maguey verde) agave. The use of salmiana from the Pinos area is said to give it a unique taste tied to the local ecosystem. In the wine world, that’s called Terroir.

La Pendencia, 22 km north of Pinos, was the first Mezcal-producing hacienda in Zacatecas, dating back to the 1600s. Somebody quipped that they were making Mezcal when the Pilgrims landed on Plymouth Rock. I think they stretch the truth a bit when they say that they have been making Mezcal since 1621, not missing a single day of production.

Having said that, the Mezcal system here collapsed around 1930 when Mexican agrarian reform chopped up estates and screwed up the agave supply; production eventually reconfigured outside the old hacienda model, leaving today’s semi-ruined, semi-resurrected Mezcal vinatas.

Today, the state of Zacatecas puts up some big numbers; it has 933 agave producers and 19 certified vinatas producing over 60 types of Mezcal. Not bad for an area that few know even produces Mezcal.

In Pinos, I asked the locals where I could find “Mezcal fuerte” or “Mezcal de punta”. They were unanimous in their choice of “Tonio’s place”. Mezcal Don Antonio Briones is an artisanal Mezcal made in La Pendencia, north of Pinos, Zacatecas. It’s produced by maestro Mezcalero Antonio (Tonio) Briones.

Up to this point in my search for Zacatecas Mezcal, all I found were producers who diluted their Mezcal to 38%-40% ABV (alcohol by volume) before bottling. I wasn’t looking for tourist juice. This ain’t Tequila, folks. I don’t mind admitting I’m more of a purist snob and like original strength Mezcals. Water just dilutes the taste of the Mezcal

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So, I said my goodbyes to Pinos and rode north in pursuit of what I hoped was some of the best Mezcal in the state of Zacatecas. I had a luggage case full of plastic water bottles—my bulk mezcal containers—in the hopes of exactly this visit

As I got off the bike, a young lady emerged and bashfully, yet warmly, greeted me. We got right down to business. I tasted three Mezcales: one at 42% ABV, another at 45%, and lastly their 48% expression. The flavor profiles of all had notes of citrus, mineral, and jalapeño, and they were clean and relatively light-bodied. The 42% was sweeter tasting. Although from the same batch, the tastes were surprisingly different, simply due to alcohol content.

I then did a “self-guided” tour of the vinata. It was a small operation, and the equipment was simple. Everything there was hand-built and is now hand-operated.

The tahona—a big stone wheel pulled in circles by a donkey to crush the roasted piñas—was parked there with some leftover piña grindings, which stamped the place as “Authentic”

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I was so pleased with my visit that I bought four liters, some of each strength. Come on over, and we can do a tasting.

I later learned that Mezcal Don Antonio Briones is on the list of the “Top 99 Mexican Mezcals” as selected by Revista Cava, a Mexican publication focused on wine, craft beer, and Mezcal.

Final Gringo Count: 7 in eighteen days

Time to go home.

Photos

My last village visit before heading home.

Pinos, with 6,300 inhabitants, is remarkably small to be a Pueblo Magico or a UNESCO site. I’ll explain why it’s an overachiever.

It’s unusual for me to lead with a hotel, but for this visit, it feels right. This hotel captivated me and is the perfect starting point for discovering a destination almost nobody has heard of. Hotel Mesón del Real Conde is a 200-year-old mesón with six rooms priced at 500 pesos ($29 USD). If “mesón” is unfamiliar, it’s an inn with rustic, traditional, historic charm—an accurate label here.

Someone called it a blend of luxury and quirky colonial charm. My first impression was different: as I walked in, I thought I was entering ruins, not a hotel. The patio features restored arched colonnades and hotel rooms on one side, crumbling ruins on the other, deliberately derelict. A dilapidated truck sits in the patio. The hotel pays homage to Pinos’ mining history by incorporating these ruins and artifacts into its structure. It doesn’t feel forced, but rather, authentic. This isn’t a cheesy reproduction; it’s the real thing—just with Wi-Fi

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It has a terrace with broad views of the valley, rooms for fiestas and meetings, a billiard room, and a subterranean passage once used as a refuge from bandits. The pièce de résistance is the hidden black Christ below. The man with the key to the tunnel wasn’t around.

Now we step into the village itself. Pinos was founded on February 12, 1594, with the full name “Real de Nuestra Señora de la Purísima Concepción de Cuzco y Descubrimiento de Minas de la Sierra de Pinos.” The village’s name comes from local pine trees that once fueled the silver smelters. How do you fit that on an envelope?

This was a critical stop along the 2,600-kilometer Camino Real de Tierra Adentro— aka as the Silver Road—connecting Mexico City to Santa Fe, New Mexico. I discovered that, at its prime, this was the largest land trade route in the world. What the world (and me) doesn’t know about Mexico! Over time, Pinos evolved from a mining camp into a mixed economy of haciendas: Mezcal, agriculture, livestock, and ore-processing estates in the nearby rolling hills. It was evident on the ride in.

Pinos became a Pueblo Mágico in 2012 and is promoted as “el más danzante de los Pueblos Mágicos” for having about 70 traditional dances of three main types: Matlachines, Pluma, and Indios.

The town’s layout feels jumbled: irregular and crooked streets, hacienda chimneys behind houses, and well-worn plazas. It’s what gives Pinos its great atmosphere. While I was there, it was cloudy, with on-and-off rain. In the mornings, the old village was shrouded in mist, adding to that vibe.

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The Church of San Francisco on the Plaza Principal houses a Black Christ of Esquipulas—the same dark-skinned Christ venerated in the small Guatemalan town that is now a major pilgrimage site. Here, he wears a blond wig. Black Christs are a thing here.

This is a town with two restaurants, at least as far as I could discover, unless you include the countless Gordita places. One of the restaurants is a kilometer’s walk from Centro, and its menu consists of shrimp aguachile, potato chips, and cold beer. It felt like a young person’s hangout. The other restaurant in town serves everything, because nobody else serves anything here.

The municipality of Pinos borders Jalisco, Guanajuato, and San Luis Potosí, which is kinda weird, geographically. It is said that cartel members can quickly run to a new state.

I saw giant biznaga cacti over two meters high – huge! Fact Dump: The Pinos semi-desert is home to 112 cactus species, 86 of which are endemic—77% unique to this region. Among them is peyote, central to Wixárika (Huichol) spirituality.

It’s a village lost in time and nearly unknown, even to most Mexicans—and it’s a pleasant three-hour drive through the campo from San Miguel

Tomorrow, Pinos Mezcal

Photos

Now I’m riding in constant rain. My gear is built for warm weather because I ride in warm weather. It’s Mexico. It’s perfect for heat, and terrible for water: if air flows right through it, so does rain. The upper part of my body, covered by the rain jacket, is relatively dry. Any motorcycle rider knows rain gear just delays the inevitable.

About an hour out of Zacatecas, I started negotiating with myself. Maybe stop, dry out, and try again tomorrow. But I was already soaked. The streets would be slick, and I’d still be miserable in the morning. I killed that idea and went with the only real option: ride on. I could do it. Yes, it would be cold and miserable, but I was halfway there. It wouldn’t be that bad. It’s not like rain is cold at 8,000 feet of altitude.

Right about this time in the story, I hit three toll booths in a row. Each one, the same ritual: roll in, visor up, gloves off, and fumble for wet cash. Hand it to someone who wishes you’d hurry up. Oil-slick pavement, numb fingers—twice I dropped my change. Both times, I had to crawl around chasing coins like a half-drowned idiot.

The last attendant looked at me. I was a soaked animal down on hands and knees, searching for my errant coins. No way was I going to be the poster child for some rich American who leaves money lying around. She started to laugh. It was a pitifully kind laugh, but still a laugh.

Out of the last toll booth, Google Maps immediately told me to exit. I complied and rode a few kilometers. Suddenly, the highway became a narrow country lane. Wrong turn. It was too tight to U-turn on the bike, so I did the awkward back-and-forth shuffle. Rain poured down. My visor seriously fogged. Now, back on track, I had to open my visor to see the screen. At 90 kph, raindrops felt like face-daggers.

But I was making progress. Yes, I was fully drenched, with water running down my back and rain seeping through my rain jacket. Still, we were moving forward.

Then it hit. I rode directly into a nasty thunderstorm. Lightning fired up the sky; thunder rocked my boat. Somewhere between thunderclaps, I realized the bike was running on fumes. Perfect timing. Then a miracle: a Pemex sign. The station was open, but all the pump lanes were coned off. No gas. The Oxxo was fully stocked with sugary, salty, fat-laden, industrial fake food. They might run out of fuel, but they’ll never run out of crap.

Fortunately, a little farther down the road, there was a real gas station that actually sold gas. The attendant took one look at this soaked, shivering rider and started laughing. I laughed with him, what else could I do? Not that it was close, but I’ve never put more gas in the bike than on that stop.

I finally got through that hellscape, and the pummeling gave way to a steady light rain. An hour later, it finally stopped. I pulled over, poured water out of my boots, wrung out my socks, shed the rain jacket, and opened every vent in my gear. Here’s the fun part: when you’re soaked, and it’s still raining, the water works like insulation. Once the rain stops and the wind starts evaporating it, that’s when the bone-chill hits.

I got to my hotel. The lady was intrigued to see someone who looked more than a little frayed around the edges checking into her establishment.

I took a hot shower, got dressed in my street clothes, and headed out to buy dinner at the local Oxxo. I bought a sack full of the same junk food I had disparaged a few paragraphs ago. Dark clouds were approaching the village at a high rate of speed. I needed something to eat. Wandering around in a strange town for a restaurant would mean a repeat of the day’s earlier soaking.

Walking back to the hotel, the cloud bank became more impressive. I love storms. I grabbed my camera and climbed a fixed ladder in the back of the establishment that led me to the roof. Awesome black, roiling clouds coming my way fast. I got my shots.

I ate my Takis (fiery-hot, crunchy snack), Pingüinos, and Triki Trakes (low-rent chocolate cookies in a roll). I swilled my Victoria beer and watched the rain come down hard as hell one more time on this peachy-keen day.

With all of that fun behind me, I lay down my weary body and looked up at the ceiling. I was thinking about tomorrow’s plans now. And then, a drip from the slightly leaky ceiling hit me square in the eyeball. I just rolled to the other side of the bed and checked out.¡

Hell no Gringos!

Tomorrow, the Pueblo Magico of Pinos

Photos

At its peak, the town had over 30,000 people—more than its current population of around 25,000—and briefly rivaled Zacatecas for silver supremacy. The wealth fueled an architectural boom: ten colonial-era churches, convents, civic buildings, and mansions, all wildly disproportionate to the town’s present size. As the mines declined and the money vanished, no one could afford to tear down or replace the old buildings. What survived is what I’m calling “accidental preservation”.

In addition to the ornate buildings, this village has a fetish for arches. And somebody there has a real gift for combining complementary pastel colors. The arches are strikingly beautiful and, to a certain extent, define the town’s vibe

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In 2010, UNESCO inscribed Sombrerete as part of the Camino Real de Tierra Adentro: a historic trio that includes a living colonial town, the national park of volcanic formations (Parque Nacional Sierra de Órganos, which I visited yesterday), and the nearby ghost town La Noria de San Pantaleón

I didn’t make it here myself; I learned that La Noria once had schools, a cinema, a market, and a baseball stadium. When the mine flooded in the early 1970s, everyone left. Now, what remains includes one of the finest repositories of viceroyalty art in the state — gold-embroidered vestments, Latin manuscripts, a two-century-old pipe organ — all housed within a church in a town that no longer exists.

The surrounding landscape adds to the story of Sombrerete. There are 10 hilltops surrounding the town, each with a cross. Basically, a ring of crucifixes around an old silver camp.

Among the striking churches, one stood out: Capilla de la Santa Veracruz, a 16th-century chapel attached to a convent of Clarisas Capuchinas, a cloistered order of nuns. Inside, no pews line the nave; the floor is a cemetery. 135 crypts lie under numbered wooden slabs covering the entire floor. Until about 1860, Sombrerete had no public cemeteries, so prominent families were buried in churches, with graves closer to the altar seen as premium, literally buying proximity to God. At the far end of this grid of anonymous graves sits a gilded altarpiece covered in 24-karat gold leaf.

For a last bit of weirdness, the town’s food specialty is brujitas (little witches), which are fried masa pockets stuffed with shredded meat or beans, crisp outside and soft insideT. ypical miner’s food dressed up with a sinister nickname.

Gringo Spotting: I’ve been on a dry stretch, none since the big batch in Durango.

Tomorrow, rain and whatever comes with it.

Photos of the Day

Around 450 AD, Teotihuacan sent priests, astronomers, and architects into the remote northern wilderness. Their specific mission: find “the place where the sun turns around”, meaning the Tropic of Cancer. The Altavista–Chalchihuites region became the northern frontier of Mesoamerica, a ceremonial outpost at the edge of that world.

The site’s “Labyrinth” is a working solar calendar. Its corridor and pilasters align with sunrise at the equinox and the sun’s zenith at the summer solstice, lining up with nearby Picacho Hill.

The Hall of Columns (Salón de las Columnas) has exactly 28 columns, set in four parallel rows of seven. Every column is a different size and shape. The number 28 matches the 28-day lunar cycle

Several structures include crypts and high‑status burials with rich offerings.

The Templo de los Cráneos (craniums) displays scattered skulls and skeletal remains on the atrium floor, evidence of human sacrifice.

So, that’s your history lesson on Altavista. Sometimes you just have to cram the facts — otherwise it’s just a very photogenic pile of old rocks.

When I left the ruins, I noticed my rear tire was squishy. Too squishy, to the tune of 8 psi. I pumped it up at the Pemex in the nearby village of Chalchihuites and limped back to Sombrerete. I googled a local motorcycle repair shop and rode the bike over to his taller. After my explanation, he dropped his other repair project and dove into the tire repair with great haste.

He found a small nail in the tire. It had punctured the tube. He replaced the tube and went to put the wheel back on the bike. That’s when it all went sideways. He struggled with great might but could not get all of the components to match up. He obviously doesn’t see too many Austrian motorcycles in his shop

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He had no motorcycle lift, so it was my job to balance the bike on the front wheel and kickstand while he and his young son worked at the rear. My job was to hold the bike up. Not skilled. Not particularly physical. Just… hold the bike up. Minutes dragged on, and we made little progress. After an hour of holding that damned bike up, the clouds parted, a miracle was performed, and the pieces suddenly flew together. A 15-minute job clocked in at two hours. I was thankful that the repair was done and that I was back on the road. He got a raving review on Google Maps.

After the repair, I quickly rode back to my room, assembled a small pack with overnight items and camera gear, wolfed down a quick meal, and headed to Organos 45 with about 45 minutes of daylight left.

I checked in “Mexican Quickly” and rode to my chosen trailhead and hiked briskly to reach the “good stuff” before nightfall.

Parque Nacional Sierra de Órganos is small for a national park, so it feels more like a self-contained stone amphitheater than a vast wilderness. The elevation runs roughly 2,120–2,560 meters, so you’re in high-country air, with cooler temps and clear light that makes rocks pop for photography. The name comes from tall columns of rhyolite, which is a type of volcanic rock. These columns resemble the pipes of a cathedral organ or the clustered stems of an organ-pipe cactus. The columns were formed by volcanic activity and then sculpted by wind and water over thousands to millions of years. Individual “tubes” reach 20–60 meters in height, forming a stone “forest” of pillars, towers, and buttresses. Visually, this is one of North America’s best organ-pipe column fields, with some of the tallest and best-formed vertical rock columns found anywhere.

The park became semi-famous as a Western backdrop: John Wayne’s “The War Wagon” was shot here, as were Westerns like “Geronimo,” “The Undefeated,” and films such as “Bandidas” and ”Caveman”. Ringo Starr donned a fur diaper in “Caveman,” filmed here.

My afternoon hike was long, lonesome and sometimes eerie, while walking through the formations. But there was an actual trail, something I never hike on in Mexico. I finished my hike well after darkness fell so I could experience this place by moonlight. As the blue turned charcoal, then black under a quarter moon, it took on a spooky veneer. There was a lot of evidence of wild animals, but I didn’t chance upon any shining eyeballs

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I returned to the bike and rode back somewhat gingerly on the rough road – not some place or time to fall down. Back to the cabana, I drank some of that cheap Mezcal I don’t like and scribbled my thoughts about my last couple of days.

The next morning, I arose early to do a sunrise hike with the shadows in reverse, before a brisk ride back to Sombrerete.

Sierra de Órganos, and especially staying in a cabin there, was not in my original plans, but the night before I’d read about cabin rentals in this very‑cool‑rock national park, so I said yes.

A lack of vigorous planning can be the adventurer’s best strategy.

Gringo Count: We are still at a total of seven for this trip, all spotted in Durango.

Tomorrow, discovering Sombrerete.

Photos of the Day

Years ago, on a whim, I started watching classic western movies, never having seen them as a kid. I fell for the cinematography and rugged landscapes, promising myself I’d one day visit the filming locations.

In 1954, an American producer chose the Chupadero valley to shoot White Feather (with Robert Wagner, Jeffrey Hunter, Debra Paget), launching Durango’s Western era and its first sets. Ironically, most classic American Westerns were actually shot in Mexico. I won’t get political, but you can.

As I rolled north out of Durango in the pre-dawn light, I rounded a corner, and the perfect scene opened up, lightly moonlit. Semi-desert, low hills, open sky, classic northern Mexico “western” country.

The heart of Chupadero is a purpose-built Western main street: false-front saloon, jail, bank, church, general store, stables, gallows, and assorted frontier facades, with real houses, a school, shops, and the village church wrapped around it. Today, the film set is in various states of decay: some facades patched by locals, others leaning, peeling, or empty. And that was what I was here to see.

Over the next two decades, more than 130 productions used Chupaderos and nearby landscapes as filming locations. John Wayne basically became the unofficial patron saint; sources note he insisted on filming his Westerns here, helping turn Durango into “La Tierra del Cine” and putting serious money into the town and local extras. Besides Wayne, there were Steve McQueen, Yul Brynner, Charles Bronson, James Coburn, Burt Lancaster, Charlton Heston, Paul Newman, Anthony Quinn, and plenty of Mexican movie stars. The village didn’t exist in 1954; locals built it around the set as productions increased.

When Westerns faded and big shoots stopped, the government and producers left, but the locals stayed, using the set’s skeleton as their village. Now, real kids walk to a real school past a fake bank and gallows. The old saloon still hosts events. It’s authentic—no tourist shops here.

There is a nearby theme park copying Chupaderos, but the real village didn’t sell out.

As the light hardened, my visit to Chupaderos was complete, and it was time to ride to Pueblo Magico Nombre de Dios. It is one of Durango’s mezcal heartlands: there are vinatas (what they call agave distilleries here) and mezcal is a standard draw for visitors.

Sadly, though (warning: Randy Rant ahead), the Mezcal bottled here has an alcohol content of 35-40%. That’s not the Mezcal I have grown to love. It’s my unequivocal rule that real Mezcal must start at 45% ABV and can reach the legal maximum of 55%. Mezcal Lites with 35-40% ABV that are sold to tourists here lack the depth of the real spirit. If you work at it, you can buy Mezcal a granel (bulk Mezcal), but you need to know who to talk to and bring your own empty Ciel bottle. Let’s call it the informal trade, no labels, no tax, no pretense. Just Pure Mezcal, the way it was meant to be. Not a tourist favorite treat.

Back to Nombre de Dios, the town is arguably the oldest in northern Mexico, founded by Francisco de Ibarra in 1562. It’s presently home to 5,000 inhabitants. It is here that the Ex Hacienda de Juana Guerra is located on the old Camino Real de Tierra Adentro (The Silver Trail) and ipart of the state’s first UNESCO World Heritage Site.

Outside town, Los Salones has massive sabino trees overhanging the Tunal River, their trunks reflected in dark water. I didn’t make it, but you should.

From there, I made a quick stop at Sierra de Organos National Park, home of some spectacular organ pipe-shaped rock formations. I wanted to spend the next night there, stay in a cabin overnight to hike and photograph. I went to the entrance to inquire about how to do this. They open at 8 and close at 8 pm. I wanted to arrive before sunset and then leave the next morning at 7:30. This led to a half-hour discussion among me and three of them. Concluding this protracted discussion, I could come and go whenever the hell I wanted to, never mind any official hours. Glad I took the extra care to figure out this intricate process.

My mind at ease, I rode the last leg of today’s journey to Sombrerete, an old silver‑boom town in northwest Zacatecas that is both a Pueblo Mágico and a UNESCO‑listed stop on the Camino Real. That’s Tomorrow.

NOTE: The most famous movies made in Chupadero:

The Sons of Katie Elder (1965) – John Wayne western; one of the key films that put Chupaderos on the international map as a western location.

The War Wagon (1967) – John Wayne and Kirk Douglas; big studio production that cemented Durango’s “Tierra del cine” reputation.

The Undefeated (1969) – John Wayne and Rock Hudson; post–Civil War western shot extensively on the Chupaderos sets.

Chisum (1970) – John Wayne again, playing rancher John Chisum; one of the best‑remembered Wayne vehicles shot there.

Big Jake (1971) – John Wayne, Richard Boone; kidnapping‑ransom western filmed on the Chupaderos set.

The Wild Bunch (1969) – Sam Peckinpah classic; Durango/Chupaderos were among the principal Mexican locations during the western boom of the 50s–60s.

The Magnificent Seven (1960) – Yul Brynner, Steve McQueen, Charles Bronson, etc.; shot in Durango with Chupaderos as one of the core western-town backdrops.

Gringo Count: I’ve got a string of no-show days going.

Ruins & Nature Tomorrow

Photos of the Day

It was a bucolic ride out of Durango on the high plateau at 1,880 meters (6,200’), riding in and out of dense patches of fog as the sun broke over the horizon. It wasn’t long before I was riding in the Sierra Madre pine forest, and what a forest it is.

I arrived in the lumber town of El Salto. About 30% of Mexico’s lumber comes from Durango, and this place sits at the center of it. I saw no clear-cutting—no active logging at all—but a steady stream of logging trucks.

This is all ejido land, and their forestry system is called selective cut. The forest stays standing and looks intact from the road, even when it’s being actively harvested. What you notice instead is the wood — the mills, the stacks, the trucks — more than any visual scar on the landscape. The ejido model, at its best, creates an incentive to keep the forest productive rather than liquidate it (not very corporate-like!). Durango’s forest ejidos are actually studied internationally.

I need to leave El Salto behind and get to the curves. But first, a police checkpoint. As usual, I was waved through, which is common for motorcycle riders. I have a highly honed bullshit tactic that helps, too. I slow down far in advance of the checkpoint. I have a modular helmet that lets me pull up the chin guard and lift my visor, exposing my entire face. I continue slowly and try to convey something between respect and innocence. It works. A lot better than coming in hot, yelling “ Buenos dias, and waving like a mad jackal. I’ve seen this, especially the four-wheeled type. We aren’t here to make friends, and our mouths are shut.

It wasn’t long before the road started to narrow and the turns more frequent. This was the relaxed opening of the big ride. Shortly, it became more dramatic. It was painfully evident that man, machine, and mule loads of dynamite had to brutally carve out a roadbed on impossibly steep mountainsides. Just how many died? Physically demanding, danger with every blast, and sometimes the mountain just gave way. Not everybody returned home.

I saw fog a little way ahead and thought “Well, that’s the end of the vistas”. And I was right, but what I got wrong is what made the ride even more thrilling. The fog would suddenly enshroud the entire road; around the next corner, it would retreat. A mystical and challenging ride, all senses on full alert. One never feels more alive. Later, I learned I’d been riding through a cloud forest.

Stopping to take photos on this narrow road was taunting death, but what the fuck, I may never return.

I observed that the road had been rebuilt around huge boulders that had come crashing down. I’m impressed when a boulder is so big that the best option is to build a permanent detour around it.

I was between 2,000 meters (6,500’) and 2,744 meters (9,100’) at the Sierra crest, with the famous Espinoza del Diablo viewpoint at 2,440 meters. There was no mirador today, but I didn’t care. All that mattered was the road. That 10km spine section alone has approximately 2,000 curves.

Riders pay respect at the López Mateos sign mirador. Most of the tributes are written in chalk on the road surface — rider names, club logos, 666, and so on. Ever see a car driver do that? They would be committed

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I first heard of this road in the nineties, when guidebooks called it the “Ribbon of Death” and advised against travel. Now, having ridden 340 kilometers, I found it every bit as dramatic and inspirational as promised. And they still don’t want you to ride it. Much better to be at the pool with a fruity drink.

Note 1: This was all about motors and me riding this dream road. No excessive orange moto photos going forward. Thanks to all the non-moto people for your understanding and patience.

Note 2: In 2013, this road was bypassed by Mexico 40D, a 131-mile-long toll road featuring 115 bridges and 61 tunnels, for $1.5 billion. The crown jewel of 40D is the Baluarte Bridge with a total length of 1,124 meters (3,688 feet) with a central cable-stayed span of 520 meters (1,710 feet). At 403 meters (1,322 feet) above the valley below, the road deck makes it the highest bridge in the Americas. But it’s not much fun.

GRINGO SIGHTINGS: Zero; guess the Devil’s Spine is not on their bucket lists.

Tomorrow: Pre-dawn ride to Chupadero

Photos of Today

Durango is Pancho Villa country; the revolution ran through here.

“The way is long, but the end is near

Already the fiesta has begun

And in the streets, the face of God will appear

With His serpent eyes of obsidian

No llores, mi querida Dios nos vigila

Soon the horse will take us to Durango¿

Agárrame, mi vida?

I first heard “Romance in Durango” in 1976, off the album Desire, and that’s when the obsession started. The word that any gringo can roll an “r” to, the romance, the Wild West—this song is a cinematic tour de force with some fatalism thrown in. I vowed I’d someday get to Durango. Well, here we are.

The lyrics are an outlaw fever dream inspired by the filming of Pat Garrett and Billy the Kid near Durango. The arrangement and instruments draw heavily on Mexican themes.

Durango’s tourist pitch is basically old Western sets and scorpions. The movies I’ll get into tomorrow.

The main local species, nicknamed the Durango scorpion, is one of the most venomous in Mexico. Scorpions fluoresce under UV light, so locals use black lights at night to hunt or avoid them. Durango has people who literally milk scorpions: they apply mild electrical stimulation, causing the animal to shoot venom droplets, which are used for medical research and antivenom production. Scorpions show up in Durango’s cuisine: you can find tacos de alacrán and other dishes using fried or roasted scorpions as a protein-rich novelty snack.

While the city of Durango did not over-charm me, the state of Durango did. There is a reason that this state has been the backdrop for countless movies. The Sierra Madre Occidental runs right through Durango, with high pine forests, deep canyons, and big rock formations. It’s a majestic country.

And then there is the notorious Espinazo del Diablo, an awe-inspiring highway which I will ride and write about tomorrow.

GRINGOMETER: Flashing red today with a count of seven. One in the wild and six in a batch sitting next to me at a restaurant, spending the entire time talking about Texan fajitas and frozen cucumber margaritas.

Note 1: I always run a grammar check on my stories, and it’s worth the time and money I spend. However, I many times let my grammar be my grammar, fuck being perfect. The funny part is it flagged a bunch of “errors” in Dylan’s lyrics. Me and Dylan.

Note 2: A young girl in the hotel lobby asked if she could take some photos of me working through the hotel window facing the lobby. I obliged and then asked if I could take photos of her. I explained my journey, and more photos were taken.

Tomorrow, El Diablo!

Photos:

For lunch today, I wanted to try the best Caldillo duranguense (or caldillo durangueño), the signature beef-and-chile stew of the state of Durango. My culinary research led me to Restaurante Mendoza. It is a classic, old‑school spot in central, historic Durango. The place has a museum‑like setting and places special emphasis on Dolores del Río, who was born in this town.

So, who was this woman, and what was her life’s story? Telling it needs a bit of explanation. It’s fascinating.

Dolores del Río was born María de los Dolores Asúnsolo y López Negrete in 1904 in Victoria de Durango, into a wealthy, conservative family tied to the Porfirian elite. When the Mexican Revolution began, the family’s assets were wiped out; they fled Durango under threat and eventually resettled in Mexico City under the protection of relatives in political power.

In Mexico City, she attended elite schools, studied dance, and moved in artistic and high‑society circles that linked her to painters, intellectuals, and future filmmakers. A hospital charity performance in 1921 led to her marriage to Jaime Martínez del Río, a rich, cultivated young man whose surname she adopted professionally.

Hollywood and the “female Valentino.”
Economic trouble after a failed cotton venture led Dolores and Jaime to accept director Edwin Carewe’s invitation to Hollywood in 1925. Carewe aggressively marketed her as an aristocratic Mexican beauty, hyping her wardrobe, lineage, and money, and casting her as the “female equivalent of Rudolph Valentino,” a Latin lover for the silent era.

She quickly landed roles in silent films like “Joanna,” “Resurrection,” “Ramona,” “The Trail of ’98,” and “The Loves of Carmen,” becoming a romantic lead opposite white male stars at a time when Hollywood usually typecast non‑Anglo actors. Studios, fan magazines, and publicists leaned hard into her “exotic” image, but she was simultaneously sold as a universal ideal of beauty rather than as a niche ethnic star.

Lovers, husbands, and entanglements
She wasn’t strictly living a cloistered life off‑screen. Over the decades, Dolores had three major marriages and several high‑profile love affairs that overlapped with her career peaks.
• Jaime Martínez del Río – Her first husband, a young aristocrat and would‑be writer, married her in 1921 and took her on an extended European honeymoon. Financial collapse and the stress of their Hollywood gamble destroyed the marriage; she filed for divorce in the late 1920s, and he died not long after in Europe.
• Cedric Gibbons – In 1930, she married MGM art director Cedric Gibbons, one of the most powerful visual stylists in Hollywood and often credited as the man behind the Oscar statuette’s design. They built a glamorous Art Deco home and played the golden couple in studio circles, but the marriage frayed as her Hollywood career stumbled in the late 1930s.
• Orson Welles – During that breakdown, she began an affair with Orson Welles, already a comet in American culture and busy making “Citizen Kane.” Welles’s daughter later described Dolores as the great love of his life, and Welles was reportedly obsessed with her. She followed him into radio, theater, and film projects, including “Journey into Fear.” Still, his self‑immolating war with William Randolph Hearst and his chaotic South American trip blew back on her. When stories of Welles’s Rio excesses reached her, she ended the relationship bluntly by telegram and never received an answer.
• Lewis Riley – After returning to Mexico and rebuilding her career, she met American businessman Lewis Riley in Acapulco in 1949. They married in 1959 after a long courtship, and he remained her husband until her death, backing her theatrical ventures and handling production work on many of her stage projects.

Along the way, she was surrounded by admirers—directors like John Ford and Francesco Rosi, writers like George Bernard Shaw, and painters such as Diego Rivera, who all treated her as much a muse as an actress.

The legend of her beauty

Dolores del Río wasn’t just “pretty” by studio standards; she was treated as a sort of Platonic ideal of female beauty in the 1920s and 30s.
• Contemporary film magazines and critics dubbed her “the female Valentino” and “Latin lover” counterpart, yet emphasized her elegance and restraint over vamp clichés.
• Marlene Dietrich reportedly called her “the most beautiful woman in Hollywood,” a judgment you could argue Dietrich was qualified to make.
• Bernard Shaw supposedly quipped that the two most beautiful things in the world were “the Taj Mahal and Dolores del Río.”
• Diego Rivera raved that she was “the most beautiful, the most gorgeous of the West, of the East, of the North, and of the South,” adding that his and millions of other people’s obsession with her couldn’t be wrong.

Visually, she helped define the 1930s “Deco” face: prominent cheekbones, heavy but perfectly shaped brows, full dark lips, and sleek hair that favored her angular bone structure rather than softening it. That look influenced other stars, with some critics suggesting even Joan Crawford’s sculpted image took cues from del Río. She was the first woman to wear a two-piece swimsuit, adding to her allure.

Career shifts and redevelopment
Sound films cut down many silent stars, but Dolores adapted and remained bankable for a while. She produced notable talkies like “Bird of Paradise,” “Flying Down to Rio,” and “Wonder Bar,” and studios attempted to position her as a rival to Garbo and Dietrich. But industry racism, the Great Depression, and typecasting into hyper‑sexualized “exotic” roles narrowed her options.

By the early 1940s, she was seen in the U.S. as “box‑office poison,” lumped together with other glamorous but allegedly unprofitable stars, and her relationship with Welles, plus her friendships with left‑leaning artists, made her politically suspect during the building paranoia that would become

McCarthyism

Her answer was to go home and become something bigger. She continued to work in Mexican and European films, then reappeared periodically in U.S. productions like “Flaming Star” with Elvis Presley and “Cheyenne Autumn” with John Ford in the 1960s. She also moved heavily into theater, touring plays in Mexico, the U.S., and Argentina, and later served on festival juries at Cannes and San Sebastián.

Late‑life work
From the 1950s on, she also became an important cultural organizer and philanthropist—helping to found the Acapulco film review, a group to protect Mexico’s artistic heritage, a daycare center for actors’ children, and serving as a spokesperson for UNICEF in Latin America. Even as her health declined, she stayed involved in festivals and public events, and was honored for both her artistic career and her role as a public ambassador.

By the time she died in 1983, Dolores del Río had gone from Durango heiress to Hollywood’s first Mexican superstar, to Mexican screen diva, to respected elder stateswoman of film.

Upon my return home, I shared this story with local Mexican friends, and they explained that many girls born in this time were named after this famous Dolores from Durango.

Last night’s rain had cleared the air, setting up a nice early photo walk.

I happened across one of the oldest cemeteries in Zacatecas, with burials dating back to 1809. In 2015, it was formally declared a “Panteón Museo,” which was new to me.

It’s full of funerary art: mausoleums, crypts, obelisks, and sarcophagi in pink cantera stone. The cemetery is laid out by social class: the front section with the fanciest mausoleums was for the elite; the rear areas were for middle and lower classes. Of course, the rich always get to sit up front. There are 4,000 tombs, plus a hefty dose of Masonic symbols on monuments, reflecting the liberal, Masonic elite that ran the town in that era.

On my way to the cemetery, a lady standing on the corner of the Jardin saw me coming, pointed, and mumbled something. She had done the same thing the previous night. I thought she didn’t want her picture taken, something that hadn’t crossed my mind, as she wasn’t distinctly photogenic. On my way back to my room, I deliberately walked to the corner where she had staked her little patch of public real estate. This time she yelled at me, “Aquí no!” It wasn’t about my camera; she just didn’t like ME being in Jerez. It made me chuckle.

Okay, time to pack and go. On the way out of town, I would once again pass by this grumpy grandma. I made sure to give her some rapid-fire horn toots, stood on my pegs, waved, and yelled: “Have a nice day.”

I headed North on Highway 23, which would take me through Fresnillo on my way to my final destination, Durango. Along the way, the farmland turned a solid brick red, and with the green mountains as a backdrop, it was beautiful. So beautiful, I slowed down to savor it. That’s not something I do when I ride. Faster is always better.

When planning my route with my sidekick Perplexity and her brother Claude, it came up that Fresnillo had been a real cartel hotspot in the last few years. One of them suggested I take a detour through Zacatecas. That would have meant riding on roads I’d already taken, and I consider that poor form.

So I did a little more research, and Fresnillo has been one of the hottest cartel war zones with open conflict between the Sinaloa Cartel and the Jalisco New Generation Cartel (CJNG). The fight has produced mass killings, bodies dumped in public spaces, and narco-messages left with victims as warnings to rival groups.

Zacatecas and the federal government have deployed the Army, the National Guard, and state police to bring the situation under control. In 2024, they launched massive patrols and checkpoints. It’s worked, as homicides in Zacatecas have dropped sharply between late 2024 and 2025.

As all scaredy-cat entities that issue travel warnings say, “avoid non-essential travel and travel at night.” It was broad daylight, and my travel was essential. Nonetheless, I have to admit to being “on alert.” I didn’t observe any problems and noted that there were lots of cars on the highway, including expensive ones that are eye candy to cartelians.

As I entered town, I passed a police car and took care to go much slower than usual. I kept an eye on my rear-view mirror, and he was there, but not following me. At an intersection ahead, the green traffic light started flashing, not yet turning yellow. So I decided to slow down, let the light turn yellow, and then stop, like the ultra-good law-abiding citizen I am. The police car pulled up, moved into the left-turn lane, and was soon out of the picture.

So, all’s well in the world. In a sudden blur, a large motorcycle pulled alongside me. He didn’t roll up; he came up quickly, and we had about four inches handlebar to handlebar. This wasn’t your average Italika dude. I turned my head, and all I could see was a machine gun slung over a shoulder...and a man dressed in black from head to toe, jackboots and a balaclava covered his eyes.

He said, “Guanajuato?” to which I replied in the affirmative. “San Miguel.” The light turned green, and we both let go of our clutches, his quicker than mine.

As he rode away, I noticed a large patch on his jacket with the letters “FRIZ.” Was he some type of bad-hair-day cop? Nope. “FRIZ” refers to the Fuerza de Reacción Inmediata Zacatecas (Zacatecas Immediate Reaction Force). An elite tactical and rapid-response police unit created by the state government to combat high-impact crime. They are composed of former military and federal personnel and are highly trained. So he was a high-security dude dressed for a kinky night out.

The remainder of the trip was yawningly boring by comparison. I settled into my room and headed out to enjoy a well-deserved first Durango Cenizo Mezcal, while taking in a warm, stiff breeze. I felt like Durango.

Gringos sure the hell wouldn’t be seen in Fresnillo.

Tomorrow, I stop saying “Durango!” and start living it.

Photos of the Day

Nobody knows who built this place. Maybe it was a Teotihuacan enclave, a Toltec emporium, or an independent northern capital.

There’s a wild story with some historians associating it with the mythical Chicomostoc — the Seven Caves — where the Aztecs supposedly camped out for nine years during their migration to the Valley of Anahuac. It’s probably more legend than fact, but as origin myths go, it’s a keeper.

At its peak, La Quemada linked roughly 220 settlements by roads, moving taxes, resources, and people for ritual duty.

Its Hall of Columns predates the palace at Tula, which in turn inspired Chichén Itzá’s Temple of the Warriors. So this overlooked Zacatecas site may have sparked an idea that spread across Mesoamerica.

The whole site was deliberately torched when it was abandoned. Whether that was a ritual self-destruction by locals or payback from enemies is still up for debate.

I sat long on the defensive wall they built and imagined what it was like back then. At 900 meters long and nearly 4 meters high, the wall suggests they were worried about something — but who knows what. They had a helluva 360-degree view from that hilltop. I had it all to myself; I was the only visitor. This place is a real mystery and one of the more interesting Mexican ruins I’ve walked. If your idea of ruins is ‘nice pyramid,’ La Quemada surprises.

After my self-guided tour, I took a short ride to Villanueva — a new Pueblo Mágico just 20 minutes away. I must say I didn’t see much magic. My guess is the ‘magic’ is basically La Quemada, with Villanueva just the closest village wearing the tourist‑attracting badge.”

Then I moved on to Jerez. I’d heard something unique happens here every Saturday night, and I wanted to see—and hear—it for myself. I rearranged my schedule to make it happen. Another reason to go was that Mary and I had an apartment near Jerez, Spain, and I just had to go to Jerez, Mexico.

The town’s default setting seems to be street culture powered by live bands — several groups playing at once around the Jardín Principal, their music bleeding into each other. On this rainy night, the groups played inside the bars, playing to the street. The patrons moved from bar to bar, chasing each new scene and shot of tequila. This was no sit-and-listen scene.

The music they play is called Tamborazo, centered around brass and drum. It evolved from 19th-century military bands. The early groups were small — clarinet, trumpet, snare, bass drum — so raucous they were nicknamed alboroqueros. Later, saxophones, trombones, and tuba were added to create the Tamborazo you hear today.

The Marcha de Zacatecas, often played in tamborazo arrangement, is routinely called Mexico’s second national anthem.

It was the same genre of music I heard the night before in Zacatecas at the Callejoneada, so it wasn’t altogether new. Still, it was a special night of rubbing elbows (“literally”, that over-used and mostly incorrectly-used word) with the locals, sharing shots and tequila bottles, and taking bar-scene photos. I surrendered around midnight, but the music continued across the street until 4:30 in the morning.

People told me the rain kept the crowd smaller and quieter, but even by my standards, it was a wild night.

If you wanted to take a break from tequila and lick down some late-night ice cream, there was a gelato shop below my hotel room still open at midnight, advertising Cheetos Flaming Hot and Takis Fuego flavors.

Although I have abandoned my daily expense report, I must brag that the hotel room in Jerez cost me a whopping 400 pesos, around $24 USD.

On the Gringo Search front, I did talk to a guy there who had worked in the U.S. and said he knew some Gringos, but there weren’t any in the town of 40,000 people.

Tomorrow I ride to Fresnillo. Damn the cartels.

See My Photos

“Bufa” comes from an old Aragonese word meaning “pig’s bladder” or wineskin, supposedly what the rock crest looked like to the Spaniards. Guanajuato city has its La Bufa, and this year I’ve climbed both of them, a gold frickin’ star for me (I’ve had Guanajuato’s rock on my wanna go list for six years, so give me a break here for my crowing).

In addition to the Zac rock itself, there are several other things of interest. One is the Museo de la Toma de Zacatecas, a meteorological observatory with bullet holes still in the walls. And some mighty big equestrian statues of Pancho Villa, Felipe Ángeles, and Pánfilo Natera, the revolutionary commanders of 1914 who took Zacatecas. Some powerful statements on a small hill.

Doing this hike made me feel like I’ve really experienced Zacatecas, as now I could see the entire city, compared to the bowl I was in the past couple of days. And pre-dawn was the way to go; beautiful light, cool air, peaceful and good exercise as I made lots of wrong turns. The views of the surrounding hills were a bucolic break from the cityscape, offering a broader view of the landscape. Plenty of photos to edit and a story to write. This is now a daily rhythm and ritual.

After a day of laundry, editing, and writing, that evening, I had to take a stroll to see what I could see in nighttime Zacatecas. I turned the corner just outside of the hotel, and a mighty hubbub erupted. The police halted traffic at the intersection, and musicians were walking down the street, playing raucous, snare-drum-heavy music. They were followed by dozens of people dancing and singing. Throw in a donkey that serves as a portable bar, and you’ve got a roving party.

Adding to the chaotic theme, it began to rain, casting a dramatic, glittering glow over the street lighting.

There was a copious amount of alcohol involved. One guy was carrying a two-liter jug of affordable tequila. Baby carriages were repurposed as portable beer coolers; the previous occupants shuttled to the arms of their dancing moms and dads.

So, what to do but join in. But then there’s another group going in a different direction, with their revelers. And another. I was following one, then taking a quick turn to join in with these other guys because they were louder and funner, abandoning the original band. I wasn’t the only unfaithful one. Each group now was finding its musical home for the night: a plaza, a government building entrance, an overhang, or a narrow callejon. The roving parties suddenly stationed themselves, but the dancers were anything but planted. What unbridled joy.

While walking home, I was unclear on the chaos I had just experienced.

I later learned that a Zacatecan Callejoneada is a nighttime walking party through the historic center of Zacatecas, led by a tamborazo band (saw them) and a mezcal‑hauling burro (saw him), with everyone drinking, dancing, and stopping in plazas along the way (saw that).

Just like I did, you follow a band that plays traditional Zacatecan tunes, rancheras, and other Mexican standards. Everyone is singing and dancing. The burro carrying garrafas of Mezcal; and the people wearing little clay cups around their necks to get topped up at each stop. It was pretty special to be part of it.

I understand that the tradition dates back to the mining days, when miners celebrated surviving another shift by roaming the streets with music, booze, and song until late. So, what was a ritual of release is now a celebrated tradition, honoring their ancestor’s tenacity. Something worthy of celebration and a respect for these people’s roots. A way Zacatecas keeps its past loud rather than solemn.

Starting with this post, I will not be posting daily expenses. By now, you get the idea. I’m traveling very inexpensively while traveling richly.

Gringo, Gringo, come out wherever you are. And where are the Mexican tourists in Zacatecas?

That will be tomorrow night all over again.

The Photos Are Here!

Zacatecas feels high. Chilly, slightly thin air.

Something you notice early on when visiting is the sheer number of callejones—many of them narrow and steeply climbing hills. It’s a hallmark of the city’s look.

People from Zacatecas are a mix of deep indigenous roots (Chichimeca groups like the Zacatecos), colonial mining mestizo culture, and a huge migrant tradition that’s shaped their identity as tough, mobile, and damn proud. The modern population grew around silver mining, which began in 1546, and drew in Spaniards, indigenous groups, and later other migrants to work some of the richest silver lodes in the world.

The city’s population is 150,000–200,000 people. Guadalupe, its overgrown suburb, has around 210,000. So the suburb Guadalupe is larger than the historic and political center Zacatecas. Curiously, the state of Zacatecas sits near Mexico’s geographic center and borders eight states.

The main square is Plaza de Armas. But there were no balloon or toy vendors. They’ve been displaced by protesters living in tents. A coalition of campesinos (bean producers in particular), students, unions, and other groups marched in and occupied the space. By the looks of it, they’ve been there a while. They’re accusing the state government of repression after police violently broke up an earlier frijolero protest and detained demonstrators. If people don’t like what’s going on, they make sure everyone knows.

I found only one park, so it’s not a particularly verdant city, nor does it have many open plazas. Go to San Luis Potosí for that. But the stone buildings—those are the wondrous splendor of this place. Zacatecas is the pink stone city, built from cantera rosa. Churches, civil buildings, markets, theaters, aqueducts—everything is clad in it. The historic center is UNESCO-listed largely because of its 16th–19th century stone architecture stacked onto steep hillsides. Come to Zacatecas for the pink.

A unique attraction is the Quinta Real, built inside a former bullring. The Plaza de Toros San Pedro was inaugurated in 1866, next to the historic El Cubo aqueduct. Once the stage for some of the world’s most renowned bullfighters, it is now a hotel.

Although Zacatecas is a regional tourist destination, there wasn’t much evidence of it while I was there—except for the endless liquor stores selling cheap 38% “Mezcal” to tourists. And it’s made from blue agave, making it taste more like tequila than the real thing. One brand goes for 79 pesos a bottle. What is it about tourists and cloyingly sweet, inauthentic swill? Seems to be universal. Do people leave good taste at home when they travel?

Zacatecanos are honkers. They love leaning on the horn in traffic. It’s a bit of a jolt after being away from the obnoxious horn heavies in the U.S. The state accounts for 1.3% of Mexico’s population, yet 6.1% of Mexican migrants come from Zacatecas—apparently the U.S. is where horn training begins, and returnees show off their newfound skill.

One final observation is that many restaurant owners in Zacatecas are creative in naming their businesses.

Expenses: Room was 1,400 pesos, breakfast 155 pesos, and dinner—Zacatecas’s signature dish, mole-inspired wedding stew called Asado de Boda—came in at 237 pesos. Retail pink cantera in the U.S. runs about 8–20 USD per square foot.

Still not a Gringo in sight. Where are they hiding? There’s no City Market here. Hmmm.

Tomorrow: Callejoneadas and La Bufa.

The Photos

After Moctezuma, about 50 kilometers out from Zacatecas, the terrain began to roughen and rise. The valleys narrow as you enter an area where the Mesa Central collides with the edge of the Sierra Madre Occidental.

Soon, Zacatecas appears, nestled in a tight valley between ridges at around 2,450 meters—seriously high. The city is essentially built inside the remnants of a collapsed volcanic landscape. We’re off to a good start.

But first, I had to get through the weather. Unlike in a car, riding is a visceral experience that fills your senses. Especially weather. More especially, stormy weather. In the far distance, I could see the telling dark skies and what they would mean for me. It took an hour to ride into this growing darkness and dropping temperature. And when I got to the storm, it turned away. It had just passed through Zacatecas Centro minutes before I arrived. The streets were still streaming with water, but I rolled lucky this time. Yeehaw, welcome to rainy season and exciting riding conditions.

There was still a bit of residual light rain as I rolled up, so I quickly double-parked the bike and ran in to ask where to park. The lady stood up from her desk, walked purposefully to open both front doors, and waved me in. My moto now sits as proud as a lion guarding the grand staircase. That’s honest and true hospitality, not the corporate chocolate-on-a-pillow, turn-down-your-sheets faux posturing at $300+ a night. I leave with a wide smile every time I come and go from the hotel. I’m sure the staff assumes I’m a little cuckooberry. Then again, maybe not. They don’t seem to care about these things.

It turns out I’m the only guest at Casa Faroles Hotel, so I got a room with a balcony. The Fuente de los Faroles (fountain) is the architectural focal point right in front of my balcony—and, to my surprise, it’s functional. I am in the very heart of the UNESCO Heritage Site Centro. It’s a special feeling. As night falls, the streets glisten from the recent rain as people queue up at the taco stand.

Daily Expenses: 80 pesos for lunch of four bistek tacos and a Pepsi, 250 pesos for gas, and 70 pesos for a Negro Modelo, jalapeno potato chips, and Golden Nuts (japones). The expense crusher was the room, weighing in at a hefty 1,400 pesos. In Zurich, Switzerland, a 5 km taxi ride is 27–28 USD.

Gringo Count: 0. But an English-speaking Mexican visiting from Cancun did ask me for directions.

Tomorrow, exploration by foot.

Photos of the Day

Today was a get-up-early day—5:15 a.m. to be exact. Time to explore a few of the multitude of ruins in this area. The payoff was beautiful desert light and awesome shadows. In every direction, there are ruins, all remnants of the silver-mining boom. It would take days to explore them all.

Given the limited good light of the day, I had to choose just one target out of many. I picked the ghost town of San José de los Álamos, an old mining complex and processing plant. This is the site locals and tour operators call El Pueblo Fantasma near Real de Catorce—the area’s real ghost town, separate from the inhabited main town.

The ruins of Ex-Hacienda San José de los Álamos are all that’s left of a full colonial mining complex. The mine was active during the silver boom in the late 1700s and 1800s, but after the bust, it was deserted. The whole place has been left to slowly fall apart like an unmaintained Harley.

The greater Catorce area is filled with treasures. There are seven in-town ruins, four mining ruins, and two sacred/archaeological sites. Pueblo Fantasma could be counted as dozens of individual collapsed structures rather than one place. And the mining category undercounts, since the Catorce range is full of abandoned mine shafts and processing facilities without formal names. The Wirikuta shrines are similarly a collective scattered across 140,000 hectares. An explorer’s dream.

Switching to my domestic world, on my last day at the Airbnb, I noticed a sign saying cats weren’t allowed inside and were supposed to stay outdoors. Somehow, I missed that before. Darn. Of course, the cats didn’t mind at all —they snuck in plenty of times while I was there. For animals that weren’t supposed to be inside, they sure knew where the cat food was kept, and each had their favorite rooms and beds. The orange-and-white kitty even slept with me.

Catorce Cats are much bigger than San Miguel cats and have much more fur. Compared to the San Miguel cats, Catorce Cats seem to be special High-Altitude Felines, built for the cold.

Today’s Expenses: Room 1,200 pesos, breakfast was 145 pesos, dinner totaled 385 pesos for an entree, a shot of Mezcal, and a glass of red wine. In San Francisco, order a super carne asada burrito and a soft drink, and you’ll pay $18-$22. I don’t need to compare the surroundings.

I am adding a new category in addition to daily expenses. Daily Gringo Spotting. So far, it is zero for four days. I just know that some day it’s going to spike.

Tomorrow, the road beckons.

Photos of This Day

I woke for my first day of discovery of this fascinating place. A place soaked in history — sodden enough that I extended my stay by another day. And it turned out that was still a day short of being just right.

The place I’m staying doesn’t have a lock on the entrance. Shortly before I arrived, the owner’s father died, and she left for the funeral. I guess there was nobody second-in-charge. The other guest, who visits frequently, says it wasn’t a problem. People don’t break into houses here. I went with the flow. What else was I going to do, call Security?

The wiring in the bedroom was superb. The electrical components and craftsmanship in the bedroom were special, and the bathtub plumbing was classic. I didn’t have a chance to make dinner on the two-burner stove, but the other guest said it made superb tea. The décor is whimsical, reflective of the artistic musician who inhabits this home.

I would have liked to have met her. Mexican, born in Real de Catorce, she moved to Denmark with her family when she was 10. She came back for a short vacation 18 years later and never went back.

As an aside, the previous night’s cackles were coming from over my backyard wall. It turns out it’s a full-blown chicken rancho.

Long before the Spanish found silver here, the Wixárika (Huichol) people considered the entire surrounding desert — known as Wirikuta —their most sacred territory on earth. The Wixárika people still make annual month-long pilgrimages of up to 400 km from their homelands in Jalisco and Nayarit. Along the way they search for peyote (the sacred cactus they call jicuri) and commune with their deified ancestors. It’s a big deal.

Real de Catorce was founded in 1779 and quickly grew. Estimates are that 15,000 to 40,000 people moved in to support the booming silver mining business. Being so isolated, it had no real roads, no water supply, and no government. It was miners, suppliers, swindlers, and, while I wasn’t there, probably a respectable number of working ladies.

So, why “Real de Catorce”? Translate it to English, and it’s “Royal of Fourteen,” with three competing stories: either 14 Spanish soldiers killed by Indigenous warriors, or 14 notorious bandits who lived in the area, or the lucky 14 prospectors who discovered silver here around 1772.

As I learned during my visit, the fun all ended with the collapse in silver prices at the turn of the 20th century, followed immediately by the Mexican Revolution (1910). Real de Catorce is now Mexico’s most famous ghost town, a designation it well deserves.

The resurrection began in the late 20th century when bi-coastal, effete, Harvard Liberal Arts graduating, trustifarian explorers, NPR-listening urban backpackers, neo-quasi-spiritual seekers of peyote, and Trip Advisor Experience adventurers found the place. But enough fun bouncing on these people. In its present state, it is a cozy historic village of about 1,100 people, split between Spanish and Wixárika heritage. In serious recognition of this truly wonderful place, Real de Catorce was the second town in all of Mexico to receive the Pueblo Mágico designation. Bonus points if you know the first. I don’t.

Odds Facts About Real de Catorce:
*Two unrelated religions make simultaneous pilgrimages to the same place.
* A Cockfight Arena that looked like the Coliseum
* Cerro del Quemado, just outside of town, is the birthplace of the sun, according to Wixárika cosmology. And the Wixárika are in charge of things in this area, so what they say goes. Seriously, this is a very spiritual place.
* The Indigenous Miners’ Life Expectancy Was 30 Years

Tonight’s meal included an appetizer of Cabuche, the unopened flower buds of the red biznaga cactus. It is a seasonal delicacy in the deserts of San Luis Potosí and Zacatecas. Sauteed, they had a tender crunch and a slightly acidic, earthy, and sweet flavor similar to artichoke hearts. Truly special. Truly local.

Returning to my room, it didn’t matter that I had forgotten my keys. I just walked in and found them on the nightstand. Nice to not have to mess with locks. Wake me in the morning, chickens.

Today’s expenses: 187 pesos for Enchiladas Potosinas, room at 1,200 pesos, and dinner with a side of Cabuche and a Mezcal, $345. A one-day pass at Disneyland is $120 to 200 USD.

Photos of This Day

After a wonderful traditional SLP breakfast of Enchiladas Potosinas, the iconic dish of the state, I was ready. They are made with corn dough mixed with guajillo or ancho chili sauce, which gives them their reddish color. They are filled with cheese, folded like quesadillas, browned on a griddle, and fried—truly a plateful of Umami.

On the road at noon, my navigation showed a 3½-hr ride to Real de Catorce. With a stop on the way, I would still arrive well before the 5 PM cutoff, when the people managing traffic through the tunnel to Real de Catorce end their day. After that, you are on your own. The Ogarrio Tunnel is the only non-mule way in and out of R14. It’s three meters tall and one car wide for nearly 2 km. After the guys leave, you may or may not make it without meeting another vehicle. I could manage with my bike, but even then, it would be a tight squeeze.

My route today took me through the Altiplano Potosino, a high plateau of semi-arid lands, open sky, and endless horizons. The narrow paved road was in immaculate condition, encouraging high-speed cruising. Even the Harley rider I came upon was going almost fast.

My midpoint refueling and rest stop was Charcas, a town founded by Spanish conquistadors in 1578 as a mining center. The moto riders wear mining hats instead of helmets, so it appears that is has once again become a mining center.

I had taken up a park bench on the plaza in front of the church and stretched my legs. Before long, a teenager and a middle-aged working-stiff guy started a conversation. Using Google Translate, Tarzan Talk, Advanced Sign Language, exaggerated facial expressions, and pointing at mobile phone screens, we discussed International Economic models and globalization. The talk veered into Fission and Quantum Mechanics.

And then it happened. A thundercrack jolted me from my intellectual soliloquy on Cosmology. My face surely resembled that of the old RCA dog. What the hell! While we were talking, afternoon thunderclouds had amassed. Someone lit the fuse.

I said my Adioses, quickly geared up, and sped out of town, confident knowing I’d quickly outrun it. The execution of the plan was perfect, but the plan was wrong. Within minutes, sheets of rain were in my future, about a kilometer of the future ahead. I pulled over to put on my rain jacket. I tore through my side luggage, but it wasn’t there. Meanwhile, all of the contents were getting soaked, as was I. The thunder followed the lightning by less than half a second, and the smell of ozone was in the air. I remounted, hoping that a moving target is less likely to be hit. That’s bullshit thinking, but it’s all I had. Certainly, riding in the rain gets you wet much faster than standing in it. But then, why would one stand in the rain?

Riding through the pelting rain and pea-sized hail—that’s my kinda adventure. In 10 minutes, the hell faded, and it wasn’t long before I rode in sunlight and warmth. I dried out in an hour. But oh crap, another challenge: I was running tight on time. I dialed it up to 130 KMH, about all my little KTM 390 can summon.

The last 26km to the entrance of the tunnel is challenging cobblestones. Being from San Miguel, I was not unfamiliar with this road surface. I followed cars going 20 kph for a bit, but that was torture. I found that, once I sped up to 60 kph, everything smoothed out and the bike floated effortlessly.

I arrived at the Ogarrio Tunnel at 4:53 PM, with only seven minutes to spare. I dallied about taking a few photos, so I could be the last vehicle to cross before the guards stop controlling single-lane flow, making for really dicey conditions when you meet someone.

To make the introduction, R14 (as those in the know call it) is a jewel, an old Spanish mining town, now a popular Pueblo Magico. It’s high up at 2,730 meters (8,950’) in the Sierra Madre Oriental Mountains. It is so rich in history and stories that I’ll spread them over three posts.

Adrenaline now drained, I craved a drink and dinner. I wanted a damned good meal and a stiff Mezcal. A fundamental part of my travel is studying and devouring the local cuisine. Restaurante La Migaja was this night’s logical answer as they serve Italian food. Never mind that their sign indicates it’s a panaderia (bakery). I was hungry and didn’t have many choices. And it was raining here, as that storm came north, moving a bit slower than a KTM moto rider, but steadily determined. Walking in the dark, dodging puddles, I came across a well-lit sign and, before me, a monumentally steep and narrow set of stairs. My kinda welcome mat. I arrived, tired, and lightly moistened.

I was greeted by a youngster who seated me at my table, welcomed me, and presented me with a menu. I asked if there was a local Mezcal, and he asked, “Naturel or Curado”? That little shit was not going to foist some kind of flavored Mezcal swill on me. “Naturel!” And it better be good, I said under my breath. After all, best to show your manners in front of a 12-year-old server.

I had an amazing Italian dinner by candlelight. The pasta was perfect, and the focaccia was equal to the best I’ve had. As the night progressed, I met the family: Martin, Mom Maria, Server Extraordinaire Angel, and much younger brother Matias.

What a fine meal, and so special to meet this family. I got a full restaurant tour, and to reciprocate, I took photos and posted them along with a rave review. The next morning, I was walking down the street and heard a young boy’s voice: “Randy!” I turned around, and it was Martin and Matias walking from school. That’s what this trip is about.

I nodded off to the surprisingly muted roosters’ crows and the distant rumble of thunder.

Today’s expenses: breakfast 187 in SLP, first gas 260 pesos, 2nd gas 220 pesos, catorce tunnel 70 pesos, dinner w/mezcal 340 pesos, room a budget-busting 1,440... It’s a tourist town.

Photos of This Day

Waking up at six, I set a goal to leave by 10 AM. I had futzed around so much the day before configuring my Cardo helmet intercom, Carpuride Display, and mobile phone that I had drained the bike’s battery. A few hours on the charger and it was good. I finalized my packing and put the bike in gear at 10:37 am.

This first day is one of finding a rhythm. There is the rhythm of riding, which is essential. Starting a big trip, I question everything, including my riding abilities. Thoughts of potential problems cycle through your head. The shit I thought I forgot to pack. Then there is the rhythm and ritual needed at your first town stop: take a couple of one-way streets the wrong way, illegally park the bike, seek the best lunch in town, and take the requisite iconic photos. You need to find a way to carry a heavy jacket, helmet, gloves, phone, and camera and try to not look like a dork.

I don’t know about my dork quotient on my first stop, but I do know that somewhere along the line, I lost my stylish and protective Spanish leather gloves. Fortunately, there was a moto shop close by, and I bought some cheap motocross gloves, which turned out to be quite a bit cooler, so maybe it was fortuitous. Carelessness creates new opportunities for change in one’s life. So yes, it was a philosophically valuable loss.

My lunch town was Ocampo, Guanajuato, about 90 minutes, mostly north of San Miguel. An agritown of about 25,000 people, it’s not remarkable—just a working person’s town. However, any first stop on a long trip is special. Checkpoint completed, you are now officially chasing your adventure. You order lunch and realize you’ve left expensive Disneyland San Miguel behind.

While I didn’t have time to stop, I’d still tell you to visit El Cóporo—a 1,200-year-old hilltop city built by nobody-remembers-who on the northern frontier of Mesoamerica, quietly aging while almost nobody bothers to go.

But for me, it was time to shove off to San Luis Potosi, a new destination for me. Arriving on a Saturday late afternoon, I found Centro hopping! Hopping the way a city center of 900,000+ people hops. Many weddings and Quinceañeras that night.

The city of San Luis Potosi is located on a fertile central plateau and is the state capital. It seems a proud, handsome colonial city, one that most tourists skip, which adds immensely to its charm. It has a genuine, lived-in quality. The historic center is compact, anchored by an impressive cathedral and jardin. The neoclassical architecture is quite fine. There are several large churches and expansive plazas within a dozen or so square blocks.

San Luis Potosi deserves more than an overnight — and it’s three and a half easy hours from San Miguel on the back roads. Go there. It’s real Mexico.

Here’s a short list to entice you:

*Their Tianguis has over 6,000 stalls

*Leonora Carrington’s museum is housed in a former state penitentiary

*It was briefly the capital of Mexico

*Their enchiladas are orange

*The plazas are filled with clowns, one of them being clownish for 40 years

*A replica of Jesus’s house sits in the middle of the city.

*It has a National Museum of Death – I need to go.

This is going to be an inexpensive trip. My daily expenses were 300 pesos for fuel and 125 pesos for lunch. Those who travel with me know I seek out inexpensive, quirky accommodations. This night I did splurge on accommodations, paying 1,400 pesos for a room, twice my usual budget. This time I went for the historic Gran Hotel Concordia.

Tomorrow is Finding Rhythm.

Photos of This Day

The past few months, I’ve been thinking about my 70th birthday, what it means, and where I go from here. If I’m lucky, I figure I’m good for another ten years of adventure. So, what was the best way to kick off this plan? I thought long and hard and created a lengthy list of places that I wanted to explore, 23 in total!. But I was getting nowhere until one night, staring at a very dark boveda ceiling, the answer became obvious. Travel to all 32 states of Mexico between now and May 24, 2027, the last day of being 70.

Today begins that adventure, with a departure for the state of San Luis Potosí. I plan a total of five legs of travel this year, each lasting between 12 and 20 days. A total of 60 days + on the road. What started out as a simple concept was quite a journey to get to this journey: new camera gear, a photography teacher, a website to document everything, and convincing my wife that this idea was brilliant. Still working on the final point.

I felt I needed a theme, a purpose, and an approach; I want to give more than take — to share the lesser-known parts of Mexico, not just photograph them. I’m carrying postcards and stickers to leave behind as I go, inviting people to visit the website to see photos of themselves and their land. Note that the postcard posted here is bilingual for those who don’t speak Spanish. The actual postcard is only in Spanish.

My plan is to post photos and thoughts about my experiences regularly (daily?). I have committed to this.

Yesterday, as the last step, my friend Michael put the bike and me through a blessing ritual, and I’m departing in minutes.

Randy

Photos