The previous day’s rain was substantial, but from my perch on the hill, I didn’t think it was flood-worthy. Bad thinking.

Travelers talk about capturing day-to-day life in small-town Mexico. I try, but some mornings I’m just photographing people running errands. Then something interrupts the routine—a fiesta, a wedding, a funeral, or, in this case, a storm. Now there’s something to discuss. Everyone was talking this morning.

Water still ran through many streets. Scattered rocks and debris showed how much higher it had been the night before.

Three arroyos join in Álamos and flow to the Cuchujaqui River, on to the El Fuerte and the Pacific. Tall mountains surround the town and shed rainwater fast. This has created four historic floods. The 1868 flood took out many of the century-old cottonwoods and stone houses. In 2008, Hurricane Norbert finished the job, with vehicles ending up in trees and the remaining cottonwoods wiped out. And I just so happened to be in this place for tropical storm Polo.

I started walking toward the convergence of two arroyos and noticed quite a few people gathered there. It seemed the neighbors were having a watch party to check out the fast-moving waters. A row of homes lined one arroyo. The people there were stranded until the floodwater subsided. They seemed content watching it from their front steps.

The other arroyo was larger and had more turbulent water

One of the town's main streets crossed this arroyo. On any other day, it would have been a dry drive-through. Today, however, it took a bit of bravery to go across. The ranchers, with their big trucks and experience driving in the campo, got out, surveyed the situation, and told the wife, “Get in, we’re going across.” And they did, slowly and sensibly.

Then this guy—there’s always one of these guys—decided that if the trucks could do it, so could he. He had a small, old econobox and apparently figured speed would be his friend.

About two-thirds across, he started losing traction, and the car was going forward and sideways. Sensing a slight problem, he thought that more speed was the answer. More throttle pedal, more spinning wheels.

He made it, but not before the water tore his rear bumper loose, and it dragged noisily behind the car. There was no way he was going to stop and re-attach that bumper with some rope or wire. The spectators hooted, hollered, back-slapped, and split guts.

I envisioned thought balloons over their heads with phrases like “El Cabrón sin Defensa” (The Bastard Without a Bumper), “Capitán Titanic Arroyo” (Captain Titanic of the arroyo), and “El Vergas del Arroyo” (the arroyo badass).

It made our day.

SIDEBAR:

This is Mayo country. In their own language, they call themselves Yoreme, a word meaning “the people who respect tradition.” Mayo comes from the river, roughly “people of the riverbank.” Settlements, agriculture, sacred places, and culture developed from the river lands where these people lived.

The Spanish arrived, and it became yet another silver-rush boomtown. It has outlived its silver. At its peak, 30,000 people lived here, and for a long time much of the town, including its many mansions, sat abandoned. In the 1940s, word spread that some fixer-upper mansions were available, and Canadians and Americans began buying and restoring them. Today, a small population of expats lives here, many as snowbirds. They own a few businesses and run the charity Amigos de Educación. Professional dove-hunting lodges and a jet-rated airport add to the town’s quirk.

Álamos’s nickname is La Ciudad de los Portales—the City of Arcades. It has covered walkways, colorful columns, thick adobe-and-stone walls, and is known for its courtyards.

Álamos is the birthplace of María Félix, a defining star of Mexico’s Golden Age of cinema.

Another notable native was Alfonso Ortiz Tirado, who managed the unusual combination of physician to Frida Kahlo and internationally touring opera singer.

Lots more photos

Daniel walked me through the tasting, and I got lucky as it’s honest bacanora.

He adds pencas, the agave leaves, to the traditional pit-roasted piña, giving it a subtle vegetal edge and a fresher spirit. It weighs in at 43% ABV, one point above my self-imposed “42% minimum” cutoff. It earned its place in the sidecase.

The Murillo family has been making bacanora back in the 1850s, by Daniel’s account. He revived the family vinata in 2020, largely to honor that history. A chemical engineer by training, he decided Bacanora and family tradition mattered more. I keep running into people like this: they revive a part of their family’s history. Pride of family and place are real motivators here.

Along with the bottles on the shelves, he’s curated a small museum of family relics. It’s tasteful, and it pulls you into the family past.

I photographed the old pictures on the walls and later sent him color restorations, just for fun. He was floored by what modern restoration can do.

It really is magic

We talked about Álamos, its past and present, which Daniel swears is muy tranquilo. Then we got to the Sonoran cartels, and he offered his theory: they won’t bother me because they’re too embarrassed they don’t speak English. Somebody should do a test. They should send some cartel guys to English school and see if the gringo-chasing picks up.

Time to head home, and just in time. I’d forgotten the nature of tropical storms: many times the rain falls out of a pale, innocent-looking sky. It came in bands.

Light overcast, maybe a peek of sun, then a torrent, then repeat. The drops were fine as mist, mostly delivered sideways. Every time you thought it was clearing, it wasn’t. That went on for hours.

By nightfall, the town was swaddled in a sticky fog at 23°C (74°F). The power never blinked. I stayed holed up, and sometime in the night, tropical storm Polo moved on.

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But first I had a more immediate problem: that of a metal screw embedded in what had been my new rear tire. I’d spotted that bastard a couple of days earlier. Before heading on, it seemed wise to remove it.

Motorcycles break down, and their tires go flat. On a remote mountain road in Mexico, being stranded turns a good day into a seriously bad affair. Getting the bike and gear back to town is a big deal. Finding a competent mechanic and the right parts is even harder. Not a lot of orange bike shops in Mexico. That’s always in the back of my mind. I’d hope to find someone like Paul (and his truck).

Back to my screw removal, I scanned Google Maps and found a place nearby with a reviewer explaining, “I took it to get a new inner tube installed and they just patched it up, charging me as if they’d installed a new one—a total rip-off”. I took that as a good sign. At least they knew how to patch a tube.

Then I thought of Alberto. Being a motorcycle tour leader for decades, he knows people all through the Americas. Sure enough, he had a buddy who lives near Obregón, and Alberto quickly chased down a referral to a good local shop.

It was a top-notch moto shop, well stocked, with knowledgeable counter staff and an ace mechanic in the shop. Unlike in the U.S., where lawsuits would be underway if a customer was found in the shop area, I hung out and watched the guy work. It was a pleasure to watch a skilled tech ply his craft. Tire repaired, chain lubed and adjusted, everything wiped down spotlessly clean, and I left confident. He got a 50 peso propina. He had a look of surprise, but nonetheless pocketed it and nearly almost smiled. Mechanics prefer machines to people. I’d know. I was one for a while.

Against already-roiling skies, I rode out of Obregón through the Valle del Yaqui. It’s a huge irrigated farm plain, along the lower Río Yaqui between the Sierra Madre foothills and the Gulf of California. It’s flat, gridded with canals, and is richly productive, often called Mexico’s breadbasket.

What makes it special is that the world’s Green Revolution, as it came to be known, started here. In the mid-1940s, Iowan Norman Borlaug ran wheat breeding tests outside Ciudad Obregón. He created high-yield semi-dwarf wheat varieties that made the fields far more productive. Later, those new varieties saved India and Pakistan from mass famine. Today, the hand-wringers would scream GMO and probably shitcan the whole project!

Before the plant geneticists and large farm operations, this was Yaqui country. The valley bears their name. They fought the Spanish, then the Mexican state, for roughly 400 years. Under Porfirio Díaz, thousands were deported to the henequen haciendas of Yucatán, which amounted to slave labor.

The river that made the valley rich was historically theirs, but much of its water is now diverted to agribusiness interests. The fight for rights continues.

For my paleta (popsicle) break, at Navojoa I detoured to Pueblo Viejo, the original town, Mayo mission country on the riverbank.

The flat fields gave way to thornscrub and foothills as I gained altitude, then to deciduous forest scrub. Above town, the Sierra de Álamos rises into an evergreen forest, with pines and oaks on the high ridges. The Sierra de Álamos is the northernmost tropical dry forest in the Americas. Jaguars!

Álamos got its name from the álamo trees - cottonwoods or poplars - that grew in groves along the local streams and arroyos. The full early Spanish colonial name was Real de la Limpia Concepción de los Álamos, essentially “Royal Mining Camp of the Immaculate Conception of the Cottonwoods “.

Arriving late afternoon, I rushed through my ritual unpacking ceremony. I needed to walk the town tonight; tomorrow might not be dry.”

I already felt an atmospheric unease, and saw some were making advance preparations for the arrival of Polo season. The state had suspended all nonessential activities. Nobody asked me, so I carried on as usual.

Back at my place, I was ready; stacks of notes and photos to cajole into stories; Until the lights go out.

Álamos annual rainfall: 636 mm (25”)

Altitude: 380 meters (1,250 feet)

Cumulative distance ridden: 2,430 kilometers

More Photos

In moto adventure photography, the road delivers the photos to you. You always need to be looking, and when you see something, without hesitation, brake hard, pull over (then glance behind to see if it was safe), and shoot. Take the photo you can, not the photo you want. This morning I got to take the photos I wanted.

Rolling out of Yécora early Sunday morning was a very quiet affair, as I climbed down the mountains.

The terrain was subtly different, with more abrupt mountains and longer views.

Still, lots of water was flowing and the rainy season had brought enthusiastic greenery. I rounded a corner and was about to stop for a shot when I came upon a group of men, all huddled together. Not one of them returned my friendly wave. Either they were having a bad day or were interested in me having a bad day. I decided the photo wasn’t going to be that special.

Again, as on the way up the day before, the road was very narrow and the roadside vegetation thick and tall. But then the road surface abruptly changed to concrete, with three wide lanes and a wide shoulder. Odd to have a three-lane configuration, and who the hell found the budget to build such a high-dollar road so far from the city? Coming around one of the first bends, I took my eyes off the scenery and found a road full of rocks.

A recent rockslide had debris across two of the three lanes, leaving room to ride around the rock salad. And then another rock deposit a few corners further. So that’s why it’s a fancy wide road: so it could remain passable during monsoon season. In one corner, rocks covered the entire roadway, but someone/some people pushed enough rocks aside to create two-wheel paths so you could pass. There had been slides on both sides of the road.

I had to stop and take many photos. The best shot would be from the downhill side of the road, so I had to walk the entire debris field. I was about three-quarters of the way through when I heard a noise from above. It was a mini-slide of rocks. Luck was with me: my camera settings were perfect, and I swung it into position for some fast shots. I nailed it and realized I didn’t need to get to the other side. I had my shot, and the hillside showed me signs of instability.

This photo was taken at 55mm, tell you how close I was to the action. ven got pelted with some fragments.

My primary mission today on the way to Obregón was to locate an artisanal Bacanora maker. While Chihuahua has its Sotol, Sonora is home to the agave spirit Bacanora. Bacanora was illegal from 1915 to 1992, and its makers were outlaws who hid their stills in remote canyons. It is made only in Sonora, and much of it is drunk locally rather than formally bottled—or taxed—which means you have to go direct. That guarantees it’s the good stuff at 45-50% alcohol, not some diluted commercial crap.

It is made only in Sonora, and much of it is drunk locally rather than formally bottled—or taxed—which makes the good stuff hard to find

Broadly, it’s a Mezcal: Agave Angustifolia hearts roasted in a pit, crushed, fermented, and distilled. But it has its own Denomination of Origin (DO) covering about 35 municipalities in Sonora. It’s named after the town of Bacanora, in the mountains east of Hermosillo. Bacanora lesson completed; now time to find some.

My target was Rosario Tesopaco, a serious Bacanora distilling municipality. So serious, they have an annual Bacanora Fest. I quickly located the town square, parked under a shade tree, and then did nothing. Okay, I drank water and folded my socks. This elaborate strategy has never failed. Only minutes later, Salvador walked across the street from his home and introduced himself. He spoke limited English but plenty for our conversations, aided on occasion by Google Translate.

He had a son attending University in Oregon, studying graphic design. He wanted to show me something and asked me to wait until he retrieved it. He brought back a blown-up cover of a recent Vogue Mexico magazine. He said that his son had done the design.

He disappeared again into his house for a couple of minutes and came back with a cold beer for me.

The talk then turned to his cheesemaking business. He had studied in Querétaro. “I have a Brahman herd because they tolerate heat and their milk is particularly high in protein.” He was proud to show pictures of his massive cows.

Again, he told me to wait while he went inside to get something. Five minutes later, I had a full plate of semi-soft cheese and homemade flour tortillas just off the comal. Damn, that was a fine breakfast.

Now we could get down to business and talk Bacanora. He made a few calls, but nobody was picking up their phone on Sunday morning. Finally, he found his guy, and guess what- would I mind waiting a few minutes? Rubén arrived, and we talked Bacanora. His daughter Alejandra Peñuñuri had broken into the male-dominated business of making Bacanora, and he was a proud father. Now he works for her, an unusual twist for Mexico.

He pulled out two one-liter bottles of her La Carabina and asked for 600 pesos. Sinfully cheap for such a rare liquor. To me, the tasting notes were mineral, herbal, peppery, and desert-vegetal. Too me a more grown-up tequila.

After the long goodbye ritual, I remounted, riding west of Rosario Tesopaco, where the foothills begin to flatten out to the Yaqui Valley. The curves unwind, the elevation fades away, and cultivated land and long straight roads take over.

On one of these straight roads, I stopped to do, what else but take a photo. Two guys rolled up beside me in their new BYD. What the hell did they want? Well, to tell me I'd passed them on the way out of Yécora and they'd finally caught up with me. We wished each other well in our travels. They got a postcard.

This was to be my second night in a franchise box hotel. I go hard on these soulless places, the IKEAs of overnight lodging. But periodically they serve their purpose. They have proper coffee so that I don’t have to dump my coffee crystals into an empty water bottle and then fill it with hot-ish shower water. I can go through the breakfast buffet and eat in ten minutes, not the usual 60-90 minutes at a local small-town restaurant. And they are located around lots of stores that might have something I need, like, say, a new laptop charger.

What the box lacked in ambiance, Mariscos Carlos had in spades. I walked in, and the place smelled of the sea. I ordered a large campechano (shrimp, octopus, and scallop cocktail) and it couldn’t have been any finer.

An ancient man entered the restaurant, assisted by a stranger who got him through the door and sat him at a table. This guy ordered a shrimp cocktail grande. He promptly tore through it with the gusto of a campo dog, but not before dousing it heavily from three bottles of picante salsa. He ate like it was his last meal on earth. In his condition, maybe it was.

Back at my City Express by Marriott, I’ve held off using these overused superlatives, but I can’t hold back any more. The view from my room was, in turn, amazing, magical, charming, authentic, breathtaking, and an unforgettable hidden gem.

Ciudad Obregón annual rainfall: 384 mm (15”)

Altitude: 40 meters (130 feet)

Distance ridden: 2,310 kilometers

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It’s apple-picking season, handled by Rarámuri (Tarahumara) women who’ve journeyed in from their mountain villages. Apple orchards here are sprawling, not the pretty bucolic scene you might remember from growing up. Instead, the trees are covered with a fine black mesh to stop hail damage, sunburn, heat stress, and bird pecking. And blocking insects. Didn’t know the harmless little apple had so many enemies

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The orchards give way to a swooping road gently climbing into the foothills.

Then, after a handful of corners, I was in the Sierra Tarahumara (named for the Rarámuri/Tarahumara people who settled here). It’s a geographic subdivision of the Sierra Madre Occidental. I began seeing numerous mountain streams running full through meadows. Crystal-clear water runs over polished rocks, with wildflowers scattered among the young green grasses. I could have been in Montana. But I’m glad I was in Mexico. A good place to be at a good time of the year.

The popular draw here is Cascada de Basaseachi. At 246 meters (800 feet), Basaseachi is described as Mexico’s highest permanent waterfall. Many gush about the lush surroundings and roaring falls; it’s rainy season, and it’s at peak show-off mode, because waterfalls are all about grandstanding.

But I did not go to the falls. The plan was to spend the night, hike, and see the falls from the top, the bottom, and in between. Then, the night before, I had a meeting with myself where I identified this potentially frisky problem of Hurricane Polo. The storm was due to hit Guaymas the same day I was. So I scratched Basaseachi and pushed through to Yécora, putting me in Guaymas a day ahead of Polo. For once I’d be gringo early, which I abhor, but it beat meeting a hurricane on a motorcycle. I could drop the bike anchor and hunker down, whatever that means, in Guaymas.

So, this was a full day of riding. And taking photos. It felt like I stopped more than I rode on this high mountain road. It was narrow, sometimes great pavement but mostly a degraded, crumbling, potholed shit. There were no shoulders anywhere. Dense foliage made it feel like a green-walled tunnel.

I was aware in some situations that the perfect shot was near a home, maybe a home whose owners might not want to be in public view. Being in deep cartel country, I played it cautious and dialed back my Max Ehrmann “right to be here” attitude. (If you aren’t familiar, read his poem; it’s good if naive).

So, when a great view appeared, I just stopped along the rightmost part of the right-hand lane and took my photo. Some might consider it a bit dangerous, but you gotta get your shot. That’s the point of this trip. Get what you are going for.

About halfway between Basaseachi and Yécora, I reached the town of Yepachic, which matters for two reasons. First, it was my northernmost point on this trip. It is also one of the two principal cultural and residential centers of the Mountain Pima, who call themselves O’ob, in Chihuahua. The old Spanish mission church is still open for business.

Not much activity there; I moved on to Maycoba, another Pima center, now across the line in Sonora. The Pima have sadly become a minority in their own homeland. It was almost exclusively Pima in the 19th century, but lowland Mexicans have migrated into the area, taken advantage of them, and logged their pines intensively. The two groups distrust each other a lot.

But I needed some ass-off-the-seat time: a beer and a look at the village. As a full-on aside, if I’m on the cuota (freeway), the afternoon break is an Oxxo lime popsicle (paleta) eaten inside the store. If I’m on the backroads, it’s a beer from a roadside village tienda, enjoyed on a plastic chair out front while kids clamor for photos with the bike. It gives me a chance to be closer to the people whose land I am riding through.

The only place in town that I could find a beer was at the shop that sold snacks, hardware, paint, dog food, household cleaning goods, and beer. A family one-stop shop.

I squatted on a step and rested...but now here’s a major set change. A young teenage boy rode up on his old, clapped-out 125cc motorbike, with an equally clapped-out assault rifle (Cuerno de chivo) across his chest. He didn’t even glance sideways at me; he just walked into the store and did whatever business he had to do there.

A few minutes later he came out, jumped on the bike and rode off. If I spoke Spanish, I would have leaned into this situation and struck up a conversation. It wasn’t like this teenager would have turned me into Swiss cheese on the village main street. I can work in this environment. Once-in-a-lifetime chance. This kid might want to be heard and understood. Just don’t take me to a social event where I don’t know anyone and likely have nothing in common. Morbidly fearful for me. Can’t work in that environment.

As I rolled out of town, I was thinking: Too old for a toy, now in his teenage years, loaded with testosterone and ancient war armament. A man-child, more child than man. Mom must be logging double prayer time.

Back on my bike (notably with no accessory weaponry), I kept riding into more beauty. I got some great shots, but as with so many landscape photos, it’s really hard to capture the grandeur and reach. But I try.

Around a corner, I abruptly ran into a “Trees Down”. After heavy monsoon rains the last week, a small landslide on the hill above the road left two trees splayed in the middle of the road. Fortunately, that corner did have a turnout, so it was easy to get around them. A couple of people stopped and asked if I was okay as I walked around, taking photos like some zombie in full, armor-plated, weirdo gear. The trees might still be in the middle of the road; I’ll never know.

Yécora had four hotels, three closed for what I’m sure was “seasonal maintenance”. I arrived at the remaining choice, badly timed, 90 seconds after a mountain deluge. Two young teenage girls (one of whom may not yet have been a teenager) welcomed me and worked to check me in and check my credentials. This is always barrels of giggles from the girls, the older onlookers, and, of course, me. The house cat observes from a safe vantage point. I enjoy the role of the aged gringo.

A long day of riding in and through the Sierra Tarahumara. And now I’m in Sonora, looking over the second-floor balcony of my highway hotel, the semi-trucks purring across the street; a rest stop for all: travelers, cartel dudes, and long-haul truckers. In bed, the bike protected under the eave, and an accomplished, good ride under my proverbial belt, I drift off in the mountains of Yécora.

Yécora annual rainfall: 944 mm (37”)

Altitude: 1,576 meters (5,171 feet)

Cumulative distance ridden: 2,091 kilometers

Lots of landscape photos here

Sayra, a delightful young host, met me. I explained that my wife Mary and I had been through Cuauhtémoc many years back. We clicked right away when she learned that Mary’s family is from Chihuahua and that her 70-year-old father still rode a motorcycle like me. He was an avid mountain biker, too. Sayra boasted that her father rode his bike from Tijuana to Cabo San Lucas, called La Baja Mil, in 20 days in 2000.

I unpacked and quickly bonded with the family cat, who promptly turned my riding gear into a bed.

Soon, Arturo arrived, and we talked about motos and my trip for a short while. When you meet a fellow rider, you bond quickly.

We talked about his kid’s attraction to two wheels. Sayra rides a mean mountain bike, and her brother (also named Arturo) just returned from a motorcycle trip to Cancún.

Later that evening, I got a WhatsApp message from Sayra saying her Dad was offering me a free night. I had to decline as I was in a race against Hurricane Polo. And that the next time Mary and I visited family in Chihuahua, we could stay with them again gratis. Sayra quoted Arturo: “motorcycle and adventure guys don’t have to pay.” I now feel much fonder of this city. I pleaded with them to make a family visit to San Miguel.

Cuauhtémoc itself is a flat, sprawling ag-service town with almost no colonial core. A curious story is the Mennonites. It’s basically the Nebraska of my childhood. (Mary asked if I saw lots of people who look like me). Their home language is generally Plautdietsch—also called Mennonite Low German —but many speak Spanish outside the home.

I won’t turn this into a cultural and history piece, but I did dig up some interesting tidbits to share:

They are cheese and apple people. 85% of Mexican apples are from Chihuahua. And they make so much cheese that they cleverly opened pizza restaurants and became major cheese buyers. And yes, now that you ask, some of the shops make a sweet apple-and-cinnamon pizza, finished with a generous layer of Mennonite cheese. I had to gracefully decline Arturo’s chicken soup lunch offer so I could eat Mennonite pizza. It’s not Italian pizza, but everyone here loves it.

The Mennonites arrived by train in 1922, pissed off that Canada was forcing their kids into English-language schools. Then-President Obregón offered them their own schools, church, and no military service. Today the region around Cuauhtémoc holds roughly 50,000 Mennonites in a cluster of colonies. Mennonites are recognized as conservative family types, and they say they leave the tequila to the Mexicans...that’s what they say.

The next morning I felt something might be coming. I went out to start packing, and within moments Arturo had a full breakfast plate ready for me.

Arturo and Sayra had become my personal welcoming committee in a town I had expected to treat as a quick overnight stop. They reminded me of one truth about travel: you can research roads, weather, hotels, history, and food, but you cannot schedule the people who make a place matter.

See you next time—though apparently I will not be allowed to pay.

Cuautemoc annual rainfall: 450 mm to 492 mm ( 18 to 19 inches)

Altitude: 2,060 meters (6,760 feet)

Cumulative distance ridden: 1,761 kilometers

I guess they are all at the beach or in San Miguel. It seems like gringos don’t explore Mexico, and I don’t see many Mexican tourists either. When I am in cities, the response I get when I tell them what I’m doing is that they don’t do it, as it’s too dangerous.

On my Parral scouting trip, I found a “Monumento a Elisa Griensen Zambrano”: a bronze woman holding a flag, surrounded by bronze school kids. I visited it at night, and it was a little spooky. Kids marching behind a flag-waving woman who looks pretty damned serious. What does it all mean?

The story is that American troops were on an appropriately named “Punitive Expedition” in Parral looking for Pancho Villa in response to Villa’s 1916 raid in Columbus, New Mexico. On April 12^th 1916 28-year-old Elisa Griensen was a local studying in the U.S. and was home on vacation. The townspeople were protesting the Americans’ presence, but nobody from the government or military supported them. So Elisa sprang into action, asked the people in the plaza for help, went to the Escuela 99 (the elementary school), took the national flag, and returned. She rallied the crowd, kids included, then chased the American cavalry out of town. As with most Mexican historical tales worth telling, this one comes in several flavors; just know that this tale comes in many flavors. “I can only imagine the shit the troop leader caught back home: chased outta town by kids and a young woman.

In 2025, the city had to reinstall and bolt down three of the bronze children. It seems some of them had run away to the smelter.

Villa met his end years later when he was ambushed and killed here on July 20, 1923. The building the killers used is now the Museo Francisco Villa.

Villa was traveling through town in his Dodge when the ambushers attacked after a pumpkin seed vendor/accomplice signaled them by yelling, “Long live Villa!” Very creative. Accounts generally report seven gunmen and more than 40 rounds fired into the car. Villa was hit repeatedly—from nine to sixteen wounds depending on the source.

Villa was buried in Parral’s Panteón de Dolores, and in 1926, three years after the assassination, someone dug him up and stole his head. It has never been found. However, the rest of his remains were moved to Mexico City. Officially, they’re in the Monument to the Revolution in Mexico City; however, his wife insisted on digging up the remaining bones and replacing them with someone else’s so Pancho’s bones wouldn’t be stolen.

A young woman leading school kids forced the U.S. military unit that was hunting for Villa out of town; Villa gets assassinated, and somebody stole his head, all right here in Parral. See why I like this place

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Okay, after piling on the historical drama in this town, we gotta get to the final monument of this story.

I had decided on Hotel Boutique El Viejo Mundo for my accommodations. It’s a casona over 200 years old with a well-rated restaurant and a famous tequila museum. They claim it’s Chihuahua's first boutique hotel. Sounded like my kinda place. And it was. Each room is named after a local hero, with their photo and bio. Period furniture. It’s historic, cultural, and exudes character.

The owner, Edmundo Chacón, made his money by founding a major construction company. He’s now 86 and a rabid tequila collector. My guide said 3,600 unique bottles, but he’s still collecting like mad. A tequila curator, curiously in the middle of Sotol country.

Adriana Guerrero, my personal tour leader pointed out a unique specimen. Cuervo was the first maker to package its tequila in individual bottles, and the museum had one from 1905. Cuervo’s early bottles were called damajuanas, hand-blown, round, and wrapped in agave fiber

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It was given to Chacón by former Chihuahua governor Fernando Baeza. A senior Cuervo executive traveled to Parral to confirm the bottle existed and admitted that Cuervo doesn’t have one in its own archive. She claimed it was worth 400,000 pesos, but I think that’s collector’s dream pricing. There is no well-developed collector’s marketplace like there is for bourbon. People, with the exception of Don Edmundo, drink their tequila rather than shelve it. What would be the point of just looking at it.

When I first heard about the tequila museum, I was dubious. Was it just a few hundred bottles of tequila randomly displayed around the property or an exercise in half-assery? No, it is the real deal, obviously an effort of passion. I like those types of projects

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There are bottles commemorating musicians, actors, Lamborghinis, Porsches, Teslas, cartel leaders, Bitcoin, and hundreds of other vanity projects. Bottles keep rolling in.

What will my passion be at 86? It’s got me thinking… for the next 16 years.

Dozens more photos, lots of tequila bottle shots

A major part of this town’s story lies 900 meters underground. Mina La Prieta led to Parral’s founding. So much of the lore surrounds the mine and the people it made rich. Many colonial towns in Mexico were built because of mines, mostly silver, owned by the Spanish Crown and independent Spanish silver barons. The price for the royal license was a fifth of the profits (the quinto real) paid to the King of Spain.

The Parral mine goes back, way back, operating for 345 years, from 1629 until 1974. It was closed as the mine began filling with water, stopping 90 meters below the mine entrance- the level of the local river. Over those years, an extraordinary amount of money was pulled out of the ground. La Palmilla Mine owner Pedro Alvarado made so much money that, at one time, he offered to pay off all of Mexico’s foreign debt. Instead, he built a palace and named it after himself – Palacio Alvarado

A miners’ rustic latrine was called El Caballo. I learned that the best job at a mine site was a caballerango (toilet cleaner). It was considered easy, paid well, and usually went to older men.

I toured the huge mine and was enthralled with the massive equipment, especially the winding engine (mine hoist). Some looked circa 1629, and other pieces looked new. A lot happens over 300+ years

At the end of the tour, I came across an old man outside the ticket sales building, sitting in a plastic chair and keeping an eye on the visitors. I was surprised that he spoke English. He said that he spoke three languages in total. He had a tiny studio here, and it looked like he lived there. While his painting and folk art pieces were crude, the color he added to the scene was brilliant

It’s not unusual for people to seek out a photo when they see me slinging my big ol’ wrist-breaking Nikon. Moms love to have me take photos of their kids. For the first time, a pet owner insisted I take a photo of his dog.

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A peluquería (hair salon) owner insisted I photograph his shop. When he discovered I was riding a motorcycle, he became animated and shared photos of his Harley trike.

When I take photos of people, I nearly always ask first, unless I’m shooting as a shutter stalker, trying to get that candid shot. Because as soon as you ask permission, the scene you wanted to capture is gone. I always hand people my postcard and attempt to explain that the photos will be on my website in a few days. It’s unlikely many look.

Lots more photos here

My previous article

I was now pleasingly deep (keep your mind out of the proverbial gutter) into the Chihuahuan Desert. A first time for me. So excited to be riding in the largest, highest, and coldest desert in North America. This was one of my highlights of travel planning

Beyond the natural (overused) beauty and awe, there is also a weird, many-dimensional story in the middle of this vast area. This is home to the Zona del Silencio, an area that could have been the premise of a Carl Hiaasen novel... If only in Florida

The myth was birthed in 1966 when a Pemex explorer reported significant radio problems in an area of the Chihuahua Desert. The conclusion was that this was caused by magnetite mineral - extraterrestrial debris delivered by meteorites. Thus, the Zone of Silence

Then we take a hard turn down Weird Alley. In 1970, a U.S. rocket, weighing 16,000 pounds, launched from Green River, Utah, toward White Sands, New Mexico. It went badly off course and crashed in this area. It was carrying two small containers of radioactive cobalt-57. The cleanup operation involved a large Mexican workforce, a temporary rail spur to the impact area, and removal of the wreckage

Now, for the top layer of this Oddity Cake: there is a paranormal element, because deserts are famous for attracting bonkers stuff. UFO lore here claims encounters with tall, blond, perfect Spanish-speaking extraterrestrials who ask travelers for water, then disappear. Know that this is also the country of high-alcohol Sotol

And then there is the tortoise story.

This area is also in the Mapimí Biosphere Reserve. The reserve’s most important resident is the bolson tortoise, an endemic, endangered giant tortoise and North America’s largest land reptile. So there you have the twilight drama and an oversized turtle… excuse me, tortoise.

Riding through these storybook places was exhilarating. And then there was the ever-recurring toll booth and the OXXO, on the paid side. I went through the typical rider de-cramping process and looked around. Now, I was seeing some green. A very short ride into the village of Jiminez. I rode down a wide boulevard lined with leafy trees, boasting bright green leaves. It reminded me of Davis, California on a May afternoon

Jiminez Oasis

At the substantial risk of leaning on a worn cliché, this was an oasis in the desert. Lots of signs pointing one to the best hot springs. Fortunately, no Wellness Hotels. Just don’t get me started on upscale hotels selling $400 USD-a-night rooms and wellness treatments. I’m not a doctor, but spending thousands of dollars for a week at a fancy hotel doesn’t cure anything except a fat bank account.

It was a treat talking to a woman and her two beautiful daughters in the town square. The two daughters spoke excellent English. Mom, not. They say they are now fans of my project.

Valle de Allende

Now off Parral with a quickie side trip to Valle de Allende. What is this place that has borrowed our name? It is an old agricultural mission town—formerly Valle de San Bartolomé supplying the mining towns. Its recent claim to fame is a meteorite that hit in 1969. The Smithsonian compared it to the size of a Buick. They didn’t say what model

Parral Arrival

The day ended in Parral, where I would set up camp for three nights. It was time to rest the two wheels, take a break from the daily packing/unpacking ritual, and devote time to a fascinating place

Parral annual rainfall: 494 mm (19.4 inches)

Altitude: 1,722 meters (5,650 feet)

Distance Rode: 1,497 km

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Parras was a short visit, but I made time on the way out to visit the iconic Casa Madero Winery. I was found and asked to leave each publicly accessible area (the places without locks): the tasting room, production area, and cellar, because I didn’t have a ticket for anything. I just act innocent and apologize after I get my hurried shot in. I think I was only slightly abhorrent to the paying masses. I bowed my head and lifted my left hand, hoping I'd been forgiven.

When I got home and reviewed my articles on Leg One of my journey, I realized I sometimes gave pedantic lectures and spewed facts. I was a walking Wikipedia. But for this article, I am going to be the Leg One me as I unearthed some fascinating stuff about this place.

Casa Madero Winery has claimed to be the oldest continuously producing winery in North and Central America. Nobody questions it and Mexicans boast of it. Most of what we know about this business comes from the winery itself, and as such, it reads like a well-crafted, perfect “story”.

It is true that on August 19, 1597, a merced (land grant) signed by the governor to Lorenzo García was well documented. The grant did not specify grape growing. Wild grapes grew on the land, but they were later replaced with the Mission grape, a variety introduced from Spain.

The modern company Casa Madero was legally formed in May 1946.

Researcher Gildardo Contreras Palacios describes San Lorenzo and Urdiñola’s estates together, which would eventually be called Casa Madero, as a regionally important slaveholding center. A smallpox epidemic killed estate workers in 1609–10. None of this appears in the winery’s official story.

The hacienda changed hands 13 times between 1597 and 1893. And throughout all of these changes, they remained in constant wine production? The winery’s own timelines show that the estate spent the mid-20th century mainly as a brandy house. So, how did that magic happen

The Madero fortune got its big boost running Confederate cotton through Mexico during the U.S. Civil War, around the Union blockade

The winery claims more than 1,400 international competition medals. From what I’ve read, Casa Madero wines get better-than-average reviews, more like a reliable, good-value, well-made Mexican wine.

Currently, the water war is the big story. Local ejidos claim they have water flow rights guaranteed by law and have accused the winery of drastically reducing the flow.

In May 2022, a group with machetes and shovels occupied the irrigation network for about 24 hours, diverted all of the water, and forced a temporary closure of the winery.

In January–February 2025, the occupation resumed. A fire hit the winery, and authorities linked it to earlier threats. Casa Madero claimed the Parras fire department had instructions not to help.

The winery now employs hooded, armed guards to protect its interests against the ejidos.

End of the face barf, but I couldn’t find any place that published the full Casa Madero story instead of regurgitating the winery’s marketing fluff.

Riding through the Chihuahuan Desert

I left the dramatic exposé on Casa Madero behind. Now it was a three-hour immersion ride into the Chihuahuan Desert, often described as North America’s largest.

It’s categorized as a grassland desert. It feels unbounded. But it is not featureless: there are occasional mesas, jagged ranges, and arroyos, and a very occasional cow.

More on this place in my next post.

Torreón, a city and a story

Coming in on a backroad to Torreón, I came across an accident, and traffic was halted. My phone sat on top of my frickin-fancy-expensive tank bag, where it promptly overheated and stopped working, well-baked by the intense sun. So, my phone was cooked, I was wilted, and now I didn’t have a way to get to my hotel. I took a quick detour to OXXO, where we cooled everything down. A slight delay, but it was made up for by an icy lime paleta (popsicle).

I had got back on the road when a truck ahead of me suddenly swerved. No big deal, I wasn’t that close to him. But he had swerved to avoid a 9” long piece of 4x4 wood. That would have been a real big deal had I been in that lane.

I had my story on Torreón. It had been sitting in a dark corner of my brain as I had nearly visited it on Leg One and had done my research. It was going to be a real roast. And I was revved up because of what I had just encountered,

The place has no colonial anything. Its summers are brutal; the landscape is industrial sprawl, and what little groundwater there is contains arsenic from the lead smelter, the hot dairy farm cowshit odors. I could go on, but I was hungry, and the vitriol could wait until after dinner.

Charly Beach was across the street, and it had great reviews for its superb seafood. During my short walk, I must have seen a dozen chain restaurants, most American-based

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My server was David. He was a young guy who spoke admirable English. He treated me like I was special. He brought me free food. Each time he came to the table, he was excited to continue our conversation. On the surface, we had little in common. Ignore that, it’s wrong.

I handed him my postcard, and he took it back to the waiter’stations where he looked up my posts. He came back to my table, totally animated. He said his dream was to ride throughout Mexico and the United States. He gushed with admiration for my plan.

When I told him that I thought that he would one day likely manage the restaurant, he gave me the gentle look reserved for people who have announced a discovery already known to everyone else. “I’m already the capitán,” he said.

But what he really wanted to do in life was what I was doing. He bid me goodbye by telling me to have a great night, a great adventure, and a great rest of my life.

I was going to trash the city of Torreón and, along with it, the Torreonenses too. After all, what kind of person would like to live in this wasteland of a city? Well, David lives here. He’s smart, has a great spirit, is exceedingly kind, and is passionate about his life. I need to learn that every place has its place, and every person has their home, their life, and their dreams. So Randy, drop the judgments.

Thank you, David. I hope you get your motorcycle, your miles, and every damned thing you are aiming for in your young life.

Torreon annual rainfall: 224mm (9”)

Altitude: 1,120 meters (3,675 feet)

Distance ridden: 1,138

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My Previous Leg 2 Posts

Today’s plan was to get on the road early and avoid the metropolitan (what an antiseptic word) Monterrey traffic. And at 7:30, on a Sunday morning, there wasn’t much. The Urbanos slept in. That gave me the chance to crane my neck and check out the sights along the way. Even on these high-speed, multi-lane, mostly elevated freeways, they had a small sliver where I could pull off and take photos. The road would shake whenever a truck went by. Taking roadside pictures is the most dangerous act on this trip

Monterrey’s founders found a handsome valley framed by peaks, looking out over several notable peaks in the middle of the Sierra Madre Oriental and just couldn’t help themselves. So they built industry, lots of industry. And those industries required lots of people. 5,000,000 people. The result is a bowl full of air pollution

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Having just trashed Monterrey, I’ll admit it has a notable skyline. Two towers are the tallest in all of Mexico and Central America. One group of buildings sits right up against the mountains. Locals call it Sanpetrolandia, but the area is officially San Pedro.

Past the urban center, the mountains commanded attention. The ride toward Saltillo was unexpectedly pleasant. Along that route, I was reminded of that overused and overstretched phrase, “like I was standing still,” but it was accurate in this instance. I’d put it at roughly 250 km/h. I’ve been around all types of racing, so I kind of know this kind of thing. I didn’t say I was fast, but I know fast.

After a few notably slower Porsche drivers passed me, the road took me west towards the state of Coahuila, leaving the big mountains behind. Long ridges to the south replaced them, and north of the highway was starting to look very deserty. Quite a pleasant journey, eventually turning south for the final leg into Parras, right after a string of freeway restaurants.

Parras is a spring-fed oasis at the edge of the Chihuahuan Desert. It’s a perfect environment for vineyards, orchards, and other agriculture. It has a history of drawing tourists, and this Sunday afternoon was no exception. Lively in a good way, with happy people (maybe it’s the wine tasting?), great restaurants, and chatty street vendors.

I spent the afternoon in my office, writing and editing, biding time until nightfall.

It was time to go, and I grabbed the camera, seeking some epical shots. Instead, I got a vacant town. The tourists leave Sunday afternoon, followed shortly by the street vendors who have no one to sell to. Same as the restaurants. Everyone is home or going home. Except me, so I went stroll-hunting. It’s a small town, but with parts yet unexplored; maybe there was a moment to capture, a Parras-only image; I was grasping.

I heard noise down the street. I spotted a small church in the general direction. I sensed excitement. I followed my ears and found a sizable outdoor stage beside a church, a top-notch sound system, and a congregation of folding chairs, all filled. It was a good ol’ Sunday night girls’ musical event, and I jumped into the fun. I shot willy- nilly (exaggeration; he avoided harm). I shot quick, I shot low (don’t want to piss off the moms), and had a righteous, enjoyable time. A big camera is a virtual press pass, but I try to use it very respectfully

The show concluded; the vendors’ corndogs and cake were gone, and the performers were now getting cooing praise and hugs from their family. Another Parrense Sunday night for them, but for me, special, and you know what, probably special for them, as they live their lives for these special moments. Somebody smart said that 99% of life is forgettable; we only remember what’s special. I fight that.

Oh yeah, can’t forget the woman and her cuddly rabbit date. Yes, she brought a rabbit to the event. She was a beautiful woman with a conejo for a date

Being the spiritual type, I had to experience the local one. In addition to this being a wine area, this is Sotol country. For those new to it, Sotol is a distilled spirit made from Dasylirion (desert spoon in English), not agave. The two are related but separate plants. Some say it tastes like the desert. Mary says it’s the rotgut firewater that her Mexican mother drank decades ago.

I found the Sotol Los Cuates tienda in town, a noticeably humble liquor store. Two old men sat on stools (you can’t stand all day waiting for customers), and a dozen boxes of their product sat nearby. Let’s get to it: Thirty cases of inventory. One expression - why more varieties if what you have is good? One-liter bottle, a mellow 40% ABV, lightly aged. Respectable and agreeable. At the conclusion of the curated tasting in my room, I concur. I transferred it to a water bottle and stashed it in my mobile liquor side case/cabinet to be taken home. I still have plenty of capacity for later library selections. 150 pesos ($8.56 USD). I wish I had room for a case

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The day ended with one of Pepe’s locally famous hot dogs. Oscar Meyer dog, bun, bacon, salsa, pickled jalapeños, catsup and mustard, always eaten standing up.

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Parras, Coahuila average annual rainfall: 343 mm to 417 mm (13 to 16 inches)

Altitude: 1,500 meters (5,000 feet)

Total distance: 974 kilometers

Tomorrow: Changing a bad attitude

Before leaving town and striking north, I stopped at the local Oxxo to purchase a café Americano. Traveler’s trip: Oxxo coffee is quite respectable; they use good beans, and it’s push-a-button fresh. On the way out, I was asked to take a portrait. He, his buddy, and I had a good laugh.

What the experts billed as a nice ride through citrus country was a mostly nah-inspiring experience. Not many trees and no roadside vendors, save for the miel (honey) sellers. It was burning hot, so I cut into Montemorelos for a huge fresa helado and a gallon of water

On the way in, I saw an object in the glorieta that welcomes travelers into town

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The Rotonda del Tiempo (Roundabout of Time) has a curved, clock-like ring and oversized numerals. I arrived at 1:05 pm. It fit with the Matehuala 1950s theme.

Back on the road north, I arrived in Santiago soon after. But not before crossing a sewer leak sending brown water across the highway. I was trapped behind a car that slowed to a crawl while the driver in the left lane went WFO (old racing acronym for wide fucking open, usually uttered shortly before somebody crashes their brains out). Yes, I got sprayed with pungent sludge water. So, I rolled up to the pretentious Hotel Posada 1885 reeking of a well-seasoned cesspool. I usually stay at way more modest accommodations, but not tonight; I had to roll into this exclusive place with the essence of Sewer Runoff No. 2.

After a hurried shower, I headed toward Presa La Boca to chase sunset photographs. It meant crossing a six-lane freeway and walking along it for about half a kilometer. Since it was a freeway, there was no sidewalk, so I walked on a narrow strip of pavement, with cars roaring by (Nuevo León drivers are pedal-to-the-metalers). And what was ahead? The sewage flow. I had no choice; I’m dedicated. Fortunately, on this side of the highway, the flow was diminished, which meant drivers weren’t slowing down. I made it through, this time only covered in shit mist, not a full-on splashing. It was to be a three-shower day.

I made it. I took my photos. This reservoir was built in the early 1960s to supply water to Monterrey. It’s big. It’s now a tourist draw, not a wilderness spot. A notable malecón lines the shore, and mountains surround the lake. Just ignore the jet skis and tourist catamaran rides

Exhausted from my first day of hot weather on the bike, I longed for a simple, quiet night. Instead, I found a town full of wealthy visitors, wedding-party revelers, and people there to see notable Tejano singer Bobby Pulido, who performed his “La Última Desvelada,” his farewell tour in Mexico. Interestingly, he’s going into Texan politics, and this was his goodbye to his Mexican fans. Yes, another quiet evening in one of Mexico’s “Wedding Pueblos Mágicos ”

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I did find a homey place to eat, out of the buzzway. A few days into the trip, I had already seen a lot more restaurants in people’s homes. It’s cost-effective, and you just can’t beat having a family-cooked meal served on their patio. And the cook always shows up for work. A time-proven way to get authentic regional cooking. So what did I order? A hamburger

I enjoyed dinner listening to six cages of singing birds...and it was well past their bedtimes. It wasn’t only the birds that were active; the four children in the house were serving me. Michelin-level attentiveness. Child labor has its place.

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Trip Total: 705 kilometers

Annual Rainfall: 1,200 mm (47 inches)

Today’s High: 35C, 95F

Altitude: 445 meters (1,460 feet)

Tomorrow: Grapes in the Desert

Leg Two: I left San Miguel de Allende on September 17th and am headed north through Nuevo León, Coahuila, Chihuahua, and Sonora, then turning south again through Sinaloa and Nayarit before pointing the motorcycle home.

No Copper Canyon box-checking. No El Chepe. No long dirt roads merely to prove my continuing poor judgment. At least, that’s the plan, but adventure has veto power.

What it is instead: Sierra Madre Oriental, desert-country Parras, the mining ghosts of Parral, the high sierra around Basaseachi, a westbound crossing toward Yécora, and then the Sea of Cortez — Puerto Libertad, Punta Chueca, Bahía de Kino, San Carlos, and the southern Sonoran coast. And this all might change depending upon weather, ass-dragging, and my parabolic moods (see ass-dragging):

Leg Two Post-by-Post

0. A Long-Ass Journey

1. Matehuala: 50’s Lodging, Boxing and a New Friend

2. Linares and the Magnificent Sierra Madre Oriental

3. Breakfast beer and the evolving situation of the three-shower day

4. Parras de la Fuente: Wine, Pecan and Sotol country

5. Casa Madero Winery and the People of Torreón

6. Torreón to Hidalgo del Parral

7. Parral Mine & Street Scenes

8. Parral, Pancho Villa & Tequila Museum

9. Parral to Cuauhtémoc

10. Cuauhtémoc to Yecora, Sonora

11. Yecora Sonora to Ciudad Obregón, Sonora

12. Obregón to Álamos

13. Álamos Tropical Storm Polo

14. Álamos Post-Storm

15. Alamos to El Fuerte

16. El Fuerte to Mocorito

17. Mocorito to Celestino Gazca Villaseñor

18. TBD

19. TBD

20. TBD

Links go live here as each story is published.

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

This stretch had a high plateau with groves or forests or fields of yucca, whatever you call a bunch of those plants. They look a lot like cacti, but with bad hair days. Looking out over these vast swaths covered in these behemoths, with the Sierra Madre mountains as a backdrop, was a treat for the eyes. Maybe the most intense blue sky I have ever seen, with brilliantly white, pillowy low cumulus clouds.

Now, saying goodbye to 57, it was time to turn east at San Roberto onto Federal 58 toward Linares. It began as a broad, four-lane highway to the Pueblo Magico village of Linares. Not far into the ride, it took on a new look: limestone and high enough mountains that clouds obscured one of the peaks.

And then the road construction. A long stretch. At one point I couldn’t find the detour until I waited for someone to come along and show me the way. Our detour was on the left side, then the right side, then the middle. Enough orange cones that stretched end to end would certainly reach the moon.

I had been stopping frequently to take photos, and the last time I rode away, something weird was going on with the bike, as it seemed to be in gear, then neutral, then back in gear, then neutral —an unfamiliar, distinctly wrong feeling.

I stopped and did a careful inspection, removed a cover to see the countershaft sprocket, and readjusted my chain. I rolled the bike back and forth, shifting the bike through the gears. I wasn’t panicked, but my mind certainly was rolling through the what-ifs about how this situation might turn out. Having a KTM garage across the street wasn’t one of the solutions.

So, having found nothing askew, I gingerly took off. It must have been a one-off false neutral in the transmission. It’s been fine ever since. I tell myself that this bike is reliable, and not likely to suffer a catastrophic breakdown. I celebrated with lunch at the village of Iturbide, home to a forest research nursery and custom VWs

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Once the construction was over, the mountains got real. This stretch of the Sierra Madre Oriental range might be my favorite drama queen mountain range. These mountains were severe, impossibly steep and abrupt. A proper mountain crossing if I’ve ever made one. I stopped at nearly every corner to take photos I knew couldn’t capture the grandeur I was experiencing.

Then, on the way down, the road turned into a rhythm section, with the bike upright only in the brief moment between transitioning to left and right leans. Woosh.

Linares is a working Pueblo Mágico, not a tourist Pueblo Magico. Nobody comes here to get married. They come here for a genuine slice of nostalgia, history, working Mexico, and beauty. And they come for the Glorias

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A Gloria de Linares is a famous dense, chewy dulce de leche/cajeta, cooked down with sugar until it turns deep caramel, then mixed or topped with nuez (pecans). It comes wrapped in dark red cellophane. It’s named after the granddaughter of the woman who came up with this confection. I bought too many for my limited storage capacity, and when I handed my postcard to the clerk and asked if I could take photos, I got another assortment, courtesy of the house

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Many handsome buildings fell into my viewfinder in Linares

NOTE: Because this is a long-ass trip, I’m keeping a running total of the kilometers ridden. I’ll also note the average annual rainfall and altitude in each town I stay. Mexico’s climate changes dramatically from one region to the next, and the numbers will tell part of the story

Trip total: 599 km

Linares annual rainfall: 33 inches / 840 mm

Linares Altitude: In the mountains, it was 2,500 m (8,202 ft)

Tomorrow: Santiago, Wedding Pueblo Magico

More Photos!

I rode by a little town whose name was spelled out in rocks on a hillside. Santa María del Río. Say it. Say it again. Repeat, out loud. Sure beats Johnson City.

I arrived in Matehuala, and it was to be nothing more than a transit stop. I had to hunt down some stimulation. My travel excitement took over and kicked my inner world out. The hotel did its part.

Las Palmas Midway Inn is a late-50s motor hotel that has resisted modernization. You park your vehicle in the carport next to your room. It has the amenities the new long-distance auto traveler wanted: a restaurant, bar, swimming pool, gardens, and even miniature golf. And yes, a Bible and Yellow Pages in the drawer alongside the bed. I relished absorbing this old-time vibe. How damned fine to spend the night in a living artifact along an old stretch of the Pan-American Highway. A dear thanks to my friends Steve and Jorge who vociferously recommended this stop.

As the day neared sunset, it was time to take a look at this town. Not spectacular, except for the mighty fine Cathedral. Monstrous, but curiously low budget inside. I always ask myself how they decide the size, design, and cost of these buildings. I’ll do some research as this is an ongoing question as I travel.

Motoing out of Centro, I glanced to the right and saw a flash of what looked like a boxing ring. I quickly parked the bike and walked back, where a young guy sitting on a bench warmly greeted me and invited me in. Turns out he was the owner. The place was a barbershop during the day and a small boxing gym at night. He encouraged me to take photos. Now I was having real fun. No thoughts of kilometers.

Since my diet for the day had been a small bag of chips and a bottle of water, I was hungry. I apologized to my new friend, Irvin Zamora, and said I needed to find dinner. He ran to the back of the shop and returned, brandishing a large sack of pastries and breads (pan) and an oversized sports drink.

Writing notes over a meal of Cabrito al pastor and Montelobos, I reflected on other highlights of the ride. The pastoral settings of grazing goats, horses, and burros at the edge of this busy freeway. The roadside stands of cactus for sale, mostly sold on the honor system. The endless vulkas (tire repair shops), most of them small lean-tos, some mobile repair trucks advertising 24-hour service

A promising start, with 365 km logged. I’ll be doing this for the next twenty-two days. The kilometers can just work themselves out

Tomorrow: The dramatic ride to Linares

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Note: Irvin Zamora, Matehuala barber and boxing-gym owner, who chased me down for a selfie after welcoming a wandering gringo with a camera into his gym: https://www.facebook.com/share/p/1KTvXVbqVg/

I nearly called this whole thing off. This leg was going to be impossible. Too far, too hot, too dangerous. But then I came to my senses, put on my big boy pants, and planned my way through the challenges. I canceled the dream of going to the home of the Seri peoples in Desemboque, saving three days.

I pushed the trip out by two weeks to avoid the peak of monsoon season and the wilting heat. Now it will just be hot.

And finally, to just stomach the travel advisories, with the understanding that the authorities would prefer that you never leave your house.

Northern Mexico is Chichimeca and vaquero country, in contrast to the Mesoamerica of central and southern Mexico. Luis Alberto Urrea, in The Devil’s Highway, wrote, “They eat cheeks, ears, feet, tails, lips, fried blood, intestines filled with curdled milk. Southerners grew up eating corn tortillas.” It is here that carne asada is a social ritual.

It is Mexico under pressure—from drought, distance, migration, industry, and the United States. It is big country: the high deserts of Chihuahua and Sonora and the oversized aquarium known as the Sea of Cortez.

There will be photographs. There will be stories. There will almost certainly be at least one moment when I ask myself why being with my beautiful wife and sleeping in a comfortable bed in San Miguel did not seem like a better plan

No bucket list, no must-sees, no top ten, no hidden paradises. To go where few have documented.

Morning was met with moaning and groaning, especially Bob, who claimed to be bleeding from his eyeballs and in total muscular shock. We shoved off for Batopilas — a day of dirt-road riding, with Roger following in the support vehicle.

We stopped at a promontory immediately before the notorious set of switchbacks that mark the descent into the canyon. We looked out over a vast canyon; the far wall looked fifty miles away. This was the Road To Batopilas. Yee Ha. Seeing the canyon massively opening below and the sinuous dirt road dropping into it, my every nerve woke up. So alive you want to tell the whole world. Loose rock, bad judgment, and gravity would come later. Life is good. The road was wide and loose, a perfect dual-sport road, and the fast way down — 6,500 feet to 3,000 in 2 ½ hours.

At the bottom is a bridge over the Batopilas River. We pulled off quickly and nearly ran to the river, with Margie leading the way. It didn’t take long to strip down and dive in. Oh my god was it cold! We then sat on the sun-heated granite boulders and steam-dried.

Rounding one corner, we quickly approached a pickup truck that had rolled off a little pull-off of the road to a precarious perch about 300’ over a mostly straight-down cliff over the river. How that truck ever “hung on” is beyond me. Once beyond the original shock of this spectacle, we noticed that there were cases of beer in the back. Nobody suggested rescuing it... even Lin.

Bob and I rode into the town of Batopilas in the late afternoon, with Lin and Margie following not too far behind. Right before the single-lane bridge that crossed into town, a group of locals in a brand-new truck waved us down and gestured for us to come over. Wow, our own private welcoming party. Since they seemed “awfully happy” to see us, I decided to hang back. Bob, being the friendly type, had to ride on over and see what it was all about. I had a feeling they were strategically stationed right before the town entrance to sell their products. I was right about “product” but wrong about “sell” — they had enthusiastically offered Bob some pot. He respectfully declined and, to this day, wonders why.

We crossed the bridge and parked under the welcome shade of a tremendously large tree with bulbous roots. Batopilas was a village of about 1,100 people, its buildings packed along one narrow street following the river for two miles. At the bottom of the canyon, it felt like a genuine terminus—the road ended there.

This wonderful village of Batopilas has a population of 1,100, with tightly packed buildings along one narrow street that follows the river for two miles. Nestled down at the bottom of the canyon, it has a feeling of a destination – the road ends here. It took about two nanoseconds for the place to get its hooks in us. 42 miles today.

We checked into the Hotel Mary, directly across the dusty street from the village church. We rode our bikes through the front door, then the courtyard, and finally to an area facing the river without anyone blinking an eye.

That night we enjoyed a superb meal at Roger’s favorite little restaurant in town — part of someone’s house, a couple of tables up front where guests could dine. The signature dish was a hearty soup of potatoes, goat cheese, and native herbs in a chicken-based broth. Regional food at its best.

Wednesday morning was for bike maintenance—a holy day ordained by Pope Jennings back in 1892 and followed religiously to this day by all Orthodox Motorcyclists. On the way out of town, we made a quick stop at Satevo, the “Lost Mission.” It seems nobody knows who built this church.

Roger turned off abruptly to cross a long footbridge on his bike. But Lin couldn’t pass up a good opportunity and decided he’d weave his bike while riding across. This particular footbridge took exception to 400 pounds of mass moving in so many different directions — it started flopping around like the Tacoma Narrows Bridge before it. It took Bob and me all our effort to stay upright. We made it, but we’ll have one tomorrow for ol’ Uncle Lin!

We stopped at a very nice little ranch, down close to the river, that turned out to be much more than a ranch. It was a stop for the area’s social-services doctor and assistant, who made periodic visits to provide medical care. The mothers had formed a long line with their children in tow. This scene prompted Margie to recall some wonderful stories about her grandfather and great-grandfather, who had both practiced medicine in simpler times. The ladies made us lunch.

Meanwhile, Roger discovered that local commerce wasn't just ranching but branched out (pun intended) to farming weed. A large sample of the local harvest was gifted to us

It was time to push on. Lin went ahead and boldly crossed the river; I followed and promptly buried the bike to the axle. A local appeared out of nowhere and helped me extricate it — he let out a yelp when he bare-handedly grabbed the exhaust. It was then that Roger decided we didn’t want to cross the river here after all, so I had to cross back again — and ended up “in” the river again. As we rode on, another river crossing presented itself, and yes, I dumped it in the middle of the river One More Time. Little did everyone know that I staged this entire event for their personal amusement. The things I go through to entertain my fellow riders! Back in town: 30 miles, several river crossings, and one thoroughly humbled rider

.

Thursday, we headed north of Batopilas on a goat/burro/foot trail that follows the river — to the left, a house; to the right, a 45-degree drop toward a pencil-thin trail and an aqueduct. I was the glorious first rider to go down. Next was Bob’s turn, placing both the bike and himself in a very precarious position balanced on the aqueduct wall. Very impressive. The trials riders just scoffed at us.

The next few kilometers would turn out to be a frontal assault on sanity and the body. By noon I had the following collateral damage: shift lever bent behind the left foot peg, , a rock lodged between the shifter shaft and frame, broken clutch lever (which made for a one speed motorcycle), bent brake levers, ripped-up handlebar grips. The kick starter, though, held up perfectly the entire trip. During lunch, Roger asked if I had enough — “No, this is more fun than anything I’ve ever done in my life on a motorcycle.”

We rode up two different mountainsides. The taller about 7,000 feet, high enough to pick out two of Copper Canyon’s five interlocking canyons — Bob took one look and called it ‘very similar to the Grand Canyon’.

About this time, Margie went on reserve. Bob and I roared down the mountain, without any worries of gasoline consumption. We stopped once, looked up, and saw Margie on the way down, so took off again in rapid pursuit. Once at the bottom, we sat… and sat…. and sat. Shall we turn back and see where they are? Nah, they’ll be coming soon. Yup, they were coming all right, coasting down the mountain from 7’000 down to 2’000’ trying to preserve the minuscule amount of fuel left in their Pamperas. I guess that this was the revenge of the dual sports – take us on those little goat trails again, you quart-sized tank, 180 lb weaklings!

Lin was pissed at us when they finally “coasted” in. Seemed we had violated some “Emily’s Rules Of Trail” etiquette by not making sure the bikes on reserve would make it down. I guess I thought that gravity would assume responsibility if the dinosaur pee was gone. Once the dissatisfaction was expressed, the quick plan was to have the two bikes still running coast into town while Bob towed Roger the remaining six miles. This plan worked fine with minimal problems, but it certainly added color to the adventure.

This was a 56-mile day. That night, Lin convinced the bar owner, Luis, to sell him two liters of local liquor — not tequila, not Mezcal, but “actually better.” Lin sampled heavily into the night

Friday, back over the top, we came upon a pickup truck stalled in the road, a panicked woman at the wheel and two saucer-eyed kids in the back. We guessed she was fleeing a nasty husband. Lin was first to bail off the road and up a hill to miss the excitement.

At our first stop at Marta’s on the way in, we had met a family who explained that they were in Sanmachique on a mission — they were Amish. When we returned, another Amish man and his two sons greeted us, working away with a Tarahumara in training. They seemed very satisfied with their work and life in this poor, remote part of Mexico.

We fired ‘em up and rode into Creel on that same great highway as before. In Creel we gathered the group together and waited for Roger with the support vehicle, and we had to trailer the bikes. We had only another 600 miles to drive, and then we’d be in El Paso.

Motorcyclists aren't typically big on sentimentality or touchy-feely stuff, but this time was different. Bob, good luck with your shins. Margie, someday I hope to ride as well as you. Until then, I will be perfectly content trying to keep you in sight. Lin, as Jim Hightower would say, “There’s nothing but yellow stripes and dead armadillos in the middle of the road.” Roger, the expert and our fearless leader: “Let’s try this trail!

As Roger told us before we went, it truly is the adventure of a lifetime. I guess the doilies will have to wait until next time. Happy Trails!

Epilogue

After getting delivered to Margaret’s house in El Paso, I began deconstructing my primitive gear packs and enjoyed the wind-down buzz. Once I’d separated the best of Copper Canyon from my gear, we sat down and enjoyed a few shots of workhorse Centenario tequila.

The conversation got around to Margaret explaining that she and her older brother Joe were playing in the kitchen one day and came across a bottle of clear liquid with anise, cinnamon, raisins, and pecans soaking in it. Later she learned that this under-the-sink find was a local Chihuahua concoction — sotol, distilled from Dasylirion, a cousin of Agave. “you put in some peeches, and cimmamom and give it to your friend as a gift.” Luis, you weren’t so crazy after all!

For more photos

Copper Canyon, 2000, is now posted. These Before 70 stories will pause for a while because next week I leave on Leg 2 of the 70th-Year Mexico motorcycle project.

From here, the stories will be current: roads as they are, not as I dimly remember them; current photographs and the usual mix of fine Mexican hospitality, weather, mechanical woes, and unusual stories that I find untold.

The old tales are not finished. They are merely waiting their turn.

Editor’s note: Before 70

In 2000, I rode into Copper Canyon long before I lived in Mexico, long before I began planning a 32-state motorcycle year, and long before my cell phone could tell me where I was or where I should sleep.

These two pieces are from that earlier Mexico life. I have edited them for clarity, length (my original story was 12,000 words, who would read that!), and the occasional sentence that deserved to be killed. But I have kept the original ride, its mistakes, its limits, its photos, and its point of view intact. Copper Canyon has changed since then. So have I. The story remains what it was: a motorcycle rider getting in over his head in one of Mexico’s great landscapes.

Little did I know at the time, but that Copper Canyon ride was to be a precursor of my life in Mexico. Fast forward and I have a better camera, more knowledge of Mexico and maybe, but probably not, more common sense.

“Well Girls, Are We Riding Or Making Doilies?”

Here begins an adventure story whose roots date back three years. I was reading Cycle News Magazine when I came across an article entitled “Recreating The Extreme Dream.” It was about an adventure tour in Copper Canyon, Chihuahua, Mexico. The article really grabbed my interest with such lines as “If you’d be interested in exploring the nearly untouched beauty of Copper Canyon and feel ready to tackle an ‘extreme’ ride, Roger Pattison was readying more expeditions.” And from a participant: “This was the trip of a lifetime. Remarkable.”

That was enough for me. I called Roger, and he quickly made up my mind. I sent a down payment, and the ride was scheduled for the following winter. Unfortunately, work had a way of spoiling plans, not only in 1998 but in 1999 as well. In the fall of 1999, Roger emailed me and told me that this time around I didn’t have much of a choice, as it would be his last trip to Copper Canyon.

Fortunately, I was very well prepared for the adventure, like always. My bike, a 1994 Suzuki DR350, was completely stock, including full lighting and the original tires. I had logged about 25 miles of off-road riding in the past 26 years, and had only ridden in the dirt once since 1975 — and fell in the parking lot at that! Now I was going on an “extreme” adventure, deep in the heart of Mexico with a bunch of people I had never met, with a bike more suited to going to the corner store than traversing a trail. This was shaping up to be my kind of challenge.

I flew from San Francisco to El Paso, where Mary’s sister Margaret kindly put me up for the night. I rode out the next day to meet up with Roger and my fellow riders. Roger Pattison, our fearless leader, along with Bob Entrop, Margie Denton, and her husband Linus Brewer. We loaded the DR, had a quick lunch, and off we went, leaving El Paso at noon on Saturday, February 12, 2000.

The border crossing was where Roger’s previous warnings about “bureaucratic gamesmanship” started to make sense. Six different lines — insurance, visa, copies, the works — and on the fourth I was told I needed the original title or registration, or there was no way I would get the vehicle permit. I only had copies. Roger decided the best tactic was to have the boss “sign” the registration and indicate that it was a “certified copy.” This was gonna have to work, or else I was going to be in big trouble. We made it through in about 2 ½ hours, and nobody was subjected to any rectal cavity searches.

Roger was obviously a relaxed and loose guy, looking like Crocodile Dundee. Linus was a Dentist and a closet conservative talk show host. His wife, Margie (hard g), was a Physician and somehow had remained married to Linus for some 20-plus years! Bob was new to dirt riding but had lots of road experience. Somehow, he ended up with a brand-new Kawasaki KLR250 for the trip, a bike that would prove less than adequate for the riding tasks soon at hand.

We finally arrived at the Hotel Casa Grande in Chihuahua, where we enjoyed a big dinner, shots of Mexico’s finest, and much laughter; Bob won the “Most Beer Through The Nose” award for the evening.

Day two dawned warm and clear. Roger made a public service announcement: no more razors and more watches. We were headed to our first destination within Copper Canyon: the small Tarahumara Village of Sanmachique.

We finally reached Creel at the top of the canyon, and I couldn’t take it anymore — that bike had to come off the trailer. Off we went on a great curvy mountain road, averaging about 40 mph, with lots of elevation changes and some very nice 180-degree switchbacks.

After riding quite a ways, we finally stopped as the sun was fleeing down the sky. We still had not seen the village. Had we not made a proper turn? It was getting cold. All of a sudden, the concept of “Roger” became important to the four of us. In a three-to-one vote, we decided to double back. Sure enough, Roger was around a corner quite a ways down the road on his bike. We hadn’t made the turn at the unmarked intersection 15 kilometers back — silly us! We rode 66 miles.

Arriving at Sanmachique, we settled in at our hostess Marta’s kitchen table, lit by oil lamps and warmed by an open-hearth fire. She prepared a meal of refried beans, an egg dish, and very tasty red-tinted rice. The group was also introduced to a special treat called chili tepin — dried peppers about the size of a soybean, loaded with enough capsaicin to be at the far right-hand side of the Scoville unit table. The cook explained that they are at the upper threshold for everyday spicy foods. I wondered what the threshold for special-day spicy foods might be.

We met the morning light with a cacophony of crowing roosters; I estimated in excess of 10,000. I made two quick observations. First, there were clocks everywhere — on all of the walls. I never saw one that was functional. The village has no electrical power. Second, and completely unrelated, I observed that the Tarahumaras are a very shy and quiet people. Little eye contact, except for those warm, open, and engaging eyes of the young boys.

Where did Roger go? Roger simply knows how to deliver adventure. There are many ways to do it wrong, most of them over-planned and contrived — an enactment of an adventure, where everything is safe and the results pre-determined. Not with Roger. He lets the environment, culture, locale, and chaos determine the course. This would explain why he lost us…. Alternatively, we lost him.

A growing throng of youngsters had gathered on top of the hill overlooking Sanmachique, waiting for the ritual hill climb Roger had mentioned in his advance letter a month before the trip. Someone had fenced in the hill this year, so the only way up to the base was to drag the bike up an 80-degree rock wall with the help of many locals.

Roger launched his assault, and it took three separate tries to finally reach the top. When he fell in the deep scree in the middle of “phase II,” the onlookers down below got quite a laugh — honest and innocent laughter, truly comically delighted, with nary a hint of making fun of him.

It was time for our leader to take us off-road to experience some real trails. This was some gnarly riding for Bob and me. By the time we stopped for lunch, I had already fallen three times, most unceremoniously. Humility is good for the soul. A small ego is a good ego.

At lunch, Bob and I were offered the Pamperas — Roger and Lin sacrificed their world-class trials motorcycles for the overweight and over-geared DR and the overweight, wienie KLR, so we could all really enjoy the situation. This bike trade was the kindest act of my motorcycling experience. Both of these guys are experienced competition-level trials riders, and they took it all in stride and made maximum fun of what they had to ride. So where was poor little Margie? Well, she was riding like a pro.

These trials bikes were amazing. Point them, and they go there. There were the knife-edge trails, averaging four inches wide on a 60-degree slope, lined with trees within a couple of inches of the trail. At this point in the day, I was counting eight get-offs or so — none of them spectacular, one or two respectable, and the rest embarrassing. Bob’s bike also attempted to eat his leg. He didn’t fall to accomplish this feat. Rather, in sliding his bike down an impossible mountainside, he somehow worked from above the bike to underneath it in about a hundred feet or so.

Lin was man enough to say “uncle,” and we stopped for the day. Back in the village, I recorded the day’s mileage. Twenty-seven miles. Maybe spelling it out makes it appear longer. Roger told the tale of a previous trip when they used a local guide. The terrain was so gnarly that when they quit for the day, he just walked home.

After a short rest, it was time for the ritual of giving the village kids motorcycle rides. Bob, Lin, Roger, and I gave plenty of “E Ticket” rides to these Tarahumara boys, and the village literally erupted with glee. While we waited for dinner, we enjoyed a spontaneously created ritual of the “Passing Of The Crystal Springs Tequila Bottle,” sitting cross-legged in front of the bunkhouse; a three-quarter moon began peeking over the mountaintop.

Later, firmly ensconced in our sleeping bags, we were a captive audience for the introduction of the Sanmachique Barnyard Choir — the porcine section starting the first verse, and the fowl section soon to follow, with a special guest appearance that night from a braying burro. Damn, those guys really get into it.

For More Photos

Go to Part Two - Copper Canyon 2000

Next stop: the bottom of the deepest canyon in Mexico.

Leg One, day by day:

1. Night Zero — the blessing, the bike, the send-off

2. Day 1 — San Luis Potosí

3. Day 2 — Real de Catorce

4. Day 3 — Real de Catorce

5. Day 4 — Real de Catorce

6. Day 5 — Real de Catorce to Zacatecas

7. Day 6 — Zacatecas

8. Day 7 — Zacatecas

9. Day 8 — La Quemada & Jerez

10. Day 9 — Jerez to Durango

11. Day 10 — Dolores del Rio Detour

12. Day 11 — Durango

13. Day 12 — Durango, Espinazo

14. Day 13 — Chupadero and Nombre de Dios

15. Day 14 — Altavista & Sierra de Órganos

16. Day 15 — Sombrerete

17. Day 16 — Sombrerete to Pinos

18. Day 17 — Pinos

19. Day 18 — Don Antonio Mezcal & Home

20. Epilogue — Round One Complete

Round Two heads north — Nuevo León, Coahuila, Chihuahua, Sonora, and Sinaloa. More on that soon.

Recorriendo la vida para ver qué sucede.

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