“No fucking way!” I said. He spoke no English. He understood perfectly.

Let me back up...

Riding south, I saw farmland as far as the eye could see. Raised on a farm, I recognized the dark, rich soil, tilled and ready for planting. This is the Sinaloa winter-vegetable belt, which supplies a huge share of the tomatoes, peppers, and cucumbers shipped to the U.S.

Jornaleros, migrant farmworkers, many of them indigenous families from Guerrero and Oaxaca, work the fields and live in company campos for the growing season.

Celestino Gasca Villaseñor was a Mexican Revolution-era general and notable labor politician. As an old man, he led a disastrous farmers’ uprising. Several agrarian ejidos bear his name. It’s officially “Gazca,” with a z. A town named in his honor, but they got the spelling wrong. Mexican bureaucracy at its finest.

They founded the ejido on May 9, 1975. Among the three founding families living under the trees, without water or electricity, were Inés Niebla and Fidencio Sánchez. They still live there.

So, why am I here? Certainly no family connections; I was just here for my first chance to spend time in a Pacific coast fishing village. I had been hurricane-ed out of my earlier picks.

I had booked my room the previous evening. I found a place where I could be on the beach and still have a good workspace to write articles, edit photos and launder some well-aged clothing.

Local writers praise Celestino’s famous ostiones de piedra (rock oysters), and Mexicans throughout the country rave about the great Sinaloan shrimp. So before checking into my hotel, I researched these claims and found La Fortaleza, a beachside seafood restaurant

.A family affair: the teenage daughter sheepishly offers me the menu, her younger sister checks me out while lounging in a hammock, the grandmother sets out the flatware and condiments, Mom does the cooking, and Dad goes to the local tienda to buy the beer I ordered. No oysters on the menu today. Instead, I ordered shrimp tacos and aguachile (raw shrimp bathed in “chile water” – it smokes!). Sinaloa shrimp could be the best prawns in the world. As I ate, Dad resumed repairing his fishing nets.

The heat was building again, and I needed a break. So off to my perfect new accommodations. Nobody told me before I rode off that three consecutive nights of torrential rain had fallen, courtesy of the outer band of Hurricane Rachel. Here I was, naively assuming my hurricane days were over.

The hotel was about four kilometers down the road. Four kilometers of deep ponds flooding the greasy road.

I made it through three ponds, but it was looking progressively worse.

I WhatsApp’ed the hotel and said that I couldn’t make it. The lady insisted that I could. I stood my ground. So she said she would send out a young man on a moto to show me a back way in.

He arrived and asked me to follow him closely. Thirty minutes later, we hit the freeway, then a gnarly dirt road back toward the beach. We rounded a corner, and I was surprised by a railway bridge. And a small lake stretched out in the distance. My guide motioned for me to get off the bike and showed me the secret passage. They had built a six-inch-wide detour along the embankment using small stones. I nervously laughed and exclaimed, “No fucking way!” He spoke no English but understood perfectly.

I told him we could trade bikes: I could ride his small, light dirt bike, and he could take my KTM. In perfect Español, he said, “No fucking way!”

So he called the hotel boss, explained the problem, and we agreed to abandon this crazy plan. We split. I reached the cuota (freeway) and noticed the “Low Fuel” indicator had come on. I could have easily reached the closest gas station by heading back north, but I discovered there was no way to cross the freeway to go north. Instead, I had to turn south and ride to find a retorno (U-turn location). Fortunately, a gas station was near the retorno. Unfortunately, that was another 25 kilometers away.

All in all, 90 minutes to get back to the village. I bought a beer, pulled up Booking, and had a replacement hotel on the beach in no time.

This one with no seasonal water features.

More Photos

Celestino Gazca Villaseñor annual rainfall: 600–800 mm (24–31 inches)
Altitude: 23 meters (75 feet)
Cumulative distance ridden: 3,160 kilometers

So that’s what I did, and I didn’t get run over.

I’d left El Fuerte early, having talked the owner of the Punto Madero Hotel & Plaza into a noon check-in. I was on a moto, and riding in this heat isn’t fun. Every time I’ve asked for this favor on this trip, they've granted it. Kindness and understanding are common here.

Sinaloa is “Level 4, Do Not Travel.” The cartel war (Chapitos vs. Mayos) is still going strong here, and the hottest part of it is where I was riding today.

While planning this trip, I’d had some anxiety about the dangers. I put it aside.

Main roads and daylight only, and nobody knows what to do with a 70-year-old guy on a weird orange moto.

I rode through thousands of hectares of irrigated farmland in a region dominated by corn, with beans and chickpeas mixed in. Huge grain elevators and oversized machinery made the scale obvious. This wasn’t just farming; it was agribusiness. I imagined I was in Iowa.

Near town, the terrain turned to green rolling hills. The entrance is the usual Pueblo Mágico arch, only grander, a long tree-lined street into town.

I arrived around noon, and the scorching had begun. Managing heat on a moto takes a few tactics. First, your jacket and pants have to let air through. That works while you’re moving. While sitting in a long line at a construction stop, you quickly roast and feel dazed.

A cooling towel around your neck helps until it dries out. The ads say it stays wet for hours. I got 30 minutes. Pouring water inside the front and back of the jacket provides evaporative cooling when moving, but when you stop, it turns into a steam bath.

And when all that water gets down to your butt, it just sits there, soaked up by your padded riding shorts. As it warms up, you feel like you’re sitting on a warm pool of piss. The hotel receptionist knows none of this.

Punto Madero Hotel & Plaza has an open courtyard with a large tree in the center, a common configuration in Mexico. Less common were the hundreds of sparrows beginning their pre-roost chirpfest. Mayhem. Then silence.

One sad detail: my moto had to spend the night locked up across the street.

The Jesuits planted a mission here in the early 1590s. The name is Cahita, tied to the Macorito people who were here first. It’s a Pueblo Mágico, but I’m not sure why. Let’s call it sleepy charm.

Mocorito claims chilorio: shredded pork seasoned with chile pasilla, garlic, oregano, and lard. I confess I didn’t eat any in the town that says it invented the stuff. What I did find was a produce place with a friendly, happy owner, who sold me on his miniature white beans and dinky black-eyed peas. They rode on with me.

The nickname, La Atenas de Sinaloa, comes from the town’s old literary clubs and gatherings, not its architecture.

Its monument is the Plazuela de los Tres Grandes: three bronze statues. Agustina Ramírez lost twelve of her thirteen sons in the French Intervention. Eustaquio Buelna was a historian. General Rafael Buelna was a revolutionary nicknamed El Granito de Oro, the Little Grain of Gold.

There’s your Athens of Sinaloa.

That evening, a band was setting up in centro at Plaza Miguel Hidalgo, where the kiosk and palms are the heart of town. I got lucky: Fridays are “Viernes de Plaza,” when the plaza fills with food stands and live norteño music.

For roughly three centuries, this plaza was the churchyard and cemetery. Now it was a dance scene. The singer insisted on being photographed and gave me several poses.

People of all ages packed the plaza, dancing with purpose. If their men weren’t into dancing, the women danced with each other and their kids. A special section was reserved for the old folks.

A volleyball game ran next to the rocking kiosk, and the teenagers playing it were talented.

There wasn’t a beer in the plaza. The only beer was across the street, where seven cowboys drank it while sitting on their black-and-brown horses. I never figured out their role in the evening. It could be as simple as, “Juan, let’s saddle up and ride into town to watch everyone dance.” Maybe they were too shy to dance.

Just another Friday night in Mocorito.

Mocorito annual rainfall: 619 mm (24 inches)
Altitude: about 90 meters (295 feet) in town
Cumulative distance ridden: 2,860 kilometers

More Photos

Leaving Sonora and heading to Sinaloa, the landscape turned into grassland. Not any grassland, but the biggest fields of grass I’ve ever seen, tall, thick, and vigorous. It’s buffelgrass, imported from Africa, and it has taken over. Verdant brush covers the hillsides, studded with pitaya dulce, aka organ pipe cactus.

At the Sinaloa border, I was pulled over at the Estacion Don checkpoint. I was waved through after exchanging pleasantries and staring at the odd-looking moto. This would be my only encounter with Mexican authorities in Sinaloa, the U.S. Department of State’s “Level 4 Do Not Travel” state.

Turning south, the landscape was now farmland, with huge fallow fields. On the road, tractors outnumbered cars. This rich land is called the Valle del Fuerte, vast fields on perfectly flat ground. It’s one of Mexico’s biggest irrigated breadbaskets, all grains and vegetables. Canals bring water from the three El Fuerte dams, which siphon off most of the water, leaving a dry riverbed near the coast for much of the year.

The Río Fuerte begins high in the Sierra Madre Occidental and reaches the Gulf of California, one of Sinaloa’s major river systems; I crossed it a few kilometers from town. With a wide channel and overgrown riparian vegetation, I had to get some shots from the bridge before going into town.

When I stopped in front of Hotel Torres Del Fuerte, it was 35C (95F), with a “feels like” of 39C (102F). Welcome to the sauna called Sinaloa! But what a find: a 400-year-old Torres family mansion converted to a hotel in 2006. Of course, I parked in the courtyard. Motos are treated with respect here.

El Fuerte is a river town at its core… and much more. A friend said, “It wasn’t much,” but I found it quite the opposite. A winding malecón, rich with birdlife and a river reported to be full of fish.

The main square, Plaza de Armas, is the showpiece of centro with colorful elote (corn) and taco vendor carts under towering palm trees.

It is also a gateway to the famous Copper Canyon railway: the Chepe Express stops here on its journey between Los Mochis and Creel, Chihuahua, in the Tarahumara Sierras. Many people stay overnight here before boarding the train the next day.

Plenty of tourist amenities here: upscale mansions-cum-hotels and famous Sinaloan seafood. With that in mind, I walked into a damned hot Mansión de los Orrantia for comida. They had floor fans the size of 747 engines, and nearly as loud.

I could have eaten the whole menu.

But I finally narrowed it down to the Lobina Zarandeado Especial or the Cauques a la Plancha. The Cauques dish was 780 pesos! That made it feel exclusive and artisanal...or was it just overfished (or, more accurately, over-prawned). So it was the Lobina, a local black bass. Richer than any fish dish has a right to be, because it broke that cardinal rule: no cheese with seafood. Mexico seems to ignore that culinary no-no. Tacos Gobernador, anyone?

I walked the centro and malecón at sunset and found this Pueblo Mágico town truly Mágico. Stately colonial architecture. And that square. And that river. And the seafood. I love discovering these places that feel like they have everything, but aren’t showing off.

This was my 15th day on the road, and I hadn’t seen or heard a gringo...except here. There wasn’t one or two or even four. The town was full of them. From talking to some of them at the hotel, I learned that it was the Médicos Voladores (Flying Doctors of Mercy), volunteer doctors and staff, mostly from the US, flown in to run free clinics here. The group has built a dedicated surgical facility in town and visits regularly.

El Fuerte annual rainfall: 636 mm (25”)
Altitude: 90 meters (300 feet)
Cumulative distance ridden: 2,550 kilometers

I still haven’t seen a gringo in the wild in Northern Mexico.

More Photos

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.

More Photos

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

More Photos

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

.

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

?

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

.

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

.

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.

.

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

More Photos

Previous Post

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

.

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

More Photos

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

.

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

.

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.

More Photos

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

.

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 ”

.

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.

Photos

Previous Post

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)

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.

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

.

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”

.

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

.

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.

.

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