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

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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.