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