“Well, Girls, Are We Riding Or Making Doilies?”
Morning was met with moaning and groaning, especially Bob, who claimed to be bleeding from his eyeballs and in total muscular shock. We shoved off for Batopilas — a day of dirt-road riding, with Roger following in the support vehicle.
We stopped at a promontory immediately before the notorious set of switchbacks that mark the descent into the canyon. We looked out over a vast canyon; the far wall looked fifty miles away. This was the Road To Batopilas. Yee Ha. Seeing the canyon massively opening below and the sinuous dirt road dropping into it, my every nerve woke up. So alive you want to tell the whole world. Loose rock, bad judgment, and gravity would come later. Life is good. The road was wide and loose, a perfect dual-sport road, and the fast way down — 6,500 feet to 3,000 in 2 ½ hours.
At the bottom is a bridge over the Batopilas River. We pulled off quickly and nearly ran to the river, with Margie leading the way. It didn’t take long to strip down and dive in. Oh my god was it cold! We then sat on the sun-heated granite boulders and steam-dried.
Rounding one corner, we quickly approached a pickup truck that had rolled off a little pull-off of the road to a precarious perch about 300’ over a mostly straight-down cliff over the river. How that truck ever “hung on” is beyond me. Once beyond the original shock of this spectacle, we noticed that there were cases of beer in the back. Nobody suggested rescuing it... even Lin.
Bob and I rode into the town of Batopilas in the late afternoon, with Lin and Margie following not too far behind. Right before the single-lane bridge that crossed into town, a group of locals in a brand-new truck waved us down and gestured for us to come over. Wow, our own private welcoming party. Since they seemed “awfully happy” to see us, I decided to hang back. Bob, being the friendly type, had to ride on over and see what it was all about. I had a feeling they were strategically stationed right before the town entrance to sell their products. I was right about “product” but wrong about “sell” — they had enthusiastically offered Bob some pot. He respectfully declined and, to this day, wonders why.
We crossed the bridge and parked under the welcome shade of a tremendously large tree with bulbous roots. Batopilas was a village of about 1,100 people, its buildings packed along one narrow street following the river for two miles. At the bottom of the canyon, it felt like a genuine terminus—the road ended there.
This wonderful village of Batopilas has a population of 1,100, with tightly packed buildings along one narrow street that follows the river for two miles. Nestled down at the bottom of the canyon, it has a feeling of a destination – the road ends here. It took about two nanoseconds for the place to get its hooks in us. 42 miles today.
We checked into the Hotel Mary, directly across the dusty street from the village church. We rode our bikes through the front door, then the courtyard, and finally to an area facing the river without anyone blinking an eye.
That night we enjoyed a superb meal at Roger’s favorite little restaurant in town — part of someone’s house, a couple of tables up front where guests could dine. The signature dish was a hearty soup of potatoes, goat cheese, and native herbs in a chicken-based broth. Regional food at its best.
Wednesday morning was for bike maintenance—a holy day ordained by Pope Jennings back in 1892 and followed religiously to this day by all Orthodox Motorcyclists. On the way out of town, we made a quick stop at Satevo, the “Lost Mission.” It seems nobody knows who built this church.
Roger turned off abruptly to cross a long footbridge on his bike. But Lin couldn’t pass up a good opportunity and decided he’d weave his bike while riding across. This particular footbridge took exception to 400 pounds of mass moving in so many different directions — it started flopping around like the Tacoma Narrows Bridge before it. It took Bob and me all our effort to stay upright. We made it, but we’ll have one tomorrow for ol’ Uncle Lin!
We stopped at a very nice little ranch, down close to the river, that turned out to be much more than a ranch. It was a stop for the area’s social-services doctor and assistant, who made periodic visits to provide medical care. The mothers had formed a long line with their children in tow. This scene prompted Margie to recall some wonderful stories about her grandfather and great-grandfather, who had both practiced medicine in simpler times. The ladies made us lunch.
Meanwhile, Roger discovered that local commerce wasn't just ranching but branched out (pun intended) to farming weed. A large sample of the local harvest was gifted to us
It was time to push on. Lin went ahead and boldly crossed the river; I followed and promptly buried the bike to the axle. A local appeared out of nowhere and helped me extricate it — he let out a yelp when he bare-handedly grabbed the exhaust. It was then that Roger decided we didn’t want to cross the river here after all, so I had to cross back again — and ended up “in” the river again. As we rode on, another river crossing presented itself, and yes, I dumped it in the middle of the river One More Time. Little did everyone know that I staged this entire event for their personal amusement. The things I go through to entertain my fellow riders! Back in town: 30 miles, several river crossings, and one thoroughly humbled rider
.
Thursday, we headed north of Batopilas on a goat/burro/foot trail that follows the river — to the left, a house; to the right, a 45-degree drop toward a pencil-thin trail and an aqueduct. I was the glorious first rider to go down. Next was Bob’s turn, placing both the bike and himself in a very precarious position balanced on the aqueduct wall. Very impressive. The trials riders just scoffed at us.
The next few kilometers would turn out to be a frontal assault on sanity and the body. By noon I had the following collateral damage: shift lever bent behind the left foot peg, , a rock lodged between the shifter shaft and frame, broken clutch lever (which made for a one speed motorcycle), bent brake levers, ripped-up handlebar grips. The kick starter, though, held up perfectly the entire trip. During lunch, Roger asked if I had enough — “No, this is more fun than anything I’ve ever done in my life on a motorcycle.”
We rode up two different mountainsides. The taller about 7,000 feet, high enough to pick out two of Copper Canyon’s five interlocking canyons — Bob took one look and called it ‘very similar to the Grand Canyon’.
About this time, Margie went on reserve. Bob and I roared down the mountain, without any worries of gasoline consumption. We stopped once, looked up, and saw Margie on the way down, so took off again in rapid pursuit. Once at the bottom, we sat… and sat…. and sat. Shall we turn back and see where they are? Nah, they’ll be coming soon. Yup, they were coming all right, coasting down the mountain from 7’000 down to 2’000’ trying to preserve the minuscule amount of fuel left in their Pamperas. I guess that this was the revenge of the dual sports – take us on those little goat trails again, you quart-sized tank, 180 lb weaklings!
Lin was pissed at us when they finally “coasted” in. Seemed we had violated some “Emily’s Rules Of Trail” etiquette by not making sure the bikes on reserve would make it down. I guess I thought that gravity would assume responsibility if the dinosaur pee was gone. Once the dissatisfaction was expressed, the quick plan was to have the two bikes still running coast into town while Bob towed Roger the remaining six miles. This plan worked fine with minimal problems, but it certainly added color to the adventure.
This was a 56-mile day. That night, Lin convinced the bar owner, Luis, to sell him two liters of local liquor — not tequila, not Mezcal, but “actually better.” Lin sampled heavily into the night
Friday, back over the top, we came upon a pickup truck stalled in the road, a panicked woman at the wheel and two saucer-eyed kids in the back. We guessed she was fleeing a nasty husband. Lin was first to bail off the road and up a hill to miss the excitement.
At our first stop at Marta’s on the way in, we had met a family who explained that they were in Sanmachique on a mission — they were Amish. When we returned, another Amish man and his two sons greeted us, working away with a Tarahumara in training. They seemed very satisfied with their work and life in this poor, remote part of Mexico.
We fired ‘em up and rode into Creel on that same great highway as before. In Creel we gathered the group together and waited for Roger with the support vehicle, and we had to trailer the bikes. We had only another 600 miles to drive, and then we’d be in El Paso.
Motorcyclists aren't typically big on sentimentality or touchy-feely stuff, but this time was different. Bob, good luck with your shins. Margie, someday I hope to ride as well as you. Until then, I will be perfectly content trying to keep you in sight. Lin, as Jim Hightower would say, “There’s nothing but yellow stripes and dead armadillos in the middle of the road.” Roger, the expert and our fearless leader: “Let’s try this trail!
As Roger told us before we went, it truly is the adventure of a lifetime. I guess the doilies will have to wait until next time. Happy Trails!
Epilogue
After getting delivered to Margaret’s house in El Paso, I began deconstructing my primitive gear packs and enjoyed the wind-down buzz. Once I’d separated the best of Copper Canyon from my gear, we sat down and enjoyed a few shots of workhorse Centenario tequila.
The conversation got around to Margaret explaining that she and her older brother Joe were playing in the kitchen one day and came across a bottle of clear liquid with anise, cinnamon, raisins, and pecans soaking in it. Later she learned that this under-the-sink find was a local Chihuahua concoction — sotol, distilled from Dasylirion, a cousin of Agave. “you put in some peeches, and cimmamom and give it to your friend as a gift.” Luis, you weren’t so crazy after all!
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.