Author Archives: jacob

A brief update on an odd series of events while staying at an English Scool in Uruapan.

Goat viciously attacked by a dog in the night. Gnarly puncture wound that continued to bleed for about 18 hours.

At a “rave,� I was almost jumped by a gang of 8 teengers claiming to be from the “South Side� of Long Beach.

We received a test model of the Surly Big Dummy, and while building it up; Sean placed his expensive Fox Vanilla fork in an empty box that was put on the street for garbage pickup. He eventually found his fork at the landfill and had to buy it from a professional dump(ster) diver.

Back to the Surly Big Dummy. A beautiful machine. Hard to believe it is real and I can touch it. I have a hard time taking my eyes off of the bike, and I think mine is feeling little jealous.

Leaving Zapotiltic later today. We got held up by unexpected circumstances.

I had just told my new friend Juan about how every night in Aticama I would have to kill a couple of scorpions that had set up under my matress. They were everywhere I told him.

Then we went out to check out the horse in the backyard. It was dark. I put my hand on a post, and got stung by something. When the poison traveled up my arm, I knew wasn´t just a bee.

The venom and pain coursed it´s way through my arm, ending at my shoulder. Within thirty minutes, my arm was both asleep and throbbing with pain.

Two days later, the pain is gone, and my arm is awake, but my middle finger is stubbornly numb.

Oddly enough, a day after I got stung; Goat managed to step on one and get his pinky stung. Fortunately, his reaction did not include numbness, just the exquisite pain.

Currently we´re heading to Uruapan and the beautiful surrounding national park. Through more extensive research on Google Earth/Maps and a greater ability to communiate with the locals; we have finally found the off-road routes we´ve been looking for. And continue to find ourselves blissfully lost on the mountain brechas, riding through misty mountain trails.

The moment I saw the large trailer arrive with the colorful words, ¨Circo,¨ painted plainly on the side; I waited like an eager, impatient child for the amusement to unfold. I was enamored by the endless possibilities my imagination afforded, from acrobatic clowns juggling awkward objects on a highwire, to fire breathers and talking dogs. Only once in my life have I been to a circus and barely managed to catch the final act, crudely titled, ¨The Wolf People.¨

Two sullen individuals wearing black suits staggered into the ring, their steps short and slow as if their legs were shackled with chains. Once in the middle, they stood there small and motionless as the audience observed with an unfaltering gaze; ordained by the cost of admission. Much to my surprise, there was going to be no theatrical undertaking. The performance had already occurred, and the result was exhibited plaintively to the audience staring dumbly at the hair that covered the performer´s face and hands. Soon the bewildered silence of the anti-climactic episode was broken by the melodramatic voice of the announcer, who explained,

¨What you are witnessing is a rare genetic disease known as hypertrichosis, characterized as an excessive growth of hair. This condition is so rare that it affects only 1 out of 10 billion people.¨

His voice droned through the tent, ¨The very first wolf man was diagnosed in 1556 and since then there have only been 40 cases registered worldwide.¨

¨They view their condition as a gift and feel it is their duty to show the world, ¨and concluded the narrative with, “and if you give me 10 bucks, you can take a picture with them, so come on down.¨

Altough, I left without a picture, I did go off with an everlasting curiosity towards those nomadic productions, known enigmatically as a Circus.

As I pedaled past the construction of the colorful tent, a lone camel knelt in a patch of shade, chewing on pieces of grass. A dog barked ceaselessly at the unperturbed foreign creature. I tried to peek into the back of the trailer for hints of other acts, but glimpsed only a shadowy void.

The small seaside town of Aticama is not your typical Lonely Planet attraction, unless, true to its title, the guide sent you to places like this, where there are no tourists (or attractions). San Blas, however, just a centimeter north on the map, does etch a small nook in the archives of Mexico guidebooks, but mostly as an echo of the past. A fishing village with a prominent history, it was to become a tourist Mecca in the 1950´s, reaching the notoriety of cities like Acupulco. President Miguel Aleman of Mexico, arrived for the dedication as the picturesque sunset engorged the sky, much like the promotional pictures that spawned the idea for developing tourism. Something remained unseen in those images, however and began aggressively attacking the procession. ¨Jejenes¨, or ¨no’see’ums¨, a biting fly, as small as fleck of sand, thriving in a marshy habitat nearby ensured the failure of large scale tourism in San Blas. The President and his detail smacked at the invisible enemy, but quickly retreated and left before sun-up.

Once the principle port for Spanish trade and eastern Pacific naval command, boasting a population around 30,000, the town has since shrunk to about 8,000. Why the Spaniards didn´t choose the more protected bays and bug free areas of Mazatlan and Puerto Vallarta remains a mystery. Perhaps, General Nuno de Guzman, who first noticed the area in 1530, had a secret obsession with surfing, and noticed at nearby Playa Las Islitas waves that would eventually capture a Guinness Book Record for being the longest in the world, at around 5,700 feet. Today, more courageous travelers equipped with DEET, surfboards, and an irrational love for the sport still visit the coastal region.

Unguided by Lonely Planet, we found ourselves just about the only gringos in the town of Aticama, and began to wish the planet wasn´t so lonely. We were experimenting with a worldwide organization known as WWOOF (Willing Workers on Organic Farms) where you can get experience on chemical free farms in exchange for room and board. We found ourselves ¨farming¨ in a place dubbed Wally´s World, after the ExPat who who owned it. We learned how to move dirt and more importantly how to mix cement for a road to his property, where we replaced the local labor working at a rate of 8 dollars a day. On another occasion we hacked at some weeds on his coastal property so that the Ejido (community land ownership) doesn´t take it away. The Ejido system is supposed to help prevent people from merely buying the land as an investment and letting it sit there, unused. After a day of ¨fulfilling¨work, we decided to head up to another ExPats house, for the sunset and some drinks.

We were following directions that amounted to a sunburned arm pointing a finger in the direction of the casa. “It´s at the top of the hill, you can´t miss it,¨ Francisco promised candidly with a goofy smile, unmasked by a large mustache and greying beard.

After crossing through a cemetery and over a few barb wire fences, I began to have surge of confidence in my unfailing ability to do just that, miss it completely, (though, truly impossible in the tiny village). I paused a moment near a leafless tree that towered overhead, and indulged in melodramatic thoughts inspired by the hundreds of vultures that were swarming overhead. Slow steps took us up a steep trail which wound through knee high banana trees. Cresting the hill, we saw a car resting under a canopy, sporting a handwelded frame that made it look like a flying machine out of the movie, ¨Chitty Chitty Bang Bang.¨ “Only a gringo would drive something like that down here,¨ I thought and knew we found the right house.

Francisco welcomed us with a beer, while his three long haired children ran out to trap our attention with their quirky dance moves and bicycle stunts. We were quickly introduced to his wife, Wang, a strikingly beautiful Phillipina lady who looked more like his daughter than his legal partner. He later mentioned that he met his 19 year old mail order bride when he was 41.

“All my friends said it wouldn´t last more than 3 months, and it´s been 13 years. And it´s worked out really well.¨

Wang seconded, ¨Yeah, life has been good.¨

Francisco told us about their honeymoon, ¨She first flew into Portland, and since she had lived in a stick house in the humid Phillipines all her life, she wasn´t used to the cold northwest. So we bought a beat’up old Cadillac Limousine and drove down to Mexico. The damn thing broke down half a days drive into the country. The driveshaft was bent and needed to be replaced. So I hitchhiked with this great big long driveshaft.¨ He gestured as if he is holding the part to emphasize its size.

“I got to a mecanico, and showed them the part. They told me that would be impossible to replace. If it was a VW, maybe a different story. But they sent me around the corner, said there´s a gringo there who might be able to help. When I entered his garage, I saw an exquisite machine shop that could make just about anything. I asked him why he has so much equipment, and he said that he used to work for NASA. I showed him the driveshaft and asked if he can fix it.

´No problem,´ he said, ´follow me. We need to get some beer first.´

We came back with a about 18 beers, and I was thinking about my wife sitting in the heat by the side of the road, while I´m getting drunk in a mechanics shop.

He said, ´Okay, now you crack open your beer and drink.´

The man worked for NASA after all, and l couldn´t dispute the wisdom of any body recommending that I drink so I began,¨ he said as he shrugged his shoulders.

¨He set the drive shaft up on a huge lathe, while this Mexican guy slowly heated it with a torch, finally when the whole thing was glowing red, the NASA guy said,

´Okay, now pour your beer on it. Good. Now, pop open another one.´

So we continued this ritual until all 18 beers were consumed and my driveshaft was straight as an arrow. Got back to my wife beside the road and had the limousine running in 15 minutes.¨

During the lull in conversation, I took a moment to look out at the ocean. Their house was perched on top of a cliff so steep that you can look down at the waves crashing below in a small bay filled with history.

Francisco continued his narrative, ¨Yeah, this place used to be an old pirate lookout point. I read about it in some old journals. During the 16th / 17th century, while San Blas was a booming port, Spanish Merchant ships would drop off their goods and send it by caravan towards Mexico city on the Camino del Real, back behind those mountains, where bandits waited for them.” He paused a moment to point to an imaginary road along the mountains, as if he was singling out a tree in a forest miles away.

“And after the ships were reloaded with gold and cargo the pirates would sail from this bay and relieve the galleons of their treasures.¨ He added as we all looked out at the sun twisting into the ocean´s horizon, and began to feel the jejenes making their advance on our exposed skin.

I imagined the stereotypical swashbuckling one’ eyed pirates stationed up here on the lookout, sitting around a fire. Naturally, they were singing pirate songs, drinking, and smacking at the hordes of invisible biting flies. Francisco would make an excellent pirate, I decided.

Francisco´s 11 year old son broke the silence, “At school, there´s a rumor that in a cave not far from here an old priest discovered a treasure, but died trying to get it out. Now his ghost haunts the cave and kills anyone who enters.¨

Francisco lit some coconut skins on fire to ward away the bugs and said, ¨More recently they used this bay for serious drug shipments. And until about two years ago there was no phone service; even if somebody saw something suspicious there was no way to get the authorities here. Electricity came only about 8 years ago.” He paused in contemplation and concluded, “This town has changed a lot in the 20 years I´ve been here.¨

Aticama began with only one telephone and callers were told to call back in 30 minutes. Over a tremendously ¨loudspeaker,¨ calls would be announced to the entire town and the receiving party would go and wait for the call. The owner of the phone relished the opportunity to relay messages to individual parties via the entire town, for example, “Armando, will you please come home, you are breaking your mother´s heart.¨ She still makes announcements, but, because of poor sound quality and my beginning Spanish, they are largely incomprehensible, though, always loud.

There was much competition in Aticama for the precious airtime. The town resembled a jungle of noises, where each bird had to perfect it´s own distinct sound in order to be distinguished from the others. Every morning I awoke to the sound of the camarones guy hailing the freshest shrimp around. The water guy with a short musical chirp, the gas truck bellowed a semi-musical electronic noise. These were the regulars that informed the town every day that their services were still offered. Foreign sounds often entered the endless cacaphony as well, trucks armed with huge megaphones were selling shoes and clothes, others with furniture, and even cars bellowing advertisements, with one about “El Circo,¨ that caught my ear.

I actually enjoyed our time in Aticama, despite my reservations about the moral utility of replacing the local labor (how strange it must have seemed to the locals for us to volunteer to work for even less than 8 dollars a day). We stayed in a small self contained housing unit with a van that had retired from it´s extensive travels across the Americas. One could easily look past the negative aspects of the shower that would routinely electrocute me, scorpions that hid under the mats I slept on each night, or the itchy rash that would inevitably develop from the mangos (same family as poison oak). The plot of land was a veritable tropical paradise with hummingbirds, orchids, and tropical fruit all around, ready to eat. But life on the farm was slow, and failed to offer the excitement of bike touring.

There was a friendly pack of dogs on the property, including a small black mut with a lame rear leg and two huge floppy bat like ears, one of which could stand straight up. The poor hobbling dog had no chance with the elegant and dainty female dogs in heat, but couldn´t resist and pestered them until they eventually snapped back violently. The females had to be separated from all the males inside the beautiful three story house adorned with floral vines, and would peak over the patio to see their potential suitors below, howling songs to serenade them.

For a few days, we got to hang out with Brett and Sean who are driving their beat up sedan nicknamed, ¨Your Mom,¨to the tip of South America. Brett seems to have a way with words (he came up with the moniker, Wally´s World). I´ve heard from them a few times since, with updates like, ¨Sorry to tell you, but Your Mom broke down about 8 hours after we left and cost 850 pesos to fix.¨

A girl named Anna, had been holding down the fort before we arrived at Wally´s World. She was an attractive young college grad enjoying some quiet time on the farm. Until, I suppose, 6 guys arrived and left her with no castle to retreat to. Nevertheless, serenading her with our absence of musical talent would likely be mistaken for a circus sideshow and humiliating for all parties involved. She left rather hastily for Oxoaca. And shortly after, Nate flew back to California and Sean headed for Cabo San Lucas to visit his mom. And life on the farm slowed even more, which is probably why I was so excited about the circus coming to town.

As the sun was about to sizzle the sea, and the jejenes frenzied into formation, ready to take flight; I figured the circus should be in full swing. With a spirited smile I rode my bike to the makeshift venue, only to see the roustabouts no further along in construction than earlier in the day. In fact, they were disassembling the tent altogether.

¨Damnit,¨ I thought, ¨how did I miss it?¨

The camel stood there awkwardly with its spindly legs, bulbous back and clay contorted face, as if it were some sort of cruel punchline to a joke I didn´t understand.

A one camel circus. And I missed it.

We are currently on the coast of Mexico working on an organic farm in the little town of Aticama.   Nate had to return to the states to attend his mother´s wedding so we dropped off the mountains and over to the coast near Mazatlan, where he could get the cheapest flight.  Sean is visiting his mother in Cabo San Lucas and will be back in a day or two.   I have been busy writing for a magazine, but now have more time and hope to get some updates posted on our site.  Check back in about a week.

As dawn began to spill over the solid basalt cliff’face towering over my campsite, a dog busied himself at the foot of my sleeping bag by relentssly barking at me. I wasn´t quite sure why I was being subjected to his alarm. ¨Buenos Dias, Tequeso.¨I said softly, hoping he´d remember our shortlived friendship the day before when I fed him some tortilla.

He stretched slowly, arching his back and resting his floppy ears and head on top of his paws that he was extending towards me. His hindquarters remained upright as if he just might pounce on me after he´s done stretching. Tequeso gently growled and tilted his head to the side while he pawed repeatedly at the air, as if to say, ¨Why aren´t you up and enjoying this beautiful place.¨

At the end of Basaseachi, a village that did not even exist on our Northern Mexico Map is a Parque Nacional surrounding a breathtaking 310 meter “cascada,” the tallest in Mexico. Below, a mist of water settled in an immense pool of absinthe tinted water, before trickling through house sized boulders into the Rio Candameña that slides through a colossal box canyon. Immense cliffs that defy perspective of proportion leave you feeling as if you were among a land of giants. “It would be a shame to sleep in,” I thought reassuringly.

Impatiently, Tequeso strengthened his argument by taking off with one of my socks, running through some low brush and behind a mushroom shaped boulder. He liked this game. I was a poor match for him.

I sat in defeat with a cup of Mezclado Coffee I brewed (a sweet coffee roasted with 30% azucar) and felt the warm breeze carry the scent of sunlight grazing the morning dew on pine needles. The day before, we swam in a nearby creek, where we followed the cool water between narrow slots, under arches, and through small underwater tunnels. Little climbing challenges appeared on the rock faces jetting out of the deep pools of water and my failures were rewarded with a refreshing dip. Though, at the moment, my refuge of shade from the warm sun had quickly receded, and I couldn’t wait to explore the waterfall and other swimming holes.  “And maybe,” I thought, “the dog will bring back my sock.”

 A little boy named Alexander, greeted me as I walked below the Area de Acampar through a horseshoe of half a dozen Artesanio Shops and restaurants. He was wearing a faded striped shirt, so thin it was almost transparent and a pair of dusty blue shorts.

“Why aren´t you at school?” I teased.

“No, no attendo la escuela.” He replied.

“¿Porque no?”

“Yo necesito a ayudar (help) mi familia aquí.”

“¿Donde estan tus amigos?”I asked.

“En Basaseachi, aya.” He pointed down the road.

“¿Te quiere?” He asked as he held up a bag of spicy Cheetohs.

“No, no gracias.”

After exhausting my conversational vocabulary I said goodbye and continued down to the trailhead. The four of us bounced down the steps and over a short metal bridge. Traversing the creek, we could see the transparent water trickle behind a 50 yard slab of rock, pouring through narrow passages into a larger pool gradually painting the water into a shifting evanescent green.

A slot canyon cut through the rock forming rounded out spherical swimming holes. Nate leaped into one of the narrow pools and encouraged the idle water to ripple against the contours of the canyon.

I hopped in after Nate and misjudged the drop, landing a bit too far and had to brace my fall somewhat against an underwater rock-face. The moment of fear was quickly supplanted with the exhilaration of frigid water. I retreated to a sunny segment of rock rising out of the water.   As the sun scintillated into the water, a reflection of fluid, electric luminosity shimmered across the stone walls.

After exploring that swimming hole, we continued towards the main attraction. A cliff face appeared in the distance; an illusory view of the horizon precipitously vanished and reappeared on the other side of the vast canyon.  As we edged up to the rim, a gust of mist swept over us. Only a fluttering rainbow separated us from the pool of water 1,000 feet below.

The stream slipped down a narrow rock slide under a substantial stone arch and hesitated as it rested in one final pool before plunging into the canyon depths.  We clambered over the arch and around the pool. I said to Nate, “Hey, I think we could probably swim in there.”

“You think we could get out?” He replied.

We stared down at the pool and the steep slopes on all sides.

“Ehh..I think we´d have no choice.” I replied.

We cautiously maneuvered down to the top of the slide and looked down at the pool framed by the overhead arch. Nate insisted on going first. He straddled the flow of water and sat down, wedging his hands against the rocks before letting go and sliding into the panorama of a swimming hole at edge of the earth. After the splash faded into wrinkles at the surface, Nate emerged with a radiant smile on his face. We were able to easily climb out of the pool and soon all of us were jumping in and lounging on the sunny rocks near the edge, allowing us to see the water cascade all the way to the bottom.

We dried off in the sun and headed towards the trailhead. Steep switchbacks were well defined and at more precarious places, the hiker was protected by barbed wire. Every once in a while, the cover of Pine Trees and Madrones would break and expose a view of the waterfall and surrounding canyon. The trail flattened out at the bottom and wound around gigantic boulders and through wildflowers that looked like Indian Paintbrush, ending at a lagoon of water at the base of “la cascada.”  The cliffs had risen above the sun, and its shadow was gently covering the water.  I took the opportunity to swim out into the cold water before the shimmering pool was completely cloaked. The water falling above faded into the wind, but continued to trickle down the mossy rock surfaces at the bottom. I whirled my head around to take in the complete vista, from the tadpoles nipping at my feet to the expansive cliff face reaching towards the sky.

Hiking up was much slower, but we were in pretty good shape from our daily bike rides and continued even further up the trail to a “Ventana” resting at the edge of an opposing cliff. From there we could see our swimming hole as a mere speck in the magnificent canyon country. Nate summed up our awe, “The Yosemite of the Sierra Madres.”

Back at camp, I saw Tequeso wagging his tail as if he had been waiting for us to come back. He had something in his mouth and I hoped it was my sock. I walked up to him, half expecting him to bolt.  However, when I got closer, he merely flopped to the ground and began aggressively chewing Sean´s bike glove.

I managed to grab the glove from him and asked, “Tequeso.. what´d you do with my sock?”

I tried again in Spanish, “¿Tequeso, donde es mi calcetine?”

No response. He really did like this game.

“A small price to pay to swim in waterfalls,” I thought, conceding his victory.

“Just follow that road and in about two blocks you will be in Mexico.” Said the man carrying a plastic sack filled with clothes and shoes.

We slowly meandered our way through the empty lanes. I looked over at a white van being dissassembled at the border agents´ leisure. They stood around joking and patting each other on the back. No response to the four long bikes rolling past them, with all their earthly possessions precisely positioned on the vehicles. Slowly rolled over the formidable speed bumps and into a new country. Nervous anticipation caught up with me for a moment as I got a glimpse of the choas that was ahead. Huge smiles beamed across our faces and were shared briefly before returning our attention to the bustling city of Nogales de Mexico. Without proper diligence, a cyclist trying to navigate through the orgy of cars and chaos would likely become a charming ornament for the hood of a fast moving vehicle. I took a moment to imagine the pose I would assume were that to be my fate and hoped that my grungy self would at least tarnish the pristine image of a fancy new automobile.Instinctively, as if infected by the madness, we pedaled and weaved in and around the cars, desparately trying to stay with the flow of traffic. The city swooshed by us as we masqueraded through as bicycle messengers carrying an imporant and ridiculously heavy load. A brief pause a mile into town at a city park left us astonished and staring at the constant motion of this strange new world.

“Ehh.. Any thoughts?” I asked hopefully, eyes fixed on the 3 lanes of heavy traffic.

Following a long pause, Goat offered, “Let´s just get as far from here as possible.”

His comment was greeted with unanimous nods of support.

And we plunged once again into the waves of cars, constantly splashed by honks and unintelligible comments from the pedestrians. Just before we drowned in the sea of metal and motion, it let up and offered a little 18″ bike lane of our own. One beater old Mustang got a little jealous of our space and sped past us, leaving mere inches between life and deat

I had always assumed that the signs with a bicycle that say “Share the Road,” were meant for the cars, but in my travels have come to understand that they must actually be directed at cyclists. After all, they don´t need as much room as a car, and should probably balance on the precarious edge of the pavement and dirt so that cars can blast by them as fast as possible. A minor communication error.

Aside from the jealous Mustang, we were treated well on the roads of Mexico, given ample space and friendly smiles-gestures. We were even handed agua fria out the window of a pacing vehicle that wished us “buen suerte” before disappearing.

We began to wonder where the checkpoint was at, to get our Visas cleared. Stopped at an airport to ask a few guards standing around the entrance about the KM 21 checkpoint.

Sean approached them first while I pulled back to watch his linguistic expertise.

The guards sat there quiet for a long pause, anticpating Sean to say something. You could see Sean searching for words to communicate, and came up with, “You guys speak English?”

“No,” They responded simply.

“Ehh..” Sean responded and settled into a long awkward pause.

Goat pedaled up and managed to achieve some semblence of communication. The response was spoken quickly, and we managed to pull out a few words and understand that it was further down the road. “A new era in our travels,” I thought. And reflected on how crucial it was for us to learn Spanish as quickly as possible.

We pedaled down to KM 21 to get our Visas, at an established roadside checkpoint. American dollars were converted to pesos and the immigration officer tried to give Goat a 30 day travelling visa because we told him we were heading through to Guatemala. We had to get him to change it to a 180 day tourist Visa. A simple enough task, that was made extraordinarily difficult by beauocracy and a bit of long hair prejudice.

Nate had recently shaved his hair to donate to “Locks of Love,” but his passport photo still offered a reflection of it at its length. It seemed that the officer couldn´t understand why any “macho” male would have long hair and relished the opportunity to make crude comments about Goat (who hasn´t cut his hair since 3rd grade) and Nate. I´ll spare the details.

Towards the end of the day we were enticed by a roadside taco stand blaring loud Spanish music. A simple handpainted sign on the paint chipped cement wall read:

“MENU = Carne Asada, Tripitas, Quesadillas, Caramelos.”

We were brought out a large platter with a dozen small bowls filled with different types of salsa, guacamole, and peppers. We reveled in the excitement of entering Mexico, and sat there with dumb smiles on our face as we drank our Jumex mango juice, waiting for the food to come and the sun to set.

Day 2

In Magdalena de Kino we planned to resupply and shoot off the main highway along rural roads and trails. Heading into the town, I was a good 100 yards behind Sean and saw another bicyclist riding on the left side of the freeway who would sporadically dart from one side of the road to the other. As I approached closer, the erradic cyclist slammed into a pole and fell off his bike. Sean swerved across the highway to help him.

Sean looked up at me approaching and said, “Man, I feel bad. He was trying to talk to me and just slammed into that pole.”

The guy got up and picked up his bike, erased his embarassment with a friendly smile. Grabbed a huge spool of wire that he was trying to pedal with and attempted to arrange it on his bike.

Sean continued, “I think he was saying that we should get off the road here so we don´t have to pay the toll.”

I look further down the road and see a series of toll booths positioned across the road. My glance wandered back to see the man swerving around on his bike, cutting quickly in front of cars towards the side of the road and walk his bike down a steep cement embankment used to channel water. He motioned for us to follow. Down at the bottom he tossed the metal wire to the ground among a bunch of other random junk and turned back, and asked , “¿Donde vas?”

“Magdalena de Kino,” I replied.

He pointed up past a field towards a road, and said, “Ese as la ciudad de Magdalena de Kino.”

 “Gracias.” We said and eased down the cement channel. And then pedaled across the vacant dirt lot towards a couple brightly colored houses sitting incongrously between two abandoned houses, with their roofs caved in next to a yard of cemented dirt. I rolled slowly into the neighborhood, my eyes feasting on the new surroundings.

 Getting through a few blocks of the citie presented its own challenges. Steep rolling hills towered over us as we pushed through a neighborhood. Each house separated by wooden fencesñ on some, the paint cracked off, exposing the naked adobe bricks. Little brown dogs appeared at each crack in the fence, warning of us of how dangerous all ten pounds of them could be. A lady wearing a long eggshell colored cotton dress that hung softly underneath her dark hair, stood calmly in her yard, watering the grass. Her children sat in the doorway and stood up to energetically waved to us as we passed. She looked up lazily and waved at us with a welcoming smile. We returned our attention to another steep hill.

“I imagine we´ll be aeeing a lot of this,” Nate said to me as he shifted down into an easier gear and grundled his way up the hill.

 When it appeared as if we were drifting further into the depths of the neighborhood and away from the city I stopped to ask a kid walking by, “¿Donde es el centro de la ciudad?” He paused and looked at me quizzically, for a moment, as he processed my crude basic Spanish. I imagined that he sensed imminent confusion and misunderstanding if he had to verbally explain his directions. He simply pointed to the right at the corner of an intersection.

We found a grocery store and parked our bikes out front. Instantly, we were beseeched with curious locals. One individual, more dedicated to his curiosity than the others, managed to eventually extract our story in some form or another and was able to spare the other townsfolk the painful process of communicating with us by explaining our trip for us. Many lingered around to watch us pack our food and water.

We asked about a small road to Cucurpe, and brought out the map. A man named, Gustavo, offered to help us out, an athletic looking guy wearing a sporty wick’away synthetic shirt and runing shorts. He told us we´d have to go up four blocks and turn left on “Padrigo” and take that out of town. He then talked about mountains and made exaggerated up-down sweeping gestures with his hands while shaking his head back and forth. Seems like we hadn´t chosen the easiest route.

A cop on an ATV had pulled up and watched the crowd watching us. Seems he got the scoop from somebody about our trip and volunteered to show us the way to the road. And with our bikes ready, we asked la policia, “¿Listos?”

He smiled and nodded his head. Turned on his flashing lights and took us down the road. All the cars pulled over and the entire town seemed to be out watching the gringo bike parade. He patiently waited for us to climb to the top of each neighborhood street and blocked off each intersection so that we could maintain our momentum through the next hill. At the edge of town he pulled off the road and waved at us.

Within ten minutes the only thing around was the scorching sun and endless desert mountains. Shadows of vultures brushed the sun baked earth below and the horizon evaporatd into a cloudless saphire sky. Every once in a while a rancher´s truck would pass, its contents squished with passengers in the front and cattle in the back. In the shade of a dirty old cowboy hat, a solemn face would appear briefly, and often a smile would crack the weathered face. They would gently wave out the window, their arm covered by a thin and dusty flannel shirt rolled up past their elbow. Their arm would linger in the wind, flowing up and down as they tilted their hand. There was no rush to get where they were going.

Midday, we laid back under the shade of a tree at the bottom of a dry sandy wash. A gust of warm wind rustled through the remaining foliage making a cracking sound as it passed, bringing the dank pungent stench of rotting cows in from the distance. My eyes followed the path of the tangible breeze and rested on the remains of a few cows laying on their sides. Their skin melted over their bone structure, dripping and shriveling and contorting the creature as if it were a melting clock painted by Salvador Dali. Its eyes, mere shadows, sitting vacant under the tormenting sun. I checked my water supply and hoped for a town to come soon.

In the distance, the sound of a drum carried across the dry air, followed by a vaquero. His horse walked slowly, with its head down to conserve energy, each languid step moving the rider as if he was a lifeless package, fluidly resting on the horse. In one hand he carried a spool of barb wire, and the other he settled on the reigns. He approached us with his head tilted forward and low to mask his face from the sun.

“¿Are you okay?” He asked in a heavily accented Spanish that took a moment for us to register. “Hot day, a man could die in this heat.” He added.

“We´re fine, just taking a siesta,”Goat responded.

 He nodded his head and tugged slightly on the reigns, the horse wound around and continued down the wash in motion slowed by the heat, past the decaying cattle.

 After visiting the small pueblo of Cucuerpe, we set out looking for a place to camp. At the edge of town we saw two locals leaning against a soot coated white pickup watching the sun set over the distant mountains, shaded blue by the contrast of light. Cattle mooed in the distance and the faint sound of lively Mexican music could still be heard coming from the town. Behind the men was a small adobe house with crumbling walls, and a few plastic chairs sitting among piles of empty soda bottles and beer cans.

“Hello,”one of the men said in English.

 “Hola,” we replied.

 “Where you going?”

 “Vamos a Creel y la Barranca Del Cobre.”

 “Be careful. There´s a crazy guy up their in the hills right now.” He points up the road we´re on and continued with his accented English. “He has a gun, the police are looking for him.”

 Our shadows extend across the earth, reaching over them as we continue up the road. A chilling breeze cut through the heat for the first time that day and carried a haunting laugh through the cactus and tall grass.

What an exciting two weeks we´ve encountered.   Will offer a more thorough update when we get to Creel in the Baranca del Cobre,  internet access has proved less than ideal south of the border.  Be patient.

       We are all happy and in good health climbing up into the Sierra Madres.  We have not seen mountains like this on our entire trip and they are daunting at times.  Yesterday we climbed about 5-6000 feet in elevation and made a grand total of 40 kilometers in a single day.  Up, up, up… one brief mile downhill, and then continue back up, up, up.   Fortunately, we´ve reached the Pine Trees and cooler nights, but that is not to stop us from our easily enjoyed daily siesta.  We will continue to climb for the next couple days.

          Our maps are unbelievably unreliable and deceptive.  We are never quite sure where we are going and what resources we can rely on when we get to the next…is that a puebla..or a city?  Is that on the road, or is it going to be 10 kilometers to the side?  Main roads become dirt roads and dirt roads appear to be main roads.  Our map is like a bad friend, better than nothing, but it sure can be lame.

     Here is a brief view of what we´ve been up to.              

Sean giving the locals a ride.

Constantly attacked by ¨los ninos/as” de las ciudades.

   

This is supposed to be a main highway according to our map.  

  

Goat swimming with his bike.

          

A little relaxtion in the parque del ciudad.