We are not a decisive team and often settle into hopeless puddle of apathy until the levee is broken by a serious game of “ro-sham-bo”. “Live and die by the ´sham´” has become a necessary mantra for our lives. Though, (truth be told), it operates more as an oracle than absolute truth. Despite the prophetic implications of the game, we still approach the event with a practiced level of skill and concentration. The “sham”, at times, becomes more important than what we are shamming for.

And so, it was on a bright and sunny day we encountered a fork in the road. To the left, a guaranteed passage across the mountains to Autla and the main freeway. To the right, Tacotan, via “brechitas”(little roads for burros and 4-wheel drive vehicles) promising better riding, but plagued with uncertainty. It was doubly possible that either we would miss the turnoff for a trail to cross the mountain range, or that it did not even exist. Leaving us with a choice of either backtracking or continuing down to the humid coast where relief from tropical sea’level temperatures would be another 5,000-foot climb back into the mountains.

Ro-Sham-Bo… “Damn,” I cursed.

Ro-Sham-Bo… “Shit,” I cursed again.

“I always lose, and you always go for rock… every single time…without fail.. and I still can´t resist.”

“So who was shamming for what?”

“Ehh.. We didn´t say.”

“Head to Tacotan?”

“Sure.”

We had spent a couple days struggling to get back onto the “Spine,” enjoying each laborious pedal stroke knowing we were that much closer to an environment more suitable to mountain-bike touring.

The coast had taken its toll on our morale and motivation. Cars buzzed by us at alarming velocities, on roads that proved aggressively unaccommodating for bicycles. The sweltering heat forced us to wake up early and grumpy, to ride before the temperature consumed us and subjected us to an obligatory siesta. Every abarrotes en route was a veritable oasis, offering the only thing that mattered in my life, a cold drink. Even the shadows of the night failed to bring relief from the heat as we were subjected to the onslaught of biting insects that thrived so well in the humid climate.

And such easy prey we were without proper bug netting for our tent. With chemosensors attuned to carbon dioxide, warmth, lactic acid, and other bodily emanations (last shower, ehh..10 days), insects effortlessly honed in on any exposed morsel of skin. Our flesh would then be penetrated with needles and scalpels, as they employed siphons, and a large stock of pharmaceuticals, including: anaesthetics and anticoagulants, to get at our blood. We were forced to sweat through the nights under our sleeping bags to escape the torment, wishing we were back in the Sierra Madres.

Life in the mountains hit us abruptly. It started with a visible bolt of light, followed exactly 7 seconds later by a crack of thunder. Then 6.

“Uhh. Maybe we should set up camp?”

Then 5. But it was too late. Signalled by another crash of thunder, the rain poured down. We veered onto a small trail leading to a discreet roadside shrine where we camped. Tropical vines stretched to the high branches of the trees, trying desperately to pull them down. Leaves the size of my upper torso deflected the raindrops, and created an audible sound, much like that of a drum. And the water flowed freely, chaotically across the muddy surfaces.

And seeped through my shelter as the thunder tailed the flash of light be a mere 2 seconds. My sheetbag was soggy and I was for the first time in months, cold. My weary eyes pained for rest, my body, yearned for relaxation; but each bolt of lightning flashed through my eyelids and each crash of thunder changed the pattern of my heartbeat.

Then somebody appeared outside my tent. Apparently, there was a group of about 8 other bicycle tourists camped nearby and partying on occasion of the incredible storm. They summoned me to join them for some drinks. I was so excited that I didn’t even bother putting on my sandals and walked through mud, feeling it squish through my toes at each step.

Girls wearing cowboy hats and metallic clothing, danced around in the creek. Guys in fancy suits played hand drums, oblivious to the water cascading over their concentrated faces. They were such a lively and eccentric group that it did not even occur to me what a remarkably serendipitous event this was.

Or a pleasant dream. I woke up, sad that it was only a dream, happy that I had managed to sleep, and sick to my stomach from something I must have eaten. Instead of the party with a community of cyclists, I got to squat out in the rain. Fortunately, or unfortunately; I wasn´t alone, and could see Goat in the same predicament further up the road.

“Nice night, eh?” He said sarcastically.

“I just had the strangest dream,” I replied.

“At least you slept.”

After I had become thoroughly drenched and done my best to rid myself of whatever “animals” had attacked my intestines; I reached for a large lush leaf. The instant I grabbed a hold, it felt as if it were made of fire; my fingertips throbbed with pain from the poisonous spines.

The affliction followed me back to my sleeping pad, where I laid down in my own muddy rainforest hell to wait for the sun to rise, and hope for sleep while the thunder crashed. 6 seconds. At last, the rain eased from a torrential downpour. 7 seconds. 8. 9. Eventually, I found some warmth and rest in my soggy sleeping bag and dreamed of secret mountain brechitas.

            Guided by an unreliable map we pretend to use and the destiny of the “sham”,  we encountered a sign about 7 miles after the pavement ended, with the enigmatic words “Bosque Maples, Ruta Turisticas”.  And behind it was a road that wound straight towards the clouds.

“The `sham´ is infallible,” I boldly thought.

The rest of the day was defined by a grueling regimen of steep uphill riding. Due to the uncertain availability of water and supplies, we were carrying about 5 days worth of food and a full 13 liters of water, which made its presence known with every pedal stroke. My bike computer wouldn’t even acknowledge my painful efforts with a readout. 0.0 Km/H it would chuckle. Then jump to 3.3 and back down to ZERO.

A couple hours later, we had reached the clouds, and entered a misty elfin forest. Visibility was often slim, and ever shifting, morphing with the contours of the mountains. At times our narrow path would cut through a ridgeline, dropping abruptly on both sides, into an abyss of haze. Sharp turns were blinded by the murky air and shrouded the landscape with mystery.

Red mushrooms decorated with white spots, sprouted from the pine needles, and from the mossy roadside surfaces, large brown mushrooms materialized, some reaching 18¨in diameter. A few succulents lived incongruously in this wet forest, where tropical vines and blackberry patches intermingled in the maze of fauna, below the pine and oak trees.

Through the dark and foggy forest a resonating bass sound travelled languorously from above.

“Couldn´t be a puebla on such a steep grade.” I thought.

The rhythms intensified, reassuring me that it was not merely an auditory hallucination. Around a bend there were a few cars and a canopy set up, while a large family sat around laughing and cooking.

“You want a beer? Something to eat?” A man later introduced as Pedro asked. He was wearing a hat with American and Mexican flags intertwined. Within minutes, we had a bowl full of a carne asada, salsa Mexicana and freshly fried fish, recently caught in nets from a nearby lake. The pain of a fishbone lodged in my gums assured me it was not a dream.

As promised by the good’-natured family, about 5 kilometers further up the brecha; the grade tapered off and wound like an undulating ribbon of mud through a few “ranchitas” with corn fields and forgotten plazas. Briefly, we’d fall from the clouds down a steep technical section of rocky muddy trail, and then swiftly climb back up; a rhythm that continued until we passed San Miguel de la Sierra.

At the edge of the bumpy cobblestone “calle” through town, our trail widened into a smooth dirt road and steadily dropped until the impossible range of mountains opened up with a vista of an expansive valley. I was sure I could see Tacotan and it’s nearby lake. The only thing separating us was an hours worth of smooth downhill riding.

Therefore, it came as a surprise when we sped into the town of….

“Autla!” I said with dismay.

“Nahh.. Couldn’t be.” Goat replied after looking at the map.

“Live and die by the sham,” I said sardonically.

We shrugged our shoulders and pedaled on.

“Autla,” I thought to myself, “The ´sham’ works in mysterious ways.”

UPDATE: WE GOT LOST. WE TOOK A WRONG TURN.

It worked out, just got back onto pavement sooner than we anticipated. These maps are kind of a joke. The concept of a sign in these areas is you finding a person to ask for directions. Which would be one thing if the map gave us the actual names of the ranchitas or towns, but they don´t and when they do, it´s spelled incorrectly and unrecognizable after filtered through by our gringo accents. It was an amazingly beautiful stretch of trails, though, and I will soon update the interactive map with a detailed photographic tour of the section.

Thanks for your support and encouragement.

—————————————————————————————-

That is our planned route (which is NOT recommended by the locals). From Tacambaro de Codallos to Los Currindales and then Montecillo at the bottom right corner of the map. We were hoping for a more “substantial” “brecha(backroad)” to navigate, but just might be lucky enought to get lost on some singletrack.

We are bringing extra food. Wish us luck.

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.

After suffering through stifling desert heat, our desiccated bodies craved Fresas con Crema (a carton of frozen strawberries topped with fresh cream), and Licuados (smoothies) of juicy tropical fruit so abundant in the coastal regions. The city of Choix did not fail. In the bustling center of town, brawny young men atop of pickup trucks hawked the tastiest oranges, mangos, bananas, papayas and coconuts that we had encountered in our entire lives. The fruit had such an alluring complexion that the vendors’ usual puffery proved completely superfluous. I thrust a few bills into his hands, he shut his mouth, and I gathered an array of aromatic produce. Nate and I and proceeded to the town garden plaza, with the usual intention of taking over the center gazebo for a Siesta. Having bought enough food to satisfy the ravenous bellies of four touring cyclists, Nate and I ate everything not having the patience for Jacob and Goat to emerge from the Cyber café

Lounging and digesting in the garden plaza, a few local youths came to observe the crusty gringo novelties. There were three girls aged nine, twelve and fifteen, and one younger boy who seemed to just tag around his sister. Little by little they approached my vagabond stakeout, until they sat side by side with me on a bench.

To rouse the spirits of the crowd, I decided to pickup my guitar and stage an impromptu performance. The girls giggled through my tirade. Suddenly the atmosphere was disrupted by the wailing sirens of a police cruiser as it directed a truck full of drinking companions to pull over to the curb. It was obvious that all five of the men in the car were drinking, had been drinking all day. They were jovial and unconcerned by the rather rude intrusion into their routine Sunday excursion. The Police officer turned out to be a rather young woman, with a radiantly warm face, who carried but a small sidearm in a holster around her waist. It was the smallest weapon I had yet encountered among any law enforcement personal in Mexico, and wondered if there was some regulation or unofficial policy that excluded women from wielding automatic rifles. Either way, the female officer appeared to be struggling in maintaining order among the five inebriated good-ole boys who made every attempt to make light of the situation. The three men in the back seat, a few fifty peso notes in hand, indiscreetly pestered her about being reasonable on the price of the bribe. I’m certain that one of them tried offering her some beers. After ten minutes of negotiations the officer finally accepted a bundle of bills as sufficient restitution for the traffic violation, perhaps simply to avoid enduring any more insults to her authority figure pride, or she was just in need of cash.

Retreating from the caravan of belligerents, the officer noticed that I had been observing her in action and walked over to make my acquaintance.
“Hola…Bienvendidos a Choix.� She welcomed me with over-the-top enthusiasm.
I told her a little bit about the bike trip, and my companions, watched as her eyes lit up with intrigue.
“¿Vives aquí en Choix?� I asked.
“No, Vivo cerca de Los Mochis.� She replied.

With Los Mochis being another two hundred or so kilometers to the west, I figured it to be an improbable commute for her to work so far from home. Before I could learn more about her, she shifted her attention to the summons of her radio.

“You’ll be resting around here for some time?� she inquired; her awkward smile revealed a puerile expectancy for our reunion. I’ll see you again�.

Then she took off jogging down the street. I missed her attention already, and started to follow her when a boy about my age called out to me. He wanted to know what I was doing in Choix.

“You’re one of only two gringos in town. There’s a young couple; missionaries that live near the secondary school, they’re the only other Americans around.� He explained between puffs of a Marlborough that had been bummed from a man passed out under a bench across the street.

He directed me to the missionaries’ house, recommended that I take advantage of their hospitality and hit them up for a shower and food. I asked what he did for work.
“I work in a steel mine… most of the men in this town are employed in the mines.¨
“I’m sure its difficult work�.

The man drooped his head low, affirmed that the work was indeed hard, and didn’t look eager to explicate on mine labor conditions.

I went looking for the crew so that I could impress upon them my enthusiasm for a shower; it had been at least two weeks since the last. They were all inside a Nieveria (ice cream parlor) inhaling cartons of Fresas con crema. The female police officer was hanging around the front of the shop, looking frolicsome. As we stepped out of the shop, she beckoned us to wait a moment. She had brought a plate of taquitos for all of us to enjoy –and she served them up to us on decorative china. We devoured them in her presence but as soon as we finished nobody knew how to proceed beyond smiles. She then walked over to a manicure shop, spoke a minute with a friend, then waved for us to accompany her inside. There we were offered another plate of food. It turned out the food had been prepared in the back room by this friend of the police officer. As we ate, the manicure specialist -who knew a bit of English- tried to figure out what type of men we were.

“Do you like to smoke?� An odd question to pose considering that we were in the presence of law enforcement.
We nodded in the negative.
“Do you like to drink?�
We all timidly admitted that we did.

“Do you like to drink?� The question was now directed at the police officer, who just sighed, shrugged her shoulders and blushed in complicity.

The next natural phase in such conversations would be for the men to ask the ladies to meet for a drink later. Instead there followed an awkward silence, the police officer still blushing in child-like timidity perhaps hoping that one of us would gratify the yearnings of her lonely heart.

“So… you will stay a night here, or just passing through?� The manicurist revives the conversation.
“We’ll probably be leaving in a few hours, once it cools down a little�. Jacob responded austerely.

We split ways with the two ladies after thanking them profusely for the food. I couldn’t expel from my mind the thought that we had broken the poor girl’s heart. A part of me wanted to stay and converse and get to know this young police officer; but mostly I just wanted to pedal as fast as I could out of the town before my consciousness plunged into a protracted absorption with my own sense of solitude.

After a haphazard search for the missionary house, we gave up on the shower idea, and started heading out of town. We bought food for dinner and breakfast at a medium sized tienda (store) operated by a small girl no older than fifteen. Outside of the store, while packing our food bags, a man approached us and asked about our bikes. He expressed concern for what would inevitably be increasingly miserable riding, as the days would only get hotter from here on out. Getting into his truck, he was about to pull out onto the highway when he rolled down the passenger window and called for me to come near.

“Here.� He held out a small piece of plastic, ripped off of some bigger bag; it was a bundle of some chalky powder. “I want you to have this.�

“What’ve you got there?� I understood well enough that he was offering me drugs.

“Cocaína!� He shouted merrily.
I denied him the pleasure of bestowing upon me such a lavish gift. His face expressed dismay, as though it were perfect medicine for the trip ahead. Maybe he believed it would increase our productivity, shoot us to the next town at rocket speed, and compel our legs to spin with the fine tuned order of a sports car drive shaft. Moments after he left, our law enforcing admirer drove past noticing us but failing to wave. Her usual warm adolescent smile looked ready to tumble to her knees; by now she must have been cursing this tantalizing crew of socially inept gringos.

Today was going to be the day we departed from Batopilas. That much had been decided, there was nothing more to do but wait, wait all day for the sun to cease its tyrannical hold on our will to mobility. So we sat and ate mango and chili popsicles in the shade of mammoth trees, watched the owner of a small Tarahumara sandal company cut old tires to the stenciled shapes of human feet, and cheered on an adolescent boy as he demonstrated how to stop a brakeless bicycle ‘using his foot to grind down the back tire.

We bought groceries, divided up the food into fourths; Jacob took a mid-afternoon nap in the gringo-zoo-cage gazebo. I took off down the road towards the entrance of Batopilas to explore the ruins of an old hacienda once owned by a silver mine tycoon. A sign on the front gate read ´Ten pesos a head´. A thick chain was wrapped around the gate and nobody seemed to be within shouting distance, so I climbed the surrounding crumbling walls for a better look. With a dozen or more automobiles stashed in and around the old roofless chambers of the guest house the hacienda looked a bit like a parking garage. The main building was missing half of its southern wall, all the other walls were shrouded in overgrown bougainvillea one could peer into its interior and see a giant swarm of black beetles ominously hovering, waiting to intercept and annihilate the cheap vagrant sightseer. Venturing further into the hill behind the hacienda I found myself in the communal yard of three different households. A man emerged from a hut carrying some debris toward a barrel fire. After incinerating his trash he greeted me with an uneasy wave.

I returned to the town square to find that the Popsicle store with the beautiful girl had reopened. She welcomed me into the store with her large almond eyes that said, ‘why would this silly gringo remain so long in this sleepy town’. After I would say my choice of flavor ‘taking the utmost care in accent’ she would repeat the word again as though I were an infant who, still shaky in pronunciation, needed further verbal reinforcement. I wanted very much to ask if she would consider coming along on the bike trip. Maybe she would accept if I were to build a wagon that could trail behind my xtracycle and in it she could have her freezer to sit upon and hawk popsicles to heat exhausted travelers. Surely the world could benefit from more stories of incredible feats of strength performed for the sake of preserving a loving relationship.

Luckily I abandoned the idea, for I certainly would have died towing a fridge and a woman out of Batopilas. We left town with impeccable timing the sun was low enough so that the ledges of grated hill sides offered plentiful shade on our grueling two-hour climb out of the canyon. This road would be the steepest we had ever encountered it immediately began weaving its way into the hills in tight switchbacks just as we passed the last house in town. There were good half mile stretches where if you didn’t grundle with everything you had you’d be forced to grundle even harder¨ as Nate described the climb in reflection. We literally had to juice our legs for all they were worth, because if we stopped pedaling we’d be at an impossible angle to resume momentum, even in the easiest gear. Then we would be on foot pushing and dragging which wears you out much quicker than pedaling.

When we had reached what appeared to be the summit we took our first group photo since Nate had joined the trip. Staring out past the setting sun, the monolithic folds of rock and sheer ledges of the Batopilas Canyon seemed to drift lackadaisically from our stationary bodies, as though the land was composed of inverted clouds erupting in volatile arrangements.

The real mountain peak proved to be another two miles of torturous gradient. At one point I hallucinated seeing a decrepit old pick-up-truck the whole body bouncing precariously on its chassis, stereo system blasting mariachi music at a decibel its speakers could not coherently convey, the teenage driver with a fat liter of Tecate swinging in one hand out the window, an inebriated crew of the machismos of every single age, cheering, throwing bottles, drooling on themselves, and maintaining wicked grins in the face of inevitable destruction. I looked on in horror as the truck barreled rapidly toward a sharp curve knowing the thick powdery dust of the road would provide little traction. Inevitably I came to my senses and was spared the grim fate of El Viaje de los Borrachos (the drunken voyage).

Finally we reached the top. It was indeed the very top of the mountain ‘Mexican roads rarely skirt around some side ridge, no; they climb straight to the top then plummet to the bottom. The peak offered a three-hundred-sixty degree view of rugged mountains expanding everywhere. Down in the bottom of the next valley we could make out the faint lights of the tiny town of Rodeo. Sleep that night was aided by a cool breeze, a high altitude phenomenon much appreciated after experiencing the dizzying effects of dry dessert air.

Should a biker ever need a challenging course to test the weak points of a set of breaks, the treacherous descent into Rodeo would do nicely. Again a thick powdery dust covered up grooves between jagged stones exacerbating the problem of finding a decent line to follow. I managed to get a pinch flat in the first five minutes of riding. Goat stood nearby and sweated while I burned my finger tips on a wheel rim that felt as if it had just emerged from an oven. Just minutes after I fixed my flat, Goat discovered that his tire was flat as well. It was a miserable shadeless place to work.

We met up at the only grocery store in Rodeo. For cold drinks they had cans of Jumex nectars of which we drank three or four apiece.

From Rodeo the road took a mellower course, we managed to make it to the Rio Batopilas in just a few hours. There we sat under the shade of a giant Juamochile tree clinging to the side of an eroding slope. Held in bean pods a bit smaller in size than Tamarind, the Juamochile has a red fleshy fruit that surrounds a large black seed. It has the taste of roses and could be potentially refreshing if only it contained some juice.
While searching for a campsite we found that all the prime property was being hoarded by a herd of cattle. We set up camp on the sand, right up on the bank of the river. The road from Rodeo extends out of an arroyo wash and continues to forge the river over a path of stones. During the course of the night we could hear the fiery engines of large trucks hauling goods to restock the tiendas in San Ignacio. Some drivers employed the gung-ho method of accelerating as quickly as possible across the water way kicking up huge stones that bombarded the truck’s undersides with a loud ‘clunk’.

The next morning we awoke to find that a small convoy of soldiers had driven out the cattle and taken over the prime property beneath the Juamochile trees. One of the soldiers, who introduced himself as David, came over to visit us. We offered David a cup of coffee, and he stood around in his heavy camo-fatigues. He related stories of his life to us with the enthusiasm of one overjoyed to encounter such a random opportunity to practice English.

Born in Chihuahua, his family moved to Ciudad Juarez where they hoped that within time they would be able to immigrate into the U.S.
“I would test out the different crossing points.� David reminisces, ¨Just casually walk down pedestrian bridges, and when one of the guards asks you what you’re up to, just say something in English like, `I’m returning to my home´. The ones that would get suspicious, you’d just remember their faces and watch out for them the next time. He laughs at the ease and relative tranquility of the old border. ¨You can’t do that today.¨

Eventually his family crossed over and settled down in Chicago. David found employment with a landscape crew, specialized in installing irrigation systems, and dealt drugs on the side. Immigration busted him on the job sight and deported him back to Mexico. Now he was in his third year of being an enlisted soldier. All soldiers were required to remain in service for a minimum of three years, it seemed to David that he had done his time, but he was not sure when his superiors would grant him leave to go home.

“We’re supposed to get paid every two weeks, a five hundred peso salary, plus, sometimes a little extra. Right now we’re waiting for the general to return; maybe he’ll let us know today when we’ll get paid next.¨

David was on mess duty today. As soon as the Hummer came along, he was supposed to be ready to start cooking up the morning meal.
“If I’m not over there when the hummer comes back…� indicating the rest of his unit that sat dozing under the shade of the Juamochile. ¨…they´ll make me run laps. That’s what happened to five guys who arrived here the latest last night. The general, he says, you must run from San Ignacio to the river in half an hour, and so the last ones to arrive, he makes them run across the river ten times, with their heavy packs on and everything.¨

That was the story of the unit as a whole. Every day, all day, they marched around desolate and remote landscapes searching for marijuana crops. Technically it was the function of another operations (a Mexican version of the D.E.A) to search and destroy narcotics, but they mostly scoped out areas from the sky, in helicopters, and had the army perform all the lowly grunt work. As David mused, it’s not like we’re fighting any wars abroad´.

¨Some of us carry machetes, but they become dull very quickly, because we chop up the plant at the roots and often hit stones. It gets hot, and we move all day long, each only carry one canteen of water.¨ The size of his canteen looked like it could hold enough water to hydrate me for, at best, an hour and a half.

We asked him what happened when the military unit encountered the people maintaining the fields.

“Sometimes we arrest the farmers just for time it takes to destroy his fields. We’ll make him help with the work, and then release him at the end of the day because it’s too much responsibility to ensure his safety, to feed him and transport him back to a base. We have to be careful though, sometimes we’ll be hanging out in a town, and a farmer ‘whose crop was just destroyed’ he’ll get real drunk and then come shooting at us. But it’s a lot worse in places like Durango and Zacatecas. If this were Zacatecas, our general would certainly be shot at. It’s crazy man, but I it happens just as much in the U.S.. Man when I was dealing in Chicago, there would be gunfights almost every day. Gangsters would pull right up alongside some rival and pop’em right through the windshield of their car.¨

Our military friend admitted that he was a recreational pot smoker.
“If I find some stuff that’s purple, or looks really good, I say to myself, ´that’s mine´, and stash it away so that it’s not just thrown into the fires. Then I dry it out and hide in the bushes and make tea.�
It went without saying that if David’s superiors found marijuana on him, the punishment would be severe. Yet, perhaps because he had managed to get away with habitual use for so long, he didn’t feel any anxiety about getting caught.

We were hanging around some rocks near the deepest part of the river. Large lizards and spiders darted around the rocks as though every quarter of a second they could teleport themselves a few centimeters; their movements were too quick for my eyes to comprehend. Even when talking about his strenuous existence, David had an infectious mood of well-being that made me forget momentarily that the coals of our heavenly inferno were approaching their maximum output for the day. It would be tough riding ahead.

We parted ways with our soldier friend and hit the dusty trail. After an hour of rolling hills we started climbing steeply. During the course of another long hill heat exhaustion was an eminent possibility for all of us. I found myself hugging one side of the road or the other, trying to benefit from the thin shadow of a cactus or some leafless shrub. My prayers were directed upwards to the sky that the buzzards and vultures might mistake me for helpless carrion, circle in anticipation over my head, and bless me with the shade of their mighty wingspan.

Eventually we crossed paths with yet another river and gradually surrendered our will to move to the temptation of a refreshing swim. Judging from the sight of a car left abandoned on the steep sandy slope leading out of the rivers edge, the ford looked like a formidable task best left for morning. Within half an hour a pick-up-truck approached the crossing. After a minute of inspection it shied away from the steep climb in favor of a deeper crossing with a mellower grade leading out. The truck took something of a leap of faith, barreling down the loose stone path into the river, and was soon stuck. No repositioning of the tires or gunning of the engine improved the situation, and driver and girlfriend jumped out of the truck into the river yelling at one another in heated argument. After a quick survey of the truck and some more screaming the girl took off down the road; dude-bro proceeded to suck down a cigarette at a ferocious pace. Presently Goat went up to the man to ask if our assistance would be needed, but the man expected that a truck would soon come by that could tow him out. He claimed that his girlfriend had headed down the road to seek out help.

About an hour passed. The only people to come upon the scene were two men on horses, who weren’t in any position to help out the stranded truck. Jacob, Nate, and I were heading back from an exploratory hike when Goat came trotting up to us.
“The stranded guy has changed his mind. He doesn’t think any truck will come by to help, and fears that his lady has ditched him.�

So we headed back toward the car. Our method of rescue consisted of all four of us pushing the truck from the front while the driver accelerated in reverse. Every few feet we had to dig out the big rocks from behind all four tires before pushing again. In this way the truck progressed in baby steps back toward the shore. By the time the truck was out of the water, girlfriend had reappeared and was cheering us on with a lively chant ‘muy fuertes’ (so strong). Then the four of us got in the back of the truck to serve as a counterweight so that the rear tires could get better traction during the mad dash up the slope. While the truck was in motion the truck bed felt like a springboard that threatened to catapult all four of us into the air like a bucking horse. We made it to the top of the hill and all four of us felt relief from the burden of heavy machinery; handling bikes was all too easy in comparison.

Neither Jacob nor I wanted to take any chances with the mosquitoes that night ‘they had been especially obstinate in depriving us of sleep the night before. We took the advice of Private David and lit several patties of dried cow dung on fire, propped them upon rocks interspersed throughout the camp so that the billowing smoke would hang like a death sheet encapsulating and protecting us from bloodsuckers.

Later on in the night we heard the sounds of yet another truck getting stuck in the dreaded river crossing. Jacob stood in the shadows watching as some rather suspicious activity unfolded. A few men were frantically carrying packages from the stranded car to a truck running idle in front. Once the truck was packed up it took off with tires spinning out along the steep sandy river exit. Minutes later a third party arrived and then some rather intense shouting began. There was not much to do but sit in a state of paranoia and inhale the noxious fumes of cow dung.

Then there was the unmistakable sound of cocking guns as two men emerged from the bushes flanking our camp. Two more men emerged from the front completing that claustrophobic feeling of a sealed tomb. If these men were drug smugglers there was a chance that they might just shoot us ‘just the usual elimination of pesky witnesses.
“Levanta sus Manos. Venga aquí.� (raise your hands and come this way)Yelled the leader.
Goat responded with a laconic “¿Porque?�
The leader repeated his command while compelling Jacob to emerge from the shadows where he had lurked in quiet observation.
“Somos Gringos. No entendamos mucho españolâ€�. Goat attempted to diffuse the situation.

Oddly enough Goat, Nate, and I all held bowls of food in our hand, and we all continued eating through the unfolding confrontation. This stoic behavior must have struck the armed men as rather bizarre. Then a military commander, finally grasping the concept that we were harmless ‘though weird’ gringos, rushed into the middle of our camp, waving his hands frantically in the air, telling all of us, “esta bien, it’s alright¨. He explained to us, between heavy gasps for breath, that he had seen our lights and was worried that we were armed bandits preparing a sneak attack. His face was pale and drenched in sweat; I worried that he might be working up a stroke.

Our capturers searched Goat, seeing the tools on his belt, and then took a perfunctory glance at our belongings. My guitar case caught their attention, but they soon left it alone after it was clear that it served as a kick stand to my bike and would create a big mess should it be removed.

¨This area has a lot of drug smugglers. Mucha Marijuana.� Concluded the commander. Then, without as much as a ´be warned´, or enjoy the rest of your evening´, the soldiers retreated towards the river. They were probably eager to share such an unusual story with their comrades, or maybe just wanted to forget the surreal encounter with gringos, on bikes, literally in the middle of nowhere.

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.