The Last Easy Day
Copper Canyon, Mexico
Day One
Day one was orientation day, introduced by Skip as “the last easy day”. I was to recall this admonition at the end of every day’s hike, as each one became increasingly more challenging and difficult.
Our walk in the woods today began in a sort of organized chaos. We were told to carry only what we needed for the day: three liters of water, sunscreen, chapstick, hat and handkerchief. Mike and I were the only noncompliants; shouldering our packs with all of the things we considered insurance against disaster and discomfort. The burros carried the food, cooking supplies, tents, and sleeping bags. And did I forget to mention the live chickens in their little cage? Decidedly disinterested, the burros lay down in the middle of the road as soon as they were loaded. The bony ejido dogs circled the preparations, warily alert for both dropped snacks and drop kicks from the men.
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Sahuaripa, our guide |
Our Tarahumara guide, Sahuaripa, sat to one side observing the operation, inscrutable and enigmatically silent, looking like a dark-skinned Indiana Jones. Perhaps he was considering how many gringos would survive and who would need to be carried out.
Our mid-morning start felt portentous, stepping off into the unknown. Perhaps it was not Oz, but it most certainly was not Kansas. We consisted of 7 burros, 7 gringos, 5 Tarahumara Indians, 2 Mestizos, an Indian tortilla lady named Paula, and two of the local dogs. And of course, EeSkeep, as “Skip” sounds when it falls off of a Spanish tongue, went along to attempt to save us from ourselves and to entertain himself with our follies.
The Indians lump all gringos and Mexicans of Spanish lineage into a general category and refer to them as “chavochis”, loosely meaning, “those with hair on their faces and cobwebs over their eyes”. We seem to them to blunder about the world blindly, noisily using up all the love and beauty. They have little use for money and don’t really care for outsiders, but agree to accompany us as guides because we are entertaining, and besides, a walkabout and campout is great fun for them too. If we cease to provide amusement, they may disappear unexpectedly and return to their homes. I made a determination to be consistently amusing!
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One of our 7 burros |
Our Indian guides were Sahuaripa, El Jefe que no tiene miedo; Calistro, who was making his first crossing and would become my watchful companion; Reyes Bautista, the madman of the Sierra Madre (just look in his eyes, and don’t ask); Antonio Moreno, a rugged workhorse of a man who rarely spoke; and Ruben, who suffered paralysis of the right side of his face and blames it on a spider bite. None of them stood much over five feet tall.
The two Mestizo chavochis were Jesus Parra, nicknamed Chunel, who oversaw the entire operation, and “Dr.” Reyes Ramirez, who knows herbs and potions, and can cure many ills with appropriate touch.
We immediately strung ourselves out along the trail for about a quarter mile, oozing across the countryside like some great, lazy, disorganized serpent. I brought up the rear, pacing myself and studying my companions. Mike, with all his gadgetry packed onto his external frame pack, wore his Asolo hiking boots. The rest of us wore an assortment of technical hiking boots and durable footwear. The Indians wore only huaraches (sandal soles cut from used tires and secured to the foot with a single thin string of leather) on their feet and carried their belongings in much used plastic grocery bags. Skip scrupulously followed his own advice and traveled light with his water, cigarettes for the Indians, and balloons for the children in his day pack. On his feet were a pair of much loved Hush Puppies and from his jeans hip pocket protruded his concession to grooming: a large “afro” comb. Paula wore well-worn tennis shoes which she changed to plastic “jellies” sandals on the second day.
The day was indeed a fairly easy one, requiring no more than 4½ hours of up and down in equal measure. The “up” quickly reminded me that I had come from an elevation of 900 feet to 7,000 and I had to stop with some frequency to assure my lungs that my throat had not been cut. My eagerness to get to the “down” part evaporated shortly after starting the steep descent on a scree-covered trail. Every step was a potential misstep, like walking on marbles, and the ends of my toes reminded me why it is so important to trim nails as short as possible. All things considered, I was feeling pretty good. The hike had not been too trying, and I was beginning to think that perhaps the warnings had been overstated.
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Paula’s tortillas on the campfire |
Our first camp was delightful, with hot springs joining the cold Rio Cusarare just below our camp. The result was a series of small pools that stayed bathtub warm and afforded us an opportunity to bathe in comfort with huge boulders providing privacy. It did not occur to me to reflect that we were still very much in civilization. Another day deeper into the crossing, places would no longer have names. The chickens were sacrificed for dinner, and Paula made tortillas which she cooked on the lid of fifty gallon drum over the open campfire. Skip and his crew wrapped themselves in their blankets to sleep around the fire, and the rest of us retired to our tents. Skip bid us goodnight with a gentle warning, “This was the last easy day”. I wished that he would not smile like that.
Read all six parts of The Last Easy Day
Part One
Part Two
Part Three
Part Four
Part Five
Part Six
