The Last Easy Day (3 of 6) – Copper Canyon, Mexico

By: Leanne Wells

The Last Easy Day
Copper Canyon, Mexico

Day Two
Over breakfast the second morning, Larry announced his intention to return his aching knees and sore back to the Lodge. One of the Indians was dispatched to accompany Larry and they began to retrace their steps. I watched them until they disappeared from sight, thinking of the soft beds, warm fires, and delicious cuisine at the Lodge.

Kristen declared that yesterday’s treacherous footing and steep, 1000 foot descent to our campsite had unnerved her. Chunel, a wise and patient teacher, was assigned the task of coaching her the rudiments of rough country trekking. They would follow a less challenging path and meet us later in the day. The burros too would meet us for lunch. The rest of us, led by Skip, crossed the river and zigzagged straight up the near vertical shoulder of a plateau. Yesterday’s 1000 foot decent had become a 1200 foot ascent which took well over an hour. By the time I got to the top, I hated my backpack and everything in it. And I was beginning to hate my husband who had insisted that we lug our external frames. And I was not too fond of that extra pair of socks either.

The top of the plateau was windswept and barren, sporting only a few trees and a log home which housed a Tarahumara family known to Skip. Nearby stood a primitive schoolhouse which the government of Mexico provides for the Indians. The location of these habitations, as we observed throughout the canyons, is mandated by the availability of water. At the edge of the plateau was the spring which allowed life to exist in the desolation of this boulder-strewn, granite-domed mountaintop.

Chunel

We had come here to offer employment to the man of the house as part of our troupe. Following the formalities, which consisted of a brush of fingertips which passed as a handshake, Elijio accepted the offer and vowed to meet us further down the trail today. It may be that these folk have mastered the art of levitation, for the diminutive Elijio was waiting for us when we stopped for lunch. Asked how he beat us there, he smiled and pointed out across a great rift in the earth which we had spent the entire morning skirting. “I came that way,” he affirmed.

We met Chunel and Kristen on a high overlook which spread the country below us like a twisted and crumpled piece of aluminum foil. Rank after rank of serrated peaks marched to the horizon, unscarred by civilization. I sat, awestruck by the vast, rugged wildness of the place. Skip dismissed the view with a terse “It gets better.”

On the trail since 0800, by mid-afternoon we were looking forward to the night’s respite. The many small box canyons and their precipitous walls that make up the floors of the larger canyons began to look alike and I fell into a rhythm of one tiny step in front of another with no thought beyond the next step. The ascents were accomplished at a snail’s pace, shuffling one weary foot in front of the other until it became yet another descent.

Stunning scenery

The descents were worse. The loose volcanic scree scrabbled wildly under our feet at every step and we were constantly struggling to maintain our balance. Toes jammed the front of our shoes and we actually began to look forward to the lung-bursting struggle of the climbs. Falls were a constant threat, frightening and dangerous. The scenery was stunning, but we feared to glance up from our feet unless we made a full stop on solid ground. I began to fantasize about what Larry might be doing back at the Sierra Lodge.

As we shuffle-stepped our way along a narrow ledge, a shallow overhang rose above us where the Indians had erected a rough corral around the mouth of it to pen their goats. High across the back of it marched legions of stylized men immortalized in ocher petroglyphs. When I inquired about the artists, I met with a quizzical shrug, “Quien sabe? The Old Ones” Skip volunteered that a couple of years past he had brought a National Geographic writer here, and he became so excited upon sighting the glyphs his hands began to shake so that he could hardly open his camera case. Quien sabe? Go figure.

We were a weary and footsore bunch who dragged into the second night’s campsite only about 1½ hour before dark. Dejectedly, we looked longingly toward the spring which would provide us with water. It was 100 yards down a steep incline. No one wanted to think about having to retrace those steps back to camp, but no one volunteered to make the trip for us either.

An Indian family whose habitations are above and very near the campsite owns this high field. The children watched us from above, but only their father came to the camp. Our guides and porters share with these rural Indians a profound reticence and reserve, even though some of them speak Spanish as well as Tarahumara. They are content to observe without initiating contact. The Tarahumara language has no written form. They do not rely on verbal images to represent the physical world. Instead they experience the world directly via tactile and other sensory input. They are silent, stoic, with a flat affect that makes a smile or chuckle a rare gift that should be treasured by the aware visitor. They accept death, ours or theirs, as part of life and will not take heroic measures to avoid it.

Conversation around the campfire in the evenings is the social hub of the day and provides the best opportunity to exchange observations and information. Following dinner tonight, conversation turned to the history of the crossing itself. This trek from Creel to Divisadero has been accomplished by only around 100 gringos, 3 or 4 Mestizos, and perhaps a dozen Tarahumara. There is a famous rail line which connects Los Mochis to Chihuahua and since 1961 thousands of tourists have viewed the edge of the canyons from the windows of a comfortable train car. It is pleasant to travel 75 kilometers from Creel to Divisadero aboard the train, but the reality and magic of the canyons and its Indians would be forever hidden.

Never one to look through a glass darkly, Skip decided to attempt a “short cut” from Cusarare, outside of Creel, to Divisadero. This required crossing or skirting three of the five great canyons. Urique, the largest, is deeper than the Grand Canyon by 1,462 feet and much less hospitable because its sides are unadorned by paths. Exploration here is discouraged because the Urique River passes through prime drug cultivation country and tourists are not generally welcome. Fortunately, our visit was not during the growing season.

The Tarahumara had not made the crossing because they tend to stay within the confines of their family or “ejido” territory. They are well acquainted with the area within their frame of reference, but not beyond. Skip began by engaging Sahuarepa to guide him to the perimeter of his known territory. There, they scouted around until they made contact with Indians in the adjoining area and convinced them to provide access and guide services to the next territory. This process continued until they reached their goal. Once Sahuarepa knew the way, Skip began to make the crossing with friends and explored the lands as they went, making diversions and exploratory excursions at whim. The full crossing had only been completed about a dozen times. I was beginning to have a new appreciation for the honor of seeing these lands that few have seen, much less walked.

Bad news. Tomorrow morning, the beginning of the third day, we will lose the burros. The trail from here on becomes too narrow and dangerous for them to traverse with packs and they will return to the Lodge with Chunel, Reyes Bautista, and Reyes Ramirez. From this point onward, our belongings will be carried on our backs or those of our guides. Mike and I both had awakened to the reality of this place and the truth of what Skip had told us. Every ounce becomes a matter of survival and only the lightest of loads will permit you to traverse this treacherous land. Skip had wisely allowed us to learn the hard way over the least strenuous portion of the trek, and equally wisely never gloated with an entirely appropriate, “I told you so”. Such is the way of a kind man.

We sorted our packs into small piles, one of which was to return with the burros. We bid a happy farewell to the water filter, the camp stove, my spare shoes and socks, and various and sundry other small items that we had once thought indispensable. I pondered returning my entire backpack, but Skip thought that he might be able make use of it. Counting Elijio, he had one more volunteer than he had expected to provide backpacks for.

Our camp

Just before dark, five forms emerged from the dusk and approached Skip. Word of our crossing and the smell of food had announced our arrival and volunteers from the local population had arrived to accompany us where the burros could not. Pedro, Corpus, Loriano, Lencho, and Corpus’ 9 year old son, Juanito, joined our company.

Exhausted and too tired to erect the tent, Mike and I threw our sleeping bags on the ground and drew the tent fly over us like a blanket. The nearly full moon above me wore a huge, bright ring to announce its betrothal to Earth and the vast vault of stars formed an almost solid wedding veil which fell to the horizon on all sides. I fell asleep smiling at the sounds of men sharing tequila and laughter at the nearby fire.

Read all six parts of The Last Easy Day
Part One
Part Two
Part Three
Part Four
Part Five
Part Six