The Last Easy Day (4 of 6) – Copper Canyon, Mexico

By: Leanne Wells

The Last Easy Day
Copper Canyon, Mexico

Day Three
We were awakened long before dawn to Skip’s shouted command to “Get up snakes, and CRAWL!” He was eager to get on the trail before the heat of the day. “Yesterday,” he assured me, “was the last easy day.”

Sometime during the night one of the dogs had curled up next to me and we warmed each other. The rest of me was covered with a sheet of ice that crackled when I moved. Wishing that I had put my clothes in the sleeping bag with me to keep them warm, I was nonetheless grateful for the foresight that had placed them under the ground tarp and protected them from the heavy dew that had frozen on every surface.

Just after dawn the burros and dogs turned back toward the Lodge. With them went Kristen, declaring unabashedly that she had had enough and she would await our return in the comfort of flannel sheets and down comforters. It is a clever woman who knows when enough is enough. We five remaining gringos and Skip turned our backs to the rising sun and followed our Indian companions into another day on the trail.

Midmorning we passed a terse petroglyph on the sheer wall along the trail. It clearly showed the figure of a man falling head-down, with the sun below him. Looking over the edge of the trail, it was easy to imagine that long ago a man plunged to his death from this great height. It was to be almost prophetic, for a short distance down the trail a moment’s inattention caused a near reenactment of the story. I found myself flat on my back, hanging over the precipice, legs lodged securely in a scrub tree that clung tenaciously to the slope just under the trail. Once back on my feet, I studied the view while I caught my breath. Skip had been right again. It did get better. This is the most desolutely beautiful place I have ever seen.

On the trail

Lots of downhill today and every step was treacherous. One toe became so painful that I tried to curl it under at each step to avoid the inevitable crunch against the front of the shoe. Lunch break provided enough flat area to sit comfortably and inspect the damage. I had left a sharp corner on the nail of one toe and its neighbor had been turned to hamburger. My sock bore witness to the carnage with a bright red flag. I looked around hoping for sympathy, but seeing the bare Tarahumara feet in their huaraches shamed me into silence. I quietly trimmed the offending nail and returned the telltale sock to its shoe.

Lunch on the trail is repetitive and high in carbohydrates: fruit, either dried or fresh and nuts, either roasted peanuts or shelled pecans. And lots of water. Adequate, nourishing, and sensible. We rationed our water by liters, conscientiously drinking everything that we carried before arriving at the next spring where we would refill, using iodine tablets for purification. Without the Indian guides, it would be impossible to travel here. Death occurs from falls or dehydration. The trail is rarely clear and the springs are rare and obscure. An intimate knowledge of the country is essential to survive.

Our guides

The afternoon hours blended into a seamless succession of ups and downs. Our compass measured the slopes at an accurate 60 degrees and our feet measured them in endless shuffles of “pasitos, pasitos” little steps. However, the rest and water breaks afforded an opportunity to look back at the territory we had traversed and marvel that it could be crossed at all. I tried not to look at what lay ahead, for true to prediction, the terrain became increasingly more difficult and treacherous.

Camp on night three was in a small, unnamed canyon formed by a river that provided watershed from the town of Creel. The Indians would not use this water to cook, drink or wash. They insisted on a difficult climb to a spring. I marvel at these men who can travel through barely accessible terrain for hours, essentially barefoot, carrying 100- pound packs and still summon the energy to climb much further to procure water for the camp.

Lacking the Indian’s compunctions, I gladly immersed my feet in the clear, cold water and soaked them until the black flies made themselves known. The bite of this seemingly innocuous little bugger would be felt for days after the immediate insult, with terrible itching and stinging.

This little canyon was an oasis of flora and fauna usually native only to the tropics. Nowhere else in the dry Chihuahuan desert of the canyons did I see such things as bamboo and leaf-cutter ants. Somehow this narrow band of terrain has retained its ancient tropical heritage.

Again, the campfire provided a common ground for gringo and Indian. Following dinner, there was companionable conversation in three languages of which most of us spoke only one. The ancient need to draw close to the fire and each other in the dark asserted itself and language was superfluous. The Indians marveled and laughed at the red and blue sparklers that Mike had carried in with his tent stakes. Skip produced balloons that provided impromptu volleys over the fire, with an occasional misdirection and loud “BANG” that sent us all into peals of shared laughter. Almost forgotten were the difficulties of the day and the assurance of worse things tomorrow. We were again warned that today was the “last easy day”.

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