Copper Canyon Diary (3 of 6)

Friday May 15th, 1998

Up early and on the road to Batopilas around 0900, eager to see the canyon system about which we had heard so much. Half of the morning we remained on the excellent paved road, observing eagerly the huge vistas opening around us. Texas is not big country after all; not even the Big Bend area is quite the equal to this. This is REALLY big country, as Ed Sullivan would say, and is quite frightening in its enormity.

The Tarahumara have lived here since fleeing the Spanish enslavement, coexisting with their environment and thriving. This remains their country and we are here at their tolerance. We have been told that they are aware of our presence, as we hike through their homeland, but they are generally rather indifferent to our activities and we cannot depend on them for aid in time of need, but neither will they hinder us.

They are very private and do not initiate contact. Some Indian women at the falls yesterday very quickly averted their gaze as I approached, but one strained to look at me over her shoulder, cutting her eyes without turning her head as I passed. As our eyes met very briefly over the head of her child, she flashed me a momentary smile of female recognition. But the moment passed quickly.

They are extremely territorial regarding their homes and small pieces of cultivated land. We were told not to approach the domicile of a Tarahumara – one should stop at the edge of his land and wait to be recognized. He will know that you are there, and may or may not acknowledge you. To advance to his doorstep would be equivalent to a stranger coming in and standing at the foot of your bed. Their sense of “personal space” exceeds ours by meters! But considering the vastness of this country, that is understandable.

Mid morning we abandoned the pavement and turned off on the long dirt/rock/gravel road to Batopilas. The temperature has risen in inverse proportion to the decline in elevation!

Just off the pavement we pulled over and made a stop in the “bano grande” of the outdoors, and Jan and Cheryl climbed up to the top of the Suburban where Antonio strapped them securely into the race car seats. From their elevated seats they could view the scenery and freely consume the dust which arose behind passing vehicles. Fortunately, there were only 2 or 3 vehicles on the road with us this morning.

Just as we topped the canyon rim, we pulled over to stretch, look, and take pictures. Looking down into this magnificent barranca reduces me to absolute insignificance.

Mike and I climbed up to ride on top for the descent into the bottom of the canyon. This is dry, hot, desert country with the expected complement of cacti, mesquite, yucca, and century plants. But in spite of the arid nature of the area and season, all the plants seem to be trying to outdo each other in beauty and fragrance. Most of the plants I have never seen before. Their beauty absolutely staggers the mind. Everything is blooming; not in the endless blankets of flowers I am accustomed to in the spring in Texas, but in small discrete oases of vibrant shape and color.

As we traversed the endless switchbacks down the canyon face, a pair of small brilliantly colored birds accompanied us for several yards. They were bright, canary yellow and black with bright orange heads. I later attempted to identify them and think that they are Western Tanagers�not sure, though.

On the road along the canyon bottom we stopped for lunch under a large tree…just pulled over and built a fire in the middle of the road!! Our driver, Antonio, prepared for us “discada”. The discada is a large wok with legs welded on and placed over the fire. Actually, I believe the wok is in reality an old plow disc with a new identity. A mixture of chicken, peppers, onions is cooked in the discada, then wrapped in flour tortillas and well…yummmmm. So good that a dog appeared from nowhere to investigate the good smells.

Jan and Cheryl rode on top the rest of the way to Batopilas, getting hotter and dustier all the way. We arrived in Batopilas at mid-afternoon, just in time to get caught in and take part in a political parade. As we crept along the narrow (one lane) street, Jan and Cheryl quietly roasted on the roof, and provided the populace with the spectacle of watching the gringas cook on the roof of the Suburban, in the middle of a political rally!! They must have thought that we fried our brains long before arrival.

Batopilas is an old silver mining town which stretches lazily along the Batopilas River with a single, one car-width road as its main thoroughfare. Along its street may be seen Mexicans walking side by side with Tarahumara Indians in the ancient traditional dress. There are NO t-shirt shops and NO “tourist traps”. And NO way on earth could I have been prepared for the cosmopolitan pleasures awaiting me here. The rural, third world town belies the comfort and luxury hidden in its heart.

The manager and assistant manager met us at the door with fresh, cold lemonade and warm welcome. But I couldn’t hear a word they were saying, so enchanted was I by my surroundings. The Riverside Lodge is a magical whimsy of Moroccan Arabian Nights meeting South of the Border adobe. It is without a doubt the most intriguing, lovely place I have ever been. It is a completely renovated block long building constructed on the steep hillside of Batopilas. It’s many levels and terraces provide each room with a sense of total privacy even though the noises of the town are close at hand.

The Lodge is complete with midnight blue ceramic mosaic minarets, one of which can be climbed for a bird’s eye view of the immediate environs. The other and larger dome contains one of the guestrooms and bath.

Ahhh, the rooms! How shall I start to describe them? I’m not at all sure I can. They are lovely, whimsical masterpieces of comfort, large and with 12 foot ceilings and mosaic tile floors, each room bearing the name of a woman. Our room is Noel, and an inconspicuous picture of the real Noel hangs just to the right of the dresser mirror, a smiling dark-haired beauty of light skin and dark eyes.

Every room, while following a basic, similar Mexican decor, still has its own charming eccentricities. And each opens into private terraced patios with roses, honeysuckle, bougainvillea, and many tropical flowers that I cannot name. Our bedroom door provides access to two patios and our bathroom opens into a small shaded patio. It is lovely to soak in the hand painted tub with all the windows and doors open and a fresh breeze blowing through. Because of the steepness of the hillside, multiple terraces are required, creating a maze of rooms and patios. Exquisite attention to detail has been paid and the result is incredibly lovely and yet still amazingly comfortable.

And all this leads, among the consideration of the miracles of Batopilas, to Oscar, the manager of the Riverside Lodge. Oscar is himself an enigma and a miracle. He was born in Chihuahua City, lived and studied music in Dallas, Tx. From there, he went on to study voice in New York, Spain and Italy. He now sings with the Carnegie Hall choir. He is young, handsome, talented, charming�I am sure he must have some faults, but they are not readily apparent.

Manolo is the assistant manager, and reminds me of a darker, pudgy version of Marlin Brando, although my fellow travelers did not share my impression. And he seems to me rather fawning and obsequious at times.

We also met a fellow adventurer up on arrival. Judy is traveling alone, here for some rest, peace, and day packing into the surrounding mountains. She teaches at a small eastern college and proved to be a most amiable dinner companion, although she chose to adventure into the countryside each day with only her guide as companion.

This is indeed a wondrous place, full of surprises, but the best surprise yet is the cook – but I am jumping ahead! She will not make an appearance until tomorrow. Tonight our repast was prepared by her very able relief as she has been off for a few days. He prepared spinach soup and fish fillets with a white sauce that was excellent.

Just before dinner our trail guide, Julia, came to meet us and advise us of our options for hiking. The longest of these we declined because of the heat this time of year. We chose for tomorrow a half day, 8 km hike to the Satevo Mission. This lovely mission of uncertain age is 2-300 years old and still hosts services every other Sunday.

It was there that we received a great and unexpected gift: Oscar stood in an obscure corner, where through trial and error he has found the best acoustics, and with his classically trained operatic voice delivered two arias and “Amazing Grace” in English. The beauty of it made visible goose bumps run up and down my legs.

It was soon revealed that Ellen plays the piano quite well and Oscar excitedly began to make plans to locate a battery operated keyboard and return for more music, this time with accompaniment. A rare and thrilling treat for all of us.

After dinner that first day, Mike and I climbed to a roof terrace and watched satellites race the stars and each other across the dark, clear desert sky. Then early to bed where we slept soundly under our room’s sole concession to Gringo temperature sensitivities: an electric fan. Nothing else in the room or bath is electric although there is an outlet for those who absolutely must have their kilowatts.

Read all six parts of Copper Canyon Diary
Part One
Part Two
Part Three
Part Four
Part Five
Part Six

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