Copper Canyon Diary (5 of 6)

By: Leanne Wells

Sunday May 17th, 1998

We elected for this day’s hike a much more difficult and extended trip to the Rancho Camuchin. Seven miles round trip, the hike requires most of a day and we carried packed lunches to be consumed at the Rancho.

The heat makes this hike laborious, as much time is spent climbing and descending in a rugged canyon where there is little air movement, and very little shade. We were accompanied by Julia and Lolo as guides. As with most of the locals, Lolo trucked along through the cactus and razor sharp rocks wearing long sleeves, jeans, and sandals. The Tarahumara navigate through this country in traditional dress: Indian sandals which are constructed of old car tires for the soles and secured firmly by a single long leather strap.

When we returned from our hike yesterday, Judy, Jan, and I ordered some of these sandals, huaraches, from the local sandal maker, Che. He traced around our bare feet on a piece of paper, carefully marking specific points for the leather lacing. We paid 90pesos and will pick up the finished product following our hike today. Che is a Mexican man who is a local furniture and coffin maker and has been making huaraches for years. He speaks no English except, “okey dokey”, which he says frequently and with much gusto.

As we started up the canyon, we easily fell into the marching order which has become natural to us: the guide, or guides, me, Mike, Chuck if he is with us, Jan, and Cheryl.

By the time we arrived at the Ranch we were tired, dirty, and sweat drenched. Jan had had the brilliant idea of freezing our water bottles the night before and that proved to be the single most clever idea of the trip. As the ice in our liter bottles melted, we added water from our quart bottles so that we always had cold water. This hike would have been really miserable without the cold water.

The Mexican family that lives on Rancho Camuchin represents three generations and the abuela claims to be 108 years old. Who am I to doubt? She surely looks as though it may be accurate. The Rancho, primitive by our standards, is luxurious here. The kitchen has tile floor, the rest of the house cool, hard packed earth kept moist for comfort and dust control. In one corner of the living room stood what must be a source of family pride: a large, glass paned china hutch. It was brought here on the backs of the men of the family, up the same steep, rocky canyon that we just barely were able to drag our own bodies!

I was the first of our group to the house, where I was met by the matron of the house. She greeted me warmly and invited me to enter with a heartfelt, “pase!” and an open door which beckoned me into the dark, cool interior of the house.

I was loathe to leave the pleasant front “yard” as it was extensive and completely shaded by a single ancient grapevine supported by a ceiling of chicken screen wire and posts. A vegetable garden lay along the perimeter of the patio, and next to the house a profusion of blooming plants vied for attention from their individual containers of assorted pots, pans, and cans. Several chickens and a small pig bustled around, doing whatever it is that chickens and pigs do. But Senora Camuchin continued to welcome me into her home, so I entered and was soon followed by my companions.

The family scurried around gathering chairs for us and Senora offered coffee which all but Julia declined. We were soon joined by a young boy (7?) and his older sister who were delighted to accept jellybeans from Mike. And much to my surprise, a skinny Siamese cat sauntered in from the kitchen to look us over. When asked the cat’s name, la Senora replied that people, mules, burros, and dogs all have names because they have jobs to perform but cats are not named because they have no jobs!

Senor Camuchin came from the field where he was harvesting pinto beans to greet us and we ate our packed lunches seated in the cool serenity of the Camuchin family living room. Afterward we looked through the tiny adobe school room where the 4 Camuchin children and 2 Tarahumara children receive what formal education they will likely ever receive. The state provides the teacher and the Rancho provides her a place to live and food.

The trip back down proved much easier and certainly faster, but the heat and humidity had become intense and Cheryl lagged far behind. We gave her our extra water and Julia dropped back to accompany her while Jan, Chuck, Mike, and I pushed ahead with Lolo.

At the mouth of the canyon, under the shade of a tree, lounged 4-5 men slobbering drunk with the weeks’ wages and freedom of activity that comes with a Sunday in Mexico. When one muttered incomprehensibly at us as we passed, we decided to wait on the women following to assure their safety – but fortunately the precaution proved unnecessary.

Little Tarahumara girl

We did experience one delightful encounter on our return trip to Batopilas from Rancho Camuchin that certainly bears recalling. As we left Camuchin and passed through the fields where el senor had been working, we encountered 2 Tarahumara children. The girl, in her early teens wore a bright red and blue floral blouse. We stopped to inquire what type of beans they were gathering and the girl shyly showed me a brightly colored enamel bracelet she wore and declared it was a birthday gift, and that today was her birthday. The young boy (10-12?) stayed back and pretended indifference until I produced some small chocolate bars. He accepted one, but said nothing. She, on the other hand, very clearly said, “thank-you”, in English. I was so surprised I just stared stupidly at her, whereupon she repeated her only words of English. I assured her, in Spanish, that she was most welcome, and hurried to catch up with my fellow trekkers.

In a short time I had regained my usual place in the entourage, fixed my gaze on Lolo’s heels, and continued the hike down the canyon.

In a short while, Cheryl, bringing up drag, announced, “we have company”. The kids were following us, discreetly flitting from one hiding place to another so that when I turned to look I never caught more than a fleeting glimpse of bright red and a peal of silvery girlish laughter. Because the heat was taking its toll on Cheryl, we made frequent rest stops whenever a shady spot presented itself.

Whenever we stopped the kids too would settle down up trail, just barely out of sight, but if we called out to them the girl would answer. At one stop I walked back and asked her if I might take a picture and she shyly assented. She stood, but shyly ducked her head, covering her mouth and cheek with the back of her wrist, giggling self consciously all the while. She so charmed me and so exuded the pure essence of budding femininity that I returned to where my travelmates were resting and began to sort through my pack in search of anything feminine to give her. And WAHLAH!! I was using the same pack to trek that I had used to pack toiletries for the trip and when emptying it at the Lodge to repack it for hiking, had overlooked my bottle of POISON perfume. Mike had been unknowingly toting it around the mountains with our water and other survival essentials.

I carried it back and showed it to her, indicating that she should smell the bottle. Upon inquiry, she nodded that yes, she did indeed like the odor. I sprayed some on my arm and indicated she should extend hers, which she readily did, trying hard not to grin broadly. I gave her healthy sprays on both antecubital spaces and wrists. When I returned to my waiting companions she was avidly sniffing her arm and her ?brother? was very busy polishing his look of studied indifference even though I had given him an ink pen that he had eagerly accepted.

Mike laughed all afternoon at the notion of my Poison wafting down the arroyos from an innocent Tarahumara girl. She and the boy trailed us nearly all the way to town and their presence was announced by the occasional scent of perfume. I think of her often, with her beautiful almond eyes and flashing smile and I wish for her a lifetime of the uncorrupted innocent joy that radiated from her.

Returned to the Lodge in time for the Mexican limousine to make its usual 1600 run to the nadaring hole with Manuel Arturo. I opted to stay at the lodge where I consumed vast quantities of the always available fresh lemonade, splashed happily in my bath, and walked to the second plaza up to pick up my huaraches. Che’ made certain that I could properly wrap and lace them before allowing my departure. His conversation, instructions, and mutterings interspersed with frequent “okey dokey”s.

Dinner tonight was truly a culinary treat and an honor. Oscar cooked for us!! Having studied for many years in Italy, he has developed an affinity for Mediterranean Cuisine and a skill in its preparation. He prepared an entree of green chilies sautï¿½ed in garlic and olive oil and served with a cream sauce. Also, a tipico Spanish dish like a potato quiche. We all asked for seconds and cleaned our plates.

A word about the service here – exemplary! A glass is not allowed to be emptied without an offer to refill it. If a napkin falls to the floor, within seconds a fresh one finds its way to your lap. A wash cloth or towel that has been disturbed is replaced. And my gosh! The towels!! Made in Mexico especially for both Lodges, the one in Cusarare and in Batopilas, the snowy white towels are unlike any I have ever encountered anywhere. Described by Mike as “family size”, they beggar that description. Huge – 6′x3′ at least, and big time fluffy! So thick that they were barely moistened by toweling after a bath.

But the most unusual and outstanding thing about this entire trip and the people of this area is the absolute sense of security I feel here. We were assured at the outset that our belongings were quite safe in our rooms. We were issued keys to our rooms in Cusarare, but did not use them. Our rooms in Batopilas did not even have knobs or latches, much less locks! If you wished to secure your room in Batopilas, you merely closed the door and put a rock in front of it! If you were in the room you could close the door and secure it by slipping a burro shoe through a latch on the inside of the door. But never mind, the windows were probably still open for the breeze. The bedroom door that accessed the street was a double door that latched in the center where they met with a burro shoe slipped though a hasp.

We had read in backpacking guides of the near 99% confidence the authors had in the honesty of the Tarahumaras. I believe it to be true, and I now also believe it to extend to the native Mexican community that coexists with them. One morning I left a 20 peso tip on my pillow for the girl who did our room and for 2 days in a row she placed it on the dresser for me. These people, while they appreciate a tip, are unaccustomed to receiving them and do not expect them. And as far as I am concerned, their honesty goes unrivaled. The Lodge management at both places assured me that they had never had an incident of anything missing from a room.

On the afternoon of the 18th, Kathy and I walked to the local silversmith, and ordered some inexpensive articles. Her total bill was 110 pesos and mine was 160 pesos (< $20). He assured us that he could have our orders ready by late afternoon and would deliver them to the hotel “at Margarita time”, meaning 1830.

I asked if he needed prepayment – DUMB! And of course he said yes…DUH… So, Kathy and I each shelled out 100 pesos as down payments on our orders. I owed another 60 pesos and she 10, to be paid on delivery. We would have paid the full amount, but he had no change.

“Margarita time” came and went and our jeweler was a no show! DUH, again. We had made arrangements to return to Satevo that night, taking with us a battery operated electronic keyboard and Oscar’s lovely voice. On the way there, loaded up in the back of our Mexican limousine, we passed the jewelers darkened house and I suggested that we stop long enough for me to make an inquiry. Our driver advised that it probably would do no good, as he had last observed the gentleman in question late that afternoon in town, too drunk to stand much less craft our silver pieces.

At that point, Kathy and I kissed our pesos and jewelry good bye and chalked it up as a lesson learned. We were scheduled to leave for the Sierra Lodge at 0900 in the AM. Much to my surprise, at 0800, the little jeweler arrived and with deepest apologies, returned our 200 pesos! An honest, if occasionally inebriated, craftsman!

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