A journey to the belly of the Earth finds a remark
I took another hike while in Batopilas. But I was not alone on that trek, which consumed an entire day. But before I get into the hike let me tell you something else that I liked about the riverside town of Batopilas: there were adventurous visitors from many different countries.
Although I was there in late April – early May, which is the off-season (December-March is the main tourist season), I met interesting folks – all of whom had come to Batopilas because it is such an unusual town, buried in a remote canyon far from civilization, only to be visited after traveling over what is reputedly North America’s most spectacular road.
The first two foreigners I met were two guys in their twenties. Both spoke English. Joe was from Portugal, George from Germany. The day after my arrival they hired a kid (about 14 years old) to guide them to a place called Urique. Along with the lad, they hired his burro to carry their backpacks and food and five-gallons of bottled water. That same day I met Mia, from Sweden. Six feet tall, blond, blue-eyed, and quite pretty. Actually, I had met her in Creel the evening before I shoved off for Batopilas. She suggested we travel together to Batopilas, but my VW Beetle was without room for a companion (next time I will have a car with more room). Consequently, I drove by myself while she rode the bus down to Batopilas.
Also on that bus were Mary and David, two Americans from Phoenix, Arizona. In their early forties, he is an attorney who had retired early. They were on their way to Tierra del Fuego, down at the lower end of South America. But they had detoured to Batopilas because they wanted to see the fabled town.
And there was Jim, from Mill Valley, California. In his early thirties, he spoke fluent Spanish and seemed to know everyone in town. Quiet, but friendly, I could see why he was accepted by the local community. He had spent several years, apparently, hiking the canyons.
A few days after my arrival, an older couple from Portland, Oregon, in their fifties, rode the bus down from Creel. They were U.S. citizens, but Elaine was originally from British Columbia, Canada; Bernard was from England. Congenial and friendly, they were good company.
A few days later, on a subsequent bus, a couple in their early twenties arrived in Batopilas. They were from Switzerland. On the bus with them was a rock climber from Chico, California. A few days later, two Mexicans arrived in Batopilas. They also were in their twenties. Both spoke English. They lived in Chihuahua City, Chihuahua.
But my favorite foreigners were three young women and one guy, from the Czech Republic. Jana, Hana, Linda, and Linda’s brother, Filip. It was with them that I took an all-day hike.
I became friends with the Czechs because they rented a room in what is variously known as Casa de Bustillos, Señora Monsé’s Place, and Hotel Monsé. By whatever name, it was the same place in which I was staying – a modest establishment of four rooms for let, with a communal bath. And you are allowed to cook your own food, with no additional cost, on the wood-burning kitchen stove.
The small hotel has a tree-shaded lounging area overlooking the Río Batopilas. With a small writing table, and a view of the young folks swimming in the river, the quaint outdoor lounge is shaded and pleasant. The hotel is convenient because the front door opens to the cobblestone street adjacent to the town plaza – complete with giant shade trees, basketball hoops, a children’s metal slide and, at the north end, metal benches on which to sit and lean back while relaxing in the town’s tranquil atmosphere.
Hana at Hotel Monsé
The Czechs spoke no Spanish, but Jana and Hana spoke English. Because we enjoyed each other’s company, and because I had been in town for several days, I was elected to lead them on a hike. Locating Jim, I asked for directions to Cerro Colorado, a pueblo (village) about a three and a half or four hour trek north of Batopilas.
Next, I went to Restaurante Reina and requested a favor (try this in California or New York, or most any other U.S. city). Explaining that five of us were hiking to Cerro Colorado in the morrow, and we needed to get an early start, I asked if the restaurant could open, for us, at 7:00 a.m., rather than the normal 8:00 a.m. Sure, no problema, stated the congenial young woman who, along with her husband, owns the restaurant.
Linda, Hana, Jana & Filip on the trail to Cerro Colorado
The trek to Cerro Colorado (red hill) was enjoyable. We went upstream from town, paralleling the Shepherd-built aqueduct to the dam, then beared left into Arroyo Colorado. Following Jim’s directions, we arrived at Cerro Colorado in about four hours. En route, we passed two ranchos where children greeted us with smiles and curiosity: where were we going and where did we live? We also passed the remnants of an old abandoned silver mining operation.
Arroyo Colorado had clear-running water in which we stopped for a swim on the return hike. By the time we got back to Batopilas it was dusk. It had been a good day. The Czechs were excellent company, never complaining about their blistered feet, and always finding something to laugh about. I could not have asked for better hiking companions.
Batopilas is a mixture of old and new. For instance, many residents own automobiles, mostly pickup trucks. A few of the vehicles are relatively new, not more than two years old. The late model vehicles have radios and stereo systems, usually playing music. But not everyone relies on automobiles for transport.
The morning after my arrival I got up before sunrise and walked north on the main street. Because it was Sunday morning, the town was quiet and peaceful. Enjoying my stroll in the morning coolness, I stopped when I heard music and the clip-clop on equine hooves on the cobblestone street ahead of me. Rounding the corner of the street came a young man who had probably been to an all-night, Saturday night party. Wearing a cream-colored straw cowboy-type hat set on his head at a jaunty angle, and with homemade huaraches (sandals) constructed of thins strips of leather attached to soles made of an automobile tire on his feet, and with a portable stereo player/radio (boom box) slung from his left shoulder, he sat astride a black mule patiently plodding towards home and, hopefully, a handful of grain, after being relieved of both rider and saddle.
Acting as if it was an everyday occurrence to meet a bearded, white-skinned man walking down the street at 5:30 a.m., the rider smiled big and said buenos días (good morning). Smiling back at him, I returned the greeting, acting as if it was not unusual for me to meet a mule and rider on a town’s main drag, before sunrise, with a boom box spilling forth soft, romantic Mexican music.
That is my most poignant memory of Batopilas. A smiling young man on a well-fed mule, with a stereo system, returning home from a Saturday night party.
Bus to Batopilas
Batopilas is probably the friendliest, most relaxing Mexican town I have ever been in. I may one day go back and spend a year, experiencing all the seasons, hiking the canyons and side-canyons, and meeting the hinterland residents. Living in the old silver mining town is inexpensive, and the atmosphere is sweet. As an additional dividend, it is fun to exchange stories with foreigners from different parts of the world – who are willing to sit on a crowded old bus for five hours, bouncing over miles and miles of rough dirt road as it descends into the belly of the Earth.
And if I stayed in sweet, friendly Batopilas for a year, I might stay forever. ¿Quién sabe? (Who knows?)
Read all three parts of Into the Belly
Part One
Part Two
Part Three