Memories From the Trail, 2010

Memories from the Trail 2010

I awaken to the gloom of pre-dawn. My companions on the floor beside me slumber softly, or, like myself, are in various stages of wakefulness. Two burning candles cast warm light on the adobe walls of the adjoining kitchen. The fire is lit in the stove; all is quiet. Then, in gentle, lilting tones, someone starts singing Las Mañañitas, the morning song of Mexico. I never see the singer, but by the time he is finished, the day has come to life.

It was another day of riding the Silver Trail through Mexico’s Sierra Madre Occidental, with twenty five cowboys as my guides and companions. We were again retracing the route that the mule drivers (arrieros) of old traversed monthly through blazing heat, pounding rain, and icy cold, fording rivers or detouring around them when in flood. Climbing 5000 feet from canyon bottom to mountain top, the trail teetered along sheer cliffs and passed vanishing arrays of ridges as it crossed the spine of the Sierra Madre.

The Silver Trail Convoy (La Conducta de la Ruta de la Plata) originated in Batopilas, Chihuahua. Located at the bottom of one of the huge canyons in the Copper Canyon system, Batopilas was the sight of one of history’s most productive silver mines. Hence, the Silver Route to the nearest railroad, located in the city of Chihuahua, some 300 miles away. Commencing in 1880, and for thirty years, extracting the nearly pure bullion and the lively commerce the circuit generated brought prosperity and fame to the region. Pancho Villa’s marauding revolutionaries and cascading silver prices closed the mine in 1910. The vibrant route languished, as did the remote communities it served.

We were here due to the vision and dedication of a few individuals. Two cousins, descendants of one of the head arrieros, grew up hearing stories about the Silver Trail. Their dream of retracing the path, locating the historic stations, and recreating the epic venture had materialized.

Arriving in Batopilas late at night, I greet old friends and meet new additions to our group. We are camping just outside of town on the river. A minimal structure has a floor, a roof, a fenced enclosure for our animals, but little more. Water, viscous and brown, is dipped from the flooding river; I lace it heavily with iodine tablets. I will get used to drinking this slurry for the next few days. One generous individual – Don Gabriél – takes it upon himself to cook breakfast for our group of about twenty. His companion rides to town on a mule and returns with provisions, balancing several dozen eggs on a flat tray bound up with string.

The dawning day is September 16, 2010, the centennial of the Mexican Revolution. Proudly, we parade through town amidst a color guard, marching bands, school drill teams, and more. The central square is lavishly decorated with the colors of the Mexican flag, red, white and green. A band plays as our conducta circles the plaza once, and then again. A carefully stacked pile of replicated silver ingots adorns a corner. From here, local dignitaries give speeches.

The Mexican Revolution is recent enough that its memory burns brightly in the minds of Chihuahuans. Recalling the sacrifices made by barefoot peasant soldiers to free themselves from bondage to the wealthy few, I honor them quietly. That night I lie down on the edge of a concrete pad facing the river. The near-full moon rises over black canyon walls. Moonlight glints on the waves.

Before leaving Batopilas to start our trek, we again parade through town. We wear our uniforms, the muslin shirts and pants worn by Mexican peasants at the turn of the last century. Three of us are women and we represent three cultures, Mestizo (Mexican), Tarahumara (Indian), and Gringo. Pausing at the square, we are blessed by the priest and sprinkled with holy water. Each of us receives a small pendant bearing the Virgin of Guadalupe, patron saint of Mexico. After so many months of waiting for this event, it is now impossible to slow the passage of time. So it is with sadness that I ride out of Batopilas, leaving its enchantment behind.

The flooding river prevents us from following the Silver Trail proper; we skirt its edge until we arrive at our first night’s camp, a short three hours from town. The plan is to portage our belongings across the river from the truck waiting on the other side. The fittest beasts and riders head into the rushing current, flounder, and nearly go under. A half mile farther, a narrow foot bridge suspended over the torrent by cables affords us passage, and we carry our gear across its swinging span on our backs.

It is raining. Rain will be our escort on this ride. My companions are endlessly resourceful, and this night they locate the key to a church. We pile inside and sleep head to foot and hip to hip among our damp saddles and gear. Having shared similar arrangements previously with this group of mostly men, I relax into easy familiarity. The first thunderous snores, amplified by the acoustics in the sanctuary, are met with hilarity and laughter. The church is too small to accommodate us all, and the toughest sleep outside in the walled enclosure beyond the front door. I loan my high-tech, two-person tent to a few of them. If I had taken a picture, its caption would be: “How many Mexican cowboys can fit into a Marmot tent??”

Departing early in gray light, we ride. Up and up, through curls of mist and clouds. Though we leave the river behind, the steepness of our track gives us many glimpses of its winding, turgid waters as we climb into the Sierra.

My grown son Isaac has accompanied me this year. Like mine, his eyes are blue green and very light. Shortly after arriving in Batopilas, our leader, Raúl Granados, is approached separately by two friends who say the same thing; that Isaac bears a strong physical resemblance to Raúl - whose eyes are green – and to his family. Thus, the supposition is that Raúl and I must have once been intimate. Raúl jumps on this, immediately calling Isaac “Mijo” (my son), and assuming a jesting fatherly role. This theme builds for the entire journey, with several of us playing parts.

Teboriachi, high camp: We go to the old Silver Route station, greet the Tarahumara family living there, and take a group photo. These stations were built to house and feed the mule drivers and their beasts, and protect their precious cargo. Some are in ruins; those still intact have been appropriated by locals for seasonal or year-round use. At this remote outpost our supper is from grub sacks, heated over the fire. Animals are staked in the tall grass by a field of maize. After a dip in the icy stream, I bed down, contented, under pine boughs. Brilliant stars are the last thing I see before my heavy eyes close in sleep.

Another overcast dawn. Coffee mixed with sugar and pinole, the corn mush of these highlands, is the breakfast of the trail. I scramble to order and stow gear into my duffle, and deliver it to the arrieros of my team for loading on to the mules. Oh, those mules! I have seen horses falter, grow thin, and fail on this trek. Mules are much better at withstanding the exertion on scant calories. When we reach Chihuahua City after thirteen days, most of the horses will be listless and gaunt. But the mules will stay plucky, maintaining nearly all of their body weight. We load them with our heavy gear and head out.

The skill of loading cargo animals is little appreciated and not easily learned. During my second year on this venture, I blithely assumed that I could become an “arriera”. Observing closely, however, it became clear to me that this is an art, requiring strength, precision, and skill. The call of “carga ladeada!” (load slipping) is a common one during the day, obliging the group to halt as a few individuals dismount and reload. The mark of a seasoned arriero is that his loads stay fixed.

The days are sailing by, and, leaving Teboriachi I am again pricked by sadness. We enter a cedar forest. No roads or logging here, just a footpath by a dancing stream and the hush of a mature grove. An occasional Tarahumara, easily outpacing us on foot, skims quietly past. I see no sign of the narco mafiosos who control this area. Prior arrangements have guaranteed us safe passage. And, in this company of cowboys and mountain men I feel secure. Only occasionally do we glimpse a plot of land growing a crop which is not edible. Marijuana cultivation in this region of the Sierra is historic.

Leaving wild country and descending onto logging roads, we enter a village. Owing to some marvelous act of planning, they know we’re coming. The owners of the small store have hot, fresh tamales waiting for us. Bliss! This is the real thing, succulent and bursting with flavor, and I eagerly indulge.

Rain returns, soaking us every day, sometimes more than once. If the September sun pushes through,  we dry out and begin to sweat and burn under its potent rays. When staying in villages, we improvise, sleeping in clinics, under porches, and in borrowed cabins. There is always a stream to water our mounts, clean ourselves, and wash our clothes, drying them as we’re able, between showers.

The singing, bantering, and “gritos” (long, melodic cries) of my companions are ongoing.

As the sole Gringa in our company, my role is that of apprentice. I am, I believe, quietly appreciated for my evident love of all things Mexican. That I am steeped in the knowledge of traditions, songs, and language is respected; also that I can physically keep pace. But I still have much to learn about the language, traditions, and skills of riding in this country. There is always a hand willing to help me when I need it. That I am loved is proven by the jokes made at my expense, offered in an easy-going manner. We are a team.

My son is loving this. Warrior-like and a superb athlete, I hoped that he would be challenged and not disappointed by the ride. My concerns are groundless. His spirit rises to the arduous physical challenge, wild beauty, remoteness, and cultural connection that make this journey life-defining.

Isaac has found an easy camaraderie with his fellow riders. When most of us retreat indoors to sleep, he stays out with the cowboys. At one stop, a local resident prepares a feast and hires a band for us. A fiesta naturally ensues. Isaac and I dip into our duffels, produce a couple bottles of tequila, and the dancing begins. I don’t believe I have ever been twirled as much as on that night by the firelight at La Laja. At one point, two men throw down their hats, gyrating and weaving around them in an other-worldly display of grace. Isaac finally brings down the house when he shares his prowess as a break dancer, spinning on his back and balancing on one hand as his body follows precise, acrobatic movements. The last song – at my son’s request – is my favorite ballad, Gabino Barrera. I am led to the mike and sing to my companions.

The trail winds on. We ride, usually reaching the next station in seven to eight hours with very few breaks. This is not a guided tour for sightseers, but a traverse of some of the most rugged and isolated country in this hemisphere. There is no luxuriating. Lunch stops are quick. It behooves one to step down, do your business, take a quick look at the grandeur, and be ready to ride. When the leader wants to push on, he departs. I manage my affairs with an eye cocked to his movements, at the ready to put my foot in the stirrup.

The day we drop down into pre-history moves my son deeply. Winding with rivers through canyons of worn stone, we ride. Caves enhanced by stacked rock walls serve as animal pens and, in some cases, temporary dwellings. We are in a place so remote that people, hearing us approach, retreat into their homesteads and watch us pass from the dark interiors. This is a land of maize and beans and goats and few cattle. Except for the rare glass window or tin roof, all building materials are local: wood shingles and beams, adobe bricks. We are in the world of theTarahumara, fleet of foot, reticent, aloof.

Hours later we climb up steeply to broad mesas, and at day’s end look down at the station at Guajochi and evening’s camp. And are shocked at the sight of the Conchos River, which is in full flood; in the morning we are to cross it.

Walls of black clouds are closing in and our intrepid guides quickly improvise. We detour to a paradise called La Junta. As daylight fades and curtains of rain descend, we arrive at the homestead of one of our riders. Our animals staked in thigh-high flowers along the rushing river, we gratefully retreat into her beautiful, rustic quarters.

Rain halts and the moon rises through mist. After a meal heated on the wood stove, a few of us sit on the porch. My back to the thick adobe wall, I relax deeply and listen to the talk around me, spoken in a cadence so rhythmic, and accented so musically, that I am lulled into the dream zone. Only when the singing begins do I break out to lift my voice with my companions. The moon backlights the scene before me: low edge of porch roof, hatted silhouettes of cowboys, slats of the railing on which they lounge all form an indelible picture of silver and black.

The following day is our longest. The detour – to the bridge over the Conchos – takes us up mountains and down canyons. Storms deluge the land, erasing the tracks between front runners and stragglers in our company. We pause to eat and regroup in an ancient-looking village of stone walls and adobe structures clustered around a beautiful, crumbling church. Then continue on. The vanguard arrives at camp before dark. After more than twelve hours in the saddle, the trailers come in, still singing. A hat is passed and a delegation is sent to town for beer. Retiring early, I miss the party. I am pleased to complete this long day feeling tired but otherwise in good condition. The celebration occasionally breaks through my slumber. I smile and fall back into sleep, musing at the energy of my friends. The moon rises full, bathing us in platinum light.

We have completed the first half of the conducta. With our arrival in Carichí, the wilds of the Sierra are behind and the way to Chihuahua lies over rolling plains. Our wooden wagons await. The mock silver ingots replace our camping duffels on the cross bars of the mules or are stacked in the wagon beds. We are accompanied by a lavishly-costumed locals acting as the owners of the famous mines, Mr. and Mrs. Alexander Robey Shepherd. The pageant is beginning. From now on we will enter towns in parade formation, led by “Boss” Shepherd, our patron.

Carichí: Stores, amenities (showers!), and a fiesta await us, but only for a few hours. The conducta continues on toward the evening’s camping site. I linger in town with my friend Raúl, who is bogged down with administrative tasks. Listening to social chatter over drinks, I feel a strong pull. This is not my world. I belong to the trail and to the animals that make that life possible, and my need to be with them is visceral.

We rejoin our comrades and hunker down. Rain pours hard, all night long. In my tent I remain dry but damp; Isaac and a few others sleep in the bunker that houses our saddles. At some point, water streams through the door along the sloped floor and deluges several sleepers. They roll like sausages on top of the others and remain there, packed like sardines for the rest of the night.

Day dawns, drizzly and cool. My horse is sick with a cold. A couple of injections and on we go, to the forgotten city of Cusihuiriachi. The horses are beginning to show the stress of their arduous labor. Owing to his sickness, mine has been unable to eat grain when it was available. In “Cusi” we are lodged indoors and our animals have good pasture. Sadly, the celebration planned for our arrival has been canceled due to a tragedy. The president-elect (“mayor,” in our culture) has been assassinated by the local cartel. People are in shock. Mexico is bleeding from a war over the drugs it produces but does not consume.

The next day’s ride will be a short three hours and take us to the city of Cuauhtémoc. How I remember every painful step from the previous year. In 2009 I rode the distance from Batopilas to Chihuahua fueled by pure determination. I was unprepared for the effect that hours of daily trotting on hard surfaces would have on my body, and, away from the solace of the mountains, how drawn down I would become in the makeshift, urban camping situations we encountered. Having accomplished my goal once, I have given myself permission to use whichever tools present themselves – riding in a wagon, for example – to complete the journey without as much suffering. But it never becomes necessary, and today my only discomfort is worry for my ailing mount. Arriving at fairgrounds after a lengthy parade through downtown, we settle our animals in a concrete building which looks like an auction barn. Sharing this space with them, we camp in a corner on the concrete floor behind bleachers. It is loud and dirty, but there are separate bathrooms for men and women, a luxury.

Here in Cuauhtémoc my son reluctantly says his good-byes and boards a bus for the border, then Denver. I return to the barn and settle in. At 10:00 PM a band stars playing. It is Saturday night and the fairgrounds are alive with rides and fair goers. The sound reaching us through the metal roof is not music, but a wild contortion of vibrating, pulsating noise. It is so incredibly loud that the only response I can muster is to laugh. Oh Isaac, you are missing this! I punch down into pockets of sleep, happy.

To recall the previous year and set it alongside the events of the next day is to tell a story of persistence and triumph. Eight hours of trotting through heavy showers passes smoothly. I inherit Isaac’s horse, and mine, still afflicted, is led. My new mount is strong, and has smooth gaits. In the place of pain, I am aware of my companions, the beauty of the rolling plains around me, and my satisfaction at overcoming difficulties.

The tiny town of Gran Morelos turns out to welcome us in the rain. Formerly renowned for the construction of excellent wagon wheels, it too has slipped into obscurity. Delicious hot food follows our warm reception and requisite speeches. Some of the cowboys sleep in Mexico’s second oldest Plaza de Toros (bull fighting ring), keeping watch over our animals penned in the arena. Most of us, however, opt to bed down inside an auditorium. Another concrete floor, another contented night. A friend sleeps in the bleachers with the cowboys and describes awakening at dawn to a voice singing the opening stanza of a song, which is passed to another, and then another. By the time the song is finished, they are ready to rise.

Before we depart, the town’s school children line up to hear us speak to them of their glorious past, and watch our demonstration of how to harness and load the all-important beasts. Someone poses a question about the females in our group. The truth is, in the old days of the Silver Trail it was considered bad luck to have women on such journeys. It is a tribute to the open minds of the organizers that we are welcomed, and to the cowboys with whom we ride that we are encouraged to succeed.

A short, four hour march brings us to the next station and streets lined with more uniformed school children waiting to greet us. Our normal camp here in Santa Isabel is at the park on the banks of the river, but this year we sleep in the town gymnasium to stay dry. Raúl and I purchase medicine and he injects my sick horse intravenously. From this point forward the animal begins to improve. Our reception here includes a fiesta in the historic town plaza. Following speeches, a troupe of folkloric dancers dazzles us with their skill and grace.

Bed and rest beckon as our last day looms ahead; the long march to our journey’s end, the City of Chihuahua.

Our final day passes smoothly. After eight hours, most of it trotting on a four-lane highway, we arrive at rodeo grounds just inside the large city. Where before we had camped in a park in the center of town, this year we have a berth on the outskirts. The weather has finally warmed and cleared. The storm-washed sky turns luminous, holding the evening glow. The city at our feet looks pristine and deceptively tranquil. It is painful to view this once-safe metropolis from our secure niche and speculate on the spiral of violence in which it has become ensnared.

I make my bed on the ground in front of bleachers. During the night I am bitten – painfully – by unknown insects. In alarm, my sleepy mind considers dire possibilities. When morning dawns, I realize I have placed my tarp over an ant hill. The cowboys’ reaction: “How could you?” To which I reply, “It was dark.” And, despairingly, comes the counter, “With that big spotlight in the arena?” (I’m still a rookie.)

My beloved, sick, horse is noticeably improved, but altered. No longer a parade-type mount, he is as gaunt as a mountain horse. Yet he will survive and be stronger for his travails. There is a line, a sticking point, that makes these animals – and these people – stronger and more resilient than those over the boundary to the north. This tenacity, this will, the coming close and not succumbing, gives resistance, vitality, and power to those who make it.

We parade to the center of town. I don’t believe that there are many occasions in our present world where city people can observe the kind of truth we manifest as we arrive at the end of our long travail. No, we aren’t the arrieros of long ago, but what we have accomplished is not small or common. Wagoneers and riders alike, we wear the cumulative weight of our travail; we are tired, thin, dirty, and proud. We have crossed rivers, scaled high passes, borne hunger and long hours in the saddle through wet and cold and blazing sun. Our animals, too, bear the marks of our arduous journey. Even the silver bars are scratched and dirty, but intact. We emanate the confidence that comes from having been tested, and of having passed through. This is our gift to the onlookers.

At the historic Miner’s Bank (Banco Minero) in the central plaza, we ceremoniously deliver the silver to a local couple acting as the mine owners. They are flanked by others dressed as members of the families that controlled Chihuahua and its resources until the Revolution, the Terrazas and the Creels. Speeches flow.

A long wait in an abandoned lot in seedy downtown follows. Then comes the loading of animals, our good-byes, and the three hour drive back to Carichí. If I could sum up my feelings for my companions, for the weight of this experience and my love of this culture, it would come as a song in my heart. A song of Mexico; a sweet, sad, song of praise and of gratitude.

Pilar Pedersen

Alpine, Texas