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Midnight crossing Monday July 2, 2001

Monday July 2, 2001

It was midnight at the border; I've just completed 1½ hours of paper work at the customs house in Nuevo Laredo, and been granted permission to temporarily import my ’92 Cadillac into Mexico, along with a motorcycle and trailer. The Customs house was crowded with Hispanics; not white American tourists, but Hispanics.  Hispanics living and working in the US who are taking advantage of the American 4th of July holiday time—heading south to the motherland in vehicles loaded to the rooftops with kids and booty from the States.  I felt relief, but the excitement of being here was giving away to sheer fatigue as the reality of where I was, in the middle of the night, began to sink in. 

Sure enough, at 1:00am I turned into a pumpkin and can no longer keep my eyes open.  Half asleep as I approached Mexican Immigration's 26 km Aduana checkpoint, I was suddenly jolted wide-awake by a loud WHUMP-whump.  I’d straddled some sort of highway lane divider at 70 mph, scraping first the belly of the Caddy, and then the trailer in startling rapid succession.  I pulled up to a booth, the wrong booth maybe, — I don’t know, maybe I was headed against traffic—the guy in the cabina, slack jawed, could only point.  Following his finger over to the right side of the road I saw all manner of uniformed officials gesticulating wildly.  The message was clear:  GET the hell OVER HERE.

Such was the beginning of a nightmarish journey of all night driving and sleeping, driving and sleeping, and trying not to get the two mixed up. 

It’s approximately 50 miles from Laredo to the Autopisto de Cuota, the superhighway toll road leading to Monterrey another 100 miles away.  The toll is advertised as 160 pesos per auto ($18!) but that's not counting a trailer.  The Kilometer signs measure the distance from Ciudad Victoria. 

NO MANEJAR CONSADO, a road sign reads.  (Don’t drive tired.)
            OBEY THE SIGNS, says another.

Yeah, right, in your dreams.

79 miles into Mexico, 2:20 AM.  At the Sabinas Hildalgo tollbooth, I pay 240 pesos (that's $27) toll for the Cadillac and trailer.  Monterrey is 100 km away.  Young people are lounging at the rest area near the tollbooth, sitting on the same cars that passed me on the highway in South Texas.  I had to take a nap.  Two hours of contorted sleep.

I hit Monterrey at 5:30am and in 15 minutes I was thru it.  20 miles later I had to pull over and take another 1-hour nap, sleeping until 7:00am.  Being awake just hadn’t taken hold yet. 

It’s a foggy morning in the Huajuco gorge, the valley south of Monterrey and my mountains, the Sierra Madre Oriental, are as beautiful as ever.  Standing water echoes recent rain. 

At 7:30am on Hwy 85 I reach Km 212, the Rayones cut-off, 184 miles from Laredo.  Here, a two-lane blacktop leads off at right angles away from southbound 4-lane Hwy 85, leading to Rayones in the mountains to the west.  RAYONES 52, the sign reads, that’s 32½ miles.  The road climbs 2500’ up off the costal plain.  Little-bitty cottontails scoot out of my way and soon, I see pine trees.  The road circles around a long ridge, turns south, crosses over a low pass of 4100’, and then drops into the Pilón Valley (at 2600’).  The Pilón River comes out of the north, changing names three times (Boquillas, Casillas, & Pilón.

In Rayones I park at the Hotel Santa Rosa.  It’s a motel-style place and mine is the only car in the parking lot.  After securing a room I went directly to Restaurant Oyervides for a breakfast of huevos rancheros, quesadillas and coffee—42pesos ($4.72), renewing my friendships with the owner, Cuauhtemoc, and his wife.  When he heard I was planning to spend the week there, he invited me to his ranch in El Carillo the next day.

Late in the afternoon I took the bike out and explored the “river road”, that runs right alongside the Casillas River on the edge of town.  The river road fords the stream back and forth.  (The same river is called the Pilon downstream, and the Boquillas further upstream.)  At times the road was actually in the river.  Recent rains had swollen the Casillas River somewhat.  Afternoon thunder rumbled.  I got myself pretty stuck at one point—the bike was in the water at a crazy angle.  I huffed and puffed without progress.  At last a car came along, a SUV loaded with family and hired hands.  It took three men to push the bike up onto dry land.  It had been good and stuck. 

Who were those guys?  Where were they coming from? Did they own one of the little ranches along the river?  As it turned out, they were one of the two cars that I saw all day!  All day without seeing a car, and the first one to come by does so when I’m stuck in the river.  God was smiling on me.

In fact, the whole trip so far has just been incredible.  The scenery is simply stunning.  Oh, sure, I’ve been here before – but it’s always different.  Today there were rain clouds brewing in the valley and it changed the whole aspect of everything.  The mountains were layered in mist and clouds.  The air was cool enough for a long sleeve shirt.  I thought of my buddy back in Austin Texas who had warned me about how hot it would be here.  Oh, Richard!  I wish you were here to see this.  It is not hot.

My favorite place in the world?  Oh sure, Yosemite is pretty.  Yosemite is great, but you have to deal with the crowds.  I feel very special here.  I use all my skills here: my outdoor skills, my Latin America skills, my map reading skills, my motorcycle skills.  I love it.  This is a very special place.  It is like my own personal discovery.  Inevitably crowds will come.  That can be expected.  But until then….

I followed the river 9.5 miles up to a place called La Ajuntas, a wide open area where two valleys converge, the Santa Rosa valley and the Casillas—a place I call the Santa Rosa flats.  Here I climbed up out of the river and joined the “real” road, the one that bears all the traffic.  It’s a wide graded, dirt and gravel road that runs up the valley connecting Rayones at one end with pavement leading to Saltillo at the other end.  About 6 miles further up the Casillas valley I paused to take in the scenery.  The storm clouds that had brewed all afternoon finally broke into rain, and the Casillas River below me rose dramatically with muddy, churning white caps.  Why, I had been about to get caught in a flash flood down there. 

I came limping back into town with a flat front tire that kept wanting to slip out from under me.  It was late, after 9:30, dark and raining and I was tired, hungry, and wet.  In Rayones the cobble stone streets were treacherous with the rain and flat tire.  The restaurant was closed.  There was a fiesta going on at the Municipal Auditorium on the square, where young teenagers danced self-consciously to DJ music, much as they do in the States, . 

Back in my room I fell dead asleep with the lights on.

El Carrillo Ranch

Tuesday July 3, 2001

I wanted to take Cuauhtemoc up on his offer to take me to his “ranch” at 7:00am.  I didn’t have a watch, but the roosters served as well as any alarm clock, announcing dawn’s approach.  I awoke stiff and sore from manhandling the bike in all the river crossings yesterday.  First order of business was to fix my flat tire.  Cuauhtemoc sent me off to Manuel Chavez, the tire man in Rayones.  A good man to know, I’m sure.  Back at the restaurant, Cuauhtemoc and his wife had left – leaving word that they’d “wait for me” at El Carrillo.

They’d wait for me in El Carrillo????

OK…

Whatever.  What was I going to do, follow behind his pick-up truck the whole way?  Eating his dust?  I’d be able to find his ranch.  El Carrillo was on the map. 

It was a beautiful morning, with the clouds playing new games on the mountains.  El Carrillo, about 14 miles out of Rayones towards Casillas, turned out to be within eyesight of yesterday’s turn-around point—which seemed a strange coincidence.  A faded sign on a metal gate on the side of the road announced El Carrillo and a dirt road led down the steep slope to the level bottomland of the river valley.  The ranch was small, maybe 5-10 acres, basically a pecan grove.  And this place earns a place name on the map?

The Spanish word for pecans is nogales.  A bumper sticker on Cuauhtemoc’s Ford pick-up read: NOGALERO GRACIAS A DIOS  (Pecan Grower, Thank God)

Francisco, Cuauhtemoc’s son, lived at the ranch with his wife and 9-year old daughter, Yanquida.  The wife was a homely looking beast with sideburns and facial hair.  Francisco, Cuauhtemoc, and I, sat outside in the shade of the adobe building while the women worked in the kitchen. 

Cuauhtemoc showed me around.  They had apple, peach and avocado trees, as well as pecans, and a system of irrigation ditches, called desagues, which led to each tree.  On the uphill side of the abode building were trees of prickly pear cactus.  They had a few goats, chickens, dogs, and some cats.  An unfinished separate adobe building was being built and Cuauhtémoc invited me to stay in it whenever I “got tired of giving money to the hotel”.  It looked a little rough to me — not quite finished.

Almost immediately breakfast was served—scrambled eggs mixed with chili sauce served in a bowl, with beans and tortillas on the side. No silverware.  Francisco proceeded to eat with his tortillas and I followed his lead.  Later he noticed the cultural faux pax and told his wife to give me a fork.  The women did not eat with us.

Yanquida was excited about some little plastic trinket that had come in a package of cookies.  It amounted to a round piece of plastic the size of a dime.  If you pressed its edge just right with the accompanying plastic clicker, it would pop off the table.  That was the "prize".  And even after having its pitifully rudimentary behavior explained to her, Yanquida remained enthusiastically excited about her new “toy”.  My heart went out this little girl—so full of energy and imagination—stuck on this rancho with two adults. 

Later on in the day she devised an elaborate game with the little plastic top-popper.  She arranged old corncobs into a row of rectangles, the first 3 with open sides, the last 4 closed.  In the middle was the “sand trap”.  You lost your turn if you landed in there.  And you received various points for landing in the other sections.  There were many otra oppunitads, (other chances).  Such ingenuity!

I asked her about her school.  How many students were there?  She thought long and hard, mentally counting.  I waited.  Finally, she had an answer. 

“Seis,” she said decisively.  Six??!  Six!!!

She told me she had another sister someplace and that a baby had died. 

She asked me where I was from.

“Mi pais, Tejas.”  (My country, Texas)

“Oh, I thought you were Americano.”

She asked me where I was born.

“Houston, Texas.  Where were you born?”

“I don’t remember,” she blushed. 

I just loved her.  She forced me to play the chip popper game that evolved into ever more elaborate manifestations. 

After breakfast Cuauhtemoc and Francisco went out to pick apples and avocados and I tagged along.  Later Cuauhtemoc snoozed in a hammock while I napped on a wooden bench, in between game sessions with Yanquida.  At one point the chickens got out of their coop and there was quite a commotion — everyone, including the dogs were chasing after them.  Cuauhtemoc captured the rooster and to my surprise, summarily rung its neck.  The women, including Yanquida, took it down to the desague, cleaned that sucker, and we ate him for lunch. 

Cauldo de pollo—chicken and rice soup with beans and tortillas.  Everyone got spoons for this.  There certainly were no pretensions out here.  The men ate first, while the women waited.  Only when we were quite finished, and talking at the table did the women finally serve themselves.

Weird.

The whole affair ended abruptly at 2:30 as Cuauhtemoc and his wife suddenly climbed into the pick-up truck with their son Francisco and said “we’ll see you in Rayones”.  Not much for formality here.  I even had to let myself out the closed gate.  They were gone.  Before leaving I offered Yanquida a ride on the moto, but she would have none of it.  As I closed the gate I had an overall feeling of weirdness in how subservient the women had been here.

From El Carrillo I pressed on — another 15 miles put me into the new territory of Casillas, with more stunning scenery.  You can’t miss it, a sign in town announces COM. CASILLAS
ç CASCADA DE TRAGADERO, SALTILLOè

Saltillo, huh.

Casillas is a small community, about 30 miles from Rayones.  There is a central plaza, where kids played basketball, but no signs of a hotel, or restaurant for that matter.  There are some nice houses in Casillas but it’s a very small community never-the-less.  I couldn’t find anything that looked like a store, much less a place that sold film for my camera.

If Rayones were Austin, then

Galeana, would be Dallas, and

Casillas would be Wimberly.

I found “Cascada” Tragadero, which was not really a cascade at all, but the birthplace of the Casillas River out of rocks and springs on both sides of a tight little canyon.  You have to cross the healthy stream several times, before arriving at the end of the road.  Then walk upstream, in the water, to see where the springs gush out of both sides of a narrow gorge.

There are two routes to Canyon de Tragadero:  one through the community of Cañada, just outside of Casillas, the other through Casillas proper.  The Cañada route offers different spectacular scenery, yet both ways have their advantages.

I declined two offers to spend the night in Casillas:  one from the guardian at Tragadero, and the other from Carlos, a carpenter spending the night in the school.  And I decided not to go directly back to Rayones.  I wanted to explore on towards Saltillo.  I’d come here to explore this area, and going back to Rayones would not be exploring.  Another valley runs parallel to this Casillas–Boquillas valley on the other side of the mountains to the south, and basically I wanted cross the mountains and loop around back to Rayones through that parallel valley, via Ciénega del Toro and Santa Rosa.  Monterreal, a place I wanted to investigate, was someplace in between, and I hoped to pass the night there, or perhaps someplace nearby.

I continued up the valley—upstream from Casillas the river changes its name to La Boquilla.  Quickly it got dark and chilly.  I was headed northwest towards ominous storm clouds, thinking, I’m not going to make it anywhere tonight.  My shoes and socks are wet.  What if it rains?  It looks like rain.  And once again, I realized, I had no sleeping pad or bedroll with me.  The terrain was desert, like Big Bend.  Somewhere up ahead I had to cross the mountains to my left on a road marked only by a dotted line on my most detailed maps.  Not something I wanted to try in the dark.

I wished for a deserted house and 17 miles from Casillas my wish came true, I found a wooden shack with a metal roof, a dirt floor, no door, and a strong animal smell.  Well, it was protection from the rain and I christened it Animal Shack.  Collecting what dry straggly wood I could find in the desert, I managed enough of a fire inside the shelter to dry out my socks and boots.  The smoke from the fire eliminated the animal smell.  All I had to sleep on was a rain pancho seperating me from the hard packed earth floor.

All night I’d wake up to weird dreams and tend the fire.  I was dreaming, so I must’ve been asleep, besides the fire has gone down.  Actually, I slept surprisingly well and I wouldn’t have given a plug nickel for that chance earlier.  From now on, I thought, always bring your sleeping pad when you ride, wherever you go.  A windbreaker would be nice too.

The Loop back home

Wednesday, 4th of July, 2001

I awoke stiff and sore and somewhat amazed that I’d been able to sleep at all.  The night had passed quickly once I had the fire going.  I wrote until my butt ached from sitting on the hard floor.  A couple of sticks of dried sausage for breakfast and I was off.

Outside, the scenery was just as stunning as ever.  I don’t know why I think I’m going to get out of it.  Every new turn brings something new.  A parable for life? 

A few miles down the road I found El Zorillo, a group of upper class homes at the junction of the road to Mesa de Tablas, Monterreal, and San Antonio de las Alazanas on the other side of the mountains.  I was getting close to Saltillo. 

General Delgado

Ex-Brigadier General Augustin Delgado sold me gas siphoned from his pickup truck.  I was happy to get it and shelled out 125 pesos payment before realizing that it came out to $14 for 3 gallons of gas.  What a deal!  Outgoing, proud, and friendly, the ex-general showed me around the “house” he was building.  He’d bought the land 25 yrs ago???  And had been working on the house for 4 years.  At times I could understand his Spanish and other times he’d just take off leaving me bewildered.  It was definitely a Mexican house, with metal doors that clanged shut and shower drains in the middle of the bathroom floor.  A huge fireplace dominated the ‘big house’ with red painted stones and bright white mortar.  Outside was a personal office next to the big house, a completely separate and self contained upstairs apartment, plans to triple the multi-leveled patio surface, a huge front porch with picnic table, freshly planted trees in the yard, care takers’ quarters and a store at the gated entrance on the road.  The whole thing had been cut out of the hillside by pickaxe.

At his ‘store’ he treated me to a soft drink and showed me an incredible scrapbook of his tenure in the Mexican army.  He’d been stationed in Ciudad Juarez and commanded the sector composed of the states of Chihuahua, Durango, and Sinoloa.  In the album were photographs of poppy fields, marijuana fields and fields mixed with both.  He somewhat sadly admitted that these fields were beautiful to see.  One photo was of the classic marijuana bonfire.  Another was a snapshot of two guys and a girl sitting on the front hood of a car—civilians holding automatic weapons.  Sr. Delgado said they’d been apprehended.  Apparently the photo was a “before” shot, or else staged by the military.

The clock said 10:30 as I left.

Washed out sign at road junction:  RICON DE AYANCUALè

Mesa de las Tablas

Up a very rough road, with spectacular views of El Zorillo, I came upon Mesa de las Tablas, a spot unlike I’d seen here before.  Open fields of green at 8460’ elevation, filled with well-tended apple orchards covered with netting.  I stopped and chatted with a worker.  Bound stalks of avena, (oats), stood among the trees, “for the cows,” he explained.  He knew my intended route but suggested it’d be quicker for me to go back the way I’d come, if I were going to Rayones.  But I want to explore.  The weather was chilly and I wished for a jacket.

The town of Mesa de las Tablas looked charming from the distance but a little dirty and poor on closer inspection.  This was the biggest town I’d seen since Casillas yesterday.  There was a store that was part of a woman’s house.  Inside I flat out begged her for breakfast.  In her kitchen she served a triple helping of eggs scrambled with chilies, with beans and tortillas.  She stood by while I ate, keeping a fresh supply of hot tortillas on the table, wrapped in a cloth napkin.  Incredibly she’d been born here in Mesa de las Tablas, but she’d been to places like Monterrey and Rio Bravo.  She acted embarrassed when I asked the price, finally mustering “A voluntad.”  I left 30 pesos on the table, hoping it wasn’t an insult. 

3 miles away is a sharp bend in the road.  The Cabañas de Oyameles dot the hillside.  At 9000’ elevation, this is an alpine region, with firs, pines, even aspen trees!  And it was chilly.  A couple of four-wheeled ATV’s from Monterreal Resort putted by.  There are four outfits featuring cabañas within a 2-mile radius of this spot:  Renacer de la Sierra, El Cidral, Los Oyameles, and the ultra-fancy, rico-chic Monterreal.  Monterreal features hotel rooms for two for a whopping $265 US per night!!  These offer room service (well I guess!), Cable TV, 4-wheelers, pool, golf course, and children’s zoo.  Their cabañas for six go for $400 a night.  Reservations only, please.  A little over the top, considering it’s surrounded on all sides by poor working people.  An asphalt road from Saltillo leads to its doorstep.  Now,I bet a bit of politics went into that road.  Monterreal also features another hillside of private homes, with lots for sale, time-share homes—you name it. 

Ranacer de la Sierrra

Renacer de la Sierra, which also advertises cabañas and translates as Mountain Rebirth, is down a private road a few miles from the sharp bend, toward the Sierra Marta mountain.  These are octagonal shaped log cabins, in a secluded setting—quaint, but a little too rustic for the price.  Jose Guadalupe Sanchez, or “Lupe”, was the kindly, soft-spoken owner who greeted me.  He spoke good English, having spent some of his years in Chicago.  Dark haired, wearing a Swiss style beret, he was somewhat pompous, though in a benign way and certainly less so than the general.  He told me he owned 3000 hectares here and “built all these roads”.  I kinda liked him. 

The place was empty.  Lupe showed me cabaña #3, which was featured as accommodating 8 people.  What that meant was that there were 3 double beds in 3 bedrooms radiating out from a central dining/living/kitchen area, with two extra single beds off to the side in the central area.  Price—1110 pesos for one night, or 940/night if staying two nights or more, ($125 -$106).  That’s $125 per night for 4 –5 guys, let’s say.  No toilet paper, no towels, no soap provided.  Minimal furniture besides the beds, no fireplace, no couches, and not one closet, though there was plenty of floor space in the bedrooms.  For cooking there was a hotplate in the kitchen and an interesting looking outdoor grill.  I repeat, no fireplace.  I could foresee the bathroom becoming a bottleneck.  Lighting was by kerosene lamp—charming.  Electricity was available on an as-needed basis, supplied by a huge array of 12-volt batteries—but apparently it was reserved for Lupe’s house only.    There was no restaurant.

Lupe had a chain across the road that led further on.  “So many people were just coming on through without saying anything,” he explained.  1.3 miles past the chain were three more vacant cabañas owned by Lupe.  Called El Cidral, they were touted as having a better view, but this better view included five larger and much nicer homes further along the road.  Now, how much for one of those?  Frankly, I felt Lupe had a lot of nerve asking 700 –800 –or 900 pesos for a place that had bare insulation hanging from the ceiling.  At least these cabañas Cidral had gas stoves in the kitchen as opposed to a hot plate, and the setting certainly was quiet.

I pushed the bike a couple of miles further up the mountain, Sierra Marta.  Actually the peak itself is called Cerro del Morro, one of the highest in the area, 3710 M (12,172’).  The bike took me above timberline — I was in the clouds and cold — and I must have been near the top but the road became too rocky to continue on.  The clouds cleared briefly and I caught a stupendous view down on the backside of Cañon de Tragadero near Casillas, laid out like one of my maps!  I’d need more time to climb to the summit and it was too cloudy to bother anyway, but Lupe said on a good day you could see Cerro de Potosi, Peña Nevada near Zaragoza, and even the Gulf coast.

Back at Renacer, Lupe invited me in out of the rain.  Now Lupe’s house was nice!  It had a cozy Swiss Alpine feel—all wooden, natural lighting by skylights, and a warm fire in the fireplace.  Now, what’s the deal?  The cabañas have no fireplaces, only a small gas heater that Lupe claimed wasn’t even needed—yet he’s got a nice fireplace, and its cold outside in the afternoon.  He said the temperatures range between 5–8ºC (40 - 48º F.).

It was 4:30pm and the clock was running.  Lupe turned on a little TV for me and instantly I was back in the noisy chatter and hissing static of the modern world.  Oprah materialized on the tiny screen and I breathed a sigh of relief when he turned it off.  He boasted we were only an hour away from Saltillo.

I could’ve stayed the night, I guess, but wanted to keep moving.  At 4:45 the sky brightened as the rain momentarily abated and I bid a hasty farewell.  Lupe tactfully warned that there was not much in San Antonio, (and he was right).  He gave me the names of friends of his that ran the Los Arcos restaurant in town. 

“Tell ‘em Lupe sent you, they can arrange a room for you.”

I was off, and it was cold.  I was uncomfortable and hoped San Antonio would be warmer.  On my bike the wind cut right through the long sleeved nylon shirt.  People were wearing jackets.  What gives?  Is it always like this here, or is it just the rain? 

Tractors are cool

Immediately I hit asphalt, which felt strange, and 10 miles later, San Antonio de las Alazanas.  (Alazanas means red-headed women, Lupe had mentioned.)  Well, Richard had described San Antonio as “agrarian” and it was certainly agrarian, all right.  Tractors were definitely in.  Tractors were parked on the square.  Families moved through town on tractors.  I finally found film for my camera!!  Yea!  I ate a snack from the grocery store.  What time is it?  6:00pm?  I’d left Lupe’s at 4:45 and stopped briefly at Monterreal.  Overcast skies obscured the sun but I could tell it was still well up in the sky.  I didn’t really want to pass the night here.  I wanted to get “home” to my own room in Rayones.  I was tired and cold, and ill prepared for this.  I added up the distances on the maps, 39.5 km from San Antonio to Ciénega del Toro, and decided to go for it.

The road was flat and straight, across high plains between two mountain ranges, and I could get up to 30, or even 40 mph.  I was counting kilometers now.  Immediately I came to an unexpected big “dip” or vado, which was full of muddy water.  Unable to stop in time I plowed through with a — Ker –splash!! —completely drenching myself and the bike with muddy water!    Damn!  Well… It could’ve been worse.

The wind was still too cold for comfort, my teeth clenched to the cold.  I sped across the beautiful high plains—cultivation was everywhere, trigo, papas, maiz.  (Wheat, potatoes, corn.)  This was hardly pure desert.  12 miles away I had Ciénega del Toro (elevation 7000+’) within sight, like a jewel in the landscape.  I was so accustomed to being out of film I forgot to take pictures.  The sun was out now, but it was still chilly; and I could’ve done without that splash.

My odometer clocked 28 miles (45km) between San Antonio and Ciénega, a bit further than anticipated but I’d made good time.  Damn, I think I’m gonna make it.  Only 28 more km to Santa Rosa and from there I’m home free.  I stopped briefly in Ciénega to ask directions and rest.  It was still so cold.

I was cussing Ricardo for telling me how hot it would be down here.  The men I talked to wore overcoats.  And everyone drove tractors.  Tractors were cool here too.  The bigger, more complicated the attachments, plows, or trailers, the better.

I pushed on, racing the sun, but now much more confident.  4 miles out of Ciénega I found myself perched over a tight, narrow gorge.  The road to Santa Rosa was totally wild—a single-laned rock road carved out of the mountainside.  And what’s this I see?  The backside of Sierra Ventana?  A mountain I recognized!  All Rightl!  I was getting close to home.  Further on, Cerro Mediodia came within view and the vista, again, was simply stunning.  It never ends here.  Suddenly I remembered that now I had film and clicked a couple of photos. 

Down, down, down to Santa Rosa at 3900’.  I scooted through town without stopping and continued to drop in elevation.  Soon I was breathing warm sweet smelling air in pecan groves singing with the sound of cicadas above the noise of my moto.  I was home.

In Rayones the restaurant was closed.  No matter.  I was a frightful sight — splattered from head to foot with dried mud.  At the motel Sr. Sanchez turned on the propane hot water heater for my bath but I fell asleep waiting for the water to warm.

A day of rest

Thursday, July 5, 2001

Today turned into an unscheduled rest day.  I had chiliquilas at the restaurant —Cuauhtemoc was notably absent, in Montemorelos.  Back at the room I debriefed myself, studying my maps to see exactly where I’d been and what I’d missed.  An incredible trip.  Let’s do it again.  I cleaned up, shaved and washed my jeans by hand and had four bowel movements — revenge of the green chilies, I guess.

I walked around town.  The little store down the street is a wonderful collection of groceries, vegetables, hose clamps, nails, tools, bicycle tires, car parts, hardware, and gasoline.  And, oh yeah, shoes.  A sign in one of its windows accurately states Tenemos lo que se busca usted—or, “We have what you’re looking for”.  A combination of gas station, hardware, auto parts. grocery, and convenience stores.  They didn’t sell ice, however.  For ice you must go to the store on the plaza, where the public telephone service is located. 

Sr. Sanchez informed me that the motel would be full and noisy tomorrow, as a family reunion was being held in town.  This was a perfect opportunity for me to duck out.  I was wondering how to wrap it up here.  The Sierra Madre Oriental is divided in half by the east–west Highway 58, connecting Linares and San Roberto.  Rayones is headquarters for the northern sector; Zaragoza for the south.  And it’s hard to combine the two.  If I wanted to gain more information about the south, I’d have to change base camps.  I decided on Santa Engracia, near Ciudad Victoria, in the state of Tamalipas.  From there I would ride over the mountains to Zaragoza, a repeat of the trip I'd done last month, only in reverse this time. 

I spent the best part of the day rearranging my things more efficiently, applying packing lessons I’d learned from the trip of far.  I put all of the motorcycle tools and emergency supplies into one compact heavy bag and attached it to one of the passenger foot pegs.  It would be more or less permanent there—no need to remove it unless needed.  I packed a bedroll and sleeping pad into another bag and likewise attached it to the opposite side of the bike.  Now I had saddlebags, of sorts, which lowered my center of gravity and freed the daypack to carry raingear, clothes, food, water, stove and toiletries. 

I packed all the rest of my gear neatly and settled the hotel bill.  Sr. Sanchez wouldn’t come down from his original 200 pesos ($22.50) per night, even though I'd spent one night out.  I could leave out tonight if I wanted.  Go out for a spin, come back, load up the Cadillac and head down the road to Santa Engracia.  Or, I could spend the night out and leave in the morning.  The bike was packed and ready for a trip. I felt complete freedom.

Ready for anything, I took a spin to Santa Rosa, 12 miles away.  It was a shame it was so late in the day, there were several things I wanted to investigate there that I wouldn’t have time for.  I knew most of the mountains and landmarks by name now.  The nogale trees of Goche, where cicadas sing.  The Santa Rosa flats.  The sign, CASSILLAS 30, which had been so ominous and intimidating to Richard & I last month.  And now Santa Rosa itself was getting more interesting.

At the outskirts of Santa Rosa I left the main road and took a rough side road up San Isidro canyon, on the eastside of El Banco, the hill overlooking Santa Rosa.  I was trying to get around El Banco and meet the main road again on the other side, but a few miles up the canyon, through 3 closed gates, I came to the end of the line, which was a goat ranch.  I chatted with the owner and we both agreed it was “muy bonito p’acá.”  (Very pretty here )  Andale, q’vaya bien.  (Go on, and travel well — local colloquialisms).

Coming back out, in the growing darkness, I explored another branch road past the cemetery, and part way up the mountain, El Banco, until the “road” completely petered out into desert.  High on the hillside I could look back and see the lights of Rayones 10 miles distant, framed by Cerro Mediodia, Ventana, and La Borrada.  Suddenly a fat, full moon popped up over the mountains!  So this is why I’ve come up here, to see this awesome moon rise.  I could sleep right here, outside, tonight, if I wanted. 

In the end, I decided to return to my room and leave town at first light.  It was a beautiful easy cruse back in the dark.  I love it here.

Incident in Guayabas Canyon

Friday, July 6, 2001

I was up with the roosters, but wrote in this journal instead of getting the early start I'd planned.  I said goodbyes to Cuauhtemoc and his wife at the restaurant.  At 9:20am I was off.

Two miles off Hwy 85, I found the Bugamilias Inn in Montemorelos, only 4 miles past the Rayones cut-off.  It looked like a mini-Quinta Inn and advertised 500 peso room specials ($56).  This might be a place to stay in the future.  Also Los Piños Restaurant at Km210 looked good.

At Linares (Km156-153), vendors crowded both sides of the highway, all selling the same product, Glorias, or dulces de leche quemada (a local sweet).  Now down here on the Gulf costal plain it is just plain hot.

Hwy 85 runs south from Monterrey towards Victoria, paralleling the Sierra Madre Oriental off to the west.  At Km116 is a dramatic peak, like a tall Devil’s Tower.  Punta del Cerro?   At Km92 a huge valley cuts through the Sierra’s—the San Antonio Valley.  La Ascension is on the opposite side of the mountains through this cut.

Hacienda Santa Engracia

By 1:00pm, 3 ½ hours from Rayones, I reached Km27 with the big road sign, Santa Engracia.

10½ miles up the side road, towards the Sierras, through blistering Guillermo Zuñiga—a sleaze ball town on the railroad tracks where I bought a bag of ice for 12 pesos (they sold for 18 in Rayones).  After Zuñiga there was one small ejido (village) after another.  One advertised Pricipal Zona de Vados, meaning something like “Main Dip Zone”.  This was citrus country and these ejidos were made up of the laborers. 

And finally, the Hacienda Santa Engracia.  Oh, what a nice surprise!  It is a beautiful old hacienda, founded in 1729, and restored to most of its glory.  The staff is friendly—not snobbish or uppity in the least.  Adrian, the manager, spoke English.  The rates were reasonable:  598 pesos ($67) for a double, 558 pesos ($62.70) for a single.  Much better than Monterreal’s $265 per night!  I ate lunch—roast beef, green beans, rice, tortillas, and refried beans—88 pesos ($9.89).  With flan for dessert, oh, I was in heaven!

I explained my plans to Adrian.  I wanted to leave the car and trailer here at the hotel tonight and take the motorcycle over the mountains to Zaragoza, in Nuevo Leon, returning tomorrow night, Saturday, to a room here at Santa Engracia.  That was fine with him, there was no problem leaving the car and trailer, and he even graciously offered to give me my room today, at no extra charge.  He warned me, however, that tomorrow night the hotel would host a wedding and while I was guaranteed a room; I should be prepared for noise.  A Mexican wedding?  No problem.

I met fair skinned Carlos Martinez on the front porch — 52 years old, the heir of Santa Engracia, a true aristocratic gentleman.  He spoke English with very little hint of an accent and used big words like “anecdotes” and “sanguineous”.  His grandfather had been governor of the state of Tamalipas, until he was murdered, and his father had been one in the series of owners of Santa Engracia.  Old pictures of his father and mother were in the game room.  He showed me the library/billiard room, with its display of authentic Spanish armor.  I was impressed. 

He told me he’d been to Paso de la Muerete (on the road to Zaragoza I was planning to take), as a boy, traveling by pack mules to Dulce Nombre.  We discussed the roads to Guayabas and Progresso.  He warned me there had been recent rains and I should take extra precautions.  I guessed these were the same rains I’d experienced several days ago.

I found my room and quickly settled in, off-loaded the bike, detached the trailer and stowed it away, and prepared to leave for the mountains and Zaragoza.  Where I’d spend the night was anyone’s guess.  El Mirador would be nice but I had no intention on stopping there if I arrived early in the afternoon.  I’d keep going until nightfall before camping.  Maybe I’d cook a freeze-dried dinner with my backpacker stove.  After checking my tires I blasted off for Guayabas, waving good-by to Carlos lounging on the front porch with a group of hotel staff.  I was clean and fresh, with a red bandana on my head and another around my neck, wearing dark sunglasses, eager to check out new territory.

Guayabas

The community of La Aurora was just down the road — easy.  Later came Guayabas, a nothing sort of a place. I scouted around for a road leading out of town.  Remembering Carlos say something about crossing an arroyo, I found a dubious road across a rocky dry riverbed, and figured that must be it.  Wrong.

On the other side of the arroyo two tracks cut like a tunnel through the lush vegetation.  In no time I declared it the worse road so far—overgrown and unused.  There were no tire tracks, and that in itself should’ve been my first clue.  I followed the drainage, crossing and re-crossing the rocky river bed, each crossing getting progressively worse.  I followed the arroyo past a hill, and then skirted the bottom of a vertical cliff with all manner of vegetation growing on its vertical face, looking something like Catherwood’s drawings in Incidents of Travel in the Yucatan.  The road became rock and rough as hell.  Finally, 3 miles out of Guayabas I dropped the bike crossing the riverbed.  The smooth rocks of the riverbed I crossed repeated had progressed in size from the size of footballs, to basketballs and now picnic baskets.  In the spill, I dinged my right shinbone on the foot peg, and flattening the hard case for my reading glasses.  The canyon seemed tighter.  This can’t be the main road!  A map check confirmed my suspicions:  WRONG DAMN road!!  I’d missed my turn back at Guayabas and was headed up Guayabas Canyon!  All that exertion had been for naught, and now I had to retrace my steps.

I rearranged the rocks in the riverbed to make myself a smoother path, and marked it with cairns.  I walked the path back and forth, memorizing each stone, before mounting the big 650 and re-crossing.  Then 3 hard fought miles back to Guayabas.  What a waste of time, though the vegetation was interesting and I caught brief glimpses of green birds.  A second look at Guayabas revealed my mistake.  I should’ve turned right at the little chapel before hitting the center of the community.

And now, on the correct road, I had to contend with MUD!  Oh, what a mess.  I sloshed through one mud hole after another.  Just as I breathed a sigh of relief, there would be a bigger one over the next rise.  And a bigger one after that.  I started detouring around them, picking my way into the forest to avoid the mire.  I soon had to dismount and scout each detour.  3.2 miles of this and I finally hit the “main” road, I’d been looking for, which was built up on road-base and didn’t have a mud problem.  I was finished with that pigsty!!  Never again!  The maps gave this junction the name Dieciocho.  There was not much there to mentally mark it, in case I ever wanted go through Guayabas coming the other way — just a wooden fence and vague signs of human occupation. 

By now it was getting late in the day.  The sun was down and I was hungry…. and I was STILL in the flats.  Very close by I passed a junction for the road leading north to the flat land communities of Santa Fe and Los Angeles on the Rio Purificación and a mile later my road became curvy and twisty, another tunnel through vegetation.  I was finally out of the flats, climbing, follow the drainage Cañada El Mimbre.  I saw two curassows. 

Verdes

I came upon an Army truck completely blocking the road.  There were two soldiers in green fatigues— “Verdes”, they called themselves.  (Greens, for their uniforms.)  Morro, the driver, greeted me with a gruff, “Oye guerro, donde va?  (Hey whitey, where are you going?)  He appeared annoyed by the road and the surroundings.  His partner was a young kid name Rios and they both had an attitude.  “Hey, this gringo says he’s going to Zaragoza,” Morro said in Spanish.  Several times they asked me if I knew Raul Carrillo.  I was beginning to get irritated with so many questions.  “Have you been on this road before?  When?  Are there houses up ahead?  Why don’t you know, you said you’d been on this road before?  Are you with Raul Carrillo?  Are you sure you don’t know Raul Carrillo?”

I gathered that they were looking for another group of Verdes, like themselves.  They thought they must be further up the road a ways—5 kilometers, maybe.  Would I go up the road and see if I could find them, and then report back to them? 

What??  I say, what?  Come back and tell you if they’re up there?  Are you nuts?? I was fairly outraged.  Out here each kilometer is hard fought, and 5 km is a long way.  There was no way I was doubling back for them.  I offered to tell any Verdes I encountered further on that there were soldiers back here looking for them and they accepted that.  Now, will you move the truck, please?

El Mirador

It was dusk and dark in the forest.  6 miles past the crossroads of Dieciocho I overtook a pick-up truck at the community of Alameda, also known as Los Alamos.  Again I was asked about Raul Carrillo.  Apparently it's a place (?) that motorcyclists frequent, though I never found it on any of my maps.

I asked the guy in the pickup how far it was to El Mirador.

“It’s right up there,” he said pointing up towards a mountain.

Being a little more specific I asked, “How much time does it take to get there?”

On your moto? —10 minutes!

The road was rough and rocky.  Make no mistake:  this road is challenging.  10 minutes?  Had the guy been kidding me?  The road was horribly rocky and steep.  The rocks seemed so large I feared I’d bend a tire rim; but the Kawasaki 650cc KLX steadily and relentlessly pulled me along.  I hung on like I was riding a bucking bronco and couldn’t resist shouting a “Yee –hah!” out into the night.  2 miles from Alameda, I came upon El Mirador in perfect time to stop for the evening.  I had come 18 miles from Hacienda Santa Engracia (not counting the wild goose chase up Cañada Guayabas).

El Mirador (The Lookout) is justly named.  At this point the Victoria –Zaragoza road levels out at about 3770’,ending its 2500’ climb up off the Victoria plains via Cañada El Mimbre, 5 miles down the road.  Here green pasture covers rolling hills at the base of sheer cliffs jutting another 1000 feet into the sky to the southwest.  The road laterally traverses the protruding bulge of a hillside, forming a natural overlook of Cañada Guayabas and the Sierras to the east.  I picked a flat spot on the hillside pasture and made camp among the scattered cows tinkling with their cowbells.  I was reminded of the cowbells in Switzerland, only the Swiss cowbells have better tonal quality and are more melodious.  These Mexican cowbells just tinkled. 

There are several houses on the opposite side of the hill, and the map indicates a nearby spring, but I didn’t see any people, nor had I seen any here on my last visit.  El Mirador seemed to have a vaguely unfriendly feel to me; as if everyone were hiding, wearied, I imagined, of so many visitors to this obvious tourist stop with its views.

What the….??  My “sleeping bag” was not a sleeping bag?  Not a sleeping bag at all but a down jacket!  I’d mistaken the bundled jacket for a sleeping bag back in Austin.  So, I had a down jacket, instead of a bag.  Well, you have to dance with the one you brought.  I put it on — at least my upper torso was warm.  I spread out the rain parka with the inflatable sleeping pad over it, put nylon wind pants on over my jeans, and then wrapped the emergency space blanket around my legs.  Maybe this was a better arrangement after all.  Everything had multiple uses.

I was thoroughly thirsty and drank my whole liter of water, leaving none for cooking, so dinner consisted of an apple, 3 avocados from El Carillo, sausage and cheese, with a bag of Smarties for desert.  The avocados had such thin skin that you could just eat the them skin and all.  I noticed a palm sized goose egg on my right shinbone, from the spill I’d taken in the rocks.

I studied the mountains laid out in front of me, where I came from and where I was going.  The 3900’ mesas of El Chato to the east in the direction of the Gulf coast and El Carrizo to the southeast dominate the view, with the wild Cañada Guayabas in front and between them.  I could follow the extension of El Carrizo over to 4900’ Cerro La Montelonga to the south, (marking the location of Puerto Pureficación on the other side), and 7200’ Cerro Vaquerillo beyond that.  Los Caballos would be up there in a fold of Vaquerillo.  The near full moon rose and illuminated the vista.  It was a pleasant night.  I could see the dim lights of Hwy 85 some 12 line-of-sight miles away. 

Unexpectedly the cows kept moving all night long.  What was the deal?  At one point I was dreaming that the actor Robert DeNiro was stalking a girl I liked.  It was a new semester at a school or college and I was some sort of veteran.  I shouted “Robert!  Robert!” to the sound of DeNiro’s footsteps.  Then I awoke to realize that DeNiro’s stalking footsteps were actually that of cows clomping around close by. 

Las Minas Trail Saturday, July 7, 2001

El Mirador

Breakfast –granola bars, avocado, and beef jerky.  I met Cesar Cisperos herding goats (capras) and learned that he lived here at Mirador alone.  Now perhaps that was the unfriendly feel.  People weren’t hiding, they just weren't here.  Cesar wasn’t all that friendly himself; however he did put out the notion that if I returned, he sure could use a pocketknife (nebaja). 
“A good one,” he added.
“Hecho,” I promised.  Done.  A pocketknife?  I couldn’t help but marvel that all this guy wanted was a good pocket knife. 
He pointed out the trail leading to the water source here.  To the east side of the road, it leads downwards a bit in the direction of Paso de la Muerte to a basin-sized pool under a cave like rock.  I drank until satisfied and filled my liter bottle. 

Paso de la Muerte

Within the next mile or so I passed three good camping spots just off the road.  The best one being closest to El Mirador.  2 miles from El Mirador is the community of Flores where poor, dirty children watched me pass from open doorways.  1½ miles past Flores is Paso de la Muerte, perhaps the most dramatic section of this road.  Here a single lane is cut from the vertical cliff face of El Azafran, overlooking the abyss of Cañada Guayabas below.

Cerro El Azafran (5250’), Cerro Purificación (4790'), and 7217’ Cerro Vaquerillo are all part of the same ridge system leading south.  From the east facing cliff face of El Azafran overlooking the Guayabas drainage north of Cerro Purificación, the road diagonally crosses a backbone  ridge to the west side of Cerro Purificación, with views of the Purificación drainage of Cañon El Infiernillo to the west and the greater Cañon Los Hervores beyond.  Puerto Purificación is a small pass of 4265’ elevation separating the south side of Cerro Purificación from the north-facing flank of the much higher Cerro Vaquerillo. 

The pass, Pureto Purificación is a natural rest stop.  An open green area rimmed with pines, it affords splendid views to the west, of Cañon El Infiernillo and Cañon Los Hervores.  There are several houses about but nobody was in sight.  From here, through the cool shade of pines, the road begins its 1800’ ascent up Cerro Vaquerillo to a place called Los Caballos at 6036’ elevation.  There are three shaded communities here at the base of Cerro Vaquerillo, including the one called Puerto Pureficación.  I chased a group of cows down the road until they finally got tired enough to let me pass.

2.8 miles from Puerto Purificación and 1250’ above it, on the slope of Cerro Vaquerillo, is another natural overlook, with splendid views back to the north, the way I'd come.  Puerto Purificación, Cerro Purificación, Cerro Azafran, Cerro Montelongo, Cañon Hervores, Paso de la Muerte, and even El Mirador are all visible.

Mas Verdes

Around the mountain, 6 ½ miles from Puerto Purificación, is a place called Caballos, (elev. 6070’).  Here a side road leads to Conrado Castillo, which the map indicates it to be a fairly large community, perhaps larger than Dulce Nombre.  Caballos, is nothing but a split in the road, a cross-roads, marked by peach trees and a wooden shack.  Today it was occupied by a group of Mexican soldiers, Verdes. 
There were several large tents set up, trenched against the rain.  A huge truck—twice the size of the one Morro and Rios had been in, was parked off the road.  An occasional kid walked by with a rifle.  Someone operated a short-wave radio from inside the wooden shack.

David, who appeared to be in charge, handed me a couple of apples as a greeting.  I related my story of Rios and Moro looking for them down below.  David didn’t seem a bit concerned.  I asked about their water source so we hiked up a trail to a dry riverbed where there was a spring among the rocks.  David pointed out wild anise and peach trees as we went.

He and his men were planting pine trees, he said.  Regarding the legality of logging, it seems that some blight, or plague of insects, was infecting the pine trees.  The infected ones are marked to be cut, and only the marked trees are harvested, as second grade lumber.  I wondered if this could be true.   

It was a fairly uneventful ride to Porteritos, (elev. 4600’), a small group of dusty wooden buildings on a bare knoll at the junction of the side road to Tinajitas (Los Tanques).  One of the buildings is a store.  The people here, as always, were friendly and curious, wanting to know where I’d been and where I was going. 

10½ miles from Caballos is the junction for the road to Dulce Nombre, and about half a mile before the Dulce Nombre junction, the road crosses the bottom of a branch drainage.  (Another side road leads to the left up the branch drainage—to Leñadero?)  Between this branch drainage and the Dulce Nombre junction is a fairly level section of road across red dirt, with natural rest areas among oak trees draped with Spanish moss.  The area looked so inviting I stopped for a lunch of cheese and sausage, wrote in my journal, and took a nap.  I heard distant rolls of thunder but paid it little attention.  I was making great time.  It was still afternoon and I was near Zaragoza.  What would I do with the rest of the day?  All I had to do was be back at Santa Engracia tonight.

I took an unnecessary trip (2 miles round trip) into Dulce Nombre, also known as Las Minas (the mines).  Plowed fields and a mountain of sawdust and discarded tree bark mark the entrance into this sawmill community, where cured lumber is stacked around town, drying, in triangular towers.  Today, a house was going up, in what looked like community spirit and cooperation. 

I ran into friends from Porteritos, who were leaving Dulce Nombre in a big truck loaded with lumber, and followed them to the mine on the main road, where they delivered two barrels of gasoline.  I rode the moto 200 meters or so into the mountain to the dead end of the mine.  It was spooky back there, the entrance a small hole of light behind me, the smell of carbide lamps in the air.  I understood that it was a coal mine and this entrance was the truck entrance.  The real mine was on the other side of the mountain.

I moved on.  This was a very pleasant part of the ride.  Not challenging, an easy ride through gentle terrain—the calm before the storm.  I motored past the neat homes of Petril and Tinajitas, following a gentle valley.  About 1 mile past Tinajitas the road starts to climb up to 8070’ pass of Puerto Pizaño, past another side road to the left and a huge pile of sawdust—the climb was not too steep. 

2 miles past Tinajitas is the flat spot of Pizaño Pass.  Here pine trees mix with madrone, fuzzy cactus, and maguey.  It looked like a possible camping spot except I could see horses and remembered how last night the horses of El Mirador had moved about at all hours of the night.  At 8070’ elevation I breathed cool mountain air with the smell of rain.  The twin hills of Pizaño, flanking the pass, were covered with clouds.  The one to the south is Cerro Pizaño, 9514’ elevation.  I heard thunder.

Afternoon rain

Heading down the far side of Pizaño I ran into trouble.  Fresh rain had left the rock road treacherous.  Clouds obscured all views.  I stopped to don rain gear.  Little did I know what was to follow. 
Near the houses of Márgaras, 1.7 miles on the far side of the pass, I dropped the bike in the slippery muck.  It was raining and I was feeling miserable.  In the spill I’d struck the motorcycle’s right foot peg with my shinbone again, on exactly the same spot I’d injured the day before, and that hurt.  But there was no time for pain.  I had to get the bike upright.  Meticulously I rightened it, and backed it down to a level spot.  The front wheel offered no control at all, it just slid downhill, regardless of which direction it was pointed.  I deflated the tires to about 23 psi, hoping that would help.  Someone in my mind said, “Deflate the tires.”  Was that Richard talking to me?

I continued on, diagonally over the backbone of a pass into the Canyon de Chupaderos drainage.  Is that hail I see on the hilltops?  I was tantalizingly close to Zaragoza.  Once I traversed this valley, only the Escondido Pass at El Viejo’s shoulder separated me from Zaragoza and pavement.  From Escondido Pass, Zaragoza would be within eyesight and its all downhill from there. 

Going down a steep grade the bike slipped out from under me again.  Like a discarded toy it lay almost upside down in the rocks, the wheels pointed uphill.  I shed the rain parka—by now it was wetter on the inside than out.  My clothes were soaked with exertion and rain.  I was having a devil of a time.  Muddy red streams of water flowed down the road.  It was so slippery I had trouble even walking on it.  I had to put tree branches down to stand on so that I had enough traction to lift the bike.  Otherwise my feet would slip out from under me.  I squatted down and got a shoulder under one end of the handle bar, grabbed the other end in the mud with my hands, and between back and arms, stood and hefted the KLX.  This 650cc Kawasaki was starting to feel a little too big for this shit. 

Perhaps I was trying to be too careful.  Maybe I should just stay on the pegs and ride through a little faster.  Ride on top of the mud.  I’ve never been comfortable on a motorcycle with the rear wheel sashaying around—but I was sure gonna have to learn to do it today. 

I went on.  It was very, very slow going.  The road led right along the flat bottom land of Chupaderos valley.  I dropped the bike for a third time and realized that this just wasn’t going to work.  I had to give up, surrender.  I chastised myself for dillydallying at the mine and in Dulce Nombre, after I’d heard thunder.  That should’ve been my call to get the hell out of here.  The rain itself had been very brief.  If only I’d gotten through this section before it got wet.  I noticed that this portion of the road seemed to be based with a higher percentage of dirt—red dirt, or caliche and the rain had turned it into slime.  This was the new part of the road; not on the maps.  The portion of the road at the Victoria end seemed to have more of a rock base, at least once in the mountains and out of the flats.  It is a much older, ancient road. 

Suddenly the thought came to me to turn back.  I could retrace my steps over dry ground back across the mountains past Porteritos, the Verdes at Caballos, all the way back to Santa Engracia.  I wasn’t sure I’d make it tonight, but at least I’d make it.  If it’d rained on the pass at El Viejo’s shoulder—I’d never make it to Zaragoza anyway.  That much was clear. 

Exhausted and disheartened I turned around and headed back.  I hoped that charging up the slippery road would somehow be better than trying to do down.  Wrong!  It was just as treacherous going up.  I soon lost control and found myself well off the road in a pasture, out of breath. 
Now I didn’t know whether I was coming or going.

A Night to Remember

There was no way out of this.  I was stuck.

Cold, wet, tired, and out of water, I began to get concerned.  My odometer said I’d come nearly three miles since the houses at Márgaras.  The map didn’t give much hope for houses up ahead—but there were cows in the level pastures that the road skirted, so someone must live nearby. 
I gathered my daypack and sleeping gear and headed out across the elongated pasture that ran down the center of the valley, my shinbone beginning to hurt.  It felt like it could be broken, but how could that be?  I’d climbed the ridge at El Mirador this morning, and I’d climbed up the drainage at Caballos with David, both without pain.  Then again, I’d pinged it a second time on exactly the same spot.  It was starting to swell and hurt like the devil.  I began to consider that possibility that it was fractured.  Great!  Not only was I not going to make it back to Santa Engracia tonight—and be late getting to Austin—but I could also be wearing a plaster cast for the next six weeks. 

In a plowed field covered with short grass and clover, between the plowed earthen rows, I found a row that had clear water standing in it.  I collected about 2¼ liters of water and remembered Mel Kunze’s story about contracting hepatitis in Viet Nam by drinking water from the rice paddies.  This water looked a little murky—and there were definitely cow pies lying in the same row, but I planned to boil it on my Optimus stove. Exploring around I discovered some fairly deep sinkholes in the field, and some limestone rocks in a grove of trees with deep vertical fissures among them.  .
Unable to walk much further, I was hobbling by now, I made camp near trees that bordered the road.  It was nearly dark. 

The damn stove didn’t work.  All the gas had leaked from its tank and it was useless.  Wood was too wet to burn, and besides, I couldn’t find any.  Well, at least I had water.  It was right there if I wanted it.  Suddenly I wasn’t so thirsty.  I put on the extra tee shirt and long sleeve shirt I’d managed to keep dry during the rain.  With the down jacket, my upper torso was taken care of, but my jeans were wet and uncomfortable.  I removed the muddy wind pants.  They didn’t breathe and trapped the humidity of the wet jeans.  I’d give my jeans a chance to dry in the open air before it got too cold.  I lay down to rest as best I could.

My leg was not a pretty sight.  There was still the palm-sized goose egg on the inside of my shinbone, and now I could feel the swelling pressing my jeans behind my knee.  I couldn’t see my ankle at all.  There was a roll of swollen tissue in its place that looked like a rolled down atheletic sock. I guessed that the exertion of the day had taken its toll. 

The wind blew down the valley and sometime in the night I awoke cold.  This wasn’t going to work, either.  The night was still young.  I had to find shelter.  If I couldn’t sleep—I may as well walk around all night.  I hobbled along in pain. 

I went back to the grove of trees with the fissures in the rocks.  I found one that I could hobble down into.  It was about 6’ wide at the bottom, filled with soft pine needles, with 12’ vertical rock walls.  It looked like a good spot—soft and out of the wind.  While looking for firewood among the trees I came across an old fire ring of stones, right on a path, and decided to take the hint and make camp here instead of the bottom of the fissure.  It seemed protected enough from the wind.  Amazingly, my jeans were beginning to feel dryer.

I needed to elevate this leg. I collected Spanish moss—a huge mass of it.  I collected firewood but it was wet and I wasn’t in the mood to start a fire.  I went back to the pasture to gather my things and move camp.  The moon broke over the hilltops and illuminated the valley with a milky light.  My leg was at its limit.  Now it was a point of fire on the shinbone.

Finally I collapsed at my new campsite.  I put the rain parka down over a thick bed of Spanish moss with the inflated pad on top of that.    My jeans felt dry.  I put the nylon wind pants back on, and stuffed Spanish moss down the pants legs—between the jeans and the nylon.  I arranged a ball of moss around my feet and wrapped my legs with the space blanket, on top of the elevated bed of moss and I was suddenly very comfortable and snug.  The moss was an excellent insulator.  I pulled up the hood of the down jacket and slept till dawn.

The long road home Sunday, July 8, 2001

In the morning I got a fire going, boiled my water and fixed freeze-dried lasagna for breakfast.  My leg felt better, after the initial agony of standing upright and letting the blood rush back to it.

Shortly a man in ragged clothes came walking down the path with two curious dogs.  His name was Serpín (Efarín?), and he lived in Mágaras, where he was headed.  He listened my story, somewhat impressed, and repeatedly assured me that it had not rained further up the road.  This was welcome news.  At least now I knew which way I was going.  I could be fairly certain of reaching Zaragoza.

I ate my lasagna, drank my boiled water, broke camp and hunted up the bike.  Now where did I leave that motorcycle?  Christ.  I discovered that the lower blade of maguey plants were excellent depositories of rainwater.  I could get 3 –4 gulps per blade and each plant had at least two that held water from yesterday’s rain.  I drank fresh rainwater to my heart’s content.  Never again will I look at maguey plants in quite the same way.

Serpín was right; the road dried out completely further on.  I’d been caught by a small rain shower.  There were still slippery spots to contend with but the morning sun had dried the mud to a certain tackiness.  Interestingly I wasn’t recognizing this road from my previous trip.  I must’ve come in on another, higher road my last time through.

A couple of miles past the point of surrender the road started to climb out of the bottom of Cañada de Chupaderos   About 4 miles from the top of the pass I passed a junction that looked like the road I’d taken on the previous trip.  Perhaps it was the better road after all, avoiding the potentially muddy bottom land of the valley. 

The road up to Escondido Pass is no cakewalk.  It sees minimal maintenance, I assure you.  Mostly earth, with few rocks, it would be impossible if wet and that’s no exaggeration.  In fact, I didn’t remember the road being this bad.  It was almost technical, bordering on dangerous, with a dry stream bed eroded down its middle.  And it was getting HOT.

The road connecting Zaragoza and Victoria is worse at its opposite ends.  The middle part is the easiest.

11.7 miles from Márgaras, I came upon Escondido, elev 8333’, the pass under the vertical cliffs of 11,482’ El Viejo.  I ran into Cliafas Rosales, whom I’d met on the first trip through, proud that he could write out his name for me.  He asked for pills for “soltura” (diarrhea).

It’s a 6.2-mile descent to La Entrada, the name given to the crossroads at the base of El Viejo.  Zaragoza was finally in view—and my rear brake went completely out going down the steep grade.  Will I ever get out of here?  Apparently the rear brakes had faded from overheating.  I had to stop twice to let the disc cool, pulling off the road, and laying on my back in the dirt in the shadow of the bike, my leg elevated, almost straight up, resting on the bike’s saddle.

Finally, the last 3 miles from the La Entrada to Zaragoza, I arrived at 2:10pm in the heat of the day.  There was not a shadow of shade to be found.  I found brake fluid and a garage (it was Sunday) and refilled the brake reservoir with fresh brake fluid.  It was low and dirty.  I paid the mechanic 20 pesos ($2.25) to do the job—I had no inclination to break out my own tools.

I checked out one of the two hotels in town.  It was very basic.  I was showing people my swollen leg by now.  At the hotel we had to use scissors to cut the jeans open at the cuff, it was so tight.  I could see the swelling under my jeans.

Now—get back to Santa Engracia ASAP.  Somehow I’d neglected to bring maps of the next area but had an excellent feel for it and as it turned out, made all the correct choices from memory.  On pavement now, 11 miles to Aramberi, then on the highway towards Dr. Arroyo I got caught by another rainstorm.  I had to stop under a tree, put my head down and just stand and wait for it to quit, like a burro.  Now I was freezing cold, until the sun and wind dried my clothes.  Ahhh, Mexico!

After 51 miles of pavement, I went onto a good gravel road for the 35mile shortcut across desert to Miquihuana.  Past El Carmen and Estanque de Aguila—wind swept dusty desert places straight out of Clint Eastwood’s spaghetti-westerns.  A dramatic change in climates.  Along the way I developed a major oil leak.  Now what?  I’d been through mud, no brakes, a swollen leg, a rainstorm and now an oil leak!  All in one day!  Jeeze!

The rear tire and brake were covered in oil.  I limped into Miquihuana—cobble stoned streets, beautiful setting—found a place that sold oil, and put about ¾ quart into the crankcase.  The leak created a puddle in the street as I watched.  Late in the day now I was too worried about time, light, oil and logistics to fully enjoy the splendid scenery.  26 miles of pavement brought me to Hwy 101, the major highway connecting Ciudad Victoria, Tula, and San Luis Potosi.  I added more oil to the crankcase.  What was I gonna do?

Never travel in Mexico after dark
15 miles to Juamave, I arrived after dark.  At the Pemex station I rolled up my sleeves and finally broke out the tool kit.  I carefully cleaned mud and clay off the bike, and dismantled it enough to discover that the oil leak was not from a hole in the crankcase, as I’d suspected, but from the seal at the countershaft sprocket at the front end of the drive chain.  The front sprocket had been clogged with rocks and dried clay, which had damaged the seal.  The oil leaked directly onto the chain which flung it all up into the underside of the rear fender, and from there it dripped back down onto the rear tire and brake disc.  What a mess.

Well, this was not anything I could fix.  Safety dictated leaving the bike here and coming back with the car and trailer, but how was I to get to the car and trailer which were in Santa Engracia? 
I decided to move on, very carefully.  All I had to do was go 46 miles over one of the most wildly spectacular mountain roads in Mexico, in the middle of the night on a motorcycle, with an oil coated rear tire and oil coated rear brake! 

I bought extra oil to add along the way, and set out at 40mph—I figured I could survive any crash at 40 mph.  My biggest fear was my rear tire slipping out from under me in front of an approaching bus.  I forced myself to stop every 15 miles to check the oil level so I didn’t burn up the motor.  My leg felt tight within my jeans and it was an effort to mount and dismount the bike.  Luckily the traffic wasn’t too bad.  Mexicans love those double remoques, double tractor-trailer semi’s, and they looked like trains going around those curves.  But everyone was civilized and well behaved.  No insane drivers tonight.  I witnessed only one pass on a blind curve.  The curves were such that I took most of them upright at 35mph. 

All the truck drivers were lined up on the Victoria side of the mountains, relaxing outside their rigs, congratulating themselves in the midnight air.  It seemed forever to Santa Engracia.  I arrived at 2:00am.

Doctor’s Orders Monday, July 9, 2001

I was up at 7:00am to call Jaylene back at my office:  I was still in Mexico and would not be at work today.  Then went back to bed, thankful that I didn’t have to ride that motorcycle today.  At lunch I was showing off my leg—it was now purple throughout the calf to below the ankle.  Carlos took one look at it and said, “Get into the car, I’m taking you to the doctor.”  OK, I was worried too.

The doctor was a young guy who didn’t like the looks of my leg either.  He started talking about restricted circulation, gangrene and amputation.  Hold it!  Time out!  He insisted I stay off it for two full days and I reluctantly agreed that it was best.  I knew something was wrong.  It hurt enough in the morning to make me shout.

Another call to Austin, and I spent the rest of the day in bed playing with my maps and sleeping. 

Farewell to friends Tuesday, July 10, 2001

By Tuesday the swelling had subsided somewhat and the color was turning a darker purple.  It hurt like the dickens to stand up—but once that agony had passed it seemed relatively OK.  I could walk on it without a limp, and today I could cross it on the other knee, which I couldn’t do the day before.  Going to the bathroom was a bitch.  I could get up and walk to the bathroom before the pain set in.  The agony would start while waiting to urinate.  It always made me shout.  Finally I just gave up and sat down to pee. 

Late in the afternoon I packed up and said good by to Carlos, Roberto, and Concepcion, the manager.  Everyone agreed my leg looked better.  I left at 8:00pm, reached Hwy 85 at 8:25, and a motel in Montemorelos at 10:30.  It was 2 ½ hours to Montemorelos.  The leg was still not doing as well as I’d like.  The palm-sized goose egg had not gone down in the least and I was returning to fears that it was fractured.  Would I be able to work Thursday, afterall?

Hopital Carlota Wednesday, July 11, 2001

I wasn’t happy with my leg.  It hurt too much to stand up and I still couldn’t see my ankle for the swelling, even though I’d stayed in bed all morning  I would have to see another doctor.  I took a long look at the hospital: it didn’t look crowded.  I went right in.  Not much hesitation there.  I worked myself up the hierarchy, nurse, doctor, another doctor, another, until finally the little bald headed doc with a white moustache wearing a white lab coat.  Everyone agreed it was a hematoma.  They took X-rays (no fracture), did a blood test, and gave me a tetanus shot.  Everyone spoke English, I was amazed.  I had complete trust in everyone.  They all knew their jobs well and practiced excellent technique.  The surroundings were not up to our American standards—bare wires hanging from the ceiling and such—but the techniques were the same.

Finally the doc offered to “open it”. 
“If you think it will help,” I said, “go ahead.”

Feels Like Chile
I had no idea. To me “hemotoma” meant a bruise. He administered local anesthetic—“Feels like chile!”—and made an incision 1½ inches long directly into the goose egg.  I laid back to brace myself when I saw the hemostats disappear into my leg.  Then he carefully and lovingly squeezed the Bee-Geesus out of my leg, expelling about a ½ cup of black jello—dark coagulated blood.  It was incredible, gross, awful, and wonderful, all at the same time.  When it was over I had a crater where there had once been a goose egg.  I was thanking him profusely on the spot.  What a relief! 

I left Montemorelos at 4:30.  Got lost in Monterrey.  Stopped to eat, my leg was killing me.  Arrived at the outskirts of Nuevo Laredo at 9:00pm, finished with the border by 10:00—the smoothest border crossing yet.  Gas and refreshments in Laredo, on the road by 10:20.  Took a nap on the outskirts of San Antonio, not knowing how close I was.  Arrived in Austin at 2:30am, 419 miles (10hrs) from Montemorelos.