October 28 Drive to Batopilas

We hopped out of our warm beds, by the roosters' pre-dawn wake-up call, in a hurry to see the canyon. By the dim light of my flashlight, I learned that the "C" on the shower handle does not stand for "cold," but rather "caliente." The town generator began chugging at 6:00am sharp, sending electricity to the mill. Lumber jacks climbed onto big trucks to the call of ringing church bells. Sleepy-headed ninos stumbled to school on the cobblestone street. We loaded the Trooper and followed the only road leading south out of town. It was nicely paved, and reasonably level, for about seven miles. Where the pavement ran out, the land began to change shape -- valleys became bigger, ravines deeper and signs of civilization fewer. We continued to follow the steadily deteriorating road, passing small ranchitos, with piled rock fences containing patches of crops. Along the way, we visited Skip McWilliams' Tarahumara Lodge near the Cusauare Falls. At the tourism pioneer's remote resort, we found a thick book full of ethnographic accounts of the Tarahumara. Though we wanted to stay and read the pages, we were more concerned that we wouldn't have enough time to reach our destination at the bottom of the canyon. We crossed the Humira bridge, a sturdy passage over what we later learned was the Rio Urique, an emerald green river meandering through the upper reaches of Copper Canyon. Beyond the vado, we climbed high above the river to a plateau and a seemingly insignificant crossroads at a village called Samachique. Brightly-robed Indians stopped on the road to watch us pass. We continued over the thinly-forested mesa, past ranchitos with Indian names posted on roadside signs. We had expended about half of the available daylight to travel little more than 50 miles. Recounting the time, we realized we were covering only about ten miles per hour due to the harsh roads and our apprehension about continuing into unknown territory, with unforeseen conditions -- not to mention the endless moments we spent standing on the roadside taking in amazing views of a land almost too big to photograph, that grew larger with each turn. One sharp curve brought us to the edge of the Barranca de Batopilas. The river below looked like a thin green thread. By the time we reached the bottom, all we wanted was to find a wide spot in the road to pull over and stand on firm ground. To try to relieve the tension, we played in the clear green mountain stream that we later learned was the Rio Batopilas. An old pickup passed us as we climber back into the Trooper. Half of the gas tank was gone and I felt certain there was no gasoline at the end of this road. Though the endless trail became acceptably level, we faced a series of washouts from recent rains draining the mountainous slopes into the river below. We stopped at the worst of them to assess the risk and pick the safest possible path through the water and loose rock. We were soon trailing shortly behind the pickup, which was transporting a Tarahumara family. As we negotiated a difficult section of road, an Indian man leaped out of the pickup bed into a stand of tall grass. We skidded to a stop to watch the action right before us. After a couple of lunges with a heavy stone, the Indian man lifted a snake over his head to show us his catch. From head to tail, the snake hung near the ground on both sides. With a big smile, the Tarahumara man climbed back in the truck with his prize. We lost sight of the old truck and it's happy riders.

As the trip odometer neared 80 miles on our eight hour journey, we came upon a narrow wood-planked bridge with a man standing on it, and a crooked sign reading "Batopilas." Just to be sure, we asked the man, who we came to know as Senor Manuel, if this was in fact Batopilas. "Si," he nodded his white cowboy hat. He went on to ask what we were doing in Batopilas. As soon as we translated his question with our Spanish dictionary, we told him we were touristas and we would be taking photographs. He seemed to warn us about some trouble, but indicated there were guest houses further down the river. Soon after we left Senor Manuel on the bridge we spotted a small store, which we learned to recognize by the soft drink and snack food signs on the outer walls. Brenda and Michael, with empty bottles in hand, ducked in through the low door of the tienda. They quickly emerged with three Cocas and startled expressions. "What happened?" I thought to ask. Michael looked at Brenda in disbelief, and asked, "Did you see that?" "The twelve-year-old with the 9mm pistol?" she responded. We squeezed the Trooper between adobe-covered buildings on the narrow path through town. It was about 3:00pm when we found the town square. A brass plaque reading "Casa Bustillos" adorned a plain door, where a very pleasant, and unarmed, woman motioned for us to come inside. She led us to the back patio near the river and showed us a room with three beds. "Bueno? Okay?" she asked. We gladly took the room and asked her if there was enough time to walk down the river to the mission. "Oh no," she said, "The men, they are doing business there." We went to sit on the town square, being careful to stay near Monse's front door. A group of kids appeared in front of us, toweling off after a chaotic basketball game. The tallest and oldest of the kids, two American expatriates who appeared more suited for the golf course, asked where we were from and what brought us there. We told them we were from Houston. One of the towering Americans, Joe, told us he came from San Diego, California and the last thing he saw in the small world of U.S. television was an episode of "Cops" where the police chased a crack addict through Houston streets into a government housing project. Brenda and Michael exclaimed, "We know that guy." Bob asked if anything unusual happened on the way to Batopilas. I wasn't sure what passed for unusual in this strange land, but I replied, "We saw an Indian kill a snake." "You didn't tell anyone about that did you?" he asked. "No," I replied. "Good, they'll be eating that snake tonight." We later saw Bob slip out of the gate by the river, on his way to the feast. NEXT PAGE