Horseback in Copper Canyon, 2008

Horseback in Copper Canyon

It started with a phone call. I dashed into the ranch house to catch it in time. On the line was Raúl Granados, my friend from Carichí, Mexico. He was calling to invite me to join him and his cousin Carlos on an adventure they were poised to embark on after years of discussion and organizing: retracing the historic Silver Route. A week of riding through wild country with seasoned mountain men was a chance to realize one of my life’s big dreams. I had first explored Copper Canyon on foot ten years earlier. It was an experience that could only be surpassed by returning on horseback. Now I had an invitation to do just that. The opportunity was bittersweet as I knew that, due to work obligations, I would only be able to participate in first half of the two week adventure. Still, I jumped at the chance.

Raúl and Carlos’ great grandfather, Nerio Ortega, was a head arriero, or mule driver, on the Silver Route. This route was used to transport the nearly pure silver bullion from the Batopilas mine at the bottom of Copper Canyon to the City of Chihuahua some 300 miles distant. In spite of the dangers associated with traversing the impossibly steep and unforgiving terrain of the Sierra Madre Occidental, the operation was highly successful, lasting from 1880 to 1910. Stories and knowledge of the Silver Route were retreating from collective memory and becoming relegated to museums. The Granados cousins dreamed of reviving the legacy.

The Silver Route was developed by Alexander Shepherd when he assumed the management of the rich silver mines of Batopilas in 1880. “El Patron Grande” is still referred to with deference and respect for his accomplishments. The improvements he caused to happen – electrification of the town, a hospital, employment at just wages - positively impacted lives from Batopilas to Chihuahua. During a span of thirty years mule trains traveled La Ruta de la Plata monthly. Departing from the Shepherd compound - San Miguel – and bearing twin bars of nearly pure silver bullion, conductas of forty to one hundred animals made the round trip in twenty days. They returned laden with food and supplies to the canyon bottom. Commerce along the route thrived. The Mexican Revolution of 1910 and concurrent deflation of silver prices finally halted the prodigious flow of precious ore and the Silver Route fell into disuse.

The Granados cousins’ perseverance paid off. In October 2008, nearly one hundred years after the demise of the Silver Route, La Conducta de la Ruta de la Plata took place. Our goal was to not merely retrace but to reenact this colorful piece of Mexican history, giving those along the way a glimpse into their heritage. We wore the traditional garb of Mexican peasants of the nineteenth century, camisas y calzones de manta, or muslin shirts and pants. Our hats, leggings, and footwear reflected that earlier time. The silver bars of Batopilas were replicated. Five traditional wooden wagons were constructed to depart Carichí, the half-way point where the ingots were historically transferred from mule to wagon for the remainder of the journey.

Coordination and planning of the actual event took nearly a year. As departure day approached riders assembled food, animals and gear. Most of us gathered in the small town of Carichí some 60 km south of Cuauhtémoc, where the foothills of the Sierra Madre meet the rolling plains. We loaded horses and mules into two open trucks lined with sawdust and headed out. Our destination: the ruins of the grand Hacienda San Miguel, across the river from the fabled town of Batopilas. The twelve-hour drive culminated in the dramatic 5000 foot descent into Batopilas Canyon on a narrow dirt road with hairpin turns, sheer drops, and no guard rails. The views were stunning and vertigo inducing.

Batopilas lies in the heart of the Copper Canyon network. Situated on the river which bears its name and wedged between steeply graded slopes, the town is roughly one mile long but only a block wide. When you step into Batopilas you become aware that it is a place which history scrutinized intensely before looking away. The town dates from 1632. Designed by silver-seeking Spaniards and built by indigenous hands and backs, the architecture is rustically classical. Hillsides rise precipitously and top out at 7000 feet. At 2000 feet above the sea, the river bottom is home to all varieties of tropical fruits: citrus, papaya, mango, banana, avocado. Quickly turning to desert as the land rises away from the riparian corridor, enormous cardon and pitaya cactus grow in virtual forests alongside other unique desert flora.

Entry into Batopilas is via a one lane bridge which spans the river on high girders. Resting against the railing was a man in a position so composed and still that it was clear he had been there for hours. In this place, far beyond the range of cell phone towers and high speed internet, people know how to wait.

This was Nabor Castillo, our guide to and through the mountains. Strong and lithe, of indeterminate age, the face under the brim of his cowboy hat wore dark, serious eyes under brushy brows. His requisite moustache was sprinkled with gray, and his face and body were bronzed and hardened by a life lived outdoors. The tough feet encased in thong and tire tread sandals (huaraches) looked like they could walk to Denver and back. Here was a man of graceful self-ease.

Nabor led us to the ruins of the Hacienda San Miguel located on the river bank opposite the town where we would sleep for two nights. The vestiges of a grand enterprise lay in glorious, tropical decay. These rock and adobe structures had once housed an army of workers, their “gran patrones” (masters), a hospital, mills, and mine offices. High walls and graceful arches of what must have been a chapel stood quietly deconstructing amidst the relentless upheaval of serpentine roots. The stone corrals where we would situate our animals had stabled countless beasts before us. In the center of the compound a town member had built a small pensión – a line of rooms. We were invited to stay.

There were fewer beds than riders and I decided to sleep outside. As the only single woman – and a Gringa as well – my plan was to defer to the men, giving them time to know and accept me. This was a good call on my part and the process didn’t take long. In short order they gauged my skill and endurance in their domain and reached out to me in friendship.

I spread my tarp on spotty grass and stretched out on my sleeping bag. The mild tropical air enveloped me. A few lights cast shadows on the ruined arches and the dense, living canopy overhead. The footsteps and voices of my wakeful companions echoed on walkways and against stucco walls. The realization of where I was and what was about to happen swept over me, evicting any notion of sleep. The scenes from that first exhilarating day of travel were acute, like pin pricks. I was flooded with anticipation, and an animation of spirit and body that would carry me through the coming days.

The next morning we assembled our company of arrieros. Saddled and mounted, we clattered across the bridge, paraded to the town center, and took a turn around the plaza. People leaned out of windows and off balconies and lined the way, clapping, waving, and cheering us on. As we filled the street I saw at once the scale for which those narrow cobbled roads had been designed. For a brief and magical moment our animals replaced the glut of smelly, noisy cars and trucks. The sound of hooves on stone reverberating up the high plastered walls was of a time long past. I began to lose track of my century and relaxed into the cadence of a former era. Twenty two white hats gleamed and bounced in the procession around me.

We overran the plaza with our frenzy of animals. The town welcomed us with live music and an ocean of Tecate (beer) underneath ancient, massive trees. Our thirty horses and mules were stationed in a shady lot behind an open air restaurant. Then we sang (Mexicans sing) and danced (Mexicans dance) and, with speeches and cheers, made merry around a carefully stacked pile of silver bars.

The following day we pulled out our costumes and suited up. What happened when my companions donned their calzones de manta was an instant shift of the lens. The character of the men’s faces assumed a timeless dimension. From their huarachi clad feet to the sombreros on their heads, these riders now occupied the personas of their ancestors.

With our pack animals loaded with silver bars we took leave of the hacienda ruins. The festive spirit was enhanced as we were joined by local jinetes (horsemen) and even a crowned queen seated before a handsome escort. Dignitaries gave speeches. Beer flowed. An Indian priest, Tecate in hand, sang and blessed us to the oom-pah of the town band.

We departed.

In single file, beasts and their riders trotted out of Batopilas and splashed across the river, leaving towns, roads, and comforts behind.

We rode for seven days under cloudless October skies through a landscape defined by its ruggedness, remoteness, and grand scale. Past Tarahumara homesteads, where the Indians live as they have for centuries, scrabbling out an existence using time-honored farming implements of wood and metal on those remote and unforgiving hillsides. I learned to ride through hunger, thirst, and fatigue, and to adapt to discomfort and pain, cold and heat. I discovered how to use my saddle for a pillow and the enormous utility of a saddle blanket.

Along the way we encountered grooves worn into the smooth stone of the mesa tops and bony ridges. The heavy hooves of long ago had etched their story into the hide of those mountains.

Our party traveled as if we were arrieros of old. Rising before dawn we were on the trail by 7:30 for seven or eight hours in the saddle, spelled only by a brief lunch stop. When our leader was ready he departed. I learned to be alert to his movements or risk getting left behind. If, during the day’s march, you needed to adjust gear, replace a horseshoe, or squat behind a bush, you did so with an eye on the departing cavalcade. In the seven days I traveled with these men I practiced my rudimentary tracking skills more than once. I also received help from companions who waited and helped me catch up to the rest.

My goal was to never lag, not give in to pain, and so prove to myself and to others that a woman can measure up to the challenge of riding demanding terrain with season-tested men. I learned to sleep near my compañeros with an ear cocked to their noises and an eye on my watch. I found I had to preempt their schedule, rising early to attend to my female needs. I also discovered I could shorten that list: I went for days without combing my hair (under a cowboy hat, who can tell?) or removing my contact lenses. I perhaps managed to apply sunscreen twice, and brushed my teeth three or four times in seven days. There were animals to feed, water, groom and saddle, and gear to stow. If I was lucky I got a bite of breakfast and a sip of coffee. Then we were off, for another day of ceaseless riding and heart-rending beauty.

I grew to love my compañeros of the trail and they me. Because I was the new arrival, they did accommodate and care for me. When my horse failed a fellow rider led him all day as I switched to muleback. I was guided and helped and reprimanded; not chided too much for my big mistakes and gently teased for the small ones. If my companions needed tender ministrations they approached me shyly to ask for the medicines and supplies they knew I carried in my saddle bags.

The men of these mountains can be diminutive, almost delicate. Size in this case is deceptive. Like the mounts that they ride, they possess the tensile strength of steel wire. We rode. When we missed our supply connection, we froze and starved. Never slowing the pace, we survived by harvesting wild fruits and sharing our meager supply of food and blankets. From dawn to dusk we rode. And from dawn to dusk my companions sang and called out gritos (melodic cries) along the trails and through the canyons. Then at day’s end made camp, built fires, cared for animals, replaced horseshoes, repaired gear, and celebrated another successful day.

Extraordinary events assumed an ordinary tone. One afternoon we arrived at a grassy meadow, and three Tarahumara men dressed in traditional garb appeared at the edge of the deep piney woods. They wore loose white muslin loin wrappers and brilliantly colored blousy shirts; their glossy black hair was fastened with headbands. While we made camp they produced a rustic violin and small guitar. Without fanfare two of them began to play while the third danced, his ankle bracelets creating the percussive sound of rattles. An improbable setting for this timeless concert and ritual dancing. After performing for about forty minutes they melted back into the forest.

El Potrero, Teboriachi, La Laja, Pilares, Guajochi, Bacabureachi. These were the historic stations built to house and feed the arrieros, their beasts and store their precious cargo. Here, beside crumbling walls, we penned our animals, ate and slept. When the stations bordered villages we were met by local dignitaries and hosted to hearty meals, fountains of beer and tequila, and music. The moon cast broad illumination over ruined stone structures and drying fields of maize ringed by distant darkened woodlands.

By day, coming upon a school yard filled with children we paused our march, taking decorous turns around the compound. Then, in Spanish or Tarahumara, we explained our journey and mission to the gaping and excited young ones. Raucous cheers and shy smiles and waves sent us off, back into wild country.

We rode. I found myself split between counting the remaining days and nights and wanting to slow that ticking clock. At day five I broke down, pulled the seat saver from my gear, and attached it to my saddle. As much as I pride myself on my iron-clad rear end, I was grateful for the respite. I waited for the teasing I was sure would come. But the only comment was from Olivia, the other female traveler, who admired it. I gave it to her when I departed.

The sounds of life on the trail enlivened me. In addition to singing and gritos, the sonorous speech of my companions became a background presence in my life. Theirs was a language of elemental power: regional, colorful, rich in tonality. I felt comforted at night awakening to the cadence of their voices as small groups arose to build a fire and drink coffee at 2:00 or 3:00 a.m. before taking another turn under the blankets.

I have a high regard for the animals – mostly mules, but also plucky, wiry horses – that bore us up formidable passes and down slippery slopes, fording rivers and coping with rock-strewn trails resembling boulder fields those long days between stations. The squealing, stomping and champing of our beasts was ongoing, only lulling into periods of quiet in the deep of night. I was compelled to make my bed near enough to hear them.

Sometimes we all slept in the pasture where our animals grazed. One compa told me that he was awakened by a mule crossing over him between hip and knee, stepping carefully between his blanketed legs. I spent a restful night with a very personable horse staked next to me, waking periodically to his careful cropping around the perimeter of my tarp.

The goat: One day I topped a rise to see our fearless leader and relentless captain, Raúl, standing in the dirt yard of a Tarahumara homestead negotiating with the inhabitants, a husband and wife. My compañeros all tied their mounts and loosened their saddles, so I followed suit. In the span of twenty minutes a goat had been slaughtered, skinned, carved and was sizzling over an open fire on spits. We all joined in the making of corn tortillas from the family’s reserve of dried maize. My clumsy attempts to pat a ball of dough sufficiently flat and round were met with amusement and silent approval. What followed was one of the finest, purest meals of native meat and corn I have ever eaten. Not a morsel was wasted; our hosts inherited the remainder of the goat except for one salted limb which I observed drying on Nabor’s pack animal in the ensuing days.

The goat feast was followed by an unusually long rest break. I walked down to the river to fill my water bottle and found four men preparing to bathe. I averted my gaze, and, using my hat as a screen called, “I can’t see anything!” To which they replied, “Join us Pilar! After all, we’re compas now!” So I stripped to my skivvies and we washed and swam from separate stations, with no overlapping. Their gift to me: respect and friendship.

Then came wash day. After six days on the trail our once-white costumes were a sight. Today’s ride would be short and we would arrive in Carichí, the half-way point. While I watched, the men took their crusty, blackened vestments to the washing pool, or pila, and engaged in vigorous scrubbing on their knees. What emerged were sparkling garments. I had refrained from joining in because I had been told that they were going to wear their clothing wet, but I was out of the loop. First, an hour on a rock. Then the men rode from camp with their drying clothes draped over their shoulders. A jostling, bouncing clothesline unfurled along the path before me. By the time we reached Carichi the vaqueros had changed and were impeccable in gleaming white.

Dizzying gorges and sweeping vistas gave way to gentle river valleys as we approached settled country. I realized that I would soon have to separate from my friends, and grief set in. This sadness mingled with the triumph of the entire group as we arrived in Carichí. The Granados rode up to a traditionally dressed official and with decorum announced, “Mr. Shepherd, we deliver to you your silver.” The wagons, handsome and freshly oiled, waited in a row. The first stage of the conducta was complete.

Which meant it was time for my departure. One last night of sleeping altogether and the dramatic transfer of silver bars from beast to wagon. The chaotic harnessing of mules and horses, and saddling of mounts and pack animals. Then the slow and stately procession to the plaza in Carichí. I slipped away and stood on a sidewalk, ready to hand my unsaddled mule back to her owners as they rode by. A final explosion of gritos and they were off, Chihuahua bound.

I retreated to a cheap motel. Stretched across a ten dollar bed in a windowless room I struggled to compose my emotions and collect myself for the transition back into my Texas life. My sense of present time distorted, my heart traveled on the shoulders of a mule moving at seven miles per hour. My inner voice spoke the language of my compañeros. And those compañeros! Our distinct and distant paths had linked for a brief moment. The journey was over. How to detach myself from their spirited companionship and the world where they lived with such mastery and ease? My first look into a mirror revealed a gaunt, wizened version of myself with blistered lips and eyes that can tell stories.

Que viva Chihuahua! Long Live México! Arriba los arrieros de la Ruta de la Plata!

Pilar Pedersen

Alpine, Texas