Riding the Silver Trail, 2009

Riding the Silver Trail

Noise explodes, shocking me out of sleep. I wake to total darkness, trying desperately to get my bearings. Seconds tick by and I feel the other bodies wedged against me also struggling to awaken and grab hold of reason. Just as the rooster at our feet stops crowing, we break into howls of laughter.

Six of us had taken refuge the night before from the ragged skies and intermittent rain at our high mountain camp. A Tarahumara Indian family had given us use of their ten by ten foot kitchen. Crammed hip to hip on the dirt floor of the windowless adobe hut, we closed the door and gave ourselves to sleep. We never saw the rooster behind the stove.

It is October, 2009, and we are embarking on a journey along the historic Silver Trail through Mexico’s Sierra Madre Occidental. Unseasonal rains have delayed our departure from Batopilas, flooding the rivers and canyon bottoms, making passage impossible. Determined to commence the trip, our guides have chosen an alternate route which deviates from the historic trail used by the mule drivers – or arrieros - of old. We will ford smaller rivers, still in flood, and wind our way up steeper trails to our first night’s camp above the mountain village.

The Silver Route, or Ruta de la Plata, originated from the need to transport silver bullion from the mines of Batopilas, Chihuahua, to the nearest railroad in the capital, Chihuahua City. The three hundred mile journey started at the bottom of Copper Canyon and climbed five thousand feet up cliffs and mountains, rugged, beautiful, and seemingly endless.

Time in Batopilas seems to have almost stopped in the hundred years since the mines closed. However, it was once an important destination. In 1880, an entrepreneur named Alexander Robey Shepherd moved his family there from Washington, DC, to manage the famous silver mines of which he was part owner. Shepherd set up an efficient monthly transport of the nearly pure bullion. Forty to one hundred mules bearing twin bars, which together weighed one hundred fifty pounds made the twenty-day round trip. They traveled between stations built to house and feed them and their drivers, and shelter their precious cargo overnight. Commerce along the route thrived, as did the town.

We were gathering to reenact the route for a second time. In 2008, I had ridden with these cowboys and mountain men through the wild, precipitous canyon country, pushing myself to meet arduous physical challenges. It had been the adventure of my life. This second group had new faces, though many, like me, were returning. They were my friends. During out first convoy – or conducta - as a solo woman and Gringa, it had taken me awhile to feel at ease. The warmth and kindness of my companions had melted my reserve. I was delighted to reunite as a team.

The previous year, work obligations had pulled me out half way, but this year I was determined to accomplish the entire odyssey. Four hundred and eighty kilometers lay between me and my goal. I was better mounted and better prepared, mentally and physically. When the arrieros transferred the replicated silver ingots from beast to wagon at the midpoint, I would accompany them onto the plains and all the way to Chihuahua City.

I arrived in Batopilas atop the cabin of a truck carrying twenty mules and horses. With my arms wound around the metal rails I thrilled at our steep descent into Batopilas Canyon on a road whose hairpin turns looped directly below us for a vertical mile. The beasts behind me shifted constantly in the swaying bed. They wore the look of long-suffering patience.

Landing at the ruins of the Shepherd empire, we stabled and fed our animals and unloaded our belongings. We had descended into a tropical zone. The ruined walls and crumbling arches of the glorious past were being slowly subsumed and split apart by creeping vines and the snake-like roots of sinewy trees.

Chores completed, we drove into town. There is very little level ground at the bottom of this enormous canyon; Batopilas is correspondingly narrow and long. High stucco walls line the cobbled streets. Dating from 1632, the plaza is surrounded by massive structures built in rustic Spanish Colonial style. Shaded by gigantic trees, this place has a remarkable feel to it.

Entering Batopilas, one becomes aware of how far he or she is from the dazzle and speed of the high tech world; time slows down. People born here are fit, hardy, and resourceful. There is also an obvious presence of the narcotics trade. Flashy pickups, windows darkly tinted, roam the streets driven by men with hard faces. One avoids eye contact. I have never felt unsafe there, but use care to appear aloof and inconspicuous.

The town, decorated with banners, was gearing up for a festive celebration. Colorful posters announcing our arrival were mounted on lamp posts and walls: “La Conducta de la Ruta de la Plata 2009” (The Caravan of the Silver Route 2009). A band played in the square. We danced. That night I spread my tarp and sleeping bag out on a covered porch. I awoke dry, but to drumming rain.

We saddled wet mounts and rode to town, where the festivities were hampered but not halted by the weather. Hundreds of Tarahumara Indians had arrived from distant homesteads to enjoy free food and drink. These are small people who bear the marks of a harsh existence. Hard toil wizens them and exposure renders them hard as leather. In the vicinity of Batopilas men still wear traditional costumes of white loin cloths and brilliantly colored, blousy shirts. The women dress in billowing skirts and blouses, also of bright hues. Even in the rain the square was alive with color.

The fiesta had been going on prior to our arrival. Enough alcohol had flowed to make a serious dent in the sobriety of some of these mountain folks, and many had the dazed and disheveled look of people drinking themselves into serious incoherence. Indian men were sleeping on sidewalks and in the wet gutters, dirty and near-dead looking.

We retreated back to the hacienda, drenched and chilled. As we had done the previous year, that night we slept all together on the porch. I was happy to share this nighttime company again. It was familiar and comfortable, with much joking and hilarity. I was also aware of the remarkable fortune that allowed me, a North American woman, to be accepted and ensconced with these Mexican mountain cowboys.

The rain was ceaseless and our gear was soaked. We decided to postpone our departure by one day in order to dry out, hoping the clouds would do the same. Batopilas River, normally a slow blue stream flowing over a boulder-strewn bed, was a turgid, brown, angry beast. To ford it would have been deadly, and our trail would cross it more than once. Our guides decided to follow a different route.

The following day we departed with much fanfare. The skies cleared, the town rallied, and we were blessed by speeches and prayers while the band played. Our beasts darkened with sweat as we climbed the rocky, tremulous trails out of the canyon up into the Sierra.

Owing to our rooster, we are fully awake this morning at 4:30 AM. We precede the others in the daily routine: building up fires, feeding animals, boiling water for coffee and pinole, the powdered corn cereal of the Tarahumaras. I marvel at the planning and effort required to launch and sustain these thirty mounts and twenty one riders on an adventure of this magnitude.

We depart camp and continue straight up. Soon we are higher than the clouds which still swathe the mountain. At the top we pause to rest and revel in the vast views of deep gorges and cryptic ranges rippling in all directions. Our reverie is interrupted by a terrible event. A beloved mare belonging to two of our riders has fallen – riderless – from a cliff when the wet trail under her feet gives away. Her owners scramble down to help her but see that her back is broken. Without a pistol to put her down, they are forced to leave her there. Their grief, and ours for them, is tremendous. As we move forward our mood is subdued.

The views that open before us are continuous and stunning, and relieve some of our sadness. Traversing the spine of the Sierra Madre, the ground on either side drops off, revealing range after range of ragged blue ridges and green mountainsides where Tarahumara homesteads cling, remote, solitary, prehistoric.

This day is laden with majesty and tragedy. Before we arrive at our destination another horse falls backwards while scrambling up steep, slick rocks. His rider jumps free. Bruised but unhurt, he leads the horse on foot. We don’t realize that the animal has sustained internal injuries and will not survive.

Our attention turns to the condition of yet another mare. Suffering from overexertion, she is in acute distress; her elevated breathing and excessive sweating are pronounced. At rest stops, with eyes closed and head low, it is clear that she is engaged in a  mortal struggle. We have no choice but to press  onward, hoping to get to Teboriachi Station without further mishaps. This we do, and while making camp, take turns walking the mare in circles. She crumbles repeatedly to the ground and somehow we manage to get her back up on her feet and support her as she staggers and heaves. We are fortunate to have a doctor among us who gives her an injection and reports that she will revive or die quickly. Determined that we will not lose a second mare, I stay with her, bringing her water which she drinks with great urgency. Finally she is able to walk to water to sate her thirst and we know that she will live.

In this remote valley cut off from the rest of the world, we hug ourselves by our fires, eat our simple fare, roll up in blankets, and sleep.

It is not raining tonight, but rain will chase us for our entire passage through the mountains. From Teboriachi we join the Silver Route Trail. Arriving at a small village serviced by a road, we leave our injured horses. But the day is marked by another incident. A rattlesnake in the trail spooks a mule which rears, causing its rider to fall. Neither beast nor man is bitten, but that injured rider leaves the conducta when we reach the next post.

At La Laja Station I walk through the pines where our contented animals are tied, consuming their rations of hay. Though serviced by a road, La Laja is still very remote and sparsely populated. But they have prepared for our arrival, and we are greeted by the local band. It seems to be comprised of whoever can play an instrument: a banjo, guitar, two saxophones and a drum entertain us with discordant but lively ranchero music. We dance and sing.

At the next station – Pilares – we are welcomed with customary warmth. With the outdoor basketball court of the local school serving as a stage, we are treated to a concert by the same band as the night before--except that the banjo has been replaced by a silver flute! Students, from primary to high school, dance rehearsed numbers to the upstart music. Once a thriving commercial center on the Silver Trail, this town has been eclipsed by the passage of time. Not connected to any grid, their power comes from generators and small rooftop solar panels. Dirt tracks serving as roads, the school, and a small store attached to a private residence are all that we can see of a settlement.

Stopping at remote mountain schools to share with the students their cultural past, we continue. Peaks and cliffs recede as we descend into piney forests and gentle dales. We meet no sinister traffickers moving their wares towards northern markets. They seem to know that we are here. Prior agreements have guaranteed us secure passage, and there is safety in numbers.

Again we leave roads and villages behind, dropping into valleys occupied exclusively by the Tarahumara. Living in amended caves and adobe huts, they scratch out an existence which bears little connection to our time. Imagine large fields bordered by low, hand-stacked rock walls and cultivated by a single horse and plow. These same fields are hand sown, kernel by kernel. If rains arrive the corn will flourish. Too much rain or too little, too early or too late, spells disaster. Ruts in the stone from the passage of countless beasts on the trail before us are vivid reminders of former times. Descending into Huajochi Station at day’s end, our mounts place their feet exactly where their predecessors trod. Each footprint is drilled down into the narrow stone path.

That night pure corn comprises my supper: hot pinole cereal, a fire-roasted ear of fresh maize, and a fat tortilla-like gordita given me by a companion. Bathing in the river and retiring under the stars by 8:00 PM, I sleep. Arising at dawn the next day, I feel elated and strong. This will be our last day of trail riding. I will come to miss the mountains with their tranquility and power to restore.

Arriving at Bacabureachi Hot Springs, we soak, wash our clothes, make camp, and eat hot food prepared by townspeople. Tomorrow, rested and clean, we will arrive in Carichí, our halfway point. There we will be welcomed with a large fiesta. Six wooden wagons will be loaded with their cargo of mock silver bars, and the remote part of the conducta will be over.

Rain finds us again in Carichí and we take refuge in town. Later, between storms, we depart. From that point forward we ride on roads which cross the rolling plains of Chihuahua. Always traveling at a trot, we cover twenty to forty kilometers daily, a grueling four to seven hours of bouncing in the saddle. Determined to ride every step between Batopilas and Chihuahua, I do not seek refuge in a wagon. Rather, over the course of the next seven days, I will feel like my bones come unglued from their sockets, and there will not be a single part of my body that will not ache or bear a bruise. When rain catches us on a dirt road we slog through six kilometers of thick, greasy mud. Our wagons perform seamlessly, though the horses and mules pulling them suffer.

One night we sleep in a school to stay dry. Stark and clean, it houses not a single book or desk. In the ceiling are light sockets but no bulbs. There is no heat source. One wall has a hole in it. As I recall the well-stocked, cozy elementary schools at home, I flash with anger and a feeling of impotence. How can children learn in this environment? How can they succeed?

Onward we ride. Arriving exhausted in the afternoons, we are the focus of fiestas that last into the nights. Here the costumed arrieros demonstrate their skill in loading a cargo mule, and the wagon drivers – carretoneros – work their teams, showing off the different uses of these particular wagons. This is a critical part of our mission. With drug-related violence scouring the land, we represent an anchor to the past and the strong values which are the bedrock of Mexican culture. Our presence creates a small pause, a moment to celebrate and uplift.

We are being filled to the brim with rich experiences, but what we lack are adequate sleeping arrangements and a way to get clean. One night we bed down on the asphalt parking lot behind the municipal building in the center of the bustling city of Cuauhtémoc, our animals stabled alongside. As we have progressed our group has swelled to thirty five. We take turns using a single bathroom which has one toilet and a sink. A companion and I use a wagon for shelter, sleeping under the low-slung springs of its belly.

After trotting seven hours one day, we arrive in the picturesque village of Gran Morelos. I am nearing the limit of my endurance. When one of the public officials invites me to take a shower in his home, I jump at the chance. Unfortunately, the town is in the process of reconstructing its water system - not a drop is flowing. We are to sleep in the bleachers of the bull ring that night and it will rain. Responding to the day’s arduous pounding and my general exhaustion, I accept an invitation to shower and sleep at the house of friends in a nearby town. A difficult decision, but one that enables me to continue.

Chihuahua draws closer and I am counting the hours. Rain lurks always nearby. More trotting, more fiestas--I skip most of them. We find shelter on auditorium floors and under wagons. Forty people line up to use two toilets and waterless sinks. Sometimes, to combat pain and exhaustion, I practice leaving my body by focusing on the waving grass and rolling plains around me. I am battling illness and infection, but refuse to succumb.

Finally, the long-awaited moment: After thirteen days of travel we ride into the city of Chihuahua. As we pass beneath the official arch my eyes prick with tears. We are joined by scores of riders in a proud expression of the tri-centennial celebration of the founding of this city. Our procession includes a stand-in Mr. and Mrs. Alexander Robey Sheppard in a horse-drawn buggy, other lavishly-costumed officials, and a mounted police escort. Excitement infects us, and, my goal finally achieved, I feel my energy rise to meet that of my companions. The three women completing the conducta ride proudly side by side: Tarahumara, Mestiza (Mexican), and Gringa. Reporters hover, crowds cheer. Amidst much fanfare we arrive in a centrally located park for the requisite speeches, demonstrations and presentations which last well into our last night together.

Eschewing the soft grass, we riders sleep on the concrete walkways, fearful of sprinklers erupting in the night and dislodging us. I am now so dirty and tired that I pass through caring that our toilets are port-a-potties and that there is no running water anywhere. I am tougher, leaner, seasoned. We roll the wagons around to create a place where we will not get trod on. Hanging with my compañeros, I listen contentedly as they chatter into the night. Finally, tired to the bone, I spread my bedroll under a wagon and sleep.

The next day we parade the remaining blocks to the central plaza and the historic Banco Minero (Miners’ Bank). The dignitaries representing the powerful banking families, the Creels and the Terrazas, boast top hats, tails, and long beards. More speeches and many photographs ensue.

Meanwhile, the real heroes of our trek, the four arrieros who have guided us through treacherous mountains and over angry rivers, tying up our loads and making sure our animals were accounted for, look on. Mounted on their mules, hats low on their foreheads, leathery feet clad in thong sandals, they present an immutable wall of self reliance and detachment. Around them mills a sea of unseeing crowds bearing noisy electronic devices. These arrieros emanate aloofness and quiet disdain of all the hoopla. This is not their world, not what they have come for. Theirs are the mountain trails which they read as skillfully as any software programmer reads an encryption. Though most do not know them or even realize that they still exist, I believe our world is better off because they do.

The event finally comes to an end. Crowds begin to melt as we wind our way through more city streets to the staging area, a vacant block where we tie our animals and await the trucks which will bear us to our different destinations. This open area, in a seedy section of downtown, is ringed by bars and pawn shops. Prostitutes lounge idly before shuttered storefronts. A decrepit trio of musicians meanders slowly up the street. Reaching us, they set up and begin to play their instruments. At once, our waiting turns into a fiesta as the men and women of our party couple up and begin to dance. Such a spontaneous, festive moment in the midst of squalor. This joy and verve, so expressive of Mexican spirit, is contagious. Through the film of my weariness, my heart opens.

The mountain men of Batopilas lash their saddles to the top rail of the open truck that carries their mounts, and depart. After several tedious hours a truck arrives to take our animals back to Carichí. I jump aboard a similar vehicle loaded with sacks of grain, gear, and about fifteen people. Wooden sided, its top is open to the sky. A stop for beer and we are off, our destination three hours away. The fiesta continues on the truck with much merry making, drinking, and singing. But I have had enough fiesta, enough noise. Wind blows grit into my eyes and nose. As the road climbs higher, the sun sets and cold descends. I huddle under a blanket and hang on, a sleeping child in my arms, and wait for this final stage of the journey to end.

Stars glitter in a carbon sky. The heavens reach down and touch me. I breathe a prayer to the Virgin of Guadalupe, patron saint of Mexico, asking her to bless her people in all their brilliance and all their darkness. I give thanks for the passionate Soul of Mexico.

Pilar Pedersen

Alpine, Texas