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

Memories From the Trail, 2010

Memories from the Trail 2010

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pilar Pedersen

Alpine, Texas