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It seemed unlikely at best-seven people successfully meeting up at two different
spots in Arizona, having traveled from five different locations and using
multiple modes of travel. "It'll be fine", said Scott
Page, referred to as the "Hefe" on the trip for having coordinated
the project. Like a well-planned prison break, he and John Simmons drove over
the previous three days form the Bay Area and arrived at the Tucson airport just
as Brian Walshe and Bill Moore stepped off their planes
from the East and West coasts. To the amusement of the crowd at baggage claim, a truck and trailer carrying five bikes, associated gear and four sizeable guys rumbled off to rendezvous with the rest of the team. A couple of hours later, we arrived in Naco, a tiny border town right next to the historic towns of Bisbee and Tombstone. |
Having unloaded the bikes and gear, everybody was up for a final dinner in town before starting off on the trek. We had tracked down two crewmembers that were to arrive lat that night (Scott's brother Brad Page and nephew Ky) but there was little clue as to the whereabouts of Robert Craig, who had ridden from his parents' place in Joshua Tree. "It'll be fine", said Hefe, "let's go eat." Sure enough, on the way to dinner, one of us barely catches a glimpse of something that might have been a bike going in the opposite direction in a pitch-black fog. A U-turn later, the group united to enjoy a decadent, multi-course Christmas dinner at the historic Bisbee Hotel.
| We were off by 6:30 a.m., each of us questioning the wisdom of riding when the temperature is all of 33 degrees. After dropping the truck and trailer off at MSMC alum Jim Widner's place, we crossed the border to blaring Christmas music and several dozen locals, all facing toward us as if we were relatives getting out of prison. It was a little unsettling until we found out that they were waiting for a truckload of donated bicycles coming from the U.S. to be delivered as gifts for the kids. After enduring a bureaucratic runaround that had the group running around filling out form after form and a brief scare over a misplace passport, we were off into the frozen morning. |  |
This was shy we were there-miles and miles of wide open spaces, beautiful terrain, twisty roads and interesting little towns where people just sat in front of their houses enjoying their Sunday. After a brief stop for gas and tacos and many more miles, we made it to our first destination of San Carlos as the sun went down. We checked into the hotel, cleaned up and met for well-deserved beers and comida. Since we had only a 3/4-day ride ahead of us the next day, the morning was about strolling around the waterfront and enjoying a leisurely breakfast.
The next day's ride was a little tougher, having to navigate through the chaotic traffic of mid-sized cities and to take in some of the less picturesque wreckage of a recent tractor-trailer accident. We arrived in a bustling metropolis of Los Mochis before nightfall, where we had to quickly unpack our gear and get the bikes to the train station for the next part of the journey.
The plan sounded simple enough: roll the bikes into the freight car and strap them down for the 11-hour trip up the mountain Copper Canyon. When the reality hit of having to drain the tanks, disconnect the batteries and fit these large bikes and bags into a small space partially filled with pallets of fruit and supplies-in the dart- some of us were a little concerned. "It'll be fine", said Hefe, and under his leadership and with teamwork worthy of a precision drill team, we were soon back at the hotel, enjoying cold beers and juicy steaks. But how are we going to get theses things off the train without a raised platform on the other end? "It'll be fine."
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The train departed just as daylight broke, and looking out the window, the evaporating morning dew gave the passing landscape an ethereal glow. The rest of the trip was interspersed with eating, sleeping and enjoying the spectacular views both outside and in the car from some some questionable reading material. We arrived in the mountain village of Creel at sundown, and enjoyed a fantastic family-style meal while waiting for the bikes to arrive on the next train. The train pulled in at about 8 p.m., and sure enough, using a rickety wooden movable platform, a basic wooden plank and the efforts of the town's able-bodied men, the bikes were up, reconnected and gassed up within a half-hour. |
| We made it to the Sierra Lodge in Cusarare, 45-minutes out of town on a river in the heart of Tarahumara Indian country. While extremely comfortable, the place had no electricity-just kerosene lamps for light and pot-bellied stoves for warmth. The next day most of the group went on an all-day expedition to Batopilas (an old silver town at the bottom of the canyon) while others rested up by enjoying the hiking trails and waterfalls. The riders got the most out of their GSs, as it was far more rugged that had been expected. That night's great food and margaritas were well earned, and helped sooth some sore muscles and bruised egos. |
The next day's ride was mercifully short, allowing people to sleep in, drink coffee and to count their scrapes and bruises. A quick trip into the tiny, desolate village of Cusarare ("Place of the Eagles" in the Tarahumara language) revealed a mission originally built in 1741. While it looked as though nothing had been done to it since then, it had been rebuilt in the 60's, during which they discovered several large religious portraits. Preservationist then restored the paintings and put up a simple museum next to the church to house them. Built with the intention of preserving theses and several other ancient paintings done by missionaries of the region and highlighting the area's rich, cultural history, the museum and its amazing artifacts was a surprising and delightful contrast to the surrounding ghost town.
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Back on the bikes, it was a quick couple of hours to the town of Divisadero, our next destination. While the Sierra Lodge was fantastic with its remoteness and its rustic elegance, the rooms at the El Mirador left everyone speechless with their views from right on the rim of the enormous and beautiful Copper Canyon. Considered one of the natural wonders of the world (and most certainly the Western hemisphere), it is roughly 7 times the size of our Grand Canyon and has been left nearly untouched by development or tourism (with the exception of our taking control of the hotel bar's TV and almost exposing a large group of elderly and young travelers to satellite pornography while trying to figure out the remote. |
Since the train stopped in town, the hotel was far more crowded with fellow touristas than in all previous stops. But despite being subjected to undrinkable margaritas and all of the cheesy "cultural rituals" (such as comedic Indian dancing routines for the gringo blue hairs), the view, weather and plush rooms with comfortable beds made this a highlight of the trip.
After a large, Americanized breakfast, we were off for the long trek to the city of Madera. A large place by regional standards, Madera had a distinctly rural flavor and was obviously unused to packs of unkept road warrior NorteAmericanos such as ourselves. Determined to whoop it up with the locals on New Year's Eve, a small expedition set out to experience the "real" Mexico. Unfortunately, it was too early for any bars to be open and our guest for an exotic party experience resulted in them joining a larger group back at the hotel to sip a little beer and tequila from plastic cups and to go to bed long before midnight. Ah, youth.
The next morning was very, very cold-significantly lowering the motivation level to get out of the beds in our propane-heated rooms. It was well below freezing as we exited the motel parking lot, according to the new digital thermometer and the crunching sounds under our tires (one word-"Gerbings"..'nuf said.) Despite the temperature, the ride over was one this humble scribe considers among the finest, most picturesque roads he's ever traveled-equal to Italy's Dolomites, Australia's Snowy Mountains or any of our own mind-bending twisties. A couple or riders (obviously up on hoarded room-brewed coffee) shot out ahead and were almost untouchable through the widest, fastest sweepers you've ever seen. We're talking about the ones where you lean over, give it all she's got, and after a minute or two of yelling "whooooppeeee!!" into your helmet and contemplating the Zen of lateral force and friction dynamics, you're ready to switch cheeks and do it all over again.
And to prove the existence of a true and benevolent God, we landed in a town large enough to have a restaurant that was not only open New Year's morning, but was serving hot coffee and large platters of chorizo and eggs-all for the price of an EggMcMuffin and a cup of crotch-scalding sludge back here in the "civilized world." People, it simply does not get any better than this.
Unfortunately, all great things must end, the piper must be paid and the other shoe must drop. Oh, the next few hours were fine -a long (if boring) ride to our next resting place of Nuevo Casas Grande, and an interesting tour of the ruins of the pre-Columbian Paquime civilizations. Here's a little ancient-history lesson:
Paquime reached its apogee in the 14th and 15th centuries, and played a key role in trade and cultural contacts between the Pueblo culture of the south-western United States and northern Mexico and the more advanced civilizations of Mesoamerica. The extensive remains, only part of which have been excavated are clear evidence of the vitality of a culture which was perfectly adapted to its physical and economic environment, but which suddenly vanished at the time of the Spanish Conquest |
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In other words, pretty cool Then it began with Robert Craig limping home with a flat tire after finding a nail in a dirt stack during an impulsive off-road excursion. But even though that was efficiently dispatched with a handy tire-plug kit and a portable compressor, the tide had clearly turned.....literally. We awoke to the first rain of the trip. Nothing terrible-just the towel-off-the seat, cinch-the-collar-on-you-Aerostich variety. Spirits were low to begin with, as it was the morning of our last day in Mexico, and fatigue combined with the conflicting feelings of a) sadness for the end of a great trip and b) excitement over the thought of coming home to their own warm bed had everyone moody and on edge. Then the rain got harder, and harder, And...well, you get the picture.
For hour after hour and kilometer after grueling kilometer, sheets of frozen rain hammered the group, making the already tricky task of navigating the Mexican roadways treacherous by reducing visibility to almost nothing-and then even less than that when behind the ubiquitous tractor-trailer. By the time we waded through a flooded lot to make our first stop for gas, everyone was soaked to the bone and was fantasizing about either a hot shower or else a mercifully swift end to it all.
With people preparing to move on by wringing out their gloves and lending clothing to those whose skin was more blue than their own, somebody figured out that instead of the additional hours to the border crossing at Naco, AZ (our entry point), we were only minutes away from the border at Douglas, AZ and to the glory that is a warm Denny's and their Grand-Slam breakfast.
God bless America.
The rest was a blur, including a wt ride back to Jim Widner's place, a quick loading of the bikes onto the trailer and the hearty farewells at the Tucson airport. Reflection on the experience, the good was phenomenal, and the bad sucked and the ugly-well, that just added to the experience. And once again, thanks to the initiative and imagination of the few, the many were treated to an adventure of a lifetime.
Story
by Bill Moore and photos by Brian Walshe
Copper
Canyon 2004 Motorcycle Independent Traveler
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