I first crossed The Rio Grande and visited all three communities in the mid-1990s when I moved to Alpine. In each case, after walking a short distance from the river I entered a small village with dirt streets, simple houses and a local shop. Sometimes there was a school, always a bar and a restaurant, and in the case of Boquillas, accommodation called The Buzzards Roost. Many of the villagers had family on the US side, but could not immigrate themselves. But before 9/11, they would regularly cross over to the US side for local shopping.
I visited several times, marveling at the contrast and enjoying Mexican culture at its simplest. On one visit I stayed at The Buzzards Roost Bed & Breakfast and the next day took a bus south to the town of Musquiz, five hours away. . I wrote a guidebook, " Unofficial Border Crossings from Texas" about these unique trips, and added a section to the back of the book on the Copper Canyon section to give the book wider appeal.
Beyond Boquillas is the Sierra Del Carmen range, a continuation of the Dead Horse Mountains on the US side. This range was significantly different from the Chisos Mountains in Big National Park. For one thing, it extended higher, to over 8,000 feet. More important, it had not been developed like the national park, so the terrain was wilder and the wildlife population, such as black bear, more numerous. Best of all, the private landowner wanted to encourage conservation-minded visitors from the US to come and explore. I took an exploratory trip to part of the range and decided to promote trips there from Alpine for local residents. The Mexican landowner, Alberto Garcia, flew into Alpine and gave a presentation at Sul Ross State University; this got the tours started.
An article in a Houston newspaper on my trips to this mountain wilderness brought me publicity, and for a couple of years I regularly took small groups on four-day trips to the Sierra del Carmen. To someone from the city the surprise of the boat crossing to a primitive Mexican village was added the excitement of loading into an old Suburban and driving up steep tracks to the top of the sierra where wood cabins, open fires and good Chihuahua steaks were ready. The suddenness of the change and the sense of adventuring into unknown nature added to the excitement. Sometimes Alberto Garza would act as host and guide, relishing sharing his private wonderland with visitors. There had been logging activity some time back on this range, but otherwise no development of this mountain landscape. Many energetic days were spent hiking these mountains and many a relaxing evening shared with Mexican friends around a campfire until a political event changed everything.
Following the attack of September 11, 2001, it was obvious that there would be changes to this unguarded sector of the international border. Five months later, the Department of Homeland Security announced that all three unofficial border crossings were closed, and the penalty for unauthorized crossing was $5,000.
Ten years later in 2011 the U.S. Government changed its policy and announced a new initiative to boost the concept of an international park spanning the Rio Grande. The crossing at Boquillas would be reopened, a new ferry boat supplied and visitors would be allowed to cross and, using a remote electronic processing, to return to the US at the same place on the same boat. What effect this will have in bringing life back to Boquillas remains to be seen, but certainly it surprised and delighted those on the U.S. side who felt the earlier decision was wrong.
COPPER CANYON, MEXICO
The Copper Canyon region, Mexico's answer to the Grand Canyon, is located in the southwest corner of the state of Chihuahua. Measuring roughly 110 by 80 miles it is part of the Sierra Madre Occidental range which runs north to south, a continuation of California's Sierra Nevada.
It comprises six major interlocking canyons, 4,000 to 6,000 feet deep, fed by rivers from smaller canyons. All this water drains to the west into the Rio Fuerte and ends up in the Sea of Cortez. It is best known for the Chihuahua al Pacifico railroad line, known as El Chepe, a major engineering feat which took 90 years to complete and opened in 1961. This single-track line runs 410 miles from Chihuahua City across the Continental Divide at 8,072 feet to Los Mochis, close to the Sea of Cortez.
From a tour operator's point of view, the region has everything: a memorable name, spectacular mountain and canyon scenery, easy access by daily train service, international airports at each end of the rail line, and a unique indigenous people, the Tarahumara.
EL CHEPE TRAIN
TOUR GROUP
CROSSING THE RIO GRANDE
SIERRA DEL CARMEN
This semi nomadic tribe, around 70,000 strong, retreated to Sierra Madre Occidental when the Spanish invaded in the sixteenth century. Short, lean and handsome, the men wear loin clothes and huaraches (sandals). The women, who have precedence over men in their culture, wear long, colorful dresses. They are known for their running prowess and their proper name is Raramuri, which means "the fleet footed ones". They survive on subsistence farming of corn and beans; the women make handicrafts for the tourists and the men sometimes take jobs in the local economy.
In the late nineties I made my first exploratory trip to Copper Canyon. Carrying an excellent guidebook, The Handbook to Northern Mexico, I started the journey with a three-hour bus ride from the Mexican border town nearest to Alpine, Ojinaga, to the state capital, Chihuahua City. I had previous taken the rail journey from Chihuahua across the mountains to the coastal plain at El Fuerte. The destination of this trip was the bottom of one of the canyons, Batopilas Canyon, travelling by bus. Only two canyons, Batopilas and Urique, are served by bus and I knew from the guidebook I could catch a bus from Creel, the gateway to the Copper Canyon, early in the morning.
At Chihuahua's cavernous bus station on the outside of the city, I caught a second bus for the 180 mile drive to Creel. This was the last bus of the day, and it was running late. I arrived on a cold February evening in Creel to find all the accommodations were full since it was a religious festival. Without a bed I faced a freezing night at 7,000 feet, with not even a bus station to shelter in. Walking around Creel's plaza, I noticed light shining from a door with the sign "Margarita's Hostel" above. I knocked and got no reply, so I pushed the door open.
The door led directly into the kitchen where a wood stove gave off a good heat. I called out, looking for staff or guests. No one appeared so I lay down on a bench and slept the night away, warm and safe, and only slightly uncomfortable. A few people came in later, but no one seemed to take exception to a gringo sleeping on a bench in the kitchen. It was that sort of place.
It was still dark the next morning when I left Margaritas. I found the bus to Batopilas parked on the main street, Lopez Mateos. It was an old school bus which had previously seen duty in the USA. I climbed on board and found six other passengers, four local people and two backpackers. A young man turned up soon after and climbed into the driver's seat, and we were off. I knew we were going to drop down 5,000 feet into the canyon, and I just hoped it would be soon since the temperature was still freezing. We had 120 miles to cover, and the trip would take six hours.
After two hours of travel on a paved road, the bus turned off onto a dirt road track and I assumed our steep descent was about to start. Sure enough, but first we stopped briefly at a roadside shrine. It was light now and, looking down the steep mountain slope, we could see our road winding in tight turns down the mountain to reappear at the bottom of the canyon, some 5,000 feet below. The road was one track width only, with no guard rails. The driver, having given us a glimpse of the route ahead, turned on the engine and we moved off in low gear.
Almost at the bottom of the steep section, just as the gradient was leveling off towards the canyon bottom, the bus pulled to the side of the road and stopped. No one said anything and the driver offered no explanation. Five minutes went by, and I saw the driver was looking across the canyon to the far side. I followed his gaze, and caught sight of a figure loping down the mountain with long easy strides. Our next passenger I wondered?
Sure enough, in another five minutes, a young Tarahumara man carrying a half sack of corn over his shoulder arrived at
the side of the bus. The driver opened the door, and the Tarahumara climbed on and took a seat. Dark skinned and slight of build, he had an athlete's look. He wore a loin cloth, primitive sandals made from rubber tires, a blouse type shirt and a baseball cap. He seemed scarcely winded after his run downhill to the river and then up the mountain slope to the road. The driver, who had spotted him ten minutes earlier and had stopped to wait for him, nodded a greeting.
Two hours later, we were in Batopilas. It was now pleasantly warm, and the bus drove past mango and avocado trees which lined the street leading to the plaza. I got off, and was accosted by a courtly elderly Mexican in a white guayaba shirt. "Are you looking for a room?" he asked. I said yes. He introduced himself as Senor Monse and told me his wife had a guest house two minutes walk from the bus stop, and asked if I would like to see the rooms. This seemed like an easy introduction to Batopilas so I followed him and, not long after, was unpacking in a small room which looked on to a shady courtyard overhung by mango, papaya and orange trees. I had arrived in Batopilas, population 1,200, elevation 1,500 deep in the Copper Canyon, and I had had a close up of a young Tarahumara.
TOURS TO COPPER CANYON
For ten years, except in 2004, I ran trips to Copper Canyon. I offered two itineraries, both of which left from and returned to Alpine. The first, five days in duration, used the Copper Canyon train known as El Chepe and crossed the mountain range, dropping down to El Fuerte on the coastal plain. The first class train left Chihuahua City at 6 a.m. which meant a 5 a.m. hotel wake up call, and a quick van ride to the station. The second class train left an hour later.
With a toot of the horn the train would depart Chihuahua City and head through the western suburbs of this city of half a million. As dawn broke we would be rolling across the Chihuahua plain and I would lead the group to the dining car, sure that they were in for a surprise. There were few more satisfying moments on the trip than breakfast in the dining car as the light dawned on the Chihuahua plain and nimble waiters served plates of huevos rancheros. By mid morning the line would start to climb into the sierra and after five hours it reached the mountain town of Creel, a former lumber town and now hub of the Copper Canyon region. Here we would stay the night in a modernized log cabin, Sierra Lodge, twelve miles from town. I could always count on Roberto, the manager, to be at Creel station with two Suburbans to pick us up. Never once in ten years was he late.
The construction of the rail line across the mountain range took 90 years to complete. At one point the track takes a 360 degree loop, known as the lasso. At another place, the track doubles back on itself twice as it struggles to gain altitude. Today's traveler can gaze out on forested mountain ridges from a comfortable air-conditioned coach as the train crosses the Continental Divide then drops down to the warmth and bougainvillea of the coastal plain.
The second itinerary also took the train, but only as far as Creel. From there the group went by van, dropping 6,000 feet to the bottom of Batopilas Canyon. Here the group stayed in an old fashioned hacienda, formerly the property of the principal merchant when the Batopilas silver mine prospered at the end of the 19th century.
Both itineraries used public buses to get to Chihuahua from Ojinaga. This was the one point, on the first day of the trip, which always caused me anxiety. I could never count on quick and smooth access through Mexican Immigration. If we missed the 10 a.m. bus departure from Ojinaga, the day's schedule was spoiled. The next departure was not until three hours later, and we would miss Chihuahua City sightseeing. Fortunately, this never happened, but it almost did on one occasion where only diplomacy tact and an elderly Spanish-speaking tour member saved the day.
The incident arose when a member of the group discovered she had left her passport at home. By this date (2007), the Mexican authorities required passports from incoming tourists. I sensed the problem could be solved by the time-honored Mexican method of the bribe ("mordida" or "the little bite" in Spanish). But how to handle it? The wrong way would be to say to the Mexican official "We've got a problem here, what will it take to fix it?" This is an insult to his professional standing, and invites a larger sum to fix the problem than that which a little diplomacy will produce.
The right way was to use some tact and courtesy. Fortunately, there was an elderly man in the group of Hispanic background called Pepé. I explained the situation, how we had to get the tour member through without a passport - and quickly. He understood immediately. "You stand near me, and have the money ready under your hand; and tell the others to stand back from the counter." He then addressed the official formally, introducing himself and explaining the problem. He apologized for making an extraordinary request, perhaps making for extra work. The official stared back without expression, saying nothing.
Pepé started again, complimenting the Mexican efficiency at the border, and adding how the whole group was excited about visiting Mexico. The official remained silent, shaking his head. Finally, Pepé mentioned that the lady was the group leader and responsible for recruiting the rest of the group. How sad for her not to be able to travel.
At this, the official sighed, reached with one hand for the tourist card application form and with the other for the woman's driver's license which Pepé held. "Now pass me the money" Pepé said quietly, and I slid the money under my hand across to him, and he in turn to the official. A transaction had been achieved in four minutes, respect had been shown to Mexican Immigration, and the group leader was able to travel with the rest of the group.
Both trips used the Chepe train for the first part of the tour and both stayed at Sierra Lodge near Creel. This elongated deluxe log cabin has no electricity but in appointments capture the spirit of the sierra: log fires, kerosene lamps, tile bathrooms with cooking from a Tarahumara kitchen staff which was usually voted the best on the trip. Large tour groups could not visit there, since it was not large enough. Often we had the place to ourselves. The location in pine woods close to a waterfall, allowed for hikes during the day. Early evening, the group would return to the lodge for margaritas and music performed by a Tarahumara group.
Once I had tested each itinerary for length, contrast and content, the tours more or less sold themselves. I always followed certain guidelines in trip planning, principally to put myself in the shoes of a first time traveler and to decide if I had provided in five or six days a good overall balanced look at the region: learning against recreation; free time versus planned group time; variety of meals; adequate guide services and one or two surprises.
Necessarily, there were some boring stretches, like getting from and back to the border. In this case I used public transportation since, apart from cost savings, a trip on a Mexican bus is an event in itself. I also liked to add some local insights by providing a dinner speaker in Chihuahua City, an American called Glenn Willeford . He was a teacher and author and lived in town with his Mexican wife. He usually talked about Pancho Villa, a local hero in Chihuahua with a larger-than-life history.
In booking my tours, I always liked to have all eventualities covered: such as what happened if the train was late. Everything was double confirmed in advance, and I had local phone numbers to use for help if anything went wrong en route. Back up plans were vital but seldom necessary since the length of the trip was limited, and before long I knew all the guides, drivers and hotel keepers. When things went wrong, the most important thing to bear in mind was not to panic the group, but simply to announce why there was a delay and what the new plan was. The key to successful tour planning is in detailed planning, with a backup plan if anything goes wrong; and not to appear helpless if anything does.
In running these tours I was helped by usually having a more or less homogeneous group as tour members. I promoted the trips locally, often with a slide show and talk in an Alpine bookshop. A wave of newcomers to the Big Bend region started to arrive in the late 1990s. Many of these people knew about Copper Canyon, wanted to go there but didn't want the problems of arranging the itinerary themselves. Joining
a small group (up to twelve persons) on a proven itinerary, run by someone local, was an easy decision for them. And, over a ten year period, with one or two small exceptions, I had few customer complaints.
One minor problem occurred on an early trip when we got to Sierra Lodge. There was no hot water for a shower after the day's hike. What had happened was that a couple of mischievous local Tarahumara kids had turned off the switch which activated the generator which heated the water. A couple from Midland, Texas was quite upset by this inconvenience. I explained what had happened, and apologized. The husband was a businessman and they were frequent travelers with larger tour companies, as he let me know. The others in the group who were from the Big Bend area shrugged off the temporary upset, and had another margarita. The hot water was back on in four hours but the trip had been spoiled for the Midland couple.
A second upset involving an injury might have had more serious repercussions. A single woman, a long-time employee of Phillips Petroleum in Oklahoma, decided to give herself as a retirement present a trip to Copper Canyon. She duly drove to Alpine in a new red pickup truck, also a retirement reward, and joined the group. She had had a tough life in the corporate world, and an equally hard time bringing up two sons as a single mother. She was ready for a break.
On the two mile hike to the waterfall near Sierra Lodge, which was more or less self-guided although I always went along with the group, this woman skidded on some gravel and went down heavily, breaking an ankle. Everyone rallied round, got a wood plank for her to sit on and in teams carried her back up the trail to a point where the lodge's Suburban could reach.
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