Doin’ The Canyon In Style
Part I—Creel and Cusarare
By Carol L. Bowman
November 2005 Guadalajara-Lakeside Volume 22, Number 3

     Mexico’s Copper Canyon offers spectacular vistas and harsh, bone-jarring terrain. Venturing into Earth’s very core requires only a sense of adventure and a love of never-ending margaritas.
     The Chihuahua al Pacifico railroad station bustled with activity despite the predawn hour. Travelers, toting camera equipment and duffels, boarded the train headed for Mexico’s Sierra Madre Occidental, the gateway to the Barranca del Cobre (Copper Canyon). Billed as one of the world’s most scenic train rides, excitement electrified the air as anticipation mounted. Vendors squatted trackside, selling rations for our eight-hour journey.
     Albert Kinsey originated the idea of laying track through the Sierra Madre’s rugged environs in 1872. He dreamed of constructing a railroad from Topolabamba, fronting the Gulf of California to Kansas City. Eighty nine years later, in 1961, the section between Chihuahua and Los Mochis finally opened. These 300 miles of track act as the only land connection between Chihuahua and Los Mochis, Mexico. Its reputation as a railway engineering feat remains unmatched. The last 122 miles, which maneuver a drop of 7,000 feet, took twenty years to complete. A lifeline for crossing this inhospitable, breathtaking land, it now provides a vehicle for thrill seeking tourists. With 39 bridges, 86 tunnels, crossovers and loop de loop, oohs and ahs abound.
     Although the section between Los Mochis and Divisidero offers more spectacular vistas, we chose the route departing from Chihuahua and disembarking at Creel. This would allow exploring the Copper Canyon itself. We longed to feel the rugged earth beneath our feet and to venture down into its bowels. The slightly worn rail cars provided exceptional comfort, plenty of leg room and luggage space. Conductors acted as stand-in stewards in the absence of a dining car. An increase in bandito train robberies prompted two armed security guards per car, who monitored activities with a watchful eye. People crowded the vestibules between cars to capture the views as the locomotive chugged through the Chihuahua Desert to the manicured Mennonite farms of Cuahtemoc.
     The landscape turned greener as the train lumbered to an elevation of 8,000 feet at San Juanito. Townspeople bundled in layers whipped by, seemingly self-propelled by a fierce wind that snapped against their bodies. Mufflers pulled tightly around their faces protected lungs and eyes from the swirling, choking, stinging dust.
     Venturing from the train’s cocoon for the five-minute stop, I was attacked. Pelts of sleet smacked against my face, brutal wind pierced through my jacket and my muscles recoiled from the cold. The altitude reigns as weather maker here. I pondered how we would fare in this harshly beautiful environment of thin air and wrinkled earth. The Copper Canyon itself is five times the size and one-and-one-half times as deep as the Grand Canyon. How could we feel the boulders beneath our feet and travel down into its bowels and still have a modicum of comfort. Copper Canyon Lodges proved to be the answer.
     Michigan mail-order businessman Skip McWilliams owns and operates two of the Canyon’s most resplendent sanctuaries. The Cooper Canyon Lodge is situated high in the Sierras near the village of Cusarare, amid tall Colorado Pines and large uplifted volcanic plateaus.
     Six thousand feet below, on the desert canyon floor amenities await at the Riverside Hacienda, built in the 1880s silver mining boomtown of Batopilas. Each nurtures every guest with respite from the elements, hearty food, marvelous hikes through respective landscapes and the daily ritual: Margarita Hour. No detail overlooked, no request denied. Wild contrasts of temperature (-28° F to -95° F) and altitude (8,000 feet to 1,650 feet) would titillate our senses.
     We departed the train at the lumber town of Creel, elevation 7,640 ft., population 5,000. Here the mysterious culture of the Sierra Tarahumara emerged. In this region of the Barranca del Cobre dwell the elusive Tarahumara Indians. Adapting to the rugged environment for centuries, they live in caves and mountain recesses throughout the canyon walls. Num-bering 50,000 today, the Tarahumara maintain more native cultural traditions than any indigenous people in North America.
     Shy, stoic women dressed in brightly colored, gourd skirts, fluffed by several petticoats and hand-woven shawls bound tightly around their shoulders, peered from behind the railroad station house. A beautiful people, who know much but say little, I thought. A Tarahumara man rushed by, donned in the traditional male costume...a red-striped, oversized shirt and knee-length white loincloth. He wore crude sandals, bound by leather strings. The Tarahumara, considered the world’s greatest long-distance runners, sprint miles, sometimes for days over this rugged terrain, using footwear crafted from discarded tires.
     Jesus, 30-year veteran driver for the Mountain Lodge, motioned us to the Chevy Suburban for the twenty-five minute ride “up” to the alpine retreat. Creel resembled Tombstone in its heyday. Jesus, with his worn, story-filled cowboy hat and boots, straight tall frame, and face of stone, looked like a Matt Dillon ringer. Peering into his steel-blue eyes, I sensed that he too, knew much but said little.
     The Lodge, nestled between a protective wall of volcanic rock and a majestic cliff of eroded stone, consisted of 12 split-rail, joined cabins. A craggy riverbed completed the picturesque, tranquil setting. Against the turquoise ceiling, Piñon, Arizona and Colorado pines etched the skyline. The incredibly thin air quickened my heart to a rumba beat. I surveyed the other guests. Everyone seemed to be gasping, a combination of the beauty and the reduced oxygen. Adjustment to the altitude caused fleeting periods of light-headedness, but passed quickly. The awe inspired by this land’s beauty never left.
     The cabañas lie within the Tarahumara reservation called an ejido. Following the Mexican Revolution, parcels of land were distributed to Mexico’s indigenous peoples as part of land reform. Skip McWilliams owns only the buildings that comprise the Lodge, not the land. That belongs to the Tarahumara. Yearly, intense negotiations between Skip and Tarahumara chiefs determine the rent. In this year’s business agreement, every Tarahumara family residing in the ejido received two bags each of beans and corn.
     Despite being forewarned that the Lodge has no electricity, I felt comforted as I surveyed the cabin’s alternatives. Three coal oil lamps graced the bureaus and bathroom. A pot belly stove and bin of dry wood stood ready to warm the freezing nights. A down-stuffed coverlet and dense mattress proved a cocoon that even early risers had difficulty leaving. Hanging patiently, two plush terry robes waited to block out the chilled mountain air.
     We relished the dawn and sunset visits of Antonio, a Tarahumara working at the Lodge. His weather-beaten skin and self-conscious smile drew us in. He faithfully stoked the fire and lit the lamps without fanfare. We routinely offered him a cigar and an invitation to chat awhile. He lingered, longer each day, but mindful that he had other cabins to tend. Soon Antonio seemed to relish this daily respite as much as we enjoyed offering it. Coffee and rich Mexican chocolate caliente magically arrived at our room every morning. Could I stay forever?
     Daily treks included a three-miler to the Cusarare Mission where Tarahumara gather and later, a strenuous climb through forested terrain to the magnificent Cusarare Falls. Eroded totems of volcanic rock, appearing like a parade of caricatures, watched our every move. A short jaunt to a cave graced by centuries’ old painted petroglyphs proved particularly interesting, as we followed Tarahumara to their homes.
     Tarahumara-guided hikes are available, but not recommended for the fainthearted, wobbly kneed or weak-lunged. Unfortunately, I’m a charter member of all three groups. While others were off scaling a mountainside, I delighted in inter-action with Tarahumara women at the Mission. One young girl in particular stirred me. Her baby strapped securely to her back, she miraculously wove a tortilla basket using slippery, Colorado pine needles. I found myself focusing on her Mickey Mouse T shirt, amid her intricately woven native shawl and skirt. Spoils from a well-meaning tourist, no doubt. If you want to help the Tarahumara, bring them tooth-paste, soap or medicines, I thought. Leave the western second-hand clothes at home.
     Evenings passed beside the Lodge’s open hearth fireplace, or outside around the campfire. Margarita Hour marked a daily event that no one missed. The drinks flowed as copiously as the guests’ conver-sations, prior to sumptuous, hearty, three-course meals. Our three-day stay was delightful and memorable, but other vistas beckoned.
     We were about to set off down through the Canyon to Batopilas, at its bottom. This experience will be visited in Part 2 of “Doin’ the Canyon In Style.”