Copper Canyon Trip
(Bumps and All)
By Bob Tennison
September 2007 Guadalajara-Lakeside Volume 24, Number 1
We were sitting in the airport in Juarez waiting for flight clearance in the middle of the worst thunderstorm of the year, as along with thunder strong enough to shake the building we had lightning that could have been seen as far away as Oregon and hailstones the size of golf balls. As the worst of the activity abated, the flight crew went out to inspect the plane for possible hail damage. Finding nothing serious enough to cancel the flight, boarding began. My friends were ahead of me, and I was pulled aside as everybody else was allowed to board as well.
The immigration official decided I was an “alien” Mexican posing as an American citizen. That I had a passport, tourist visa, and Texas driver’s license was not convincing enough to be allowed to board the plane. How he ever arrived at this conclusion was well beyond my wildest imagination. I did have an excellent suntan, but I knew my green eyes had not turned brown during that storm.
Noticing that I was not among the other passengers already seated, my Chilean friend came back to see what had happened to me. Thankfully his Spanish was excellent and something in his passport was convincing enough that I was allowed to board, much to the dismay of the official.
That was just the beginning of our trip from hell. By the time we finally arrived in the little village where we were to board the train later in the morning, the limited time we had for sleeping in our rustic hotel left us all in a somewhat testy frame of mind for all that followed.
The first-class train was an older version of the one usually available for this run. The scenic view windows had half-heartedly been washed at least ten years previous to taking it out of mothballs, and some of the seats refused to budge, but the observation car was not overly crowded for moving about for at least a partial view now and again.
Only God himself could even begin to describe the magnificence of the views awaiting us when we came out of the many tunnels through which we passed. Spectacular is a mediocre word by comparison. As the saying goes, “You have to see it yourself to believe it.” We had been booked into another tiny village for a three-night stay en route, hoping that the authentic first-class train would pick us up for the remainder of the trip.
Then came the main event. The camera has not yet been invented that could do this scene justice. Standing near the edge overlooking the canyon was nothing but awe inspiring, and the feeling of our insignificance was overwhelming. Leaving to re-board the bus was not easy. The magnetism of the unfolding panorama was difficult to leave behind.
Our departure the next morning from the little village was something out of a horror story. We heard the train in the distance, and then noticed the station master, the man in the ticket booth and two other employees of some sort were bearing rifles and telling us we could not board the train under any circumstance. The English-speaking accountant from the hotel, being one of the four waiting for us, informed us that the owners of the company operating the first-class train had not paid the proper dues required to use this station as a stop.
We watched as the train slowed to the point that papers and envelopes could be handed to a uniformed person reaching from one of the train doors to the armed station-master. Adios to our only way out of this village, or so we thought. We were then told that a second-class train was not far behind, and that we could leave on it.
Suddenly, from seemingly out of nowhere, hundreds of local people came over the hills nearby. It was like the scene from Jesus Christ Superstar when thousands of people appeared as if by magic. It soon became a mob scene of those wanting to be at the front of the platform. Our Mexican neighbors are as adept at pushing and shoving as some of our brothers and sisters waiting to board the subway.
Second-class was a figment of somebody’s vivid imagination. It was as close to a cattle car as a car can be without cattle. In the midst of this melee and about the time we had almost reached a door, the accountant yelled for us to go back to one of the rear cars. We managed to reach one and found it almost empty. Turned out the front cars were the cheap seats, even on this relic. No problem finding four seats together, so we settled in and waited for whatever would happen next. And happen it did. About an hour into the ride, a chubby number in a black-beaded cocktail dress (at 10AM, mind you) with an identification badge of “Supervisor” (in rhinestones) asked for our tickets and was almost hysterical on finding they were first-class. She said we would have to get off this train immediately, as it was only for second-class tickets. Having us jump off while the train was moving would have been her preference.
Our Chilean friend to the rescue again, going over the details of why we were there at all, and somehow convinced the madam that we could continue on and she would come for us when the dining room opened for our lunch. The dining room had opened and closed by the time we saw her again. So, there we were with a half bottle of vodka and two packages of Trail Mix. No pesos. Not one between us. At every one of the many stops, children boarded selling home made quesadillas that smelled so good our stomachs could probably be heard.
The trip on the hotel pick-up bus was as terrifying as any bus ride could be. The road was so narrow that even passing a cow was enough to require pulling over to the very edge of a bottomless canyon below with a view from the window directly into the vastness. We hoped the wheels were far enough into the road to keep us from an authentic close-up.
What a minuscule, unique village awaited us! The hotel was small but well-maintained and commodious. The first thing we were told was that all lights went out at nine. That included the entire village, not just the hotel. There were lanterns in the rooms, but the moon that first night was so brilliant that I was able to do my usual nightly reading before going to sleep.
The next morning being Sunday, we crossed the road to the tiny church to attend the mass of the day.
Strange looks became even stranger as the service continued. Later we found the reason was that the church was segregated, and we had sat on the side for the women. We were not refused communion and never made to feel unwelcome. Just unusual. The priest even waited around to shake hands with us.
One of the most memorable episodes was that afternoon when we decided to go horseback riding.
That three of us were from Texas did not mean that we were cowboys by any stretch of the imagination. Our Chilean friend put us all to shame, as merry-go-rounds had been our sole experience with horses. Of course, I ended up with the largest horse in Mexico while the tallest member of our group was given one so small, his feet dragged the ground.
Little did we know that it was almost feeding time for the horses so, after a relatively short ride, my horse decided that his dinner was more important than his “passenger,” so he decided to hurry home for food. I did everything I had ever seen in movies to stop him but to no avail. I “geed” and “hawed,” pulled on the reins as hard as I could, yelled for him to stop, but it was useless.
The faster he went the more terrifying the ride. I knew any minute that I was going to be thrown off and crippled for life or killed. None of my friends could catch up with me, so I gave up trying to stop him and continued to hold on to the reins and saddle as strongly as I could until whatever was to happen finally did. He had no problem finding the corral and dinner, came to a screeching halt and left me a total wreck, so sore I could hardly walk or move after I was removed from the saddle and on almost (my pants still dry, believe it or not) dry ground. The beginning and end of my days as a cowboy.
Monday morning was our day to take the hotel bus on a sightseeing tour of the canyon itself. The same driver was with us, so we felt somewhat at ease as we started up another of those narrow winding roads, since he had thus far managed to keep all four wheels on the ground. Actually, this drive was even scarier than the one from the station, but I finally decided to quit looking directly down and limit my views to the distant beauty beyond.
Our rest stop (bathroom break) was a unique experience, best left to one’s imagination, but suffice it to say it was easier for the men than the women in the group. The stops became so frequent that I was certain the engineer wanted to personally visit every cow we passed to enquire about their well-being. We then came to a sudden stop and remained there for much longer than a cow visit, so our first thought had to be that we had broken down in the middle of nowhere and would remain here possibly for the rest of our lives (without food). Chilean rescue again. He tracked down the madam (who obviously hadn’t missed her lunch) and found out that we were side-tracked, cross-tracked, or whatever switching was called, waiting for the first-class train coming from the other direction, having arrived in Chihuahua without us, to pass on the other side.
Restroom time would have been preferable out in the surrounding woods, as the ones on the train had best not be described so soon before lunch. The term “gag a maggot” comes to mind. One can only keep his or her legs crossed for so long without having to learn to walk again so, in my desperation, I found the madam’s private baño, which none of us felt guilty about using.
After over nine long hours and about ten-thirty or so, we finally pulled into the Chihuahua station Disembarking from that lovely train could not have been faster had it been on fire. Now, the most remarkable thing about this arrival was finding a fellow holding a placard, waiting for us. Part of that first-class train service we had not completely experienced. Whether he had been waiting there since the first-class train arrived without us we didn’t have the heart to ask, but we wanted to assume he was able to somehow find out we were fugitives on this one. The madam was not there to say goodbye.
We were driven to one of the most elegant hotels in the city, a real first-class and well-deserved ending to our all-day adventure, and we all but fell on our knees and crawled to the dining room that did not close until midnight. After drinks, dinner and more drinks in celebration of having finally reached our destination, we retired to our beautiful rooms, wonderful beds and dreamed of countless cows with Mexican names gathered alongside a slow moving train singing “Come Back to Mexico” in English.