Ride Report: Copper Canyon, Mexico

Bahlobo y los Gringos:
"South of the Border"
(Copper Canyon, Mexico) 13 - 22 April 2007

In which the Dakar and I travel with my gringo friends Chris Marlow, Rich Desmond, and Daniel Holloway to Mexico, the Barranca del Cobre (Copper Canyon) area to be specific.  Despite hail storms, tornadoes, and floods ... federales, the gun-toting Mexican Army, and every friggin' cop in the entire state of Chihuahua (that's not an exaggeration!) ... dust devils that'd flat lift your ass out of the seat ... the mirror-hungry Batopilas "Stairs From Hell" ... goats, cows, burros, and mad dogs around every corner ... dusky senoritas scented in peyote and mescal offering the smoothest tequila ever to pass human lips, free of charge! ... enough dust to choke out an Egyptian sandstorm ... unmarked twisties that'd suck you in so fast your bike would be sideways before you could say "Oh sh*t!" ... vultures that refused to yield up the roadway ... abandoned mines ... cheap, knobby-tossing, knock-off-brand tires ... and the completely unfathomable route from Batopilas to Urique ... we four gringos survived our adventures and returned culturally enhanced with the ability to say "por favor," "muchos gracious," and "What'd he say?" with the best of 'em.

Grab your helmet, a roll of toilet paper, and brace yourself for chills and spills and scenic vistas that'll have your eyes popping like a stomped-upon bullfrog's. It's time to saddle up and ride south of the border.

All photos by me (or at least taken with my camera) unless otherwise noted.

Bahlobo y los Gringos:
"South of the Border"
(Copper Canyon, Mexico) 13 - 22 April 2007

PREPARATION: I can't speak to specifics for the other guys (though I imagine they went through a similar procedure with their bikes), but I performed the following maintenance a week or so before we departed to prepare my BMW F650GS Dakar for our Copper Canyon adventure:

• Mounted a new set of Dunlop 606 tires (knobbies!)

• Changed the engine oil and filter

• Checked the entire bike for loose fittings, screws, nuts, etc.

• Cleaned out the air box and installed a new air filter

• Installed new spark plugs (though it's a thumper, it's a Rotax dual spark engine)

• Gave the bike a thorough cleaning (there is no better inspection process!)

• Cleaned, lubed, and checked the adjustment of the chain

• Cleaned and inspected the brake pads and rotors

• Lubed the throttle and clutch cables

• Checked brake fluid and coolant reservoirs

• Topped off the battery with distilled water

• Removed the Department of Defense decal from the left fork

I had ordered a new maintenance-free battery to replace the stock lead-acid battery which had already boiled over once (making a nice acid-etched mess of the top of my engine in the process!), but it had been backordered and failed to arrive in time. In two years, the bike had never failed to start, but I really didn't trust the original battery anymore. Unfortunately, because of its unusual size and reversed poles, a replacement wasn't as easy as walking into the nearest Walmart. I would have to go to Mexico with the questionable battery.

I had also ordered a few trick components from Touratech (a German company specializing in custom components and gear for adventure motorcycles) for the Beemer: an offroad-type chain guide (normally found on true dirtbikes), an oil-type air filter (to replace the BMW's stock paper cartridge type), and a folding brake lever (I'd already replaced the shift lever with a folding type). Unfortunately, these items were also backordered (seems to happen every time I order something from Touratech). They actually arrived at my doorstep a few days after we departed for Mexico. Grrrrr...

It goes without saying that a carefully prepared machine is the key to enjoying (perhaps even surviving) an adventure such as this. We would be hundreds of miles from anything resembling a motorcycle repair shop. We were carrying tools, spare parts, and whatever we needed to handle anything short of a catastrophic mechanical failure. All of us know our bikes inside and out and are competent at fixing flats and whatnot. We were also carrying two first aid kits, just in case, and in our planning had agreed that we needed a minimum of three riders for the trip (one to go get help and one to remain with an injured rider in an emergency situation). We studied maps and read dozens of ride reports from other adventure riders who had toured the area. We talked and planned and coordinated what everyone would be carrying ad infinitum. In other words, we were as prepared as we could possibly be.

A week before we left, we did a test loading at my house to make sure we could fit all four bikes on Chris's trailer. Then, Thursday night, the 12th of April, we loaded them for real. We would be driving Rich's van, which not only had plenty of room for the gear but had bench seats just right for snoozing. The plan was to hit the road around noon on Friday the 13th (gulp!), driving straight through to the border at Presidio, TX where we would get a few hours shut-eye at a hotel, then cross into Mexico on the bikes first thing Saturday morning.

The fat lady is singing now, buddy ... Time to get the hell outta Dodge!

One trailer, four motorcycles, and a sh*tload of tie-downs. The bikes are ready ... are we?

(to be continued...)

Bahlobo y los Gringos:
"South of the Border"
(Copper Canyon, Mexico) 13 - 22 April 2007

Creel: Saturday morning, Danny and I were up and at 'em, raring to go. We had to pound on the door of the DR-Z Boys' room and practically drag 'em outta bed. Dammit, it was time to ride! We had breakfast at the little restaurant next door to the hotel. It was good, but the service was S.L.O.W. We made arrangements to leave the van and trailer at the Three Palms ($3 per day), then hit the border. It took less than an hour to go through immigration/customs and do the paperwork on the vehicles and whatnot ... then we were officially on Mexican soil. In Ojinaga, we laundered some money, then we were ripping through picturesque mountains on some gloriously twisty pavement which eventually spilled us out into the Chihuahua desert. In the desert, the wind was brutal. Likewise, the traffic in Chihuahua. But we fought through it all, Don Quixote types one and all, to arrive at last -- after what we all thought was the longest 320 or so ass-breaking miles of our lives -- in the little town of Creel.

My Dakar outside the rooms at the Three Palms Inn in Presidio, TX.

Stopping to exchange greenbacks for pesos in Ojinaga, Mexico.

Our plan was to base most of our riding out of Creel, thus eliminating the need to carry all our clothes and crapola on the bikes every day. The only exception would be an overnighter at the bottom of the canyons in the town of Batopilas, basically because it would be nearly impossible to make it down there and back to Creel in one day without having to ride after dark. Compounding the issue was the fact that we wanted to ride the much lesser known and rougher road out of Batopilas to Urique, and there was no chance of doing all that in one day. You absolutely do not want to ride in this area after dark. There are just way too many critters sharing the roads and trails with you.

I liked the town of Creel. The people were friendly (although the Tarahumara Indians were mostly aloof), courteous, and helpful, even if very few of them spoke any English. None of us had more than a rudimentary grasp of Spanish. We grunted and pointed a lot and said "por favor" and "gracious." I never felt as if I was in any danger while exploring the town, even when off the more public thoroughfares. This isn't the touristy Mexico of Cancun or one of the sleazy towns sharing a border with the U.S.A. Vendors didn't harass me to buy crap or offer to let me sleep with their sisters for fifty pesos. Nobody tried to sell me any weed. (I've had all these things happen in places like Tijuana, Cancun, Playa del Carmen, Cozumel, etc.) When I bought things and suggested the merchant keep the change, they always counted the change back to me and insisted that I take it. The Mexican women we saw were very attractive and well built. (The first thing we noticed when returning to the States, in fact, was that there were fat women everywhere we went.) The primary form of entertainment in Creel appeared to be loading your favorite chica bonitas in the backseat of your car or the back of your truck and driving up and down the main street of town. The town, like every place we saw in Mexico, was horribly littered. Mexico really needs to implement some sort of litter control program.

Our room was clean, but the hot water situation was tenuous. I think maybe they turned off the water heater during the day. I took more than one cold shower. The room had a television, but it got only one or two channels -- entirely in Spanish. Most of the news that week was focused on the death of some famous Mexican actor named Pedro, but we did eventually learn a bit about what was transpiring in the States that week (i.e., the horrible events at Virgina Tech). Both mine and Danny's cell phones were working. I stuck to text messages back and forth with the wife at home, because T-Mobile wanted $1.49 per minute for calls to and from the area. Text messages sent from there were 35 cents a pop, while received messages were free. Most of my texting amounted to "Safe & sound. Miss u. Luv u. Bye," with the exception of the night I sent "Very hard day. Me go boom. Me not hurt. Beemer not so good" (more on that later).

Shrines are everywhere in Mexico. Ofrendas is the correct word,
I believe. This one is built into a small cave in the hills between Ojinaga
and the Chihuahua desert. (Photo courtesy of Rich Desmond.)

Inside the cave-like shrine. (Photo courtesy of Rich Desmond.)

An immigration checkpoint about 20 clicks south of the border. The drug dog sniffed everyone
but me, leaving me feeling as if I was missing out on part of the whole "south of the border" experience.
A bit further on, we hit a military checkpoint, where the soldiers in their camo fatigues searched
the others' bags, but ignored me. (I was searched at one of the other military checkpoints,
though.) The soldiers made it very clear they did not want to be photographed.

A pee break in the Chihuahua desert. Any bush'll do, right, Chris?

The dashing and debonair Rich Desmond, Ricardo as he is now known in Mexico.

The Hotel Plaza Mexicana Margarita's, Creel, Mexico.

Mine and Danny's room. 500 pesos a night -- worth every penny ... er, centavo.

No more peeing behind the bushes. We're living in style now!

Two meals a day are included in that 500 pesos (breakfast and dinner). Here's our dinner the first
night: chili reyenos. Delicious, but the portions were generally small. Danny, known
on this trip as "Mister Bottomless Pit," was glad he'd brought plenty of snacks.

Took this picture primarily for my daughter to show her that you ate what you were served
and didn't complain. This was dessert one night, bananas with syrup and candy sprinkles.

Our waitress, Gaby. She was great. I think we all had erotic dreams
about her ... okay, so maybe I was the only one. She only had eyes
for Danny, though. Gaby served us every night and every morning,
except for one evening that must have been her night off. What a
sweetheart, but she didn't speak a lick of English. She was generally
the first one to greet us after a long day's riding. Thanks, Gaby!

Every cervesa at the Hotel Margarita comes with a free shot of
tequila -- a TALL shot of tequila (often three fingers!). It was
the smoothest tequila any of us had ever drank, so we asked to
see the bottle and I photographed it so that we wouldn't forget the
brand. Damn this is good stuff! We quickly learned (from our
wonderful waitress Gaby) to say "Una mas cervesa, por
favor ... con tequila libre!" At breakfast our second morning,
however, when I asked for orange juice "con tequila libre,"
Gaby just laughed at me. Silly gringo!

Relaxing with cervesas in the hotel courtyard after a hard day's ride. (Photo courtesy of Rich Desmond.)

Secure parking for the bikes.

If this doesn't keep out the riff-raff, nothing will.

Not everyone can afford razor wire ... I imagine this works pretty well.

Loading up in the a.m. on the street in front of the hotel.

Creel had everything we could ask for (except a new tire for
Danny's bike ... but more on that later). Rich the computer geek
even had two Internet cafés to choose from.

We could have gone to church if we'd wanted to...

...at more than one establishment, in fact. (Photo courtesy of Rich Desmond.)

We could have traveled by train. (Photo courtesy of Rich Desmond.)

And perhaps even bought some nice digs if we chose to never return to the States.

I certainly wouldn't hesitate to stay in Creel again. We located the bank (where we paid the fee for our tourist visas), the Western Union office, the Post Office ... just about everything we needed. We had great roasted chicken at a place called Pollo Gordito -- or something like that (big yellow building on the southern outskirts of town). Danny and I had not-too-terribly-bad pizza and talked at length with Rueben, a street vendor who understood a fair amount of English and was ever-so-proud of being his own boss. We had another enjoyable conversation with one of the local jewelry artists, Obierto (Alberto?).

All in all, a great time ... but we'd come to RIDE, so let's get on with that part of the adventure!

Bahlobo y los Gringos:
"South of the Border"
(Copper Canyon, Mexico) 13 - 22 April 2007

TWISTIES TO DIE FOR: The pavement in this part of Mexico is wonderful. The roads twist and twine through the mountains, up and down the canyon walls, in and out and over the arroyos and mesas. Forget Deal's Gap, the so called Tail of the Dragon; call this place the Tail of the Gila Monster or something, 'cause it's got more than enough curves to keep any rider entertained and doesn't have any of Deal's Gap's heavy traffic or overly exuberant law enforcement. In a day's time here you could almost get tired of being on the sides of your tires -- emphasis on almost. Corners aren't marked with a safe speed, though, as they are in the States, so you pretty much have to judge them for yourself. Warning signs seemed to come in two flavors: a gentle curve and a 90-degree bend. These signs weren't very consistent. The pavement, however, had excellent camber and very few potholes.

Traction was generally good, but there were a few iffy places, including one stretch through the mountains near Creel that always looked greasy or wet to us, even though there'd been no rain in who knows how long. A couple times Chris and I commented on having lost traction and kicking out our rear ends (better to lose the rear than the front, though!). On one occasion, I entered a corner much too hot, lost the rear end while trail-braking, saw my back tire come around and pass my front, and very nearly high-sided the bike regaining control. I slowed down for a bit after that, adequately reminded that knobbies are not sport tires and I was not mounted on my ZZR1200 or CBR1000RR. Chris was behind me when this happened and told me later that there's no way he could have saved such a bone-headed move. I told him it was probably pure luck on my part. For a second there, I'd been certain I was going to be the one for whom we'd brought first aid kits. The fact that I hadn't panicked is probably what saved me, that and enough time with the rear end of my dirt bike sliding out from under me to think it was all perfectly normal to be slewing sideways. Rich admonished both Chris and me, "Stay off those rear brakes, ya idiots!" I think we just needed to slow down a bit, but good golly, Bob Golly (an inside joke*), we couldn't help ourselves on those roads!

You have to be particularly cautious in blind corners here, because the Mexicans seemed to consider the centerline much more of a suggested boundary than a safety barrier. (This comment applies equally well to the areas where we were off the pavement.) On several occasions we found trucks coming around a corner taking up several feet of our lane. Danny said he was almost taken out by a horse trailer that drifted over into his lane. Watch out for the logging trucks, too. Drivers in Mexico will signal that it's safe for you to pass them by turning on their blinker, but be cautious. We relied more on each other, each rider waving on the rider behind him if it was still clear to pass.

Posted speed limits were ridiculously low ... but who cared when there was no one enforcing them?

A break somewhere in the pine-forested mountains around Creel.

During one such break, Rich became the first to experience an "unanticipated transition to a
horizontal state." We were on pavement, but Chris, who was leading at the time, had evidently had
enough and shot up one of the many dirt trails leading into the forest. Like lemmings, we all followed.
We didn't go far before turning around, getting back on the road, and continuing on our way ... however,
we'd only gone a mile or so down the road when we realized Rich wasn't behind us. We pulled off on
the side of the road and waited. About the time we were thinking of going back to look for him, he
caught up with us. He'd lost his balance in a rut and gone down on that short bit of trail. Because he'd
been the last rider, none of us had seen him fall. The bike had pinned his leg and I guess it took him a
few minutes to work himself free. Unfortunately, none of us got a photo of this event. (If you're
keeping score, though, that's number one.)

"Where ya been, L'il Richie?"

"Ya left me, ya bastidges!"

Around every corner waited another stunning view.

Chris and his blue DR-Z.

Danny works on his flat-tracking style. Note his lovely PVC septic
tank. This might be one of the last times you see it ON the bike. Ha!

Rich rode the twisties like a pro.

There he comes now. (Photo courtesy of Chris Marlow.)

Danny and I were no slouches, though. (Photo courtesy of Chris Marlow.)

Nor was Chris. (Photo courtesy of Rich Desmond.)

Be wary of opposing traffic, especially in blind corners. (Photo courtesy of Chris Marlow.)

Another pee break. Like most male species, we spent a lot of time marking territory.

For some reason Danny pulled some money out of his pocket at this stop. He dropped a hundred
peso bill and it immediately blew over the edge. Now you have to understand that Danny is afraid
of heights ... yet he was not going to let that 100 pesos go (even if it was worth less than
$10 U.S. -- ha!). He hung over the edge and just barely managed to grab the bill. Then I helped
him back to safety. (I had promised his wife that I wouldn't let anything happen to him!)

Here he is with his bill, still mesmerized, however, by the edge
over which he could have fallen to his death. (Photo courtesy
of Rich Desmond.)

And here was his reaction to us teasing him about risking his life for a measly ten bucks. A second
after I took this photo, the bill slipped out of his hand and blew over the edge again. This time it was
out of his reach. I told him to grab my ankles and I hung over the edge and retrieved it for him.
"Put this in your damn pocket, buddy boy!"

You'd think he wouldn't be making rude gestures behind the head of someone who risked his life for
him, eh? I didn't even know about this until I saw it in Chris's photos after we got back from the trip.
Humpf!  Next time get Bob Golly to risk his life for you, buckaroo! (Photo courtesy of Chris Marlow.)

Chris on his DR-Z again.

We were amazed by how many of the Tarahumara we saw walking along the roads, often 10 or
20 miles from anything. (Photo courtesy of Chris Marlow.)

The locals were always friendly (see the hand waving from the pickup?). In fact, we often felt like
we were on parade or something. First thing we noticed when we returned to the States (besides
the fat women) was that we were no longer celebrities. (Photo courtesy of Chris Marlow.)

This woman might be 30 miles from her home. All in a day for
them, I guess. (Photo courtesy of Chris Marlow.)

We never had any trouble getting gasoline, always using the government controlled PEMEX
stations. At one such stop we ran across a group of about 12 dualsport riders, most mounted on
BMW F650GS Dakars just like mine. My bike felt like it had stumbled upon a family reunion to
which we hadn't been invited.

These were riders with an Edelweiss tour group. You pays your money, they give you a scooter,
and they lead you on an adventure. Kinda cool, I guess, but we prefer to make our own adventures
and keep our own schedule. The guy leading this group struck me as something of a whip-cracker,
barking orders to get mounted up and whatnot, but I suppose if you're not that way, you'd never
keep a group like this moving.

* Bob Golly is some guy who convinced Daniel to go on this trip. I had invited Danny and tried to convince him to go, but he was certain we'd be murdered by drug lords or butt-raped by banditos or thrown down a mine shaft by Indians craving my pocketfuls of Lifesavers. Anyway, Danny didn't trust us. It was only when some guy named Bob Golly told him it was perfectly safe that Danny agreed to go along. We're still not entirely convinced that Bob Golly exists, even if every time we got to doubting the story, Danny would pull out his cell phone, show us the phonebook entry, and dare us to call him. It was a running joke the entire trip: "Well, Bob Golly says..."

(to be continued...)