Sleep was fitful, the temp being somewhat cold with the wooden doors to the room being open to the street below and the sounds of horse hooves, braying donkeys and roosters throughout the night echoing in the narrow hardened streets.
I got up early and headed to the roof deck before dawn, observing the sleeping town in the cool blue of the early morning.
The little town was still asleep
I wandered the streets in the early hours to breathe in the fresh air and take a few pictures. Hank eventually found me and we spent a while walking and shooting as the town slowly came alive.
Nice architecture in the hotel…
We were the only patrons in the place
At breakfast our new-found friends invited us to sit with them and were somewhat amused when I ordered "hotcakes" for breakfast, saying nicely how "American" to do so - little did they know I'd had them here before and they were truly excellent. In fact, they ended up ordering them as well and I had a chuckle.
Katlijn was from Belgium and Ariana from Holland - both had spent much time in Mexico, India and many other countries, traveling solo and together at times.
Katlijn aka “Kat” and Ariana
Hank and I’s riding plan for the day was to do a high mountain road descending down into the valley west of Real, followed by a long loop back, stopping for photos and deserted pueblos.
After breakfast, we all wandered outside and onto the street, the caballeros who offered horseback rides up to the sacred "quemado" kindly and persistently pursued with fervent sales pitches. A vendor selling handmade leather pouches offered too good of a deal and I managed to snag some native swag - a couple of small handmade leather pouches.
Hank and I geared up in the brightening sunshine, cranking the cold engines in the R1100GS's weak and wheezing way. I followed Hank down the street and to a stop, while he spoke to a local for directions, then we headed on through narrow, dust covered streets and alleys towards a rift in the mountains.
As Hank motored ahead, I made a quick momentary stop to turn off my ABS brake system since loose rock and dirt can wig out the system and you're then unable to stop. I’d made that mistake once and only once in Colorado and almost died.
A lone worker with a shovel sat at the edge a high bend in the narrow road and I waved to him as we passed, the curve opening up to a fantastic vista of a very steep valley, the drop being measured in thousands.
The road itself was very narrow, rough and dusty, cut like a scar on the side of the mountain.
Hank disappeared around the corner ahead and as I rounded the narrow curve, the view was stunning. The road was very narrow and steep, cut into the side of the mountain and covered in powder dust and chunks of loose rock. Much too close to the left lay a drop-off of hundreds or possibly thousands of feet. Ahead, I could see Hank's bike fishtailing in the rubble of a small landslide at the narrowest part of the road, a cloud of dust floating around him.
I'm no hero when it comes to heights, but the drop off the edge was breathtaking, and I kept it in my peripheral vision, feeling that inexorable magnetic pull extreme heights seem to exert. I kept focus on every piece of rock and rubble, every divot and pool of dust ahead, knowing how easily the front wheel of a GS is deflected. I slowed briefly to a short stop at the rubble patch I'd seen Hank in, wheeling through it slowly but with enough momentum for stability. That section of road was breath-taking and beautiful, and deadly with a mistake. The little white crosses along the way served as silent witnesses of what offered no chance of escape.
The High Road
Ahead, Hank had pulled to a stop at a wide spot waiting for me to catch up. For those who know Hank, he is a man of few words. When he bothers to speak it means something significant. When I rumbled up next to him, over the idling engines I heard him say "I almost went over the edge" in his calm and matter of fact way.
Later and further down the mountain, he told me his front wheel had bounced off a rock and he'd shot over to the edge, barely getting it turned back straight in time and missing the drop by less than gonads allow for. For those who don’t ride a big adventure bike, especially a 600 lb GS, they don’t respond quickly due to weight and have a tendency to do whatever they feel. A few inches may not sound like a close call, but on a big GS heading on its way, it’s a miracle Hank got the bike turned back. Even he admitted he couldn’t figure out how he did it.
Apparently the small cloud of dust I'd seen was the after effects of his momentary duel. Later review of Hank's GoPro footage revealed just how quick and close he came, and it's amazing that he was able to dab and change direction of the 600 lb pig just in time.
Hank's moment - keep your eye on the front tire…
I told him I was glad he hadn't taken the dive off the edge, as it would have messed up my trip on the very first day. But I did tell him I would have made a little cross for him to remember him by. As you can imagine, he was very thankful…
The narrow road continued its breath-taking way down the canyon, absolutely beautiful in the clear and cool sunlight of the morning. The ride down required constant attention as it was rough and rocky with no room for error, some areas better maintained and some very poor indeed. The condition of the road is always in question, sometimes very rough and dangerous, and sometimes in decent shape. One never knows until you commit… and then you’re committed.
Down the mountain, leap-frogging each other at photo stops, I eventually got a good distance ahead. Having stopped numerous times for pics, I turned off the bike in the middle of the road. When I tried to restart, the battery wheezed a few turns and went dead. Great. Anyway, I got it pointed downhill and slipped it into 3rd gear, allowing the speed to build a little before slipping the clutch and bump-starting the bike. All my stopping and leaving the headlight and running lights on had run down the battery.
We continued down, the road winding into shaded, cool, tightly twisting turns where small dwellings began to appear, nestled into the trees and hillside. Old Willys 4wd trucks were ubiquitous, as were old Ford pickups.
Rounding a corner and stopping suddenly at the sight of the narrow road ahead blocked, men were pouring fresh mortar and large rocks by hand onto the roadway. We sat and watched as they worked quickly, however the concrete and rock combination was fresh and under intense work and completely cut across the roadway. I couldn't see a way we'd get past, but eventually a man waved us down towards them and they threw some small rocks into a rut, creating a foot-wide bridge leading onto a narrow strip of loose dirt. Hank went ahead, but the problem was that the stone was very narrow and there was no place to put a foot down. He talked them into holding his bike up while he tried to cross the strip, eventually succeeding. I followed and got across easily with their help and slipped down the narrow path into the road.
Road crew
We continued on for quite some time, eventually entering small sand washes and open areas as we entered the valley for Estación Catorcé, the old rail station that served Real De Catorce and surrounding area.
From there we eventually made blacktop, opening up the revs and pegging the speedos heading further south for Estación Wadley. Rumor was there was an old train graveyard near Wadley and our hunt began. We found villages, the locals happy to point various directions, but we were never able to locate the locomotive rail site.
Eventually we turned back and returned due north, making a big loop back to Real in the afternoon, sweeping back through the old tunnel, something I never tire of…
Back on the coveted level-ish parking spot for the bikes in front of the hotel
After a late lunch, I wandered the town with my camera, huffing and puffing like a beached whale on the steep streets at 9000 foot in elevation, trying to snag images of locals in the light of the afternoon sun.
Leaning against a wall and getting my breath - cleverly disguised as a photographer simply waiting for a photo op - an old blue VW beetle containing a local driver, our two European friends and Hank puttered past. They were being taken on an excursion by the local guy to a lake in area. They stopped and invited me, but I declined, wanting to spend time in town photographing the place. Besides, ain't no way we'd ever all fit in a Beetle!
I explored the steep streets and the large church downtown.
On my way out to the old original church and cemetery on the edge of town, I passed an obvious looking American guy who didn't speak to me, then another guy suddenly appeared from a dusty alley next to a small store. I was about to say "Hola" but he froze in his tracks, eyes wide and staring at me very suspiciously. Spotting the few Euro or Norté Americano folks in town certainly isn't a challenge and despite his wearing the white pants and serape of the locals, his blonde hair, bushy beard and blue eyes gave him away. In fact, he looked like a Norwegian Viking wearing a Mexican peasant outfit in hopes of blending in... not.
At any rate, he fastened his eyes on me intensely and froze until I passed. Maybe he thought I was the fuzz, or maybe his peyote and oatmeal breakfast hadn't settled well, or possibly he thought he was seeing the first abominable snowman to enter the village. Who knows, but I decided speaking to him would be pushing it and wandered on, passing small houses, an open air bar replete with drunken locals and eventually the old bullfighting ring with its nearby bullet pockmarked firing squad wall.
Finally reaching the cemetery behind high stone walls, I walked the graveyard and stepped onto the stone entry of the old church.
As I neared the church door, a diminutive, weathered, older man in the local garb of cowboy hat and dirty jeans began speaking to me. I said "No habla espanol!" with a smile, feeling the usual flush of ignorance. He smiled with a big smile of large, unsightly yellow teeth and shadowed me into the church. I couldn't tell if he was just curious, or a guardian, but when I saw the partially restored ceilings and the ancient colorful decay, it was overwhelmingly beautiful to me. I said "muy linda!" to which he corrected me with "es bonita" and a big smile. I could tell he was proud of the church and could feel his beaming pride. I said "Como se llama?" and he replied "Alejandro". I said "me llama es Jose" and felt quite chuffed at my 6th grade Spanish skills.
The little church - Templo de Guadalupe as I discovered later - really was amazing to me in its state of partial decay and partial originality. Old original frescoes remained in fragments and one could tell this truly was a beautiful church in its time. I couldn't help but wonder what the reaction of the local indigenous peoples would have been seeing its beauty long ago.
I told Alejandro “gracias” and shook his hand, working my way back out and tiptoeing around the graves that literally were lining the path from the front step of the church out to the road.
Entrance to the church and cemetery
Back on the dusty street I wandered into the old bull ring before managing to time my stroll to fall exactly in stride with the three drunken locals I'd passed at the bar earlier. Of course, one began slurring and speaking to me in Spanish to which I replied "No habla espanol!" with a big smile. It mattered not, as he began speaking quite intensely, as drunks do, speaking of what and waving his arms I have no idea, but I kept smiling and saying "Si".
He grabbed my arm and led me over to a fence overlooking the valley, saying "le tigre" and other things, of which I certainly understood "tiger". I momentarily tried to imagine how a tiger could possibly come up in any conversation on a dusty road in Mexico, but his animation and drunken excitement made me wonder for just a slight second if by some chance a tiger had escaped a circus and was living in a nearby field - much like the Viking man. Peyote was another factor I considered and looked back at the other two drunks for sympathy, but upon eye contact both began saying "le tigre" vehemently as well.
I decided I wasn't going to fall for the joke of locals convincing a tourist that there were tigers in Mexico, but I did default into my stupid tourist routine - amazingly similar to Jethro Clampitt - and just acted goofy. They weren't buying it and were quite intense that I understand. Eventually, one began pantomiming a large predatory cat with a paw curled and then one said "puma" and pointed out towards the valley. I looked out across the valley to a distant mountain cliff. It was then I saw that indeed, a cliff face somewhat resembled a cougar lying in wait. "SI!" I shouted, realizing they had been trying to show me that all along, and suddenly we were all happy. Sheesh what a relief.
They insisted I take a photo, which I did, and we all then wandered on towards town. You know, I really don't know why these things come my way, but I have to wonder what it looked like to someone else to see a giant guy with long grey hair, half dressed in motorcycle gear, on a dusty street near a cemetery and a small drunken Mexican man in cowboy hat pantomiming a vicious tiger. If anyone saw us, it was most likely the paranoid Viking...
"el tigre"
(I know, I know, but just act like you see it)
I wandered as the day grew late, climbing up the highest streets and to a place with three crosses overlooking the valley
From the three crosses I wandered down to the town plaza and sat a while, watching the locals until the increasing urge for a café de olla overwhelmed me. I’d grown to love the Mexican coffee, made in a boiling pot with sugar and possibly a hint of cinnamon.
Street vendor in his native Huichol dress
Dinner again was wonderful, “pollo somethinga pechuga”, again sharing the table with our traveling friends Katlijn and Ariana, hearing their stories of the quemado, peyote, curanderos and other aspects of "energy".
Hank shared that we were heading back down the mountain to the villages of La Luz and Potrero the next day to explore. Kat said she knew an artist in Potrero and would like a ride down to see him if possible.
Plans were made, hotels were retired to, photos were downloaded and GoPro footage perused until well after midnight.
More tomorrow amigos!