I
can’t say riding dirt roads
across the Sierra Madre
Occidental, northern Mexico’s
remote mountain range, had
been my original idea. Yet
once I’d rode the Great Divide
Mountain Bike Route, which
had guided me all the way
from Canada to the Mexican border via
a web of forest tracks and desert trails, I
couldn’t imagine any other way. By the
time I arrived, I was firmly hooked on
unearthing the most off-the-beaten path
to cross a country, even if it was the most
challenging. Luckily, I wasn’t alone.
Riding the Dirt Roads of Mexico’s Sierra Madre
Photos and story by Cass Gilbert
Meet the Dirt Bags
Because of our tight budgets, our love
of roughing it, and our desire to ride off
pavement as much as we could, we’d named
our band of misfit riders the Dirt Bags. The
group consisted of myself, two brothers
from Philadelphia, Jeff and Jason, whose
endeavors included hiking the Appalachian
Trail and riding across Africa, and Anna
the Australian, who’d lived in a Brazilian
favella for three years and counted circus
acrobatics amongst her previous job titles.
All four of us shared Alaska as our journey’s start point, the same free spirit and
wanderlust that sparks and drives so many
bike tours, and the ambition to cycle all the
way to the southern tip of Argentina. And
as paths often have a habit of doing over
long-distance journeys, ours had all crossed
in the months it had taken us to reach the
Sierra Madre. I’d first met Jeff and Jason in
Fairbanks while stocking up on supplies
for the Dalton Highway, also known as the
“haul road,” then again months later at a
forlorn forest junction just as night had
fallen in wintery New Mexico. Anna had
taken a different route south, following the
Pacific Coast through Oregon and California
before cutting inland across Death Valley
and Arizona to meet us in time for a piethemed Thanksgiving — apple, cherry,
pear, pumpkin, pecan, you name it — in
the wonderfully named and time-warped
community of Pie Town, New Mexico. Widely renowned for drug trafficking and the narcotrafficante cowboys who
have corrupted its mountains, we’d been
warned about traveling in Chihuahua,
Mexico’s most northerly state, and through
the Sierra Madre Occidental, an historically wild, lawless range that harbored
Geronimo’s renegade Apaches as late as the
1930s. As one of the world’s largest produc-
ers of marijuana, opium, and heroin, the
area is rich in gruesome tales — shootouts,
killings, and kidnappings — both past and
present. Yet, we also knew that the major
media’s portrayal of an area and how it’s
experienced on the ground — especially
when on two wheels — can be two different realities. For starters, we wouldn’t
be venturing anywhere near the notorious
Ciudad de Juarez, cited by some as the most
dangerous city in the world. Conveniently,
the Great Divide Mountain Bike Route terminates at a remote border crossing where
just a couple of friendly Mexican immigration officials waved us onwards along an
inviting dirt road, wending its way toward
the midday sun and our first pueblecito.
As far as we could tell, the Sierra Madre
Occidental had an undefined beginning
and end — depending on what we read,
the maps we poured over, or the locals we
spoke to. So for the first Mexican leg of our
adventure, we’d declare our starting point
to be Nueva Casas Grandes, just 125 miles
from the border. We’d piece together our
own Sierra Madre Mountain Bike Route to
lead us all the way to Zacatecas, a colonial
town perched atop a hill on the edge of
central Mexico. From there, we planned
to continue west to the wild beaches and
pounding surf of the Pacific coast before
continuing on our respective journeys
toward Central America and beyond.
The Adventure Begins
Just a handful of miles away from
its Americanized center, Nuevas Casas
Grandes’ new and spotless highways gave
way to the undiluted rough and rugged
mountain tracks we hankered for. In fact,
it may even have been a little more rough
and tumble than we were expecting so
early in the journey. It was hard to imagine how trucks could make it in one piece
across these mountains; our trail was at
times barely more than a jumble of babyhead–sized rocks and rutted, tire-grabbing
gullies. Dotted sparsely along the way
were quiet, forgotten pueblecitos, and we
camped on the edge of one of these, Colonia
Hernandez. It couldn’t have changed much
since the Mexican Revolution in 1910,
when large tracks of privately-owned farmlands were divided up and redistributed
to villagers. Set in a peaceful river valley,
men still rode on horseback, fires were lit at
night, and only the occasional old and sunfaded pickup truck hinted at the passing
of time. With no electricity in the village,
thick smoke billowed through the slender
chimneys of its mud-brick houses into the
soft evening light. As we warmed fresh
cornflower tortillas around our own fire,
an elderly man with a thick white mustache
and a spotless white sombrero, looking
resplendent on his white horse, made his
way over to greet us and inspect our camp.
It must have passed muster since he stuck
around for a bit of pleasant, if sometimes
undecipherable, conversation.
As we continued on, we passed through
swathes of forests en route to Copper Canyon.
Along the way, manzanita trees with
smooth, red bark and twisting branches,
caught our eyes amongst the scrub oak
and juniper. We resupplied in Ejido el
Largo, a dusty settlement built around
logging where dilapidated, grungy haulage trucks cruised the streets. It was also
reported to be one of the many areas in the
north controlled by the drug cartels.
Barrancas, or deep ravines (many larger and deeper than the Grand Canyon),
pushed us in roller-coaster fashion from
10,000 down to a lowly 1,500 feet — then
back up again. Pine forest, a powdering
of Christmas snow, and nighttime temperatures that hovered around 14 degrees
Fahrenheit gave way to tropical vegetation
and grapefruit trees, all in the space of
Hello Mexico. Crossing the border at Antelope Wells, New Mexico.
Local accessories. Improbably pointy boots and the classic sombrero, as worn by all discerning vaqueros in the Sierra Madre.
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one long, tortuously steep dirt-track descent
to Urique. Once a mining town, Urique
now draws tourists and athletes alike, home
as it is to the Tarahumara Indians. Here,
loincloth-garbed men run barefoot, or with
shoes cut from old truck tires, covering 170
miles without stopping. When hunting, the
Ramaruri (“those who run fast“) chase their
prey until it collapses from exhaustion.
In 1993, they were invited to compete in
Colorado’s grueling high-altitude race, the
Leadville 100. Fueled largely on their unconventional diet of pinole, beer, and cigarettes,
they secured first, second, and fifth place
before going on to set a course record in
1995. According to local legend, it was this
running ability that resulted in these canyon
areas largely escaping the influence of the
Jesuit missionaries, as the locals simply ran
off when they’d heard enough.
Narcotrafficantes, Federales, and
Cheap Mescal
Continuing along on an impossibly steep
track newly hewn from the canyon face, we
climbed back out of Urique and made our
way to Guachochi, another spit-and-sawdust
town that boasted only a handful of shops
and a few hole-in-the-wall eateries. Here,
sombrero-wearing narcotrafficantes, obvious
to all around in their gleamingly new, darktinted trucks, gathered to pass the day. As if
to redress the balance, occasional groups of
sunglass-wearing, body-armoured federales
swaggered by, brandishing assault rifles,
machine guns bolted to their equally shiny
pickups. Without a doubt, the cartels are
part of the fabric of life here, but somehow,
despite this accepted undercurrent of violence, I never felt threatened. In any case,
keeping to quiet backroads seemed to be
working for us so far. Venturing once more
off the confines of our map, we corkscrewed
down another rock-strewn descent to Ejido
Guazarachi, a set of warm springs cupped in
the base of a canyon.
We may have been in sunny Mexico and
pushing toward the warmer climes of the
south with every pedal stroke, but it was
January, and up at 7,000 feet the nights
were still intensely cold, so each evening
we gathered dead wood and lit a fire.
Laying our pots on the embers, the air was
soon rich with the smell of sizzling garlic as
we dissected the day‘s riding. Riding as a
group was beneficial for our social dynamic
— as well as for security. Our soundtrack
was the spine-tingling call of coyotes, and
we warmed ourselves further with fiery
mescal and tangy lime. At 20 pesos a liter,
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21
just a dollar and half, it was the ideal dirtbag
alternative to tequila for dulling the pain of
our battered and bruised bodies. The dirt
roads here were unusually rough in places,
a gamut of loose stone, bedrock, and sand,
and could make for slow, filling-loosening
progress. Jeff and I rode with suspension
forks, while Jason and Anna had strippeddown rigid setups. All of us experienced
racks and panniers rattling loose or ricocheting off the bikes as we rode the same
grueling profile: up and down, up and
down. When the King of Spain asked Cortez
to describe Mexico, he was said to have
crumpled up a piece of paper and thrown it
on the table. I could understand why. It was almost with relief that we hit pavement again at the junction settlement of
Baquiriachi, beginning a fast and winding
descent that unraveled through an increasingly dramatic, sheer-sided gorge for 15
miles. It felt like we were finally leaving the
steepest of the barrancas behind. Or perhaps we were being hopeful. Still, 70-milean-hour wind gusts did their best to steer
us off the road as the last light of day bathed
the landscape in a warm glow.
As we camped that night in a dry gulch,
I was again struck by how making the
effort to track down these often overlooked
alternatives to the highway had enriched
our experience. In most cases, these terracerías weren’t even marked on our maps, so
we relied on Jeff, a fluent Spanish speaker,
to keep tabs on our progress. For instance,
take the shortcut to Los Janitos that we followed the next morning.
Along this quiet and mellow dirt road,
we nodded to the cowboys who shared our
way and picnicked by a clear river on tortillas, avocados, tomatoes, and hot local salsa.
Around us, the architecture was changing,
with the painted concrete blocks that typified most of the villages in Chihuahua giving way to more traditional adobe buildings that I associated with Mexico. Quite
simply, this was backcountry touring at
its best but would have been missed if we
simply followed the highway map.
Lonely roads. Colonies of agave plants keep a rider company.
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Beware the Cows and Rattlers
Of course, our massive, indulgent
descent hadn’t gone unnoticed by the powers that be, and a stern reprimand came in a
brutal 15-mile climb to El Vergel. Arriving
exhausted and hungry, we ducked straight
into the first truck-stop restaurant that
promised to refuel us with platters of
burritos. Our waitress wore what seemed
the height of Mexican fashion: slick, jet-
Fuel stop. Resting up and resupplying in El Vergel, after a grueling 15-mile climb back up the Continental Divide.
black hair tied tightly back, the snuggest
of jeans embracing her somewhat portly
figure, stilt-like high heel boots, and a
lurid striped top of pink, turquoise, and
black. With impressive attention to detail,
she’d finished off her look with matching
earrings and a hair bunch, while stick-on
glittery nails provided the final distraction.
El Vergel also marked, finally, our transition into the state of Durango. It led us
across a high, forested plateau, up and over
a mountain pass dotted with pueblecitos.
Except for the improbably large trucks
for such narrow trails, their loads swinging precariously from side to side as they
pumped their brakes, we had the forest to
ourselves. After negotiating the potholestrewn tracks to Guanaceví, we camped on
the outskirts of this cantankerous town,
avoiding the clutch of wild looking bars
that serviced the nearby silver mine. Our
evening also proved eventful. In the midst
of setting up camp, two military soldiers
crept silently up on us, stepping ominously
out of the darkness into the flickering
light of our fire. Dressed in full combat
gear — balaclavas and body armor, with
handguns and knifes strapped to their
sides — they cut a menacing figure. “What
are you doing here?” demanded one in a
surly tone, pointing his assault rifle at us.
Once we explained our journey, however,
‘‘they soon relaxed, and even proved to be
curious about our journey. “Watch out for
the rattlesnakes and cows,” they advised
ambiguously, before disappearing mysteri-
Group ride. Heading out for a Sunday ride with the Coconos Sovajes of Santiago Papasquiaro.
ously back into the undergrowth.
It had been an terrific few days of riding, and by the time we made it to the
civilization of Tepehuanes, on the far side
of the main cordillera, we felt we finally
deserved a celebration. Stepping into the
nearest hat-and-boot shop, it was immediately apparent by the hundreds of nearly
identical offerings that we had entered a
whole new realm of millinery subtleties:
the world of the Mexican Sombrero. Tight
weaves and open weaves; high fronts and
low fronts. Some even had nicknames,
like the classic cinco en trocas, its curled
brim the result of what happens when five
cowboys sit in a truck. Not to mention
the enviable display of impossibly pointy
cowboy boots lined up before us — cow,
ostrich, crocodile, and turtle skin — all
in a wild assortment of decorative finishes
and colors. An hour later, and the selection
process finally made, we emerged, feeling
like a million pesos. What a sight we must
have been. A bunch of cycling, sombrerowearing gringos, in an off-the-gringo-trail
town. “Que padre!” intoned one elderly
lady as we clambered aboard our bikes and
rode off. “How cool!”
Tepehuanes was a colorful, rambunctious place compared to the settlements in
Chihuahua, which felt closed and cold in
comparison. Here, people wandered the
streets and plied their wares, like local
honey and succulent agave. Choppy, uplifting norteno music piped out from the shops.
But we weren’t home free quite yet. A man
with a thick, Tex-Mex accent pulled up
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Nuts & Bolts: Sierra Madre
When to go: You can ride through the
Sierra Madre at any time of the year, but
expect cold temperatures at higher elevations in winter. Spring and fall are best.
Maps and Routes: For an overview, get
ahold of a Guia Roji Mexico Tourist Road
Atlas — available in Oxo stores — which is
relatively accurate for paved roads. Use this
in conjunction with the excellent state maps
from the Secretaria de Communicaciones y
Transportes to hone in on dirt roads. These
are only available directly from their offices,
situated in each state capital. Check out
www.whileoutriding.wordpress.com for an indepth explanation of the routes we followed.
Road Conditions: Expect everything from
recently resurfaced paved roads to rough,
boulder strewn jeep tracks. Profiles can
be brutally steep, so adjust your expected
next to me in his truck and advised us to
take care. “Don’t take any photos of people
around here. Lots of men come down from
the Sierra,” he said, referring to the narcos
who hole up in the mountains we’d just
been through.
Thankfully, we only met Abrahim, who,
as the town’s only fully-fledged mountain
biker, was more than happy to be photographed. Even better, he pointed us to a
disused mining train line to avoid the main
road out of town, joining us for a few miles
before we set up camp under a full moon.
Hanging Out with the Wild Turkeys
Abrahim scribbled some phone numbers
down for us, promising to get in touch with
the bike club in Santiago Papasquiaro and
let them know of our imminent arrival.
distances accordingly, and check directions with passing traffic. The Copper
Canyon region offers excellent singletrack
day trips, especially out of Creel. You can
hire a guide from Los Trees Amigos (www.
amigos3.com)
Bikes: A hardtail with a coil sprung front
suspension fork is best, along with a
robust chromoly rack. We ran Schwalbe
Marathon XRs and Extremes, a worthy
investment — you’ll need a tire with tough
sidewalls. Carry a spare, too. There are
decent bike shops in most major towns.
Accommodations: Hotels are available
in most towns; expect to pay up to $20 for
a basic room. Camping opportunities are
good, though you’ll need to stock up on
water from villages. Carry a warm sleeping
bag as mountain weather can be variable.
This, in turn, began a series of incredible displays of hospitality as we passed
through each town on our way to Zacatecas.
Each club offered us a place to stay, with
invaluable advice on connecting the dirtroad options ahead, and in Durango, they
even set up an appearance on local television. Who would have guessed that this
state had such a fledgling but thriving
mountain-biking scene?
This was exactly what I’d been hoping
for — that we’d tap into local bike communities and learn more about the country, its
people, and the best places to ride. Like our
experience with the Coconos Sovajes, the
Wild Turkeys of Santiago Papasquiaro, who
invited us on their Sunday ride, feeding us
and offering a place to rest before pointing
us on toward the city of Durango via trails
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we would never have found ourselves. Our
bike contacts even smoothed things over
with Mexico’s notoriously corrupt police.
At one point, two cops in a shiny sports
car and body armor pulled over for a chat.
When they left, our host chose his words
carefully. “Those guys are nice — one of
them gets his hair cut by a bike-club member. But don’t trust all of them. There’s a
saying in Mexico: the river will carry away
whoever sleeps.”
Mexico was always full of surprises.
Passing through a community of some
6,000 Mennonites, settled here almost a
century ago, was just one. Known for their
diligent hard work, the Mexican government gifted swathes of land to bring money
into the local economy. Amid the context of
muscle pickups, loud and jangling norteno
music, and macho Mestizo cowboys, their
conservative manners and European looks
seemed otherworldly; pale-skinned women
were dressed in flowery robes and wore
wide-brimmed bonnets while the men
donned old-fashioned farming overalls and
checkered shirts, nodding cautiously as we
passed.
Bidding Farewell to the Sierra
Our man in Durango, Pancho (an appropriate name given that the state is home
to Pancho Villa, hero of the Mexican
Revolution) immediately set about tuning
our bikes the moment we arrived at his
workshop. There was time, too, for a local
ride and a taster of Durango’s best singletrack.
“We only ride in groups,” said Pancho.
“Many of the most beautiful areas are
also the most remote. We wouldn’t want
to see something we shouldn’t have by
ourselves,” he said, referring to the killings that take place out in the desert with
alarming regularity. Again, I was struck by
this strange duality that has taken hold of
Mexico. As tourists we were unaffected by
this struggle for narcotic control, yet, while
it was clear that these nefarious activities
weren’t as common as the media depicts,
knowledge of it was always there, simmering in the background.
In turn Pancho passed on the baton of
hospitality to local route expert Miguelito,
who rode with us out of town on a choice
selection of terracerías. From here just a
couple of hundred miles lay between us
and Zacatecas, the end of our Sierra Madre
adventure. What a finale it proved to be.
Sublime hard-packed tracks wended their
way past colonies of agave plants, through
corridors of prickly pear, and around hundreds of boney-fingered yucca trees. By
now those infamously buckled mountains
had finally melted into the heat-parched
desert around us.
As we looked over the map and traced
our journey, it was clear that strands of the
Sierra Madre continued on. But, unfortunately, every adventure has to end somewhere, and the gently rolling desert that
spilled out around the picture-perfect, cobbled colonial town of Zacatecas seemed as
good a place as any. It had been an awesome
ride, a fitting introduction to the little-
Steering clear. The Sierra Madre Mountain Bike Route mostly avoided paved roads.
known dirt roads of Mexico. A ride that
had revealed a completely different side of
the country than we’d have experienced by
following its busy, ever-expanding paved
roads. A ride that had forged new cycling
friendships in the unlikeliest of places.
And, although for now, my journey continues in a southerly direction, it was an
introduction that I’m sure will lead me
back for more.
Cass Gilbert is an avid bicycle traveler, photographer,
and writer. He is currently continuing his journey somewhere in South America. For more about Cass, visit
www.whileoutriding.wordpress.com.
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