1000 WORDS

After two days in Durango, we strike out again for Zacatecas. The guys have been busy developing their biking network in Durango and so we have an escort out of town; Miguelito offers to accompany us for the first 50 kilometres to guide us on the back roads. We meet Miguelito at the cathedral at 10 o’clock and he waits, very patiently, while we spend another couple of hours chasing various errands until we finally manage a tardy departure at about midday.

The cathedral in Durango. Durango is the biggest town we have passed through in Mexico and has some fine examples of colonial architecture.

As we got off to a late start we are slightly pressed for time becasue Miguelito is being met by his wife for a lift back to Durango but the riding is pretty easy as we pass through mostly flat agricultural land.

A flock of yellow-headed blackbirds rises in waves, moving across the field where they are feeding.

We stop for a moment for a quick lunch by an impressive water fall and then continue.

There is a quite a lot of water moving through here.

Finally we reach a town, intriguingly called Nombre de Dios (Name of God), where Miguelito’s wife and two grown-up children are waiting for us with a generous pile of tuna sandwiches and soft drinks.

The church towers in Nombre de Dios.

By the time we say goodbye to Miguelito and his family the sun is nearing the horizon and as the next part of our route is on a busy highway our priority is to find a place to camp so we can get off the road before dark. We ride until we find a gate we can open on a track leading to a half-constructed building in a field with enough trees to hide us from the view of passing traffic.

The next morning we have to cover thirty-five kilometres on the paved highway to the bustling town of Vincent Guerrero where we stock up on food for the next section of the trip.

Serious tortilla machinery at the tortilleria in Vincent Guerrero.

We leave town on a highway still under construction – the cars are restricted to a dusty gravel track running parallel to the unfinished road while we coast along using the smooth flawless concrete surface as a bicycle lane.

An almost finished highway becomes our private cycle lane. As you can see, a few car drivers tried the same trick but the occasional deep trench across the incomplete road was enough to deter most of them. (Photo: Jeff Volk.)

Before long we find ourselves back on gravel, riding in glorious afternoon light.

Colours glowing in the afternoon light.

Jeff crossing the fields.

A gentle sunset sky.

We camp in a dry wash in a field before setting off again in the morning.

Cass setting off in the morning light.

Jeff riding the fields.

Our first stop is a small undistinguished village with a single shop. As we exit the settlement we are astonished to see a huge brand new structure which, on closer investigation, turns out to be a rodeo arena. It seems that we are still in cowboy country, although the boys have turned out to be fair weather cowboys and the hats now spend more time strapped to the back of their bikes than on their heads.

A brand-new rodeo arena in an otherwise undistinguished and impoverished village.

Our next surprise is a section of cobbled road leading through fields dotted with what appear to be Joshua trees.

A couple of kilometres of cobble stone road in the middle of the fields.

However, soon enough the road surface changes again and we ride through the plains and low rocky hills on roads that are pretty close to perfection.

A sunny afternoon spent riding ...

... in gorgeous landscape.

A colourful patchwork of fields in the valley below.

The evening brings us to another village with a slightly post-apocolyptic air. We make our way through it and camp a few kilometres away beside the road.

Zacatecas is one of the poorest states in Mexico - a condition evident in the general ambiance of the villages.

The morning brings another desolate village and more great riding.

We attract quite a bit of attention on the streets of this village.

The villagers try to dissuade us from our chosen route, saying the road is terrible, but rocks and river crossings are nothing new to the dirtbag gang.

Cass and Jeff cruising, seemingly effortlessly, up the hill.

I am amused to unexpectedly find myself in Nueva Australia – I ponder the possibilities: did some homesick antipodean migrant settle here and christen the place, which now seems all but abandoned?

A reluctant Australian posing in front of the Nueva Australia sign.

We emerge from the fields into El Meguay, a village that clearly has a history. The main plaza faces an impressive cathedral with a lovely tiled dome.

The cathedral in El Meguay.

As we ride out of El Meguay, with the sun low in the sky, Jason discovers that he has a flat tyre. Since he also started the day mending a puncture he is not overly pleased and the sun is setting by the time we are on the road again to cover the last fifteen kilometres to Zacatecas.

The idea of following the abandoned railway track to Durango appeals to us and so armed with directions from Abraham we set off in the late afternoon sun. We are still negotiating our way out of town when Abraham unexpectedly joins us on his mountain bike accompanied by an Australian blue heeler, one of the only things on earth guaranteed to give me a momentary pang of homesickness for Australia.

Abraham and his blue heeler accompanies us out of Tepehuanes on the disused railway.

After cycling with us for a few kilometres, Abraham leaves in time to get back to Tepehuanes before dark while we continue until the sun sets and a full moon rises over the rocky gorge where we stop to make camp.

The guys are still enamoured, it seems, with their new hats in the morning.

Cass, is clearly sporting today's cowboy fashion...

...as is Jason.

We set off along the track and our way diverges from the railway line for a while on a sandy jeep track populated by real cowboys astride real horses.

A sandy trail...

...populated by real cowboys...

...as well as the cycling cowboy posse.

As we pass through villages people stare, agape, at the strange spectacle we must present and cry, “Hola, turistas!” Clearly they are not fooled, for a second, by the cowboy hats. We come to a river which we cross before discovering that we missed the turn which will return us to railway line and so have to make the ford again: river crossing aren’t particularly good for bicycles.

Back...

...and forth across the river... (Photo: Jeff Volk.)

... while cowboys water their horses downstream.

Bemused local children with donkeys, stare in amazement as we make our way back to the railway line.

We find the railway line again and ride past forlorn abandoned stations.

Back on the rail trail.

The thorny vegetation manages to pierce tough Schwalbe tyres and Cass ends up with a flat, resulting in an impromptu lunch break on a railway bridge while he works on his bike.

Cass repairs a puncture and replaces a tyre on the railroad bridge...

... while we take advantage of the break to eat lunch under a bright blue sky.

When we finally continue on the other side of the bridge, the trail becomes more and more uncertain before disappearing completely.

We are constantly astonished by the unreliability of the information that we are given in Mexico. Abraham had indicated with great confidence that we could ride all the way to Durango on the rail line but it now seems that it won’t be quite so simple as we had imagined.

When we continue, we discover that the trail fades gradually into the vegetation until it becomes all but impassable.

We backtrack for a while and then cut across country towards the highway which we can hear and see in the distance on the other side of the valley. We chance across a path that seems to lead towards a village where we are sure there will be a road leading to the highway.

Trying to make our way to the road we find a bit of single track and send a startled bunch of cattle fleeing across the field in a cloud of dust. (Photo: Jeff Volk.)

However, the track turns out to run up against a series of barbed wire fences and a river. We make our third ford for the morning only to be confronted by yet another barbed wire fence.

We cross the river again, only to find ourselves confronted with more obstacles.

As we are still trying to negotiate our way to the road a couple of cowboys mozie on past on horseback, clutching tins of Tecate, one of Mexico’s most popular beers, judging by the amount of empty cans we find cast by the side of the road. After a brief discussion, we are set on the right track and emerge without warning from the river bank into the middle of yet another amazed village.

After a consultation with some curious and tipsy cowboys on horses we make our way through a village and back to the highway.

We are slightly disappointed to find ourselves back on pavement but we are keen now to arrive in Santiago Papasquiaro where the local mountain cycling club, alerted by Abraham, is expecting our arrival. As the guys disappear over the first rise on the highway, I discover that my Schwable tyres have also succumbed to the travails of the terrain and spend 45 minutes wrestling with a puncture by the side of the road. Eventually I make my way into Santiago where I find Jeff, Jason and Cass waiting for me in a carpark on the outskirts of town, deep in conversation with three Mexican mountain bikers. One of them escorts us to a large family compound, with an expansive lawn which noisy troupes of pea fowl, guinea fowl and chickens stalk about on and an open car port where we set up camp.

Our new found friends gather around to help me resolve some minor problems with my bike before taking us to their favourite bike shop to meet some more mountain bikers and give us the opportunity to pick up some various bike bits and bobs.

The bike shop where the local mountain bike crew hang out.

A collection of objects in the workshop.

We get taken to dinner of gorditas, where the route of tomorrow’s mountain bike ride is the topic of hot discussion. Finally we end up back in our carport campsite and roll out our sleeping bags and settle in for the night.

Jeff and Jason organising and mending gear in our carport camp.

Cass, working on his computer.

We wake in a field, where we have all fallen asleep under a starry sky, encrusted in ice and set off again. Our aim now is to reach Zacatecas, as quickly as possible, while travelling on as few paved roads as we can manage. Our maps are all but useless for this endeavour and so we rely, largely, on Jeff quizzing the locals, in his all but perfect Spanish, to guide us on our way.

After a few kilometres of highway, we turn off onto a gravel road that the guy at our favourite burrito stand in Guachochi had told us about. The road winds along a river and takes us through small villages in bucolic rural country-side.

Riding down the main street of a small Chihuahuan village.

Cowboys on the road with an unfortunate calf.

A colony of black vultures congregate around a dead calf in a field.

Rock walls line the road...

... which is zig-zagged by the river. Cass almost, but not quite, manages the ford without getting his feet wet.

The morning passes happily enough in this sunny forgotton valley but we have some slightly disturbing encounters. A women, part of an incongruous group of well-dressed professional looking types, in a small village is surprised to see us passing by. After making the usual enquiries about our trip, she issues dark warnings: “Be careful here. Be careful…of the people. There are bad people here.” We promise to be careful and continue on our way.

We stop to eat by the river, where we admire canyon wrens, fly-catchers and kingfishers going about their business by the water. A friendly cowboy fords the river on his horse and invites us to lunch at his house but, after some discussion we politely decline, figuring that this unscheduled detour would probably take us all afternoon.

The road continues to roll up and down along the valley and still we don’t meet any ostentatiously bad people but at the point where the road returns to the highway a group of heavily armed military personnel in full combat gear are stopping all cars exiting the valley. They stop us, too, and ask us questions about our trip before sending us on our way.

We are back on the highway and our aim is to reach El Vergel before dark. I guess we should have known that we would have to pay for yesterday’s twenty-five kilometres downhill run but I don’t think any of us are fully prepared for the thirty kilometres ascent that we are now presented with. The roads winds up and up and up, in a series of merciless switchbacks, and darkness falls without any sign of El Vergel. We find ourselves camping high in mountains in a gravel pit by the highway, as the occasional truck lumbers by in the night.

In the morning, we finally reach El Vergel and stop to stock up on food again. We are definitively turning off the highway in a few kilometres and are uncertain of where we will be able to shop next.

The bikes lined up outside a shop. Food shopping in Mexico often requires going to every store in town to get everything you need. This the third or fourth shop we visited in El Vergel.

Meat drying outside yet another general store; bags of 'carne seca' are available inside.

We leave El Vergel and turn off the highway again onto gravel roads. At some unmarked and unremarked place, we finally cross the state border from Chihuahua into Durango. This unnoticed moment, however, is something of a milestone – it has been six and a half weeks since we crossed the border into Mexico and we have only explored one state so far.

We are in remote mountains and logging is clearly an important part of the local economy. We stop by the road to camp and, in this instance, there is no need to search for firewood to warm us and to cook our dinner on; cut timber lies in piles all around us.

In the morning we set off, riding alongside an icy stream. The road is tough going with lots of steep rough climbs as we follow a ridge which runs by some of the highest peaks in the Sierra Madre. Logging trucks pass by in both directions, empty in the direction we are riding and piled high with precarious loads in the opposite direction. They throw up clouds of choking dust but on the down hill runs it is easy to overtake and outpace these vehicles, as they inch along pumping their noisy air-brakes.

We are back in the high mountains: an icy stream runs beside the road.

Logging trucks pass us on the road with impossible loads swaying side to side secured by a few flimsy straps.

The road unwinds slowly and as the going is tough we find it impossible to meet our target mileage. Eventually, we find ourselves camping in the snow on another anonymous mountain top, uncertain of exactly where we are.

Afternoon sunlight on the road...

...fades into evening on a mountain-top.

Morning brings more of the same but in the afternoon we finally top out and leave the forest. An expansive valley opens up before us and the road leads down into it.

Snow by the road as we set off again in the morning. (Photo: Jeff Volk.)

Jeff and Cass consult a local for directions.

These cattle guards present a serious road hazard for cyclists - their logic escapes me completely...

... but perhaps that is why there is a need for so many road side shrines.

Finally in the afternoon, we top out and an expansive valley opens up before us...

... and we are finally rewarded with a long descent in to the valley.

The descent takes us past an active silver mine, a hectic hive of frenetic construction activity, and then into the somehow slightly edgy town of Guanacevi, which I circle around for some time in the gathering dusk looking for the boys who, as usual, have been riding far ahead of me.

Eventually I find the guys and we leave town hurriedly to find a camp. We find an openable gate leading into a field where an emaciated, and probably doomed, puppy, quickly christened, Spot, joins us and snuggles up with Jason for the night.

But Spot turns out not to be our only visitor for the evening. Two army men creep silently into the camp from the brush, appearing suddenly out of the darkness into the circle of firelight in full combat gear. Clad in black balaclavas, helmets, jungle camouflage greens, big black boots and armed with knives, pistols and long assault rifles they cut quite menacing figures, which their surly attitude doesn’t soften at all.

“What are you doing here?” We explain.

“This is private land! You can’t camp here.” We offer to put out the fire and move but then they suddenly capitulate and tell us that it is OK.

Even so, while one man asks us questions – which range from the usual ones about our trip, to suddenly urgent enquires as to whether or not we are carrying drugs or arms, to positively outlandish queries – the other pokes around the camp shining his searchlight into tents and panniers until his batteries fail him. The conversation is slightly surreal: “Aren’t you scared?,” the spokesman asks; “Of what?” Jeff parries; “Cows!” is the surprising answer. Well, frankly, no… heavily armed men creeping into camp, perhaps – that is the thought that occurs to me.

Finally, they leave with a final warning to be careful of rattle snakes; creatures of which I have seen no trace in my journey, through not only Mexico, but also New Mexico and Arizona – as far as I know they are not particularly active in winter.

Rain falls during the night, necessitating a hasty pitch of the tent – these days, when I can, I prefer to sleep under the stars and the previous night the sky had been relatively clear. The morning brings rainbows and, unfortunately, also a stiff head wind which makes the eighty mile ride on the highway to Tepehuanes more punishing than it might have been otherwise.

We wake to a double rainbow arching over our camp.

Cass is a keen photographer who takes a mean picture. Here he jumps from his bike on the crest of a hill and drops to the ground in the middle of the road to snap me climbing the incline.

Riding on very windy days is my least favourite cycling scenario. I struggle along without really appreciating the beautiful countryside we are passing through as I am buffeted backwards and forwards across the road. The rocky walls alongside the road, however, house a number of religious figurines which attract my attention.

A cluster of road-side shrines.

Another odd roadside shrine.

Eventually we make it into Tepehuanes where after eight days of camping out and pretty tough riding we decide to treat ourselves to a night in a hotel and a good fish dinner.

A nice fish dinner in Tepehuanes...

...is quickly demolished.

In Tepehuanes, I finally decide to take action on my self-diagnosed giardia infection, a phenomeon which by now has been collectively christened “The Worm” by the group and makes me, at times, a less than desirable travelling companion. Luckily Mexico has a relaxed attitude towards self-medication and it is possible walk into any pharmacy and ask for pretty much whatever drug you please. So, after a little internet research, I choose my poison and for less than $2 I am soon armed with a course of Flagyl with which to enter into combat with “The Worm”.

We are not overjoyed to be back in Guachochi; it is a charmless town that most tourists probably don’t spend more that half an hour in, if that. However, we are waiting for Cass to return from the UK and the state of Jeff and Jason’s wheels means that there is no possibility of leaving town and meeting up with Cass further down the road.

We while away time restocking our food panniers and eating at our favourite Guachochi eateries. Pollo provides us with seafood treats at his restaurant and amuses us with intriguing anecdotes about life in Guachochi. He points out members of mafiosa and explains that the police and the mafiosa have to take it in turns to have lunch in his establishment. Incredibly, he informs us that one of his choice dishes, a spicy prawn soup, is flavoured with ant poo.

A soup with fresh raw and dried prawns in which one of the principal flavouring ingredients is, apparently, ant excrement. I thought it was pretty good, myself, although Jason and Cass were a little squeamish about it.

Pollo gives a bag of the ant poo seasoning for the road. A quick internet search reveals little information about this unexpected food ingredient but Pollo said the Tarahuama harvest the substance from the trees which a certain species of ants travel over. He insisted it was ant poo.

The local tortilleria’s machinery for turning out thousands of corn tortillas daily fascinates us.

The noise and smell in this place was incredible - a rattling, squeaking carcophany producing aromatic fresh corn tortillas. Yummy!

Piles of tortillas come churning out of the machine.

The staff at the tortilleria seemed as entertained by and as curious about us as we were by their tortilla hardware.

We find a burrito stand that has an excellent array of salsas and topping to add to burritos hot off an in-house tortilla press.

Jason waiting for his burrito. Burritos are excellent food for hungry cyclists and this place was stand out with top notch fresh tortillas hot off the tortilla press, stuffed full of tasty fillings, with an array of delicious salsas and toppings to add at will.

Salsa heaven.

When Cass finally arrives, the guys lose no time at all in starting to rebuilt their wheels. Our already crowded hotel room is transformed into a bike workshop. Cass, who knows almost everything there is to know about bikes, ingeniously recommends taping the new rim to the old one and moving the spokes across one by one, after gradually loosening the tension on them – a method that seems to work very well.

Wheel building workshop in the hotel room.

Putting the bikes back together in the cold windy hotel car park.

We finally set off from Guachochi, without many regrets, late in the afternoon, with all bikes in reasonable order. Our next major destination is Zacatecas, where our plans start to diverge. The boys, optimistically, in my opinion, think we might reach Zacatecas in a couple of weeks. However, Jeff, Jason and I have been dreaming about a hot spring near Guachochi we have heard rumors of and which has grown more and more fantastic in our imagination during our enforced stay in the town. The information we have been able to gain from local informants about the place has been vague, confusing and contradictory but we are determined to visit it, even though we believe it to be around 20 to 25 kilometres off route.

We camp by the highway the evening we leave Guachochi and hope to reach the hot spring the following day but, as often happens in Mexico, things turn out a little more complicated.

Thirty-five kilometres from our campsite, we turn off the highway onto an unmarked gravel road which we are told will take us to the springs but we still have no idea exactly how far away they are. The road turns out to be somewhat more difficult than expected and each person we stop to talk to, as we ride, tells us a greater distance when we enquire how much further we have to go. It starts to seem rather Alice in Wonderlandish, in that the more energy we expend trying to get there the further away we end up being.

A Tarahumara family on the road. The road leads through a series of small Tarahumara settlements. The indigenous Tarahumarans are extremely camera shy and very wary and uncommunicative with outsiders.

We appreciate being back on dirt...

...but there are lots more steep rough surfaces to deal with...

...which even has Jeff pushing in places - a rare sight.

A cowboy trains his horse in the field.

We ride and ride and ride and as darkness falls we are still uncertain of exactly where the springs are and of when we might expect to arrive. We get lost in the dark amongst a confusing tangle of unmarked tracks connecting small settlements. The Tarahumara villagers stare at us but provide us with no coherent information, even where we manage to get them to respond to our inquiries at all.

Eventually we give up and camp in a field on top of a hill long after dark. The next morning we back-track slightly to confirm we are on the right track. We ask a cowboy, who seems convincing, and he assures us that we are only 4 or 5 kilometres away from our goal and so we continue, returning past last night’s campsite, and ride down a steep rugged gorge. After about 12 kilometres, we finally reach our destination.

The road goes on and on...

Eventually we hit paved road again at Samachique, where we are supposed to meet Jason, Jeff’s brother who has been holidaying on the coast. We have only made 150 kilometres of ‘forward’ progress over the last three weeks but nonetheless we are exhausted and a day late. Jason is nowhere to be seen and so we decide to continue towards Guachochi in the hope of finding him there. There is still climbing to be done and over 90 kilometres to cover. We camp by the highway and the night-time temperature falls well below zero. On the highway, Jeff’s rim suddenly develops a frightening bulge.

Despite all this, we manage to arrive in Guachochi and find Jason on the entry into the rather bleak township. Food is foremost on everybody’s mind and so we go in search of something to eat.

The brothers reunited.

Our first stop at El Rey de Tacos is unsatisfactory since neither Jeff or Jason eat meat and nothing else is on offer. I throw down a few indifferent burritos and we move on. Eventually are rewarded with the discovery of a seafood restaurant which more than satisfies all our expectations. Not only does the small establishment serve excellent fresh seafood but Pollo, the proprietor, becomes our firm friend, for what turns out to be an extended stay in Guachochi.

Prawn soup.

Pollo, our best friend in Guachochi. He feeds us excellent food and provides us with a mountain of information on diverse subjects.

We meet a few of the local cyclists outside Pollo's restaurant which becomes one of our favourite haunts in Guachochi.

Once our hunger is assuaged we go in search of accommodation. We find a cheap hotel which provides us with a room with three huge beds and since the heating doesn’t work bed turns out the best place to be.

We find a hotel which provides us with a room with three huge double beds.

Jeff starts a new sewing project - another small frame bag for his bike.

Guachochi doesn’t have a lot going for it but given the state of Jeff’s rim a quick escape is not on the cards. Jason discovers, by some strange co-incidence, that his rim is also damaged and after a fruitless expedition to the local bike shop the guys send frantic emails to Cass in the UK asking him to bring back new rims with him on his return. It transpires that getting hold of quality rims is going to take Cass some time but luckily he is happy to delay his return to Mexico in order to organise it.

Faced with the prospect of at least a week in Guachochi, we try to work out what we can do in the area that will keep us amused during this time. We decide on a hike in the Sinforasa Canyon but the fact that Jeff is now without transport makes it a trifle difficult. The canyon is about 20 kilometres out of town and after an abortive attempt to borrow a bike we decide to simply walk to the trailhead, even though 20 kilometres is a lot further by foot than on a bike.