Zacatecas - a bustling lively town, with great markets.

Victor lives near the centre of town in a tiny semi-derelict house. Amazingly, the limited space Victor has at his disposal doesn’t prevent him from unquestioningly offering four cyclists accommodation. Victor is a member of one of Mexico’s only reggae bands and his house appears to be something of a hub of alternative social activity in Zacatecas. The main room downstairs houses a drum kit and equipment for band practice.

Once our four bikes and all our gear are also installed there is little room for anything or anyone else. Victor gives up his tiny bedroom to accommodate us and goes to sleep at a friend’s house while the four of us squeeze in where we can, spreading out our sleeping maps on the bare concrete floor. I opt for bedding down in the closet. When the morning reveals that the bathroom doesn’t boast running water, Cass is the first to crack and flees for a hostel.

Victor, our first couch surfing host, in his student digs.

Jeff, Jason and I spend a day exploring the bustling markets around the centre and then wander up to La Bufa, the hill overlooking town, to investigate a museum on the history of the Mexican Revolution. The photos are fascinating but I leave without feeling I understand much more of this confusing episode in Mexican history.

Pancho Villa: Viva la Revolucion!

A girl in the market attracts Jeff's attention. She is selling an intriguing array of products to address any number of ailments and problems...

... including an odd collection of herbal teas.

After another night with Victor, Jeff and I opt to move in with another couch surfer for a few days, in the suburbs between Zacatecas and Guadalupe. Monica, and her daugher Andrea, generously put us up in their very comfortable home, where there is ample outdoor space for us to do some much needed maintenance work on our bikes and repair various items camping gear. There is also a sewing machine that Monica kindly has repaired and  Jeff dedicates a couple of days to finishing his frame bags – a ongoing series of sewing projects that started back in Silver City.

The days at Monica’s are very well spent but after a short time in the suburbs we are keen to meet up with Jason and Cass in Zacatecas again.

The aspirations of the middle-class in Mexico.

The dirtbag gang is reunited at Hostel Villa Colonial, a relaxed hostel overlooking the cathedral, but Zacatecas marks the end of an era – my way diverges here from that of the rest of the gang; the boys are keen to strike out for the coast and I am heading towards Puebla.

The view of the cathedral from the roof of the hostel...

... and a detail of the hectic facade.

Cowboys in town - Zacatecas is still cowboy country but it is, apparently, something of a border zone and further south the culture starts to change.

Zacatecas is a town of curiosities.

So, after another day or so organising themselves, Jeff, Jason and Cass head off toward Guadalajara and I am left alone in the hostel dormitory. The next day heavy rains fall and I stay a few extra days in Zacatecas, contemplating my future as a solo traveller again.

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.

On Sunday morning we set off with about twenty-five Cocono riders on a on a day ride on local jeep track. Jorge Luis lends me a bike with suspension forks for the expedition and I am keen to try it out as my rigid forks make for a pretty bouncy ride on rough roads: a fact I am painfully aware of after the last seven months riding. It transpires that I am the only woman present in the group.

A short break in which at least half a dozen punctures are mended. Thorny vegetation is tough on tyres.

Jason, Jeff and I enjoying the sunshine - the temperature range here in the mountains is considerable - during the day it is warm but the nights are still very chilly.

We stop for a meal on the way back into town where we are treated to lunch by one of the riders; Mexican hospitality is such that, somewhat embarrassingly, our meals often end up getting paid for when we are in company.

Back at Jose Ramon’s family compound in the afternoon we attend to various maintenance tasks before being whisked off by Jorge Luis for a tour of the town and dinner.

Jeff and Jason are DIY guys; much of their camping and biking gear is hand-made. Jeff is constantly on the lookout for a sewing machine and Jose Ramon's wife provides one for him here. Jason is repairing his back-pack and Jeff is working on ongoing series of frame-bag projects.

The Cocono’s have brainstormed a route for us towards Zactecas on dirt roads and Jose Ramon offers to guide us and act as a support vehicle for the first section of the trip, carrying all our baggage for us in his 4WD.

So, on Monday morning, we set off early unburdened by our panniers and hit the dirt after a short breakfast stop at OXXO. OXXO is a ‘modern’ US style grocery chain that sells ordinary products at twice the price of local aborrotes. Despite this OXXO seems to exert an unhealthy fascination on otherwise enlightened Mexicans and constitutes one of my least favourite shopping experiences. Again, Jose Ramon refuses to let us pay for our own breakfast goodies.

Jose Ramon with the "support vehicle" outside OXXO. Note the practically luggage free bikes.

The road, scenery and weather are all perfect and riding an unburdened bike is an unaccustomed luxury so the morning passes delightfully.

Glorious dirt road through the mountains.

We return to the highway after twenty-five kilometres of superb riding, where we reload the bikes and say our goodbyes to Jose Ramon.

Looking back the way we came.

Reloading the bikes.

After a short section riding on pavement, we turn off the highway again and take a road that leads through a series of Mennonite communities, one of Mexico’s more surprising and bizarre phenomenon. The Mennonites, invited to Mexico by President Alvaro Obregon in 1922 on the condition they provided the northern states with cheese, live in closed communities and are not even actually Mexican citizens: they don’t hold Mexican passports, are exempt from military service, speak Low German as their mother-tongue, attend their own schools and are governed by their own laws.

Their conservative but distinctive dress and life-style make the Mennonites striking figures in the Mexican landscape. We ride along with the repeated image of a woman standing, either raking a spotless farmyard or doing laundry by hand, in a flowing floral dress and a straw bonnet with long sashes appearing before us. The men, dressed in cotton overalls and cowboy hats drive into the townships in their pick-up trucks but the women have little contact with the outside world. When we ride into a Mennonite farmyard to ask for directions, driven as much by curiosity as our need for information, the woman stand silent and abashed, unable to speak Spanish, until a man comes to ask us what we want.

A Mexican village scene - a drunk and couple of Americanised kids in animated conversation with Cass and Jason - ...

... in contrast to the austere neat and eerily absent Mennonite communities with their retiring inhabitants.

The afternoon’s riding doesn’t live up to the expectations raised by the perfect morning, intriguing though the Mennonite communities are. We get lost while zig-zagging inefficiently over flat, sandy, corrugated roads and when we reach the highway again, at dusk, we discover that we have ridden over fifty kilometres but only made about twenty-five kilometres forward progress towards Canatlan where our Santiago friends have rung ahead to alert the biking community of our impending arrival. Clearly we will not arrive in Canatlan tonight and our disposition is not improved by the bleak camping prospects offered on either side of the busy highway. We duck behind a mound of earth that shields us from the view of passing traffic and set up our tents in a blighted dying orchard.

Ghetto camp by the highway in a dead orchard.

Breakfast - corn tortillas toasted over the fire. Grey clouds and a persistent wind bode ill for the day.

Dawn is grey and bleak and by the time we reach Canatlan it is raining heavily. We ring Genaro, our contact, and he gives us directions to his business, a parts shop for motor-vehicles. Genaro is the president of the local mountain club and he enthusiastically shows us photos and videos of local cycling events as we pass the wet afternoon sitting in a store-room across the road from his shop chatting to a variety of people who come to marvel at us and question us, in detail, about our various journeys.

The dirtbag gang with Genaro outside his parts shop.

Genaro absolutely outdoes himself in the hospitality stakes: he not only treats us to a fine seafood lunch but insists on putting us up in a hotel for the night, despite our vigorous protests. In the evening, after taking us to the town plaza where we are plied with free tamales and champurrado* in celebration of some national holiday, Jenaro rides us to the hotel in rain and presents us with a jar of preserved peaches and a bottle of tequilla to get us through the stormy night.

Jeff and Jason leaving the hotel.

In the morning it is still raining but, by way of comfort, we have an invitation to breakfast on gorditas* at Gordiatas Plaza, an establishment run by three sisters and their mother. One of the sisters, who came to talk to us yesterday, is a sadly rare example of the female Mexican cyclist. Unfortunately, she has had a recent accident and so is currently off the road.

After an extended, free, all-we-can-eat gordita session, as the rain eases, we decide it is time to head off to cover the 70 odd kilometres to Durango where yet more members of Mexico’s cycling community are awaiting our arrival.

Treated to breakfast at Gorditas Plaza.

Gorditas - one of my favourite Mexican culinary delights.

Three sisters help out their mother at the gordita shop - second from the right is the cyclist.

We pass by Genaro’s shop again where we spent some time trying to organise ourselves sufficiently to leave. Cass and a persuasive street vendor selling cowboy hats almost convince me to join the crowd and buy one but I feel a little overburdened by my belongings as it is. Jason whiles away a few moments strumming on his mini-guitar as we wait for three local riders who have decided to escort us some distance out of town.

The hat man - I should have bought a hat from this guy.

Jason whiles away a few moments before we leave playing a tune on his mini bike-tour-sized guitar.

We finally get underway and ride on the highway through the afternoon, cursing the traffic, the roadworks and the wind, before arriving at Durango just as the sun is setting. In Durango, our first stop is at Pancho’s bike workshop where we lose no time in making some minor repairs to bikes and bike gear. Pancho then bustles us into his truck, two comfortably in the cabin and two less comfortably in the rather chilly tray, and whisks us off to a bike meeting at a hamburger restaurant to which he has strategically invited a couple of local couch-surfers who he hopes will put us up, without, it seems, informing them of his intentions. However, we clearly pass muster because Frida and Jorge Luis only hesitate a second or two before extending a warm invitation to four dirty, hungry, dirtbag cyclists to stay with them in their central city apartment. When we finish our hamburgers and margaritas, sleep is foremost on everybody’s minds.

Meeting Frida and Jorge Luis.

Yoda, the other inhabitant of Frida and Jorge Luis' apartment.

We manage to get lifts back into the centre of Durango and find our way to the apartment. Once we manage to squeeze our bikes into the extremely limited space available in the entrance we all fall into various more or less makeshift beds – four people is a lot to accommodate at a moment’s notice.

I spend the next two days doing as little as I can and enjoying Frida’s company. It is the first opportunity I have had to spend time with another female in quite a while. The boys are rather more active and manage, among other things, to get themselves interviewed about the trip by a local television sports show presenter.

The boys get famous.

* Tamales are filled corn dough parcels steamed in corn husks; champurrado is a delicious Mexican hot chocolate drink; gorditas are small corn tortillas stuffed with tasty fillings such as roasted green chillies, beans, cactus, etc.

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.

An impressive array of hats - all with subtle differences which are largely invisible to the undiscerning eye.

Jeff tries one on for size...

...while Cass is drawn to the colourful array of boots. He spends considerable time pondering on their practicality as cycling footwear before somewhat reluctantly declining to buy a pair.

I find it a little hard to imagine somebody actually wearing these fancy numbers.

Finally, the boys exit the shop all sporting new head-wear whose stylishness, if not practicality, is absolutely guaranteed.

An astonishing style statement. (Photo: Jeff. Volk.)

Attractive though pointy cowboy boots may be, ultimately the boys all decide to stick with their more sensible cycling footwear but the pointy toes here belong to Abraham, a local mountain biker, who sees our bikes and seeks us out in hat shop.

The new items of attire allow for all sorts of fun.

Our antics, in a town that clearly doesn’t see a lot of tourists, attracts the attention of a number of locals. Abraham, a local mountain biker, sees our bikes lined up against the wall and seeks us out in the hat shop and, after much discussion of local routes, the intriguing possibility of riding along an abandoned train-line all the way to Durango is presented to us along with some useful contacts in Santiago, the next major town on our route.

A young girl, from the fish restaurant where we both dined and lunched, clearly impressed by our continuing presence in town, suddenly appears with gifts of key rings boasting clear plastic bubbles containing a real scorpion, the symbol of the state of Durango.

This girl gives us gifts of scorpion key-rings...

... and asks to have her photo taken with each of us in return.

Various people ply us with quiote, a fibrous sweet made from agave, sold on the streets. It is an acquired taste but one I definitely ending up being able to appreciate.

Quiote - a fibrous sweet made from agave. You take a bite, chew awhile and then spit the fibrous matter out. An aquired taste that took me a while to appreciate. (Photo: Jeff Volk.)

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”.

The springs are something of a disappointment, however. When we arrive we are confronted with a family group is sitting on the ground, next to some abandoned huts, graffiti covered and windowless. The family’s laundry is spread out to dry on bushes and trees, they have clearly been capitalising on the availability of running hot water.

We dip our fingers in the pools, ignoring the rubbish strewn about them, and decide that the water is probably tolerably warm. A little further exploration downstream reveals a magic waterfall tumbling into a warm rock pool. All in all, our feelings are mixed but after the effort exerted to get here there is no question of not spending the night here.

The pools are, unfortunately, surrounded by all manner of refuse.

These buildings were probably intended for a tourist trade that never eventuated.

The place nevertheless contains some magic: a steaming waterfall in a hidden grotto where the river, warm as bath water, tumbles over rocks down the canyon.

We set up camp and I, still feeling sick, collapse in a heap on the ground for a good part of the day. However, by evening all of us have spent at least some time in the warm pool. I feel somewhat daunted by the prospect of retracing our path over rough roads back to the highway the next day.

In the morning, while Jeff and Jason are still soaking in the pool, I set off early into a strong icy wind,  knowing that I will be slower than the guys.

Jeff and Jason in the pool. The spring is not super hot but it is a far better temperature than Recowata Springs, near Creel.

Cass catches up to me as I leave the canyon and we ride together for a while but when some pick-up trucks pass us, still feeling below par, I succumb to temptation and flag one down to beg a lift to the highway. The occupants of the truck are happy to oblige and load my bike into the tray where I sit next to it to secure it as we travel over the bumps and potholes.

Pig wandering across the field.

About 20 kilometres later, I am deposited on the highway at Bacariachi, a small village, a few miles from the turn-off we took two days before. The icy wind is still blowing strong and I try to find somewhere sheltered to wait for the guys to join me.

A sign indicating the distance to the hot spring: information that might have come in handy a little earlier. A 40 kilometres side trip is not one taken lightly.

I find a bench outside a building, fronting the highway, which is slightly sheltered by a wall, and sit down to eat some lunch. I have barely opened my food pannier when the door opens and a lady ushers me inside to eat. My benefactor offers me hot coffee while I make myself avocado burritos and I spend the next two or three hours sitting in this unexpected refuge waiting.

A refuge from the howling, icy gale outside.

This woman is a kindly soul who provides me with a warm place to sit and cups of coffee while I wait for the guys.

An injured chick also finds refuge in her kitchen.

When the guys finally arrive around 4 o’clock, we set off together down the highway and are treated to a long descent through glorious country-side into the township of Belleza, where we stop at dusk to restock our food panniers and then camp just out of town, next to the highway, in a little dry wash.

Twenty five kilometres of downhill riding through stunning country side is an unexpected gift.

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...

We arrive at the canyon lookout late in the afternoon and check out the scene.

The lookout affords a good view of the trail we will follow to the bottom of the canyon.

We hike down to a suspension bridge that marks the end of vehicle roads and camp for the night in a structure that was clearly built with a bigger tourist population in mind than is evident. We see no-one.

In the morning we set off, in earnest.

Missing planks make the suspension bridge slightly disconcerting.

Jason tackles it rather nervously ...

...followed by Jeff.

Our walk starts out in pine forest - over half the world's pine species are found in the Copper Canyon area.

But soon we start to descend into a magic realm of rivers, waterfalls, cactus and succulents.

Clear, cold water runs over smooth rock...

...collecting in freezing cold pools.

We head along an exposed walking trail that forms part of the route of an annual 100 kilometre marathon run.

I'd prefer to take it at a more sedate pace, myself. (Photo: Jeff Volk)

Plants cling to sheer rock walls...

...or squeeze themselves into the smallest of gaps...

A venerable fig tree wrapping itself lovingly around a boulder.

Days are short in the canyon but it is far warmer here than up above. Snow is predicted to fall in Guachochi over the next few days and clouds whizz by overhead.

We set up camp while we are still descending a side canyon.

We bed down, without the benefit of a tent, with the local wildlife.

I wake with nothing much but the sky above me...

...surrounded by towering rock walls.

Breakfast over the embers of last night's campfire...

...while the sewing project continues.

Once we get underway and continue walking more...

...and more intriguing vegetation appears...

...along with the odd sleepy cow.

The stream offers the unexpected gift of fresh water cress...

...which we harvest enthusiastically...

...before continuing through the tangled cactus.

Cactus and tree, intertwined.

We finally reach the main canyon...

...where we meet a group of four locals, fishing.

They are the first people we have seen in a couple of days.

We walk down river, crossing the tributary stream we have been following. The stream crossing results in a bit of impromptu bridge building...

...and as dusk falls and storm clouds gather, we ford the main river to reach a beach with some sheltering rocks on the other side where we set up camp.

The campfire...

...attracts some strange visitors.

Another day starts slowly...

...which we use to explore up river. (Photo: Jeff Volk)

We harvest some prickly pears to supplement our food supply with yet more wildfood.

The terrain is quite rough and contains various hazards...

... I end up in the water four times; twice by choice - and twice by accident. The water is icy and it's a cool day so by the time I return to camp at dark, in wet clothes, I am frozen to the bone. (Photo: Jeff Volk)

We start another day relaxing in the sun at our beach camp...

...before setting off down river to find our way back out of the canyon. We pass the ruins of homesteads...

...and even more terrifying suspension bridges - which thankfully we don't have to cross...

...before we finally, and somewhat reluctantly, climb back out of the canyon and back to the lookout at the top. (Photo: Jeff Volk)

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.