Of course, my #1 rule of traveling in groups was foremost on my mind as we all met for dinner that night: Every group of travelers will include one asshole, and its corollary: If you can’t tell who the asshole is, then it’s probably you. But no one emerged as an early candidate, which I took to be a positive sign. Of course that meant that things weren’t looking too good for me.
We included two couples from California, Ed and Chia, and Doug and Linda; there was Charlie from St. Louis, Bill from Boston, and me. Our guide Justin Lopez helped us unravel all of the border-crossing red tape before we gathered in downtown Douglas for dinner, and as we ate we began the delicate process of getting to know each other, and finding out just who else might be loopy enough to want to do this motorcycle trip.
Dinner in Douglas
Except for Charlie and me, the others were riding Kawa-saki KLR650s, probably the most ideal bike for a trip such as this; rugged, reliable, simple, and relatively light. Charlie was riding a Suzuki DR650, perhaps slightly more dirt-oriented than the KLR, and I was on my big pig, a BMW R1100GS.
The BMW, although it has some off-road capability, is much too heavy to be considered a true dirt bike. Frequent readers of these trip reports know just how painfully aware of this I am, so I had emailed the owner of the company, Ricki Rosen, to inquire if any others had successfully made this trip on a bike similar to mine. She assured me that others had. But she also cautioned that many of them had gone down on their bikes, and that it would be wise to consider the possibility that I might do the same. These were going to be bad roads, she said; steep, gravelly, and poorly maintained.
Hey, what’s the worst that could happen?
Anyway, early the next morning we rolled out of Douglas, crossed the border into Sonora and then headed east and then south into Chihuahua. Our route took us across rugged, high desert terrain with some fine, twisty roads before dropping down onto rolling farmland. The small towns we zipped through seemed fairly prosperous, with late model trucks parked alongside the highway, and the bustle of commerce.
Crossing into Chihuaha
Justin drove a 4wd truck with our gear, and gave us instructions where to meet and which way to turn at each major highway junction. But we all rode at our preferred pace in between.
In Gomez Farias we stopped for the night at a pleasant roadside motel. High spirits ruled after our first day on the road, and dinner was lively, as we all got more comfortable with each other. Of course, the beer might have helped some as well.
Gomez Farias Motel
While we were finishing dinner in the restaurant, a group of about 15 riders pulled into the motel’s big courtyard. They were from another company’s tour, on their way home after a week in the canyon, and before turning in for the night we all spent some time talking to them and trying to get some idea of what we might expect in the week ahead.
One of them, also riding an R1100GS, had taken a spill that day, injuring his shoulder, and had a snugly Ace-bandaged ice pack to show for it. His bike had sustained some minor damage as well, though neither he nor it had been knocked out of commission. It was a patch of sand that had been his undoing, he told us. And though I noticed that he was riding on street tires, which had probably contributed to his fall, it did give me pause. Sand hates me.
But hey, I was committed now, right? (Or should be, I hear you say) In any case, the next morning we set out towards the west, and up into the part the Sierra Madre Mountains known as the Sierra Tarahumara, after the Indians who inhabit the region. Our first destination was to be Baseachi National Park, with its 800 ft. waterfall. The temperature dropped as we climbed higher into the mountains, and we rolled through pine-scented forests and past wind-carved, rocky outcroppings that reminded me much of parts of Utah and Colorado.
The roads on this section were a lot of fun to ride, twisty and well paved. There was some logging activity nearby, and every now and then we’d find ourselves stuck behind some smoke-belching log truck. But truck drivers in Mexico appear to be generally more courteous than ours, and they will flash their left turn signal to let you know when it’s safe to pass them. So we were never stuck for long.
We stopped at a little tourist center just above the falls and hiked down to its top for a great view and some photos. Then we huffed and puffed back up in the 8000 ft. air to a little restaurant for lunch before riding around to the other side of the canyon for an even better look at the falls, and more photos.
Baseachi Falls
From there we began our first section of dirt riding, a 60-mile shortcut into Creel, our destination for the day. Justin had told us that this would be a fairly easy stretch, sort of a warm-up for the rest of the week. And it was fairly easy. Other than the billows of dust we (and the lunatic drivers in pickup trucks) kicked up, it was a sedate ride. We rolled up and down over gentle grades, past remote ranchos with grazing livestock, and got chased by some wild-looking dogs that raced out to cut us off.
Here and there we slowed for indigenous Tarahumara wandering alongside the road. About 50,000 Tarahumara live in the mountains around the canyon, mostly as subsistence farmers. They are some of the few native peoples who managed to escape the Spanish invaders by retreating into the Sierra Madre, and have retained their traditions better than most.
Perhaps best known for their running prowess—hunting deer by running them to exhaustion—they call themselves the Rarámuri, which I’ve seen translated various ways: Those who run fast, foot runners, and my favorite, foot throwers. I never did see any of them running, but I did see many of them walking in some very isolated places, indicating that they had probably covered a great distance on foot.
Late in the afternoon we rolled into Creel and parked our bikes in the gravel courtyard of the Best Western Lodge. It’s a pretty place, with rows of log cabins, each with a gas fireplace and all the amenities. Substantially nicer than your average Motel 6, I saw no beetles of any nationality.
Creel Best Western
Unfortunately for me, the fireplace in my cabin wouldn’t light, the temperature dropped below freezing that night, and some neighboring drunks decided to sit out on their porch and howl what I imagine they thought were songs at 3 o’clock in the morning. Fortunately there were extra blankets in the room, and I made use of the ample supply of earplugs I always ride with. So I managed to stay warm and block out the “entertainment” well before the hotel staff eventually put a stop to it.