We rolled south for about 50 miles to get to the dirt road that would take us down into Batopilas Canyon, one of the nine canyons that make up the Copper Canyon area. And those 50 miles were a pleasant surprise, to say the least.
I had expected to have fun on the dirt, but I can say without hesitation that I have never ridden a finer road, nor have I ever had more fun on a motorcycle than I did that morning. Up and down we sped, one hairpin followed by a 270 degree sweeper, followed by a chicane, and then another hairpin, then a tricky, decreasing radius turn with an off-camber slope, and so on, for 50 miles. I never really had a chance to look at the scenery, or to catch my breath on a long straightaway and say, “Wow, that was great!” because another corner was coming right up. I swear, whoever designed that road must ride a motorcycle.
And what was almost as surprising to me was how well my knobby tires were sticking to the asphalt. I had expected a little vagueness with them on, a little insecurity. But I was soon thrashing the bike around corners as hard as I do on street tires, having one hell of a good time.
Doug in the Twisties
And then it was all over way too soon. We had reached the turn-off to the dirt road. Had I been by myself, I could have very happily ridden back to Creel and done it all over again right there. But I consoled myself with the knowledge that we would get to ride it again the very next day. And in any case, the meat of the trip was about to be served.
We lowered the pressure in our tires to maximize their grip in the dirt, and headed off toward the Batopilas Canyon. The first section was fairly flat and easy. But after about 10 miles or so we reached the edge of the canyon, and after a quick pause for pictures, began our descent down to the Batopilas river.
Batopilas Canyon
From the overlook to the bottom of the canyon, about 9 miles, a traveler will descend 5000 feet. The road is fairly well graded, but it’s narrow, steep, and when you meet oncoming traffic it can be a real tight squeeze. And some of that oncoming traffic had a tendency to be coming on at an uncomfortably high rate of speed, and around blind corners. So you had best be in a position to avoid them before you can see them, and on their uphill side, if possible. Plus, the switchbacks, and there are about a billion (No really, a billion!), are tight and covered with dust, sand and gravel, making them tricky on a bike as heavy as mine. And if all that isn’t enough, there’s that sudden, loooooong drop off to one side. An E-ticket ride, no doubt about it.
The Road Down
But I managed to make it all the way down to the truss bridge over the river without mishap, as did the rest of us, and after a brief pause we rode, skirting the south side of the river, the rest of the way down into the little town of Batopilas.
Crossing the River
Batopilas is an old copper mining town, and because of its early wealth, was the second town in Mexico, after Mexico City, to get electricity. It’s a pretty place, strung out along the river, with snug little houses next to ornate haciendas, with a town square built around a wrought-iron gazebo.
As we rolled into town, strange-looking mutts (Picture this: a Basset Hound body with a German Shepherd head!) chased us and little kids emerged from doorways to try to give us high-fives. Some of them didn’t really grasp the throttle/clutch hand thing, and tried to slap my throttle (right) hand. I accommodated them the best I could, but it was hard to maintain the necessary slow speed and at the same time reach out with my right hand. And I was loath to drop the bike in front of so many spectators. Not that I’m ever eager to do so.
Our hotel was a cozy place, with a fountain and a couple of mango trees nestled in a small courtyard, and after securing our bikes we plopped into chairs in the shade to bask in the glory of our first challenge met. And to drink some beer, of course.
The Crew at the Hotel
After dinner at a nearby restaurant I wandered around the town a bit, taking pictures and enjoying the warm Sunday evening.
The River at Sunset
Our first destination the following morning was the Lost Cathedral of Satevó. I’m not quite sure why it’s called the lost cathedral, because we found it quite easily, about five miles down river. Perhaps it’s considered lost because its origins are lost to historians. And it’s not much of a cathedral either, for that matter, more like a small, well-restored church. In any case, the road down to it was a rutted stretch of caked mud and loose gravel.
Lost Cathedral of Satevó
We paused for a quick look at the church and then Justin informed us that we’d be riding a different, somewhat longer “fun” road back into town before heading up and out of the canyon.
This “fun” road started out heading sharply uphill, with tight switchbacks and some of the same rutted, caked mud we had encountered coming in. But soon it dissolved into a steep, narrow track of sharp, egg-sized rocks, in some places six or eight inches deep. I almost bogged down several times, but managed to extract myself by applying power smoothly.
Then, after one particularly severe switchback, where I couldn’t maintain enough speed to get around cleanly, I hit the throttle too hard and found myself fishtailing violently toward the steep drop-off on my left.
Barely managing to wrest enough control of the bike to slow to a stop, I put out my left leg right at the edge of the road. Fortunately my boot found a solid grip somewhere in the deep gravel, and though I struggled for a few seconds to keep the heavy pig from tipping over the edge, I stayed upright. But getting going again proved impossible. I gassed it several times, easing the clutch out slowly, but all I could seem to do was dig myself a deeper hole. Hmm, time for Plan B.
Gingerly, I dismounted and gunned it again, hoping that by getting my weight off the bike and by pushing on the handlebars I could extract myself. But that failed too. I was just spraying gravel all over the place. And so I stood there panting in the heat, with no Plan C.
Just then, and to my great relief, Doug came rolling around the corner. He rode up a bit past me, parked his bike and jogged back down to see if he might help get me unstuck. By pushing together we managed to get my bike out of the deepest scree, and I remounted and plowed on all the way to the top of the hill, where I was met with applause from the others who had made it up ahead of me. Apparently it had been no picnic for them either, and they weren’t at all sure that the big pig and I were going to make it through that rubble. Neither was I, for a while there.
After catching my breath, I made Justin swear on all that was holy to him that nothing worse was in store for the rest of the ride, and once reassured, we mounted up and rode back down the other, much easier side of the hill back into Batopilas.
From there the trip back out of the canyon really was fun, partly due to a developing confidence in my skills on the dirt, and partly due to the fact that going uphill is much easier on a bike as heavy as mine. Going uphill, Mr. Gravity is my friend.
Bill Roosters out of the Canyon
In no time at all we were back at the top of the canyon, airing up our tires, and back on that wonderful 50 miles back into Creel.
I’m always amazed at how smooth my riding seems to feel after a stretch of dirt riding. Maybe it’s the transition from loose to solid ground. Maybe I’m just imagining things. But whatever it is, I made the most of it, flying along, having the time of my life.
That night my room had a working heater, the drunks were gone, and I managed to get a phone call through to Vilma—life was good!