Divisadero Overlook
After a long stop for pictures we rode a little further to Posada Barrancas, where the dirt began again. And from there it was a fairly level stretch into Cerocahui, except for one or two mild grades.
We regrouped near one of them, a little downhill slope just before a fork in the road. And that’s where I took a spill. Just a little bit too much front brake on loose gravel. Nothing spectacular, almost a parking lot tip-over. No damage to the bike, or to me, if you don’t consider my damaged ego. But damn! I had hoped I’d make it through the whole ride without going down. And there I was, sheepishly dusting myself off.
Still, as I reflected on it later, I figured that if that were the worst thing to happen to me on this trip, I would have to consider myself pretty lucky.
Justin’s lodge outside of the village of Cerocahui is a simple place, with six cinder block rooms, each with its own modern bathroom. It’s set in a beautiful little spot, with a wide creek right across the road, and plenty of nearby trails to explore. His wife Oralia, and his two little girls (and three dogs) met us as we rode up, and made us feel welcome. And though it was still fairly early in the day, most of us just planted our butts in the chairs on the veranda and spent the rest of the afternoon idly passing the time, reading, playing with the dogs, and watching the shadows lengthen.
Cerocahui Lodge
Dinner was cooked up by Oralia and her aunt and mother, and was both delicious and ample. No one was going to starve on this trip. And that night I slept like a log.
Urique canyon was our destination the next day. Justin had told us that the ride down was going to be more challenging than the Batopilas canyon. The altitude loss was about the same, as was the distance. But the road was narrower, and less well maintained, and meeting any oncoming traffic was going to be even more exciting.
We rolled into the village of Cerocahui first to see the old Jesuit church there. And then motored out of town and over a mesa to the first overlook. The view from there was the most stunning yet, and Justin told us that he and his wife got themselves hitched right there, surround by friends and family. It seemed an awesome place to get married—God’s own cathedral.
Urique Canyon
From there the road angled steeply downhill. There were fewer switchbacks on this descent, but it was steeper, and much rockier than what we had encountered on the way to Batopilas. I carefully feathered the brakes, and crept slowly around turns, keeping the engine in first gear all the way down. In fact I never got into second until I reached the gate at the edge of the town. I wasn’t going to be breaking any speed records on that run. But I had made it down without falling.
As was the case in Batopilas, it was much hotter at the bottom of the canyon than at the top, and we escaped the heat by ducking into a small restaurant with a cool garden patio for lunch.
It’s hard for me to imagine how a town can prosper with such a grueling access road, but Urique seemed to be doing just fine. And lunch, as were all the meals on this trip, was delicious.
I did manage to get out of first gear on the way out. But I don’t think I ever made it to third. Still, even at that slow pace, it was a thrill riding those treacherous roads among such spectacular scenery. Of course, I did have to stop every time I wanted to admire it, since at all other times my attention was focused about 20 feet in front of me.
Climbing Out
That night we had another great dinner at the lodge, and I stuffed myself trying to replenish all of the calories I had burned wrestling the pig up and down those canyons. And it occurred to me that in honor of its accomplishments, my motorcycle should no longer be considered a pig. Because a pig could never do what it had done. No, from now on, it was a goat. A fat goat perhaps, but definitely a goat. El chivo gordo.