The low road follows the river for a while, and here and there it rolls alongside the railroad tracks. But the real fun to be had along this stretch are the water crossings.
The first of the five we encountered was the biggest. About 25 feet across, and maybe 18 inches deep, it was one of the aspects of this adventure that had made me the most apprehensive. And I could see why Justin saved it for the end of the trip, when whatever experience we had gained during the week could be brought to bear.
The water was muddy enough to obscure the bottom, so we had no idea what sort of rocks or mud or other obstacles might be waiting for us down there. And since we rode far enough apart to keep from riding in each other’s dust, by the time I arrived at the edge of the water, three of the others had already made it across unscathed. A good sign, I thought.
I approached the water carefully. But I knew (in theory, anyway) that keeping the throttle on is the best way to make it across uncertain terrain. You don’t want to get halfway across a stream, or a patch of sand, and chicken out. You’ll go down for sure. So I smoothly gassed it, and kicking up a big wake, powered my way to the other side. Hoo hoo! Now that was a blast!
I knew I had to get a photograph of that, so I gave Bill my camera and after a few quick pointers on how to use it, wheeled around to cross again. Once back on the other side, I turned around, and with a little more throttle this time to make an even better display, gunned it across the water.
Big time fun! But my camera had been set up wrong, or my instructions were bad. In any case, no pictures. I knew that I would be really pressing my luck if I crossed again. But I just had to have those pictures.
So I made double sure the camera was set up right this time. And Bill said he knew exactly what to do. Then I plowed back in for another go. And this time it all clicked, so to speak. Of course, by then I was pretty well soaked from going back and forth. But I had that all-important documentation, and as a bonus, el chivo was cleaner than he had been since crossing the border.
Washing El Chivo
The four remaining crossings were a pretty anticlimactic after that. A couple of them were little more than puddles, really. And before long we were back in Posada Barrancas, airing up our tires for the long ride back to the border.
We stopped briefly in Creel to load Justin’s bike back into the truck. And I spent the time to trying to take some slack out of my clutch cable. There had been an increasing amount of stickiness to my shifts during the past few days, and a couple of times the clutch hadn’t completely disengaged when I changed gears. So I was beginning to get a little concerned about an impending problem with my clutch. But this adjustment seemed to take care of that.
Bill’s rented bike broke down on the road to Gomez Farias. But Justin caught up to him in the truck, and rather than try to diagnose and fix the problem, they just swapped Justin’s bike out of the truck and Bill showed up in Gomez Farias just minutes after I did. And I was riding like a bat out of hell that day.
That night we were back at the same motel we had slept in on the way down. And dinner there was a happy time. We all had had a great adventure, and what was once a bunch of strangers was now a good group of friends. Too soon we’d all be back in our own separate lives.