¡Qué Aventura! ¡Qué Aventura!

Creel to Guachochi, Mexico
2,688 km

Creel is the last major town before you enter the Parque Nacional Barranca del Cobre (Copper Canyon National Park). Here I took a room and unloaded the luggage from the motorcycle. In the afternoon I took a long hour’s ride along the corkscrew highway that follows the train tracks along and over and through the great canyon ridges. These are the tracks that run from Mazatlan on the coast to Chihuahua in the middle of the empty, mountainous northern country. That a train can run through these vast canyonlands is marvelous; it makes you think that maybe anything, anything at all, is possible.

The highway ends at a train stop. Here, at the train stop, there are artisans and souvenir vendors and women cooking and selling food. They come here because the train makes a stop here and also because there is a famous mirador (lookout) and tourists come to see the view. Here at El Divisadero on the northern rim of Barranca del Cobre, you can stand at a cliff’s edge, along a railing and a stone parapet and you can see as far south across the canyonlands as your eyes will let you. You see the rough, jagged slopes of rock and scrubland barreling into and away from each other, looking like the great, colliding waves of a storming sea frozen forever as earth and stone.

The next day I rode more than 150 kilometers of canyon highway from Creel on the north side of the Barranca del Cobre to Guachochi on the south side. The road was rough and meandering: hard corners, twisting as it rose and falling again according to the terrain, cutting through thick forests along the heights where the air was cool and smelled of earth and pine needles and, descending into the valleys, it was hot and dry and bathed in sharp sunlight. In one valley about halfway through the ride I stopped beside a bridge where the road crosses a river and I sat upon a boulder reading and resting and eating sunflower seeds and getting sunburned. Warm and sweating and skin becoming red and no shade anywhere, it was lovely here after so many days of cold.

In Guachochi I rode to the Sinforosa, which is the principal southern mirador as El Divisadero is in the north. It was 10 miles from the town to the lookout and the road was all dirt, rocky and potholed, and at one point I had to cross a large puddle which was thick with mud and sludge and I thought for sure that I would go down. This was my first time riding off of tarmac and it was not pleasant as dirt roads go. I rode slowly and looked straight ahead, avoiding large rocks and gravel and sudden dips in the road.

As I rode, gingerly and nervously, I thought about a story that a friend in Chile had told me. She had gone with her family to a pebbly beach in the south of the country with her family and they drove out onto the sand. There they saw a young American with a rented Jeep. He had got floundered in the pebbles and sand and had kept gunning the engine, which only drove him deeper in. Eventually he got help from a couple of local men with a pickup truck and they rigged a tow line and tried to use the truck’s torque to free the Jeep.

The American had a good attitude and saw it all as an experience. While the two men rigged the line, pulled from the pickup truck, and slowly reversed on the Jeep, the American had his camcorder out. He was circling the scene and filming and smiling and saying over and over again: “Qué aventura! Qué aventura!” (What an adventure! What an adventure!). Some time passed and the Jeep was not freed and the American lifted his gaze from the camcorder aperture and saw that all during the ‘adventure’ the tide had been rising up the shore. The last “Qué aventura!” was only half uttered when he made this realization and now he began repeating different words: “Oh, fuck! Oh, fuck! Oh, fuck!” Now he was no longer filming and he was helping push the Jeep. Only now there wasn’t time and the rescue had to be abandoned and the pickup moved further up the beach. The tide rose and flooded the Jeep and soon the strong, sidelong current knocked it loose from its moorings and swept it some ways down the coast.

I thought about this story as I rode, bumping and crashing into and over the uneven road, repeating to myself “Qué aventura! Qué aventura!” until finally I arrived at the mirador. There, after crossing a small cow pasture, I was alone at the lookout in the late afternoon. It was a wide concrete platform with a fenced metal rail, the cliff face tumbling down and away below. All around there was only wind and sky and what must certainly be some of the roughest, ruggedest canyon country to be found anywhere on the whole earth.

Motorcycle Trouble at the Edge of the Canyon

La Junta to Creel to Chihuahua to Creel, Mexico
2,481 km

The 90 kilometers of highway between La Junta and Creel cut through yellow plains, soon becoming rolling hills and canyonlands. Entering the canyonlands around Parque Nacional Barranca del Cobre (Copper Canyon National Park), the highway first began to meander and then corkscrew among rocky slopes and sharp ridges. It was good riding, great riding: the hard turning, the leaning, the looking through the present turn and into the next, the bike oscillating from this side to the other, like a pendulum, and me back straight and sitting vertically, arms locked, locking the steering, and leaning the bike into the turn and out of it, easing on the throttle going in and opening it up again coming out, me happy, would be smiling but for the concentration: perceiving, calculating, then doing. My fingertips were freezing under the leather gloves that were covered by electrical tape and duct tape to serve as an insulation, which did not work.

Creel is a small city on the edge of the national park. It has a downtown of a small square and a couple main streets that run parallel on both sides of the train tracks. The train tracks are those that run from Chihuahua between the two mountain ranges to Mazatlan on the coast, running though a hundred kilometers or more of the canyonlands in a marvelous feat of engineering.

I parked the motorcycle near the central plaza and took a stroll to see the town and look for accommodations. When I returned to ride the bike to the hotel where I had taken a room, she was reluctant to start and idled poorly, cutting out after exerting force to climb and slope. I parked the bike at the hotel and left the troubleshooting for tomorrow.

That night I ate dinner at a restaurant that was really the dining room of a family’s house. The mother served me Menudo because that is what she had prepared. Menudo, I learned, is a soup of beans, broth, and cow intestines. I did not much like it. While I forced myself to make a show of the eating, not enjoying it, the older daughter sat at the same table decorating Christmas stockings to be given to the children in her mother’s class – she is a school teacher when she is not running the restaurant. The younger daughter helped her little brother read a picture book about the Greek King Midas who wished that everything he touched would turn to gold and it did but he came to regret that wish. It was pleasant to watch them go about their evening business, me just being, listening, observing, not having to entertain or be entertained, no formality, no ceremony.

The next morning I tried to service the motorcycle. I had the Clymer manual and the small toolkit that comes with the bike. I cleaned the air filter with compressed air from the nearby gas station. I cleaned the fuel filter by running gasoline and then compressed air in a reverse flow. I also replaced a fuel hose, which cracked when I removed it to remove the fuel tank. This helped but did not solve the problem. The carburetors were gummed up and I didn’t know anything about carburetors.

I considered having the bike shipped to a Yamaha shop in Chihuahua, not knowing if to ride the bike would cause problems or find me stranded along the highway. I decided to risk it when the shipping service refused to let me ride along with the motorcycle.

So I rode to Chihuahua and the bike performed well enough to get me there. In Chihuahua I went to the Yamaha dealership and had a full tune-up done that same day. Uriel, the mechanic, cleaned the carburetors, which were fouled with water and dirt and rust; he changed the oil, and did all the things that you do during a tune-up. He treated me to lunch and gave me numerous motorcycle maintenance tips. He refused to accept a tip when I tried to give it.

The next day, now day 11 of the trip, I was back in Creel, the motorcycle humming nicely: idling calmly, steadily, and running strongly.

I am Cold and I Despair

Janos to La Junta, Mexico
1,726 km

After taking a fall at the highway turnoff I continued on to the ruins of Casas Grandes. The ruins were spread across a rolling field and looked like a labyrinth only the you can see easily over the crumbling stone walls, which are the color of the desert.

That afternoon the sun broke through the thick gray clouds and it was sunny and my spirits raised. It was still cold but the desperate chill was gone. That night I stayed in San Buenaventura. A small parade of school children and their parents passed along the street while I sat eating dinner. There were figures dressed as saints and a group of red frocked drummer boys beat time, mostly together, as the rearguard of the procession.

That night, alone in my hotel room, bundled against the cold that seeped into the room through every tiny crack and broken seal, I despaired about this trip. Alone and on a motorcycle and to start in the very middle of winter! Eventually sleep brought relief but until then I was cold, I was alone, and I was bewildered.

The cold broke early in the morning for a few hours but soon, riding at high speed along an open highway that cut through yellow, bush-covered flatlands and undulating hills, flanked by taller hills and then by mountains, the sun disappeared, it grew cold again, and my fingers began to freeze. I pulled over and had an idea. I wrapped the fingers of my gloves with electrical tape and duct tape, hoping that this might reduce the wind chill that was making my fingers so miserable. It looked funny and it didn’t work.

In the early afternoon I arrived in Cuauhtémoc. Cuauhtémoc is in a region of the state of Chihuahua that is dotted with Mennonite settlements. The Mennonites came from Germany in the 1800s and 1900s after first migrating to Canada. They’re very industrious and have drawn great productivity from the land. Many people really like their cheese but I didn’t think it was so great.

I decided not to stay in Cuauhtémoc as I had planned because it didn’t seem to me to have much charm besides a pleasant church. So I continued on. Only now it was early evening and the sun was getting very low and I didn’t find any hotels along the highway. It was late and very dark before I came into La Junta and found a reasonably priced hotel.

That night sitting cold and alone in my hotel room, I despaired again. I became very negative about the trip. My confidence was still shaken from the fall and I was ill-equiped for the cold, which was pushing me to the limits of my endurance. Traveling alone is always difficult at the onset. No matter how much of a loner you are it takes getting used to. Still, riding alone is always a pleasure: the solitude on the open road, the wind, and the strong hum of the engine gives a sense of freedom. But the cold makes everything difficult. It hollows you out, leaves you feeling empty. Bad thoughts are always the first to seep in where there is a vacuum.

Gravel Comes before a Fall

Agua Prieta to Janos, Mexico
1,409 km

After crossing the border at Agua Prieta I rode east then south on Federal Highway 2. Highway 2 is the western prong of a wishbone-shaped junction that connects with Ciudad Juarez in the east and then runs south to Chihuahua. It is a major trucking route and principal conduit for drug trafficking.

The highway first cut a straight line through a barren desert of scrubland surrounded by hills on all sides. Soon the highway rose into these hills and meandered along narrow ridges. In the distance I could see snow speckled mountains and before long I was in those mountains. These are the mountains of the Sierra Madre Occidental – the western of the two mountain ranges of the same name that run along almost parallel tracks in a southeastern course through the whole length of the country.

Here, among the mountains, the blue sky, clear and windy, became very cold. The riding went like this: you weave fast up the mountain road then, getting stuck behind a semi, you wait until the road opens so that you can pass, then you ride fast again, weaving, until you encounter another semi and must wait again. Then, soon, I was descending and it was warmer and the road became straight. Then it was totally flat and straight. Now the sun was low and the shadow of a man on a bike with a large pack stretched long ahead and to my left.

The two prongs of the wishbone meet Federal Highway 10 at Janos and from there go south towards Nuevas Casas Grandes and then Chihuahua. Janos, small and dusty, is a town of 2,000 inhabitants, of little note except that it is located at an important crossroads. I stayed the night there. I went to the nicest restaurant in town and spent $10 on dinner.

The next morning I woke up warm in my hotel room with the heater on. When I went outside the cold struck like needles. I was told that it had snowed very early in the morning. I wore everything I owned and even took the insoles out of my boots to wear two pairs of socks. My body was warm and bundled but the wind from the fast riding stuck my double-gloved hands and numbed my fingertips to the bone.

After a short time, I slowed to pull over. I came onto the gravel pull-off too fast and still breaking – an amateur move. My front tire lost traction and then my rear and the bike went over and I was thrown off. I tried to right the bike but my fingers were too numb and I was shaken by my first fall. It turns out I had stopped or ditched beside a small private school alone beside the highway. Two teenage boys saw me and almost immediately came to help. After we righted the motorcycle, the boys admired it and we commented on the cold. Soon they went back to class and, my hands now mostly thawed, I returned to the highway.

The Departure

Reseda, California, to Agua Prieta, Mexico
1,251 km

On November 30th I left Los Angeles. My starting point was the Panavision parking lot because it is where my mother works, so it was where to say goodbye to her. Also, it is where much of the preparation work on the motorcycle was done and I could not leave without thanking Dan Charleston, the Panavision Facilities Manager.

I left in the early afternoon and it was sunny, warm, and windy, riding east into the Palm Springs desert, where I took my first night’s rest. An easy warm-up ride. On the way there I stopped at Chaparral Motorsports in San Bernardino where I bought a few last minute things. I met an old biker in the parking lot. It was very windy and he was the only other person that I saw riding a motorcycle that day. He was thin and sinewy, gray was in his long hair and his handlebar mustache. He smoked cigarettes as we spoke.

“A bike trip – very cool, man. I was gonna take a cross country trip last year,” he said. “Was gonna meet a few women along the way that I met on the internet along. But it didn’t work out.”

That night I dreamed of someone from my past and I woke up wondering if the dreaming was the closing of a chapter or a leftover yearning, or if there is no closing of chapters and in fact no such thing as pages or chapters, only what you carry with you from one place to the next.

The next day I rode through the vast desert and the scrubland of eastern California and Arizona. I rode fast along the Interstate, more than 85 mph, the motorcycle humming, vibrating beneath me, the wind, the sun, and the music from my iPod, wondering if the planes that fly overhead and scan with their radars could see me on my motorcycle and if I would have a stack of speeding tickets waiting for me when, if, I return.

My next stop was Phoenix where I visited an old friend who is a doctor doing her residency there. She is lovely and beautiful and I never understand why she hasn’t a boyfriend but I blame it on her pickiness and on her being a dedicated doctor. We met another old friend for dinner and he is also a doctor. He was exactly as I remembered him from high school and that is a very good thing. We had a few drinks and we reminisced.

Later, after more drinks, I told the story about how, when I was working in the Superdome during the Hurricane, we had to move a 600 lbs. woman from the Superdome to the Arena where the Hornets play. There were two small maintenance vehicles to drive the non-ambulatory patients and we left her for last. Finally, when she was the last, we gathered together five of us and took positions. She was seated. One cradled her head and one was at each of her arms, one had her right leg, and I had the left. I took her by the ankle but it buckled when we tried to lift. So I brought my hands higher, above her knee, and, lifting again, my grip slipped upwards from the sweat and my hand penetrated into her labia, which was grossly enlarged and exposed below the Muumuu. It was warm, wet, and went deep. I gasped. I knew what I had done. She knew it too.

We lifted her onto the flatbed and, driving with one hand on the steering wheel, the other hanging limply, I drove the longest drive of my life from the Superdome across the overpass to the Arena. We left her on the flatbed because the army cots were not sturdy enough. I bolted looking for a bathroom, only now, three days after the storm, the power was out and there was no water pressure. I went from bathroom to bathroom until I found a facet that gave a trickle, a precious trickle! I loaded my hand with liquid soap and scrubbed, and scrubbed. And scrubbed.

After Phoenix was Tucson to visit my cousin who is also a doctor and also doing her residency. She had just broken up with her boyfriend and we talked about that and about doctor stuff. That night I stayed up late to write my Will and my Power of Attorney for Health Care. Then, lying sleepless in bed I thought about how tomorrow I would be in Mexico and what would I do if my bike were stolen along with all my things. It took a long time to calm myself and, when I finally did, there were only a few hours left before the sun would come up.

I had had a great visit with my old friends and my cousin but that day, riding in the pale sunlight and the warm air, south towards the border, I was ready not to talk about boyfriends or especially about anything related to doctoring for a while! On the way to the border I stopped in Tombstone and I took a photo of my motorcycle in front of the O.K. Corral. Then on to Bisbee, which is far more picturesque: nestled within a canyon, narrow streets and pretty storefronts. In Douglas I stopped at the post office to mail my Will and Power of Attorney. The postal clerk knew each person that walked in, addressed them by name, and knew whether to speak in English or in Spanish. It was a curious thing, something that you figure exists somewhere in the world but that you have never seen before and never expected to see or certainly be part of.

Crossing the border was very easy. On the Mexican side I parked in a dirt lot. There was a security guard with a uniform and a sidearm, slouching in a small chair, one leg bent and the other extended out, drowsy under the midday sun. I secured a lock to the motorcycle’s disc brake and fixed a cable from the fork to a steel pole. Inside the customs office there was no line, no migrants, no rush, and almost no movement. I explained what I wanted to do; the paperwork was done; the fee for the vehicle permit was paid; and suddenly I was outside, the sun on my face, warm but not hot, a breeze, and then stillness. Oh shit! Now what?

I hate to stereotype – don’t we always say ‘I hate to do this or that’ immediately before we go on to do exactly what we say we say we hate to do? Anyway, I hate to stereotype but Agua Prieta is exactly what you think of when you think of a northern Mexican town: small, wind-swept and dusty, few signals and no street signs, a place to pass through on your way somewhere else. I rode through it quickly – stopping only to determine which way was south – and soon was on Federal Highway 2 headed towards Chihuahua.