Copper Canyon - Traveling the railroad from El Fuerte to Divisadero on El Chepe
Posted by SurfMexico Editor

Tuesday, September 4th, 2001 - We Prepare to leave from El Fuerte, Sinaloa, Mexico

We arrived at the small town of El Fuerte, Sinaloa, the western gateway to the Copper Canyon, on September 4, 2001, after severeal days travel up the Pacific coast of Mexico from Zihuatanejo.

We were approaching our Copper Canyon tour with a "let's wing it" attitude, and hadn't made any prior arrangements for this trip into the Sierra Madre by train, other than to look at a map and a few pieces of information gleaned from the Internet. Upon reaching town at close to 5:30 pm, we decided to immediately find the railway station and see if there was a chance of getting tickets for the next days train. According to our sketchy sources, the station was located at a place some 7 km outside of town called Hoyancos, and there was supposed to be a clear sign pointing the way. Going down the road past the arched entranceway into El Fuerte, we saw the sign: a blue and white informational marker depicting a Locomotive. We continued along the narrow paved road in pursuit.

15 or 20 minutes later, after passing what looked like a defunct cement plant and coming to a crossing of the train tracks with still a no sign of a station, John and I looked at each other and finally stopped to ask a couple of boys who where standing roadside, holding up small bags of green chiles piquin, and who were, after all, almost the first sign of life we'd seen since passing by the gates to town much more than 7 km. back. The boys, in halted, accented Spanish, told us we were way off mark - the turnoff to the train station was right in town, right EXACTLY where that sign with the locomotive on it was standing. We thanked the boys, stowed the little bag of chiles we'd purchased off of them in our ice chest, and turned around. There, effectively, we saw that a small road angled off on the opposite side of the road from the entrance to El Fuerte, and this road, much narrower and more slipshodily paved than the road we had just traveled, did lead to the train station.

Not that it did us any good. The station was locked shut and deserted. A lone yard worker informed us that tickets are not for sale at the station, anyway. Just get on the train and pay the conductor. The train schedule posted in the window indicated that the 1st Class train was to leave at 8:30 am the following morning; 2nd Class would follow at 9 am.

We then turned back into El Fuerte, through the welcoming arch that proclaimed its founding in 1564. We drove around through the surprisingly wide streets in search of lodging. After touring around the square and side streets a few times, we finally stopped in front of the Hotel Herradura, situated behind the Church and next to the Posada del Hidalgo, one of El Fuerte's major hotels. There we were greeted by the owner of the Hotel, a large, dark and friendly man named Julian. He showed us a room -- small and basic but for the air conditioning, and clean. It was one of about eight  rooms in the hotel, although Julian said he was working on the 2nd story which would house another eight rooms in the future. We unpacked the truck and asked Julian if there was any place we could park and leave the truck safely while we took our train ride into the mountains. He told us that he did have a place where the truck could be left -- at his own house, which was a comforting thought. He also directed us to a restaurant -- Restaurante Supremo, which I'd noticed in our way into town, where, he said, we could get a good, home cooked meal.

After repacking a bag with what we thought we'd need on our train journey (we planned to leave everything else locked in the truck), we found Restaurante Supremo, where we had a simple but hearty meal of Liver & Onions (yes, I like it!) and Beef Enchiladas (John doesn't). The restaurant didn't serve anything stronger than Coca Cola, so after a short post-prandial sojourn through the colonial archways and passages around the square, we wandered over to La Mesa del General, a block off the square, where we had a comforting drink before retiring to the hotel.

The weather was hot and close, even in the evening. The A/C was a comfort. A thunder and lightning storm was lighting up the night skies when we went to bed at 11.

Wednesday, September 5, 2001 - Riding el Chepe from El Fuerte to Divisadero

After a night of tossing in the humidity with strange dreams in our El Fuerte hotel, I was up at 6:30 am. I wandered out into the simple lobby of the hotel and discovered, to my joy, that proprietor Julian had set out a large pot of coffee, sugar and creamer for the early risers. He sold me on his Hotel Herradura right there.

Through Julian we had arranged, the night before, for a taxi to pick us up to take us to the station at 8am, since by the our truck was safely stowed away behind the walls of Julian's house. While waiting, I sipped my coffee and watched the El Fuerte streets come sleepily to life. Shortly after 8 (the taxi driver thought 8 was too early - even though the train schedule said the train would be through to pick up passengers at 8:30, no one believed it would really be on time) a rattle sounded from around the corner and there appeared our transport to the train station: an old and battered station wagon, chauffeured by an grey-haired and mustached driver with a big smile on his face. We stowed our bag in the back after our driver spent a few minutes with a screwdriver, trying to open up the back hatch, and were rattled away to the station.

At the station a number of people were already waiting, and several more showed up after our arrival - a group of elderly travelers out of Phoenix, a few adventurous couples traveling the rails on their own and several Japanese tourists, all waiting in the still weak morning sun, sitting on the edge of the platform or leaning against the green-tiled walls, drinking bottles of water. And well, the taxi driver and townspeople were right - the 8:30 train didn't make it into the small, still deserted station at 9:20 am. Interior of the train

We boarded the train, which had few passengers out of Los Mochis and everyone was able to capture good seats. We sat about halfway down one of the 3 passenger cars, where we found a reasonably clean window to look out of. The seats were surprisingly comfortable, the train clean and cared for. We were getting to the exciting part now.

Leaving El Fuerte the terrain was still basically flat and uninteresting for the first good while. We took advantage of the lack of scenery by heading down to the dining car, where we had a good breakfast. Almost everything on the breakfast menu cost $45 pesos - we thought it a pretty good deal. Besides, there's something gluttonously glorious about having a satisfying meal when you're moving, whether it be on a train or a boat.

Once we began moving into the foothills of the Sierra Madres, I moved onto the between-car platforms, juggling for a spot amongst the other camera-carrying passengers, from whence to snap a few good photos. The air was getting cooler and the breeze on the platforms was refreshing, despite the smell of diesel fumes from the engine. I moved back and forth between one side of the platform to the other, craning my neck carefully out the side for fear of being hit in the head by a swiftly passing tree branch. The vegetation grew in close to the tracks in a lot of areas. After my initial scout, and once I found my best choice for a niche on the platform, sandwiched slightly by some young fellow travelers - kids from Germany, it seemed - with whom I shared my space, I decided I'd better stay there or risk not having a photo-ready vantage point at all. John moved between sitting and reading in his seat indoors to coming out onto the platform to snap a few photos of his own, and to occasionally serve as my placeholder while I used the bathroom facilities (which were, by the way, in good repair and clean condition).

We crawled up through mountains, with railside cliffs getting higher and higher. Every once in a while we'd pass the remains of railcars that had gone off the tracks and over into the river waters. The mountainsides were green, the skies lightly cluttered with the clouds of the last days of the rainy season. We bridged the small river a couple of times, then approached a wide curve in the track that swung around in front of the base of a tall waterfall that dropped towards the small village station at Temoris. After a stop of only a couple of minutes, we proceeded forward, moving now away from the waterfall, seeing a cut in the mountain above us that looked strangely as though the railroad tracks were winding up the hillside. We entered a long dark curved tunnel, and the train chugged forward for several minutes before emerging again into the light of day. During that few minutes of darkness, we had taken the 180 degree turn inside of the mountain, coming out quite far above where we had entered its gaping mouth, and were turned back totally, heading again toward the waterfall, albeit on a path that would take us over its top, so to speak.

Above Temoris the climate became perceptibly cooler. There was a smell of pines and we passed small orchards of apple trees. At the San Rafael and Las Posadas stations we saw our first brightly-clad Tarahumara women, selling small, neatly woven baskets and carved wooden figurines. Their dress formed a kaleidoscope of color, from flowery, multicolored head scarves to bright blouses and voluminous patterned skirts wound round with aprons and topped with shawls. The women hovered between the cars sitting on the secondary rail lines, peering out at the train as it arrived into the station then, as the breaks squealed the train to a stop, they glided out, looking up and down the length of the train windows for prospective customers. Some obligingly posed for photos when asked, others turned away or hid their faces as best they could.

Shortly beyond the Posadas station was Divisadero, our stopping point for the day. It was round 2 p.m. when we arrived and detrained. We looked around the station, peered over into the tremendous chasm of the Urique Canyon, and looked over at the Hotel Divisadero Barrancas perched precariously on the edge of the cliffs. I had understood there was more than one hotel in Divisadero, but when we inquired, we found that the Divisadero Barrancas was the only one, with the exception of the Hotel Posadas Barrancas a couple of kilometers away at the Posadas station.

We lugged our stuff over the that only hotel, then, and found that we could either get a room at $760 pesos a night without meals, or pay $1,300 pesos for a night including meals. We decided on the bare-bones night, thinking that we would be able to catch a bite to eat at the railway stations stands, if nothing more. The room was cozy, contained the all-important coffee pot for the chilly morning, and faced out over the spectacular spinelike ridges of the Urique Canyon. Upon checking in, the hostess informed us that two walking tours were included in the price of the hotel: one was leaving shortly, at 3, to view the Tarahumara caves houses nearby, and the second would leave tomorrow morning, taking in a series of lookout points along the lip of the canyon.

We hurriedly left our stuff in the room and went to catch the first tour. The participants were few: only John and I plus one more woman, a Dutch lady who currently lived in Mexico City, and the guide, who was not really the guide but rather a hotel security guard. He said the real guide was out with another group and hadn't yet returned, so he was delegated by the hotel to show us the trail.

As we set out it began to drizzle a bit. The sky was lightly overcast but it didn't look like it would rain hard. We crossed a small bridge, went past a few cliff side houses and followed a path that took us below a cliff-face - that's when the guard pointed up to the top, towering above us, and told us that THAT is where we were going to end up before this little trek was over.

It was intimidating. I'm not a person for even short heights at the best of times, but I plunged ahead with John and Ms. Dutch, feeling so overwhelmed by the fabulous views and sense of space that my acrophobia didn't have a chance to set in. We circled the cliff, rising higher and higher, past a cave dwelling that was hung with fresh blankets and wood. The guard told us that in that cave the fellow who was supposed to be guiding us at that moment had been born. But there was no one home.

We finally made our way around the mountain, past a small Tarahumara school, and made our way to the flat-topped pinnacle, from which we could look way down onto the hotel from where we'd started. It made me nervous, yes, to see John and Ms. Dutch go out near the rim - I stayed a good 2 or 3 meters away, finding myself needing to fight off small waves of dizzying desire to go straight over. After snapping several photos and doing a basic exploration of the mountaintop, we make our way down a much easier track on the other side, passing on the way a couple of women with a child who were again offering baskets, textiles and wooden carvings. There was one of a cute little mountain cat that I figured would fit perfectly into our present collection of crafty odds and ends. It cost 20 pesos.

We approached the Tarahumara houses we'd passed on our way up the mountain, but on the other side. Here the guard ushered us over to one of several cave dwellings carved into the cliffs, and called out for one of the inhabitants. A man appeared out of one of the doors, small and dark-haired and slightly bleary-eyed. The guard told us he made and played the violin, and asked if we wanted to hear some of his music. So we sat on a small wooden bench while our maestro pulled out a small, hand-crafted instrument and began to play a lilting tune that rang out and reverberated well against the rocky walls. He played two or three songs, and allowed Ms. Dutch and I a peak into the doorway of his small abode: it was diminutive and dark, a small space with pallets covered in thick, woolen blankets, pots and pans and clothing and personal items hanging from pegs and beams, everything permeated by the smell and grime of wood smoke. Dutch and I were about to slide in a little further for a better look when we heard a rustle in the corner, and realized the hut was inhabited by others, as well. We turned back out and left the residents in peace.

We returned to the hotel, hungry, now, after not having had anything but breakfast, and exhausted by almost two hours of walking at high altitudes after our years of living on the beach - it was about 5 pm. John and I went over to the train station to see what we could scrounge in the way of sustenance, only to find that the savory gorditas and tacos had disappeared with the passing of the two afternoon trains. There was nothing there to eat. One small stand was opened still, and we looked around helplessly at the small selection of packaged cookies, candy and canned chiles, spotting about the only thing that we'd be able to effectively deal with: instant Oriental soup! Happily our room did come with a coffee pot, so I told John I'd whip up a couple of soul-warming soups once we got back "home".

First, though, we took advantage of the dying light and the bar of the hotel to watch the sky change to pink and golden and see the clouds wafting between the peaks below us. Humming birds whirred around the lamps outside the window in the last of the sun, and a small, striped furry animal skittered back and forth along the path outside as we sat over a couple of pre-dinner drinks. The group the Phoenix who had accompanied us on the train were sitting down to dinner at the upstairs restaurant when we finally retired to our room. We just couldn't bear to watch them eat.

And anyway, our soup was fine. I heated water through the coffee pot, filled two mugs with soup and we sat on the bed, spooning it into our mouths with a pocket knife and the handle end of a toothbrush. It was followed by a delightful dessert of roasted, salted peanuts which I just happened to have stashed in my bag. Our room was large and cozy with a beautiful wooden-beamed ceiling and a heater, though we didn't need to use it. Though the night was turning chilly, we were comfortable cuddled up under the covers with our books and the silence of the wilderness around us. I was dead asleep at 8:30.

Thursday, September 6, 2001 - Divisadero Walking Tour and on to Cerocahui

I awoke at about 5:45 the next morning. The sky was just beginning to lighten, and I bundled up in my jacket and went out to watch the coming of the day in the canyons below the Hotel Divisadero Barrancas. Outside our room was a small patio with table and chairs, divided from the rock ledge overhanging the canyon by a wooden railing delineating our private patio space. The rim of the ledge itself was protected by yet another rustic wooden fence, allowing me climb over that first barrier and get close to the precipice without feeling like I was going to be pulled inexorably over... if I did, at least I had something to hold onto.

Bolstered by a couple of cups of coffee, I took photo after photo of each stage of the sun rising over the cliffs, the changing lights and reflections and the hummingbirds coming to breakfast on the maguey flowers. Each moment was more beautiful than the last. As I sat and shot photos I heard guests from the surrounding and upstairs rooms stirring, making coffee, and exclaiming at the colors of the dawn.

John finally got himself out of bed around 7:30 and after deliciously hot showers we went to have a real breakfast at the hotel restaurant. There was a buffet set out, decorated by bright jars of pickled fruits that filtered the morning light, but one could also order a la carte. I continued trying to capture the elusive hummingbirds on camera throughout breakfast. We were seated directly in front of a very large plate glass window on the upper story of the hotel, with a tremendous view of Urique Canyon, and right outside that window was a tall spindly stalk of maguey in bloom that was obviously a great attraction for the hummingbirds. Even so, I think I only managed to get a shot of one.

At 9 we were ready to take our next walking adventure to explore the lookouts over the canyon. Again, our only companion was Ms. Dutch, although this time we were led by the real guide, Valenciano, a gregarious Tarahumara who had volumes of tales to tell as we wandered the hilltops.

Valenciano took us along a dirt road until we reached a plot of land in which stood a house - his house, it so happened - with his wife sitting out on a rock, lazily weaving the baskets that all women weave. Behind his dwelling was a wooden cabin, the pioneer house of the family who first established the Divisadero Barrancas hotel. The pioneer house was set up as a museum, and supposedly contained the original furnishings: stove, bed, steamer trunks, chairs, tables and couches.

We then walked into the pine forest behind the house, toward the edge of the canyon. The path was lined with wild flowers, mushrooms and gnarled trees. Valenciano pointed out several herbs and medicinal plants used by the Tarahumara. We emerged at the canyon edge where our guide pointed out one of the many wooden ladders that are tucked into crevices and used by the natives to scale normally unscaleable portions of the mountainside - they form part of their mountain paths and walkways.

We stopped at the Piedra Volada lookout, where the stone hangs poised over the depths, looking ready to take the plunge any moment. Both John and Dutch walked out to the Piedra. I kind of cowered on the other edge with another retaining fence between me and the drop, taking photos - if one can really take photos between fingers that keep on wanting to creep over my eyes to shut out the gravity of the precipice. Nearby, a group of colorful Tarahumara women and children squatted under a low-lying tree, weaving their palmilla baskets and talking in their tongue, glancing over at us occasionally in hopes of a sale, but with no sign of the pushy salesmanship so often displayed by vendors in Mexico.

On our way back to the Hotel, Valenciano instructed us on how to prepare Gusano Quemador, what sounds like a type of caterpillar with hairs that produce a burning irritation on the skin, for eating by burning off the hairs first. He told us a few words in Japanese that he'd learned from tourists he'd guided in the past, and spoke at length about how many words of Tarahumara sound Japanese. He told us a story about a plane crashing off the airstrip we passed by (it happened 10 years ago) and another about a lamentably drunk fellow native who only a few days previous had miscalculated during a precarious nighttime trek home and fell headlong off the cliff to his death. He also taught us the Tarahumara word Cuira, which means Good Day, Good Morning, Good Night, Hello, Goodbye and Good Health, among others...

We reached the hotel just in time to make checkout at 12:30. Our walk had taken a bit longer than scheduled. The westbound train was due through Divisadero at 1:30, and we were planning to return with it as far as the Bahuichivo station about 2 hours back down the line, from where we hoped to get transportation to the village of Cerocahui, our next and last overnight stop on our present trip through the Copper Canyon.

At the station there were a lot of people waiting. We met a family of Chileans, watched the women lay out their basketry - they were always fascinating to watch in their bright array - bought a couple of baskets and observed how filled corn-flour snacks were being prepared over the blackened-barrel stoves that were set up in the open-sided station. The 1:30 train made it into the station at 2:20, and we jumped on, ready to roll back down to Bahuichivo.

Bahuichivo is situated in a green valley with no sign of canyon walls anywhere. It seems to be a lumber-producing area and we saw both logging trucks and stacks of cut logs along the tracks. It was nearly four when we detrained at the station and looked around for a bus? taxi? anything to take us the 11 km over dirt road to Cerocahui. There was a bus at the station labeled "Hotel Mision" - I asked the driver if he was going to Cerocahui - he was - and if we could come along - we couldn't, not unless we were staying at the Hotel Mision. Well, we didn't know where we were staying at that point, and we preferred to get into town and scout around before committing ourselves to any one hotel or another. Hearing this, the driver pointed out an old truck near by, saying that the driver was headed to Urique, past Cerocahui, and maybe he'd give us a lift. I walked over and the surly driver stated in no uncertain terms that he was going to Urique, and that if we didn't want to go to Urique, we couldn't go with him, even if Cerocahui was on the way and we could easily jump out of the truck without him barely stopping... So, back to the bus and a bit more chat with the driver, who by then had softened up a bit. He proposed that we come with him and look at the Hotel Mision. If we decided we liked it and would stay there, then no problem, we'd already be there and he'd have done his job. If after seeing the hotel we decided we'd like to try one of the other couple of small guest houses in town instead, we had only to tell him and for a small delivery fee he'd refer us to a friend with rooms for rent. It was a deal.

There were only 3 other passengers on the bus: 3 women of about 40-ish from Mexico City who were out to have the time of their life, on holiday in the Copper Canyon. They seemed only to be slightly put out at there not being any nightlife in the area, and were intent on making their own entertainment, joking around with us and the driver, loudly and good-naturedly.

The road was dusty and windy and bumpy. We drove along a stream bed, through fields covered in yellow and blue flowers and pine forests and past the Paraiso del Oso, where a craggy Yogi Bear figure towers over the green valley and resort below. Shortly thereafter we arrived at Ceracahui. It looked to me like what I imagine Hunza of the past or Shangri-La must have been. It was cool and green and lush with water flowing through it, moss-laden trees and pasturelands lining the banks, horses, fields of corn and fruit trees. A high valley protected by a ring of low mountains, with a church spire jutting up from amongst a small gathering of buildings.

The Hotel Mision is one of the Balderrama Hotel chain and is situated next to the 500 yr.old Jesuit Mission in Cerocahui. We looked at a room and decided to take it, again choosing the room without the food. At least here we were in a town where there must be something other than instant soup to eat outside the confines of the hotel. The room and hotel in general were quaint and comfy. The low-beamed, colorfully decorated dining area and lobby exuded warmth and relaxation. There was no one else at the hotel except us and the 3 girls.

We walked into town - the square was a short block from the Hotel's doorway, and the core of the town itself didn't seem to extend more than two blocks in any direction, anyway. Horses were tethered around the plaza and there were a couple of decrepit vehicles in sight. We entered a store and got ourselves something to drink and asked if there were a restaurant in town. Well, no, not exactly a restaurant, we were told, but if we walk over to the next corner of the square, there's a casa de dos pisos - a two-storied house - where the woman sometimes serves comida corrida... she might still have some left.

So over we trotted to the Casa de Dos Pisos, which had a tiny front garden laden with blooming peonies, begonias, fuchsia and rock plants growing on quartz crystals - everything I'd always wanted to grow but at which I'd always failed. We knocked on the screen door and from within the dark confines a woman's voice bade us to enter. We found ourselves in a dim room about 12 ft square, holding an oversized table in its center, covered with a lacy tablecloth and plastic, with little room for anything else. The hostess asked if we wanted food and told us to please sit down. She told us she can make us either Quesadillas and beans or Machaca and beans. We opted for the Machaca, a type of shredded, dried beef fried up with scrambled eggs. While waiting for the meal to be prepared, which really didn't take more than a few minutes, I continued to admire the flowers and plants in the small front patio. Our hostess then served up our dishes of Machaca and beans with hot, thick, hand-made tortillas on the side. She offered me a glass of fresh, local peach nectar that was like what the gods were supposed to have drunk.

After our meal, which was tremendously satisfying, and doubly so in light of our previous nights' dinner, the lady of the house talked to us about the quartz plants, how they seem to derive their energy straight from the rock and little else, and explained to us how the lighting system works in town. She had some solar panels installed (and many houses we saw seemed to use them) which provided a certain amount of dim light at night and early morning. The town also depended on a gas generator that was on from 7 to 9 in the morning and from 6 to 10 at night. She showed us the difference in power output between the stronger generated power and the solar generated power. Then she pulled out a box of stones she'd collected over the years - a variety of shiny, mineral-bearing rock found in the Copper Canyon, and outlined where and when she'd found or was given many of the pieces.

Once our dinner and pleasant conversation were over, John and I walked back past the Hotel toward the river. Flowers were everywhere on the roadside and in the fields. We spotted the electric generator at the edge of the river beside a small footbridge, fired up for the nightly session of electric light. Back at the hotel we arranged with the desk clerk to have a couple of horses on hand at 9 am the next morning... we were going to go horseback riding up to the Cerocahui waterfall before returning to El Chepe train in the afternoon.

Friday, September 7, 2001 - Waking up in Ceracahui - the Falls and our return to El Fuerte

This morning we were up at 7, together with the generated lights and the Cerocahui Mission bells from across the street. While John wiped the sleep from his eyes I wandered out behind the Hotel Mision and discovered their vineyard and gardens. Had a fabulous breakfast of fresh watermelon, papaya and cantaloupe, hot, home made country biscuits with real mango preserve made by the hotel kitchen, and eggs. Then we walked the block into town to pick up a couple of sodas and water for our horseback trip at 9 am.

The mists were rising from the valley when our guide took us along the dirt road, over the small bridge and then through fields of yellow, orange and red flowers studded by large boulders and flat expanses of rock. We started to climb up a trail alongside a small stream that bubbled down toward the Cerocahui River, switch backing up a hillside, with our horses hooves sliding over the stones and through the mud. The trip up took about 40 minutes, and we finally arrived at the head of a small canyon where the Cerocahui Falls dropped several meters into a crystal clear, cold pool. The rocks were mossy and surrounded by greenery and shadows shifting through the overhanging branches. We stayed at the falls about 20 minutes before heading back along the same trail to the hotel.

We joined up again with our 3 girl bus companions of the day before, who were also heading back to the train after their mornings' outing to the Cerro del Gallo lookout over the Urique Canyon, which is supposed to be one of the most dramatic vantage points. It wasn't very successful, it seems, since the valley was shrouded in thick cloud that didn't allow much of a view at all. I was glad we had opted for the trip to the waterfall.

We took the bus out of Cerocahui and back to Bahuichivo, arriving in plenty of time to catch the 2:30 pm train, especially since it arrived at 2:50. Our trip back down the canyon to El Fuerte could conceivable be described as just more of the same thing we'd already done, but of course it wasn't. It was a new view, from a different angle, with different light qualities, of a road we'd traveled once and of which we had by no means seen all. I again spent the better part of the almost 4-hour downhill journey on my feet on the between-car platforms, taking even more pictures and appreciating the vistas anew. On the flats approaching El Fuerte, we were treated to some fascinating cloud formations pierced by the rays of the disappearing sun.

Drawing up to the El Fuerte Station, we saw that our trusty taxi driver in the beat-up station wagon had remembered that we'd told him we expected to be back on the Friday afternoon train. He was there and waiting for us, and took us happily back to the Hotel Herradura. John accompanied Julian back to his house to pick up our truck while I stood outside the hotel and watched an incredible light show as an enormous pillow-like cloud hovered behind the El Fuerte church spire at sundown, turning pink with a strange inner glow that, shortly after dark, split into a spectacular display of lightning.

This last night of our Copper Canyon journey we returned to the Mesa del General, the place we'd simply had an after-dinner drink on our first trip through. The menu had some interesting-looking stuff on it we wanted to try. John had river turtle in green sauce, if I remember correctly, and I had bass in oyster sauce, kind of oriental style. Eclectic, not bad, not the best meal in the world, though it was certainly worth a try, and we were hungry and tired enough to enjoy just about anything.

During this trip we learned that the Canyons, approached from the Chihuahua side, are to a great extent penetrable by vehicle, which is one reason, besides lack of time on this particular trip, that we didn't go further up by train, even to Creel. I hope that some time in the not-too-distant future we'll be able to tackle the Creel area and at least the depths of the Batopilas Canyon by car, if not further afield.