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Outside Magazine Septmeber 2000

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Drop Dead Gorges (cont.)

Itching for new trails to explore, I rented a mountain bike from one of Creel's two bike shops. Then i introduced myself to a skinny local kid named Alex Antwan, who was spinning wheelies up and down the main street, and talked him into going for a ride. We criss-crossed mesas, darted into narrow canyons, and rode through some of the largest old-growth stands in the Americas, which are home to wolves, black bears, pumas, and even grizzleis. We drank water from springs and rested inside abandoned Tarahumara caves. When we returned to Creel a few hours later, we sat beside the train tracks and guzzled Mountain Dew. That night, over burritos at Case de Margarita, a packpackers' hostel, I plotted out my next move—a descent by rickety bus to the bottom of Batopilas Canyon.

The town of Batopilas (population 1,200) is an oasis at the bottom of the 20-foot-wide gorge, with shimmery, coppery-colored walls shooting straight up over it. Mango, lime, and papaya trees grow along the river and on the town's main street. Saguaros stand at attention on the hillsides. The chirps and squaqk of birds—parakeets and rare military macaws, among others—pierce the humid, sleepy afternoon air. From here you can hike to adjacent Urique Canyons, but claustrophobes beware: Urique feels like the bottom of a deep well—albeit one with fig trees, orchids, palm trees, cubby brown trout, and VW Beetle-sized rocks. After a few days hiking the steep, white-dirt trails, swimming in the cool eddies of the river, and exploring abandoned gold mines by mule, I started getting antsy to find Poncho Villa's car, and Chihuahua was a full day's drive east from Creel. It was time to hit the road.

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