THREE DOG NIGHT

Riders of the Trail! What an inspiring and monumental ride we just returned from! This was one of those "seat of the pants" rides we occasionally like to take - the kind of ride that has no absolute agenda, carved in rock, like-it-or-not we're whippin' and spurrin' to make next camp sundown or nightfall. This ride had the pace of curious pilgrims, urged on by no more than the quest for adventure, those first "Ahh's breathed in unison and inspired by the view of the canyon from a rampart little-known to other than the resident Tarahumara family whose tiny adobe and timber home is eloquently perched at its edge. This was a ride of early morning campfires welcoming second and third cups of coffee while the horses grazed along the stream; laughter, camaraderie, and visitations that would soon meld us into a family of sorts who would also come to recognize that such an adventure is more than a shared experience. It is a redefining of kinship and all that we value as horsemen and humans. It broadens our circle, and we are collected.
The adventure began, as is customary, at Cabaña Del Aventurero in Creel. From there we trailered our horses to Areponapochi where we met up with companions Chris and Nadja, Swiss compatriots, and with Gio Mancinas. Six riders, three packhorses, and five dogs strong, we set out on a trail that goats had forsaken for steadier footing! Chris and Nadja, with little more than a month's riding experience; and Monica, with only one camp trip under her belt, were exemplary risk-takers. Their willing enthusiasm was testimony to their trust in Norberto's good sense; their trust in his wise horses, and their trust in themselves to exchange fear for a widening courage to see around the next bend in the trail. Doubt was never an issue.

Campsite that night was along a sweet-water creek (which was frozen by morning!). Talk around the campfire became a song of friendship. Laughter became our goodnight prayer. With the sun at our backs, we started out in the morning for the steady climb through the pine forest, following arroyos, visiting with the occasional Tarahumara hazing his pack string of burros to San Raphael, and stopping for photo-ops, which turned into languishing moments of gratitude for such a rich gift from Nature. Destination was never the guiding force; the journey held us. By mid-afternoon we had arrived at Churro whose wide and fertile alpine plain bespoke rich, black soil, fields of harvested corn, and a Jesuit mission carved from its historical past. While our horses busied themselves with corn stalks and husks, we made camp and ordered up a kilo of tortillas from a local woman near the tienda. Chris, a well-known mountain guide, shared rich stories from his life of high-adventure; Nadja and Monica knitted a friendship with smiles and laughter; and Norberto, always caring for his horses, set out to see to their comfort before we all bedded down for the night.

Day 3 compelled us to a trail over the cliff that spelled "impossible", but proved to be no more than "puckering", as we switch-backed our way down to Narranjo. Though we had earlier thought Urique might be home for the night, mid-afternoon in Narranjo felt more like the rest we and our horses wanted. Besides, Señora Ambrosia's welcoming home and orchard couldn't be passed by. Good chow, talk around the campfire and major hitting the sleeping bags early were everyone's prescription for happy and restful sleep. Alas, the first words out of Norberto's mouth in the morning were, "Susan, could you please shoot that rooster!" This was a rooster (sleeping in a tree nearly over Norberto's head) whose clock rang at every hour on the hour from midnight till dawn. Over coffee, we kibitzed with Ambrosia's son, Meliton, who decided to pack in with us when we were ready to leave Urique for our ride back towards the rim. We agreed to find one another in Urique a day or two later, said our good-byes and saddled up. Down the canyon we rode, following Rio Urique until we hit town, jubilant, dirty, tired, and hungry for someone else's cooking. And did that hotel room look like the Hilton! We gorged on Tita's food, served in her garden; we showered at least twice, napped, and woke ourselves up for more gorging, and made conversation with everyone we met. Collectively agreeing this should be repeated, we stayed on through the next day to wade in the river, visit Keith Ramsey and his Secret Garden of a B&B, and celebrate New Year's Eve first at the plaza with every other living inhabitant, followed by a soiree in my room with each of us singing songs of our respective homelands made more glorious by the tequila we passed from hand to hand. Chris, who generally had us in stitches anyway, any time, was wound tighter than Big Ben, and our roaring laughter matched the decibels of the band playing down in the plaza.
By morning, Meliton had not only met us, but had rounded up our horses, saddled them, and was patiently waiting for us to join him in our ride out. Tita, who, although didn't quite understand our laughter, joined in the laughing out of pleasure at our pleasure, sent us on our way with a sack or burritos for the trail. Halfway up the canyon, the dogs found the water tank they had been sniffing for the las hour, and each dove in for a few laps of recreational swimming and gulping. At Porochi, we bought bologna for the dogs (and Norberto), chiles, tomatoes, chocolate (for Norberto), and chow for the horses from a local farmer. Meliton, who rode off with nothing more than the clothes on his back, shyly agreed to pack in with Norberto, Monica, Me, and the three dogs, in our tent. As usual, by morning, the now four humans were huddled in one-half of the tent; the dogs, snoring and comfortable, had the other half. Churro, by a different trail was ours for the night. Norberto, Monica and I explored the mission; Norberto and I hiked to the canyon's edge to breathe in the fathoms of depth and centuries of space; and we all made a night of story-telling and - you got it - more laughter. Meliton came by later to invite us to a tesquinada at a cousin's house; but being the indolent and laid-back, belly-filled and lazy folks we had now become (drugged by the warmth of the fire), we all declined and rolled into our tents for our last night on the trail. I'm sorry now that I didn't hop over rocks and jaunt the two miles over to his cousin's house. I have a bit of a fondness for tesquino. It tastes somewhere between harmless and illegal.

Last day's ride proved to have one element of death-to-all-who-dare to it as we groped, rappelled, slid, and prayed our way over terrain even God had declared off-limits to the sane, when we bivouacked our way from San Raphael to Arepo. Arriving way after late, we helped ourselves to liquid refreshments at the hotel while the horses cooled off; found pasture for all but three horses, which we brought home in Norberto's truck; and crashed in my cabin after inhaling cheeseburgers, French fries, and soda pop, that universal foodstuff. The next day had that "morning after: feeling. Norberto, Chris and Meliton retrieve the remaining horses; Nadja and I drove to San Juanito to retrieve her car; and Monica (how could she!) returned to work! Then we all set off for Cuauhtemoc for the wedding of Norberto's brother. If you ever have a chance to attend a traditional, good ol' time Mexican wedding party, don't pass it up. An all-nighter of Norteña music, happy, happy people, good chow, and nothing like our more sober and somber gatherings. It actually made me think getting married looked like fun. Or at least that part of it.

So now, we're putting our heads together, squinting over the topo maps, and scheming on more of the same. And while we can't guarantee a repeat performance, we can guarantee the spontaneous, the memorable, and the galvanizing experience that will leave you feeling that enduring gratitude for your own sense of high adventure.

Get in touch. We'll be happy to include you in our next, or one of our trip(s).

Until then, "Happy Trails",

Susan

Remember, you can always contact Norberto directly at: elaventurero@hotmail.com