Well, now, leave it to the Swiss (you know, those folks who yodel and walk up perpendicular mountains like it was a walk in the park) to make the rest of us look and feel like amateur robots. This was the Grand Ride (see Tours) from Creel to Basaseachic Waterfall. And although this ride was rated "C," (don't think about it unless you're an eventer in the Olympics), most of us were tender novices. Remo, one of the exceptions, is a mounted policeman in Bern. But we all know those aren't real horses; they're plaster statues of horses. Nadja and Chris were butt-blistered veterans of a former ride with Norberto that took them from Creel to Urique - a mere ten-dayer. All nine of us, however, were as determined as Teddy Roosevelt to conquer that hill (make that plural); so off we rode waving good-bye to friends, good-wishers, skeptics, dogs and freight trains as we headed under the tunnel and out into the valley of Oteros Canyon.

Photo by Christian Abselsen

Accompanied for the first leg of the ride by Harris, bon vivant and mediator extraordinaire, in the unforeseeable chance we and the local "herbalists" (who grow that certain crop that gets exported to that certain population of smoking aficionados - if you get my drift) might meet up at some uncomfortable bend in the trail; we whistled, sang, yodeled and felt like wise explorers. Needless to say, since I'm here to write about it, we and the agronomists took different trails. Our first night under the stars near the cabin of a delightful Tarahumara family found most of us sleeping on our right side, left side or stomach. Not our other side, which, though feeling totally disattached from our bodies, felt something nonetheless. Like, sore! The next night felt better - even good. We had the hang of this now. Lead us anywhere, we challenged our fearless leader, Norberto. Oh, did he lead us!

Photo by Chris Otto

After a great night in Maguarichi in rustic cabins overlooking the steep and deep canyon we had just ascended, and a day of exploring old mines, kibitzing with an old gold prospector (who gave us his promised piece of gold to take to Susan in exchange for a pair of binoculars she had promised him a year earlier), and visiting the church, Norberto led us out from the village and into the abyss. This day's ride was taking us all - Norberto included - into regions unknown. But with his uncanny sense of direction and his innate mountain wisdom, Norberto encouraged us to "hang in there", beyond the setting of the sun, in order to find a spectacular campsite, replete with corrals for the horses, water, and shelter from the elements. We did. And he proved, as always, to be right on the button for "spectacular."

The cabin had just one small light beckoning from the curtained window. Norberto knocked gently on the door. The rest of us waited on our horses, appearing, I'm sure, to the woman and child who answered his knock, to be the ghosts of Pancho Villa and his rowdy villaistas. What we witnessed next left us all to a confusion of speculation: the woman hesitates; Norberto smiles graciously. The woman disappears into the next room, visible to Norberto; a man appears at the door…with a pistola; there are gestures; Norberto is talking faster; the man, eyes hard and squinting, talks with his gun close to his hip; Norberto talks again; then the man; then a pause. We draw a communal breath in unison. The man smiles, then laughs; Norberto laughs. Shoulders begin to relax; arms are embracing, hands are shaking in greeting; the man gestures to some corrals barely discernable now in the dim light of sundown. Norberto returns to our group with a mysterious smile. We make camp; feed horses; feed ourselves; sing around the campfire; and turn in. All is well in our world. The "spectacular?" you ask. Ah yes. Morning finds us snuggled warmly in our sleeping bags smack-dab in the middle of a field of ….yup, the weed that alters the mind. It was Chris who leapt to his feet, discouraging those of us dumb enough to begin clicking away with our cameras to assure, with the evidence of a photograph, our friends back home that not only did we do the un-doable, think the unthinkable, and return from the unreturnable, we're alive to talk about it; and what's more, we all shook hands good-bye (knees shaking as well) with the nice farmer. Party-pooper Norberto was overheard whispering to Chris that never-oh-never will he take this particular fork in the trail again. He even had four new gray hairs on his head when we arrived, three days later, in Basaseachic.

Norberto and Chris tell the story from their perspective with all the embellishments and dramatics that give any story its thriller rating: Norberto talked with the man, all the while, believing the man was just trying to decide when to shoot him. The man talked with Norberto, all the while believing Norberto was "The Law" (in plausible disguise as a lost tourist). The tension was touchable until it slowly dawned on the man (that was the moment of pause) that we all were, in truth, poor lost pilgrims! That he found this to be laughable didn't hurt one bit. Not one bit.