Photo by Christian Abselsen

Our time had come to head out onto new trails. The summer monsoons had revived the thousand or more resident frogs whose tabernacle choir of froggie arias was keeping all of Creel plugging their ears and wishing dogs came without vocal cords. Homer, vaquero-in-the-making, was rounding up the horses, wielding brushes and curry combs like a front-line soldier, and whistling one of his adolescence-inspired corridos. One of the many beauties of Creel is the town's vantage point to so many, many wild and unexplored canyons, hot springs and villages even your most comprehensive travel guide to Mexico either doesn't know exist or considers off the tourist itinerary. Thus, as far as Norberto is concerned, the exquisite lure of the region. So, between thunder showers, we saddled up and headed across the hill behind the stables of El Aventurero. Sweet and pungent the wet pines; seductively perfumed the wild flowers; promising, the journey.

As our spontaneous trip would have it, we - Norberto, Monica and I - found ourselves in audience to two generous and enthusiastic story-tellers living near the thunderous waterfalls of Cusárare. One, a man with wit and a sharp eye for the neophyte, held us rapt with laughter and wide eyes, as he fell into impassioned and animated discourse on the ever-enlarger persona of Pancho Villa. And what, one of us asked with diplomacy, was the illustrious Villa doing in the remote region of Cusárare, Chihuahua? Well, nothing, really. His guns spent some time there, though. Here's how yet one more tale of Villa and his boys originated: It seems that Villa had sent a trusted and important lieutenants to El Paso to trade for a load of U.S. rifles to support his forthcoming campaign north of the sierras. Once across the border, however, news reached the gun-runner that his general had been captured, canceling, in the mind of the lieutenant, any real need for these rifles and….a bit of pocket change withheld by the man for, well, you know, his generous efforts to secure the guns for Villa.

As history would have it, Villa had not, in fact, been captured. Still fat and happy, Villa awaited his shipment of rifles, growing impatient with each day lost. Meanwhile, our lost lieutenant was tripping the light fantastic in Juarez, enjoying his small fortune of Villa's gold, and still in the guard of the U.S. rifles. Only when he got word that his unhappy leader had a bounty out on the man's head did our lieutenant head for the hills - the hills surrounding Cusárare, where, according to legend, he buried the guns and the gold, before leaving once again on a westerly trail where he was apprehended by Villistas who, in due course, executed the traitor.

The guns and gold, our storyteller went on to say, remained hidden, their exact whereabouts kept secret by Villa supporters of the region until family after family lost interest, lost their menfolk, lost touch, and left the area. All except one man. It was this very man who, when news reached his ears that an inn was to be constructed near the river and on the very ground where these rifles had been buried over sixty years past, stealthily rode off on a mission of reclamation and recovery. Two days later, ground was broken for what today is the lovely Copper Canyon Lodge ( where we now bring many of our guests for a night of rustic repose, top-notch margaritas, and ….more of such stories as this.

Our ride took us further the next day. On to Yepó, a hot springs known only to a few Tarahumara living nearby, and many crossings of the river before finding our camp for the night.

And what else did we glean from this ride? Apache mestizos, said our second story-teller, a Tarahumara trail guide whose age seemed measured by the rings on the cottonwood tree that leaned precariously near his small log house, still lived in tipis over the ridge north of Huichurachic. Had the rains not saddened our hats, saddles and spirits, you can bet your grannie's corset we'd have been riding up that hill when dawn hit our tent.

Hot showers and home sounded too tempting for these three viejistas. Another time. Another ride. Another sunrise. Would we hear tales of the ancestral Chiracauhua Apaches who fled Arizona and were recorded in history only as the "Lost Ones?" Will there be stories to treasure when we're too old to ride? Will we ever cease to explore the vastness of these seven canyons known as Las Barrancas del Cobre?

Are you as curious as I am now?

Happy Trails, Susan