Taking the High Road to View Urique Canyon

It was a hot, lazy afternoon, an hour when a siesta would have been welcomed. As it was, almost nothing stirred.

A large pile of luggage was stacked neatly beside the tracks, our passenger train long gone, chugging north toward the city of Chihuahua.

Bahuichivo is a mere whistle stop in the mountains, a dropping-off point where, we were led to believe, a bus would be waiting. None, however, was in sight.

About 30 Americans, including 25 travel agents on a tour, had come to visit, mainly, Urique Canyon, a gaping chunk of the world-famous Copper Canyon. But first, there was this problem of getting a lift to the hotel in Cerocahui, about 10 kilometers distant.

The visitors mingled in small clusters, idly kicking at dust, sipping soft drinks, looking off expectantly. A couple of Mexican vendors, partially hidden in the shadowy interiors of their tiny snack-bar stands, monitored the scene curiously, as if waiting for a drama to unfold, one, possibly, they had seen before.

Unexpected Bonus

Shade and benches were in short supply, yet few complained. Travel agents, after all, customarily slough off such inconveniences, seemingly almost welcoming them, like an unexpected bonus.

A station waiting room was available, but largely ignored. Most eyes focused on the dirt road ahead, where, presumably, a bus soon would come bouncing down the hill toward the tracks.

After more than five hours on the train and almost another here, our group was a bit weary and anxious to complete the final leg of the journey.

A rumor quickly circulated: One of two buses normally sent to transport passengers from the station had broken down the day before; the other was en route.

And so . . . we simply waited.

At 5:30 that morning the restaurant at the Santa Anita Hotel in Los Mochis--a rather large agricultural community about 250 miles north of Mazatlan, 12 miles east of the Gulf of California and about 200 miles southwest of Bahuichivo--was crowded.

Dove hunters--a macho group of bearded sportsmen wearing camouflage clothing, hats labeled Paloma SWAT teams and Los Angeles County Sheriff badges--laughed boisterously as they sipped coffee and talked about the anticipated excitement of the hunt.

At other tables, less vocal and less garishly attired people awaited a call to board a bus for the train station. The Cerocahui package (train fare, one night’s lodging at the Hotel Mision and three meals, at less than $50 each) was one of several offered by Santa Anita, considered the best hotel in Los Mochis.

Under way promptly at 6 a.m., the train slowly clickety-clicked through the sleeping city, then picked up speed in the vast agricultural flatlands.

Dawn’s early light cast a misty peacefulness over the sprawling fields--hundreds of acres of neatly cultivated crops, dominated, it seemed, by tomatoes.

Soon we were climbing and bending around mountains, leaving the state of Sinaloa and entering Chihuahua, markedly different terrain. Even the time zone changed by an hour.

Overdue Breakfast

Regardless of the clock, breakfast clearly was long overdue. Having risen at 4 a.m., we were ready for a “second course” and had it in the dining car--pancakes and coffee for about $2.

Chihuahua al Pacifico Railroad was opened in 1961 by Adolfo Lopez Mateos, president of Mexico at the time.

Its scenic route from Los Mochis to the city of Chihuahua, 403 miles, is far from boring, with 86 tunnels (one stretching more than a mile) to pass through and 39 bridges (the longest 1,500 feet) to cross. The massive rock formations with trickling brooks below and occasional views of waterfalls are impressive.

Stops along the way, where hotels are available, include Creel (Nuevo, Parador de la Montana and Copper Canyon Lodge), Divisadero Barrancas (Cabanas Divisadero Barrancas), Cuiteco (Cabanas Pinar de Cuiteco) and Bahuichivo (La Mision and Urique Canyon Lodge).

Ah yes, Bahuichivo. . . .

At about noon we had stepped off the train, and now, an hour later, we were finally headed for La Mision . . . but not on a bus. We hired a truck driver.

Laughingly if not accurately labled a “cattle truck” by some in the group, our mode of transportation was, in fact, a one-ton flatbed.

At 500 pesos each (slightly more than $1), the fare seemed reasonable enough, considering that the bus still had not arrived and, some reasoned, might not.

So, with 28 upright bodies in back, luggage piled high and jammed between legs, sideboards bulging, a woman wearing a heavy cast seated in the cab (she had fractured her leg the previous day) and a young happy-go-lucky Mexican at the wheel, the truck inched forward . . . about a foot, then stopped.

The driver, it seemed, had second thoughts about traversing the tiny, wood-plank bridge directly in our path. Three jittery passengers quickly volunteered to remain behind, and the weight load was further reduced by removing some of the baggage.

At last we were under way, lumbering up the hill, a dust cloud swirling behind. The travel agents, at least, were delighted, for it was another unexpected adventure.

As sweat dotted brows and dust clogged throats, the merry group decided a song would be appropriate.

“How about ‘Amazing Grace’?” someone suggested.

Of course. It was perfect. Indeed, an amazing ride.

A peasant farmer plowing his field stopped, removed his hat, wiped his brow and gawked; a young mother, seated outside her adobe hut, stopped feeding her infant to stare incredulously; a lazy mongrel, sprawled in a doorway, lifted his head and cocked it quizzically as we ground our way through the sparsely populated hills.

Uneventful Trip

Except for a brief stop to tighten the wheel lugs, the 10-kilometer trip was uneventful.

It took an hour.

Hotel Mision, surprisingly, is quite modern--an attractive 25-unit, horseshoe-shaped structure with wood-burning, pot-bellied stoves and hot running water.

Flaming red bougainvillea and fruit trees near the hotel provide a colorful contrast to the rather scruffy surroundings in the primitive, old village.

Directly across from an ancient mission that was being refurbished and next to a 45-year-old boarding school (Internad, Santa Maria de Guadalupe, where 275 young students are enrolled), the hotel seems out of place in this 300-year-old Indian settlement founded by a Jesuit priest, Juan Maria de Salvatierra.

But enough history.

Lunch behind us and rejuvenated by a few cervezas , we set out again on the hot, dusty road. This time, we were, indeed, traveling in style, on a bus.

All seemed to be going too well, however, and an hour later our bulky vehicle coughed alarmingly, ground a few gears and chugged to a stop. We were about halfway to Urique Canyon.

Repaired on the spot after a 20-minute delay, the bus resumed rolling, winding precariously up a narrow mountain road, pebbles flying and disappearing down the deep ravines.

At last, our objective: Urique Canyon.

Predictably, the view was spectacular. From an elevation of about 7,500 feet the town and river more than a mile below (both also called Urique) appeared as mere specks. The expansive, sweeping mountain range seemed unending, extending as far as the eye could see.

Impressive, also, was the sinking sun. “Disturbing” may be more accurate, considering the prospects of having to negotiate that road in darkness.

But travel agents, it seems, fear not.

A Vista Point

We stopped at a mountain spring, at a peasant’s dwelling carved out of a mountainside, at a vista point for photos of the moon.

More singing highlighted the long ride back to La Mision, easing tensions, if nothing else.

After dinner (food was tasty, portions small, except for an enormous breakfast), we wearily trudged from the large dining hall-lobby to our quarters.

Almost 18 hours after piling out of bed in Los Mochis, we welcomed the one at Cerocahui. But first, a shower to remove the grime and grit.

Temperatures were dropping fast and the hot water proved truly blissful. As promised, it flowed freely, steam billowing and fogging the mirror . . . until my wife stepped into the shower.

Precisely at that moment, the flow ended. Not only had the supply of hot water been exhausted, even the cold merely trickled from the faucet.

In the romantic glow of a roaring, pot-bellied stove, the mood suddenly had turned chilly . . . along with my wife.

For information or reservations, write Hotel Santa Anita, Los Mochis, Sinaloa, Mexico 81000.