Copper Canyon:
Town of Creel
Paquimé Ruins
Natural Wonders: The Copper Canyon
and Basaseachi Falls
It was a long drive on a good toll road through the sage and cactus-covered deserts of north central Mexico to Chihuahua. In places there are some huge irrigated agricultural operations, including a Tyson chicken plant, and some mountainous scenery much like that in the western U.S., but not much else except a few pockets of extreme poverty among those trying to eke out a living on waterless terrain.
We continued through Chihauhua to a city called Cuauhtemoc, an apple growing area located an hour or two west. The next morning we headed southwest to the town of Creel, located on the edge of the Copper Canyon at 7200 feet. Obviously growing fast, Creel has a northern-frontier mountain town look, something like boom-or bust towns in Alaska or the Yukon. Although located in Tarahumara Indian territory, the town is mostly populated by Mexicans and unfortunately, most of the Tarahumaras one sees in town are listless women and children selling worthless trinkets. The Tarahumaras fled certain slavery at the hands of the Spaniards some 500 years ago and went into the Copper Canyon where capture was difficult. There are now about 50,000 of them, the second largest Indian tribe in North America after the Navajos. Although renown for their running prowess, rich cultural traditions, and shyness with strangers, many in fact have lived a grim existence. They mostly live in remote rural areas, usually in log or mud-brick cabins, often with no electricity, and a few in caves (we actually saw two such living units from the road).
To our surprise, the roads in immediately around Creel were freshly paved and well graded, although there were many hairpin curves and switchbacks. We did, however, have to deal with road obstacles, including a large mean-looking one-horned bull occupying the center of he road. Bill feinted the van to the left, I waved a red t-shirt out the passenger side window, and Milo was transfixed; finally, the moment of truth arrived: The bull ambled to the side of the road. The scenery was unusual and often spectacular, although being winter, the landscape was quite brown. It is cool in this area in February, (unless one descends to the areas in the canyons’ bottoms, where it is tropical), We noticed a wastewater treatment plant outside of Creel; it is good to see some environmental responsibility accompanying the boom in tourism. We also noticed that the rural Tarahumaras have almost universally fenced their properties along streams in order to keep their livestock away from them and alleviate the cholera-causing water contamination of the past. We drove a good paved road to Divisidero, which is a major stop for the Copper Canyon train because it has accessible views of the plunging (4500 feet) canyons, along with a splendid luxury lodge perched on the precipice. We hiked a few hours for even better views. We then continued a short distance on the paved road to a village called San Rafael, which sprawled along dirt streets with monumental potholes, but only one tope, constructed for good measure. At that point, it became strictly four-wheel drive territory, and with my spine fused to my teeth, we finally turned back.
From Creel, we drove north to a small national park, Basaseachi Falls, and hiked in to view the falls over a rocky, but well-maintained trail. The falls are one of the highest in North America and the scenery was commensurate. Milo particularly enjoyed the long walk, but Bill had to carry him across the metal bridge that spans the upper falls after he made a firm decision not to venture out. Milo’s bravado only goes so far. Roscoe displayed more courage, but of course he could not see down.
Mennonites, Mormons, Pots and
Chihuahuas With AK-47s
We next backtracked to Cuauhtemoc and drove north through the Zona Mennonita. The Mennonites occupy a huge area of prime tabletop farmland surrounded by mountains, and they primarily grow corn, wheat and apples, along with sizeable cattle and dairy operations according to a young farmer who chatted with us at lunch in the “Mountain Inn Restaurant, Motel and Car Wash.” The farms appeared large and prosperous, and we believe that the four-lane highway had the world’s greatest concentration of John Deere dealerships. Clearly visible from the highway were clusters of farm communities that the Mennonites have named only “Campo” followed by a numeric designation, such as “Campo 8” or “Campo 110.”
Our next stops were the city of Nuevas Casas Grandes and then west a short distance to the Paquimé Indian archeological site. The Paquimés, who are culturally related to tribes of the Southwestern U.S., reached their zenith about 800-1000 A.D., and were has-beens by the time of the Spaniards.
For our final days in Mexico, we headed Mata Ortiz, a famous pottery-making village. The paved road goes as far as Juarez, an old Mormon settlement that remains innately gringo. It is situated in the midst of healthy cattle and orchard country, boasts a handsome looking school as well as a temple. The old town homes are Western Victorian (such as those found in Salt Lake or Denver), while the newer homes are like those seen in any upscale suburban area.
About ten miles of dirt, gravel, sagebrush, and one forded stream further lies Mata Ortiz, a dusty village of little mud block houses and the usual assortment of pigs, goats, chickens, burros and horses. In the late 1970’s, Juan Quezada gained fame as a genius in the art of Paquimé style pottery making; during the subsequent years, his own style has evolved and his work has been featured in galleries and museums across the U.S. He in turn taught his art to other villagers, where it is now a literal cottage industry. The villagers have no organized method for marketing their pottery, not even the usual outdoor market. Instead, one must walk the dusty village streets and knock on doors bearing “pottery for sale” signs and ask to see each artist’s product. We were at first taken aback, but we chanced on a collector from Tucson who explained how to go about this and we tagged behind. We met El Maestro himself, who lives in a very modest home. Although his pots are only available on a commission basis (and are truly worth the praise - his wife showed us a two he had just finished), his grown children’s efforts are available for purchase in his home. We also visited a number of other homes, something that became the most interesting part of the visit. Behind the drab exteriors and dirt yards were spotlessly clean rooms of varnished concrete floors, painted walls, and comfortable, but spare furnishings. I’m embarrassed to say how many pots we bought; I guess we became instant collectors.
After Mata Ortiz we segued through more desert and irrigated farmland to the border south of Deming, NM, a two-hour drive. About 20 miles from the US border we were stopped at a military checkpoint. Grim-looking Mexican soldiers holding AK 47's were patrolling the roof of the checkpoint building, and a baby-faced soldier holding a tiny Chihuahua inside his shirt briefly interviewed us. The pup was adorable.
Entering the U.S., we were treated to the latest in border technology. The Customs Service lined up about ten cars, ordered all occupants (including pets) out, and then drove an enormous X-ray machine over the cars. Conspicuously absent was any request for an I.D. Although our license plate numbers were entered into a computer, no one asked for our passport or other identification. It struck us that if a person wanted to enter illegally, it would be best to hide in plain view.
We were a little sad to realize our adventure to the south was coming to an end, but when we drove onto I-10, we noticed that the surface felt as smooth as silk, and it felt good, as did the coupon-book discounted motel room that we found in Las Cruces, NM. Not only was the price one of the lowest we had paid for weeks (campsites excluded), but our room was spacious, well lit, amply furnished, nicely decorated, no bugs, no cracks in the plaster or porcelain, thick towels, potable water from the taps, comfortable pillows, dog friendly … you get the picture. On the other hand, there was no new adventure to anticipate, no locals to work over in my flawed Spanish, no wide-eyed kids to entertain with the pooches, and our fellow travelers were ordinary folks, not fellow adventurous gringos with whom we could compare notes and swap stories.
Fin
Adios, México!
Basaseachi Falls
Town of Mata Ortiz
(El Maestro's Home)
(Pot by Mireya Quezada)
Is this really Mexico?
U.S. Border Technology
Paquimé Ruins
