Years ago, author Scott Thybony set off on a rough, uncertain trek into Mexico’s Sierra Madre, scrambling through remote canyonlands and sleeping on train platforms. He recently returned to the same region — this time aboard a luxury train — and found the journey stirring unexpected memories. Thybony reflects on both trips in this month's Canyon Commentary.
Deep in Mexico, our train climbs steadily from the coastal lowlands into the Sierra Madre. We left Tucson yesterday and are heading for an immense canyon system known as the Barranca del Cobre. By the time we arrive, our train will have gained more than 8,000 feet in elevation, traveling from a land of parrots and palm trees to the high country of Apache pine and fir.
It took an assignment to get me on a luxury train, but I soon settled in without a struggle. National Geographic chose it as one of the best train journeys in the world for good reasons. The rails thread through a canyon in cliff-hugging curves as the river below cascades into plunge pools and braids among the boulders. The passengers take in the changing views and pass the time by eating, talking with each other and eating again. Then it’s time for lunch.
I ask a pecan grower from Texas if he’s planning on joining the mule riders tomorrow.
“I don’t ride nothing,” says Andy Anderson, “that don’t burn diesel.”
He goes on to tell me how he has no need for a pet.
“We don’t have cats, dogs, or cows,” he says, “only pecan trees. Put a pecan tree in the ground and tell it to stay. Come back in 50 years and it will still be there.”
The swaying rhythm of the train stirs memories of an earlier trip. Twenty-five years ago, a handful of us were sleeping on the railway platform at Los Mochis, unable to afford a hotel room. Next day we caught the second-class train with a potbelly stove in the corner and drunk loggers crowding the bench seats. Our plan was to backpack into the Barranca not knowing what we would encounter.
Riding in the back of a mail truck, we descended into the canyon and got dropped off at the Rió Urique. I estimated it would take three days to reach a trail leading back to the rim. But the riverbed turned out to be a nearly impassable boulderfield, forcing us to scramble over and around the jumble of rocks. Finally, we came upon a trail, and despite leading up the wrong side of the canyon, we took it. The Tarahumara Indians could be heard calling to each other nearby, but they avoided contact.
Reaching a large rock shelter we found a cook fire still smoldering but no one around. Clay pots and baskets were lying about, food bags hanging from pegs, and strips of green bark heaped in a pile. The cliffside home was remarkably similar to prehistoric sites I had seen in the American Southwest. Eventually, we got back to the road and flagged down the next mail truck.
Our train now comes to a stop on the edge of the great canyon where the rimrock breaks away into empty space. To reach the viewpoint, we pass Tarahumara women selling pine-needle baskets. They dress traditionally in brightly-colored skirts, full blouses, and cover their heads with scarves.
After spending the night in a fine lodge, I wake up early and step outside. Dawn light draws the highest cliffs from the darkness as a dog barks, sharp and clear. It then waits as if listening for its own echo before barking again. Soon, a rooster crows from a rancho on a distant ridgetop, answered by another nearby.
Later at dinner, Andy the pecan grower, carves his chicken and wonders, “Do you reckon this is the rooster that woke me up this morning?”
A few days later we return to Arizona having covered 1,300 miles. I come away with an appreciation for the ease and comfort of a first-class excursion, but know it’s a trade-off. I miss the raw adventure of my first trip, the wild uncertainty of it.
Scott Thybony is a Flagstaff-based writer. His Canyon Commentaries are produced by KNAU Arizona Public Radio.
