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Diary of a Horseback Trip Day 3:
The process of packing up was quickly becoming second-nature to everyone. By now it was clear what should go into the load carried by the pack-mule and what should be out and available for the day's activities. The pack-mule's load was already lightening as we used some of the grain and alfalfa pellets carried to supplement the meager forage available. As Próspero and José loaded the pack-mule, we busied ourselves with saddling our animals and gathering our scattered belongings. Today would be a change. The plan is to head into a new area to the south rather than continue with the established route straight up. All too soon, we wave goodbye and set out. As we move along, a pair of Military Macaws flew by. The largest member of the parrot family, these colorful birds are seen throughout the canyons, almost always in pairs. Their distinctive call, a sort of rough-sounding "grrackk - grrackk", can be heard from far away.
The route to Mesa de los Isidros crosses a small ridge with the best panoramic view of the canyon I have seen anywhere. On the point, the vista wraps itself around you and only time allows the whole picture to slowly sink in. In spite of a somewhat hazy day (normal for May), everyone was drawn in. We paused for a snack and a drink of Gatorade. My camera made me feel like I was looking through a pinhole. Giving up in frustration, I opted to keep the picture in my mind. Even José seemed totally absorbed by what lay before him. Then, all too soon, we mounted up and moved out and up. I'll be back here sometime.
Before long, the trail leveled out as we approached the rim. Soon we began passing increasing numbers of large agave plants. An occasional plant had been cut apart and the leaves stripped from the core. The missing core was a clue - someone around here is making lechugilla (the local name for mescal). Ahead we could see the outlines of several scattered houses and small ranchitos. We worked our way toward one of them. In the distance, a spot of color told us a Tarahumara woman was at work outside. By local custom, we stopped a ways from the house and waited for someone to come out to talk with us.
After introductions and polite conversation, we asked if we could camp out nearby. Could we have some water? Soon we were invited to their house and provided with a five-gallon pail of water and a gourd-shell to use as a dipper. A woman was finishing weaving a mat while she tended an infant lying in a hammock along with another small child. She quietly consented to a couple of pictures for us (this is unusual). Nearby, the core of an agave stalk was being cut up for food. We dropped our gear and turned our animals loose. "And what about the chopped-up agaves?" A little conversation soon established that indeed lechugilla was being made - would we like to see for ourselves? You bet! While the women tended to the food and weaving, the men busied themselves with more important matters. We joined to watch.
An agave plant grows for years storing sugary energy in the core of its body. Once mature, the plant abruptly shoots a large stalk up to bloom. Having expended all its energy, the agave then dies. The flowering stalk can easily be ten feet tall. The stalk can be cut off and the inner portions eaten. We tried some and the flavor was subtle and tasty. Or the plant can be cut apart before it blooms while the energy-giving juices remain in the plant's body. The leaves are stripped off and the core that remains is cooked and fermented. Once fermented, the alcohol-laden mixture is distilled. The clear distillate ranges from very strongly alcoholic to less so and is then mixed down with other batches to a uniform strength that makes for a good pisto (a shot or a drink). We had missed the distillation process but the mixing was in process.
American and European vintners pride themselves on their ability to monitor every stage of wine production. Mexican lechugilla is also made with pride and attention to detail albeit under much less sophisticated conditions. We huddled together in a small room with numerous five-gallon containers about. Using nothing more than a couple of cups and occasionally a funnel, various batches of lechugilla were studiously mixed and closely scrutinized. One man was obviously in charge but how did this process work? Nobody was sitting around and drinking but an offered taste told us this was the real thing. Cup after cup went back and forth and was deliberately poured into an almost-full open pail. After some murmured comments, more was added from a specific batch. Batches contained within a container with a small top were mixed by inserting a tube down to the bottom and blowing air in to blend the contents. The entire process had a ritualistic feel to it.
Watching closely, a thought occurred to me. I asked about the bubbles that result when a cup of liquid is poured into an open pail. That was it - the resulting bubbles and how quickly they form and dissipate spoke to the strength of the mixture - nothing else! They should form like perlitas (little pearls) I was told. Too much alcohol and the bubbles disappear instantly - too weak and they persist too long. And the master knows. How somebody could figure this out was beyond me - after enough tasting and experimenting, I think anything would taste good enough and the evidence forgotten by the next day! But it works.
Here, virtually without any tools of the trade, a consistent product emerges. And since the drink represents a substantial income to the producers, this is serious business. In the towns, a liter of lechugilla sells for 150 pesos if you can find it. Surrounding us were gallons and gallons of the stuff, an important source of income. While all the men were attending to serious business, Eveline had purchased a thick blanket made of black wool. It was too much for us to carry with us so we made arrangements for it to be carried to Los Alisos where we would pick it up on our return trip. As the afternoon wore on, the goats gathered in anticipation of being penned for the evening. They were willingly herded into a cramped pen and a couple of dogs stayed nearby to stand watch overnight. The goats are so used to this and expect it. They gather themselves next to the pen without any prompting. We established our camp in an open area not far from one of the houses. Our animals moved about freely. Being herd animals, they will predominantly stick together. Temperatures were balmy and we moved about with only long-sleeved shirts. We prepared our dinner and stretched out for another night underneath the stars. The rest of the world seemed so distant - and so irrelevant.
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