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Diary of a Horseback Trip Day 4:
Having secured permission to visit the place where the fermentation and distillation of the lechugilla took place, we made our plans. After breakfast we packed up our gear and saddled. Bidding our hosts goodbye, we set out to the south. Already the sun was up but the altitude kept the temperature in check. As we moved along, I noticed how the group moved as a unit. Everyone knew what had to be done and simply did it. There was a common bond already. Soon we came upon the workings of the lechugilla operation. Spent agave fiber lay in a pile. In a large city, this would be woven into mats but here it was trash. Chipped out of the rock were several cavities used for fermentation. The agave bodies were first cooked and then mashed in preparation for fermentation. An elevated platform served as the base for the distillation with a metal half-barrel positioned over a fire pit. A small stream ran nearby. In it a cylindrical wooden sleeve lay underwater soaking. Obviously intended to be placed into the barrel during distillation, it seemed its only purpose could be to impart a woody flavor to the distillate. Our hosts had not mentioned it. All of this was out in the open with no attempt at concealment.
Pushing onward, we followed the streambed through a thick covering of trees. Rock, water, and leaves soon blended into a familiar and relaxing pattern. Nobody hurried. Later we crossed the route normally used from Los Alisos to Terreros and the descent into Batopilas Canyon. But we had more time and were going to see more of the high country. Climbing again, we gained elevation above Yesca and headed northward. Once again, pines surrounded us. The rasp of horseshoes on rock became constant. This country is rough on horseshoes and wears them down quickly. Then the nail heads in the shoes do not fully seat and themselves are worn down until the shoe loosens and starts clinking. Trailside horseshoe replacement is commonplace. The trail stayed high on a rocky surface. Once a short and steep section of slickrock required riders to dismount and walk up, leaving the animals to scramble up unburdened. No one objected.
We passes almost nobody - a sign of the region's remoteness. Then we entered a region that had a familiar look to me. In the distance ahead I recognized the trail that passes by a larger group of Tarahumara ranchitos. It lay above the upper stretch of the canyon and the community of Munérachi. Our thoughts were to go to Munérachi and camp that night but the day was wearing on. Should we push on and make it down or stay up high? We could arrive late in the hot canyon bottom or stay up high in the relative coolness - the choice was obvious. As we passed by one of the ranchitos, we waited outside the wall for someone to emerge and talk to us. José (also Tarahumara) took a few steps inside. After some time, a man came out to talk. We waited patiently until he motioned for us to come in. The women peered at us from around the corners of the house. As we looked about, good camping spaces seemed to be scarce. Since beggars can't be too choosy so we began to settle in. Once again, a five-gallon pail of water and a dipper were loaned to us.
Martín came by to see what we were all about. He was dressed in the traditional Tarahumara blouse and sapello, a short wraparound sort of skirt. Fluent in Spanish, we exchanged questions.
What is the name of this region - Choricique, he replied. And this ranchito - Juencio. And later, did we have a flashlight we might give him? Unfortunately we did not and I made a mental note to bring one with me next time. Eveline and Eddy had brought some photos and a picture book from Switzerland - would any of the kids like to see it? Slowly Eveline made her way to the edge of the house and a small group gathered on the ground as she laid out her materials. How much more contrast can there be between these kids who have lived their entire life in these mountains and the pictures of the Swiss forests, glaciers, and cities that lay before them? Everyone was absorbed in the exchange. I walked to the south where it was obvious the canyon interior was visible. The dropoff was dramatic. Cliffs and steep slopes extended all the way from the mesa we were on to the vicinity of Munérachi in the bottom several thousand feet below. The late afternoon sun lit up the top half of the canyon while the bottom half was already darkening. Our planned route down used a trail that continued for some distance on top of the mesa before dropping into the canyon. Yet a trail was plainly visible below me - was there an alternate route we might use from here to get to Munérachi? It looked good and only one portion was hidden from view. I returned to our camp to ask Martín. "Yes", he said. "There is a trail but it is not passable with livestock.". It was good for foot travel only. I idly asked about the time he needed to get to Munérachi - "..an hour." was his reply. "And to return?" - "..an hour and a half.". Now this needs to be put into perspective. Munérachi is several kilometers away by any route. Juencio is at 6400' elevation, Munérachi at 2600', and the trails are steep. If you want to gauge travel time and you ask a Tarahumara how long a trip is, you had better double it at least, or more! We settled in to the nightly ritual of dinner and cleanup. The horses had been turned loose and were collectively wandering around. Andy, having a tendency to butt into peoples houses, was hobbled. He soon learned to jump and lunge to stay with his buddies. Martín returned to his home, the kids disappeared, the goats were herded into their pen, and the last thing I remember is the superb clarity of the night sky. |
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