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Diary of a Horseback Trip Day 9:
Morning began way too early - the roosters up and down the streambed have a daily contest and it starts well before sunrise. I know it all too well. One rooster crows vigorously and pauses. Another soon replies from faraway and the contest is on - who can out-crow the other! There's never any winner so this is a daily event. The constant crowing hardens the lungs and vocal chords producing ever more volume and everyone is on the same training regimen. It's almost like perpetual motion and it stands in stark contrast to the otherwise peaceful silence. Then the sun comes up and the crowing stops. Finally!
Around breakfast it turned out the violin player never showed up at the church the previous evening. Over coffee and tortillas, I renewed my acquaintance with Ambrosia and Meletón. "How is your health - is everyone well?". As Americans, we frequently have very short chats with those we know. In Mexico this is considered somewhat rude and seen as an undesirable characteristic of Americans. Among friends, matters of business are deferred until the more personal items are talked out and this takes time. People are what matter - business can wait.
Fresh tortillas are a mainstay of breakfast and that means corn must be ground, pressed into tortillas, and cooked - every day. Soaked in a lime-water solution, the lime begins the process of softening and breaking down the tough outer layer of the corn. The swollen grain is run through a hand-cranked mill producing a coarse meal. Too coarse for tortillas, the meal is then finely ground into masa on a stone - commonly known as a mano & metate. Both are labor-intensive operations and strictly women's work. I encouraged Nicole to try cranking the mill - not easy for her (or me)! The only modern convenience in this process is a tortilla press that has replaced the traditional method of patting the masa into a tortilla by hand. Freshly-made tortillas are flavorful and a treat.
We learned the Catholic
priest "Padre Gallo", (Father "Rooster" - his commonly accepted nickname)
was in the area and would be soon stopping by. Well-known and respected, Padre
Gallo was coming to check out Ambrosia's pedal-operated sewing machine. She had
complained it wasn't working properly. After some disassembly and inspection, he
concluded the teeth on the gears were worn out and there was nothing he could do
to remedy the problem. Here was a priest out doing his real job - helping
people! It soon became clear why he was so popular.
This was our home-stretch day and we set about the morning's tasks. Padre Gallo was headed to the school at Huicórachi and asked about accompanying us to the trail junction where he would depart from us. We soon had him outfitted with a horse. What good Catholic would not relinquish his horse and walk so the priest could ride? Again waving goodbye all too soon, we were on the trail. We chatted as we rode along and his curiosity was evident, "Where was I from?", "Where had we been?", and so forth. Knowing he was from Cerocahui, I asked him if I could get permission to climb into the bell tower of the church there and look for dates on the bells. This was ok by him but his schedule and mine did not align - he would be gone from town before I could get there. "No problem", he said, "I'll leave word with the priest who will be there in my absence. Just come and ask.". He offered how one bell had a date that appeared to be from 1752 but the date was difficult to clearly read. True to his word, when I later rang the doorbell for entry to the church, I was expected. Near a steeply-climbing section of trail, Padre Gallo dismounted and took off on foot on the trail to Huicórachi. His pace defied his sixty-one years of age. As we rode away, we could hear him clowning around, howling like a coyote. The sound reverberated around us. Not to be outdone, we howled back. If this is what religion is all about, I might sign up!
At the top of the climb, we paused near the cross that marks the start of the descent for travelers headed down into the canyon. "Good luck and safety comes to he who tosses a rock onto the pile to help support the cross...", so goes the local legend. Recalling my misgivings about climbing into the church tower in Satevó, I tossed a rock on the pile with thoughts to the next time I'll be there. While José nailed up still another loose shoe, we paused in the shade. Once again the forest was all around us. The cross was located at the high point of the trail in a saddle - no more climbing now.
From the cross, our path lay steadily downhill to the ranch. On the climb up, we had seen numerous bromeliads blooming in the trees. Although pretty to look at, the plant appears to overwhelm and kill its host while others maintain it is harmless to the tree. Back again were the madroñas with their silky-smooth red bark. And back again were the mosses and the damp streambeds. The entrance to El Cajón, (the "large box", a short section of narrow canyon) appeared some time later. Passing through its narrows, we emerged not far away from the spot where we had departed this route over a week ago. Everyone knew the way home now. Sensing the home stretch of the trail, the horses picked up. Soon we emerged from the side canyon, crossed the stream, and were on the final stretch. Eager to get home, I had to hold Dama back to a reasonable pace. All too soon, it was over. One last time, the saddles came off. Personal gear was separated out and sorted. Horses and mules rolled in the dirt. A shower beckoned but not nearly as strongly as in Batopilas. Recalling the view of the canyon from Paula's house on the first day, it was clear we had traveled as much beyond where we could see as we had traveled where we could see. Numbers about miles of trail traveled and thousands of feet of elevation gained and lost loose their meaning when I simply look at the view and realize how much more exists beyond all that is visible. It doesn't grow old. From Paula's house to Urique, to Los Alisos and Mesa de los Isidros, to Yesca, Choricique, Munerachi, Cerro Colorado, Batopilas and Satevó, we had traveled the trails and met the people who live this rugged life and who had welcomed us openly. The journey was over. Did somebody mention a cold beer? |
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