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- Joined
- Oct 24, 2005
- Messages
- 255
- Reaction score
- 0
- Location
- Wills Point, Texas
- First Name
- David
- Last Name
- Bell
The first time I heard about Copper Canyon, my mom was talking about riding a train down there to see a canyon that was bigger than Grand Canyon. She loved Mexico and always wanted to retire there, but never did. In college a fraternity brother was said to 'own the copper canyon train'. He had a real nice car and several Rolex's, so maybe he did, (or his dad did).
I started riding dual sport motorcycles a few years ago. I bought a used KLR650 from a mechanic in a nearby town. He had only had it a few days, and put it on Craigslist to make some money. I had learned that they sell fast, so I went and put the money in his hand. For the next few weeks I did the usual improvements. I went to Mexico twice and Big Bend once, meanwhile trying to improve her as much as possible. Part of the process was better parts, and part was to learn as much about her as possible so I could fix her if she broke. I have also gotten some other dirt bikes and have a one mile trail on my land that goes into some tough spots, so I wouldn't crash as much on a trip since my dirt skills were improving. My klr is a 2002 and I have gone over it with a fine tooth comb, both because I enjoy working on it and because I don't want to break down in Mexico 500 miles from the border and have to pay someone to take me home. So far so good.
I have taken two trips to the Sierra Madre Range near the town of Galeana, about 150 miles South of Monterrey. I have also ridden motorcycles in the Big Bend area of Texas several times. Those trips are very enjoyable and I hope to make more. I still wanted to go to Copper Canyon.
However, every time I get up a group to go to Copper Canyon, everybody drops out. This time, I was determined to go even by myself. Luckily, a guy named Alan started talking about a trip on his forum, Motorcycle Tourer's Forum.
Several others said they would go, but as usual, started dropping out for various reasons. Anybody that I knew or had ridden with dropped out, and we ended up with only four, which was fine with me. Our group included me, Steve, Mike, and Alan. We were a diverse group and together could teach you engineering, give you counseling, build you a log home, and, uh, take care of any solid waste problems you might have. A love of motorcycles was our common ground, which evidently spills over into a lot of opinions and other interests. Geographically, we were from Texas, Minnesota, Missouri, and Indiana.
Incidentally,a lot of people were very concerned about safety in Mexico. I have been to Mexico about 22 times and have never had any problems. There are a lot of murders there, because there is a war among the various narco factions, the army, the federales, and the police. I do not believe that they are interested in old, balding, fat guys on cheap motorcycles. ****, the same people that think I'm insane for going to Mexico don't think twice about going to Washington DC, New Orleans, or Las Vegas, all of which have very high murder rates, more or less for the same reasons. Enough about that.
After much planning, money changing, insurance buying, packing, unpacking, and repacking, we met on 12/28/10 in Presidio Texas, the dry and dusty gateway to the State of Chihuahua. The dog is named after the state, not the other way around, by the way. Hanging around the motel after getting our paperwork done, including permits to bring in a motorcycle and one's self, we got to know each other. It slowly dawned on me that all these guys were hard core long distance riders. Two had participated in the Iron Butt Rally (11,000 miles in 11 days) and the other guy was signed up. They had ridden tens of thousands of miles in rain, sleet, snow, mud, dirt, gravel, night and day, with little sleep and no company. I was sobered by their mileage, thinking I might have to let them go on while I poked along. That was not to be, however, and the group was also very consistent with attitudes about daily mileage, speed, and stops for roasted chicken or beef head barbacoa.
The plan for the first day was to cover 300 miles, from Presidio all the way to Creel, Mexico. Several people that had been there told me it would be a very long day, but I found it to be very enjoyable, even though we took a long cut by going on the free road ("Libre") instead of the toll way ("Cuota"). The long cut turned out to be 60 or more miles of twisty mountain roads which were a blast to ride. Much of the ride was above 7,000 feet, up to 8500 feet, and sort of chilly. We all had electrically heated jackets, pants, or gloves, which are pretty much the difference between fun and absolute misery. Speed limits were very low and I often found myself riding double the speed limit, but the only police that passed just flashed their lights at everyone and never stopped anyone.
Street signs in Mexico amount to suggestions. For example, a train crossing always has an "Alto" (stop) sign but no one stops, and sometimes they don't even slow down. However, everyone slows down for the "Topes" and "Vibradores". Topes are 'dead policemen', big old honking humps in the road, sometimes well marked, sometimes not, but at the beginning and end of the street as it goes though any town or village. If you hit them very hard, you would certainly take a header and probably break your bike. Vibradores are the same little metal domes that we have, except in about three or four rows and you can't go around them, so you better go slow. These two practices work very well, are cheap and don't require much maintenance. Typical Mexican engineering.
After a couple of hours, we passed through the City of Chihuahua. We had studied maps a bit, and the consensus was to 'head southwest'. There are beautiful buildings and beautiful women in Chihuahua, but city traffic in Mexico involves a lot of jockeying for position and scooting into gaps, and some creative honking, so you better not be looking at the Senioritas too much. Alan led us through like a champ. On the edge of town, we stopped for Barbacoa (cows head: boiled, picked, and cooked, yummie). Then there are several more hundred kilometers of alternating arrow straight roads through desert and curvy and very steep mountain sections. At times I would be going 80 mph and at others, 15.
Before dark we pulled into Creel, famous for it's train and as the gateway to Copper Canyon, which sounds so much better in Spanish "Barranca del Cobre". At the hotel, we found that we did indeed have reservations, which were in the book as "Gringos". No number specified. We got two rooms with two beds each, so I roomed with Alan hoping he didn't snore too bad, and he didn't. We ended up friends.
The hotel was very nice. It is generally very cold in Creel and nothing is really heated above about 50 degrees. So the waitresses, the grocery clerks, the coffee shop hosts, and everyone just wear coats and caps all the time. We did have hot water after asking for it and our rooms were heated.
In the morning it was showering a bit of ice and snow, so we waited a while til the seats thawed, and it was time for our final assault on Batopilas, the mining town at the bottom of Copper Canyon. All I knew was that I had seen pictures of the road and the pictures were, well, they were terrifying. It drops 6000 feet in 9 miles, or some such. There is no guard rail. It is gravel, rock, and more rock. There are washed out sections and burros and goats and chickens and people, the Tarahumara.
I started riding dual sport motorcycles a few years ago. I bought a used KLR650 from a mechanic in a nearby town. He had only had it a few days, and put it on Craigslist to make some money. I had learned that they sell fast, so I went and put the money in his hand. For the next few weeks I did the usual improvements. I went to Mexico twice and Big Bend once, meanwhile trying to improve her as much as possible. Part of the process was better parts, and part was to learn as much about her as possible so I could fix her if she broke. I have also gotten some other dirt bikes and have a one mile trail on my land that goes into some tough spots, so I wouldn't crash as much on a trip since my dirt skills were improving. My klr is a 2002 and I have gone over it with a fine tooth comb, both because I enjoy working on it and because I don't want to break down in Mexico 500 miles from the border and have to pay someone to take me home. So far so good.
I have taken two trips to the Sierra Madre Range near the town of Galeana, about 150 miles South of Monterrey. I have also ridden motorcycles in the Big Bend area of Texas several times. Those trips are very enjoyable and I hope to make more. I still wanted to go to Copper Canyon.
However, every time I get up a group to go to Copper Canyon, everybody drops out. This time, I was determined to go even by myself. Luckily, a guy named Alan started talking about a trip on his forum, Motorcycle Tourer's Forum.
Several others said they would go, but as usual, started dropping out for various reasons. Anybody that I knew or had ridden with dropped out, and we ended up with only four, which was fine with me. Our group included me, Steve, Mike, and Alan. We were a diverse group and together could teach you engineering, give you counseling, build you a log home, and, uh, take care of any solid waste problems you might have. A love of motorcycles was our common ground, which evidently spills over into a lot of opinions and other interests. Geographically, we were from Texas, Minnesota, Missouri, and Indiana.
Incidentally,a lot of people were very concerned about safety in Mexico. I have been to Mexico about 22 times and have never had any problems. There are a lot of murders there, because there is a war among the various narco factions, the army, the federales, and the police. I do not believe that they are interested in old, balding, fat guys on cheap motorcycles. ****, the same people that think I'm insane for going to Mexico don't think twice about going to Washington DC, New Orleans, or Las Vegas, all of which have very high murder rates, more or less for the same reasons. Enough about that.
After much planning, money changing, insurance buying, packing, unpacking, and repacking, we met on 12/28/10 in Presidio Texas, the dry and dusty gateway to the State of Chihuahua. The dog is named after the state, not the other way around, by the way. Hanging around the motel after getting our paperwork done, including permits to bring in a motorcycle and one's self, we got to know each other. It slowly dawned on me that all these guys were hard core long distance riders. Two had participated in the Iron Butt Rally (11,000 miles in 11 days) and the other guy was signed up. They had ridden tens of thousands of miles in rain, sleet, snow, mud, dirt, gravel, night and day, with little sleep and no company. I was sobered by their mileage, thinking I might have to let them go on while I poked along. That was not to be, however, and the group was also very consistent with attitudes about daily mileage, speed, and stops for roasted chicken or beef head barbacoa.
The plan for the first day was to cover 300 miles, from Presidio all the way to Creel, Mexico. Several people that had been there told me it would be a very long day, but I found it to be very enjoyable, even though we took a long cut by going on the free road ("Libre") instead of the toll way ("Cuota"). The long cut turned out to be 60 or more miles of twisty mountain roads which were a blast to ride. Much of the ride was above 7,000 feet, up to 8500 feet, and sort of chilly. We all had electrically heated jackets, pants, or gloves, which are pretty much the difference between fun and absolute misery. Speed limits were very low and I often found myself riding double the speed limit, but the only police that passed just flashed their lights at everyone and never stopped anyone.
Street signs in Mexico amount to suggestions. For example, a train crossing always has an "Alto" (stop) sign but no one stops, and sometimes they don't even slow down. However, everyone slows down for the "Topes" and "Vibradores". Topes are 'dead policemen', big old honking humps in the road, sometimes well marked, sometimes not, but at the beginning and end of the street as it goes though any town or village. If you hit them very hard, you would certainly take a header and probably break your bike. Vibradores are the same little metal domes that we have, except in about three or four rows and you can't go around them, so you better go slow. These two practices work very well, are cheap and don't require much maintenance. Typical Mexican engineering.
After a couple of hours, we passed through the City of Chihuahua. We had studied maps a bit, and the consensus was to 'head southwest'. There are beautiful buildings and beautiful women in Chihuahua, but city traffic in Mexico involves a lot of jockeying for position and scooting into gaps, and some creative honking, so you better not be looking at the Senioritas too much. Alan led us through like a champ. On the edge of town, we stopped for Barbacoa (cows head: boiled, picked, and cooked, yummie). Then there are several more hundred kilometers of alternating arrow straight roads through desert and curvy and very steep mountain sections. At times I would be going 80 mph and at others, 15.
Before dark we pulled into Creel, famous for it's train and as the gateway to Copper Canyon, which sounds so much better in Spanish "Barranca del Cobre". At the hotel, we found that we did indeed have reservations, which were in the book as "Gringos". No number specified. We got two rooms with two beds each, so I roomed with Alan hoping he didn't snore too bad, and he didn't. We ended up friends.
The hotel was very nice. It is generally very cold in Creel and nothing is really heated above about 50 degrees. So the waitresses, the grocery clerks, the coffee shop hosts, and everyone just wear coats and caps all the time. We did have hot water after asking for it and our rooms were heated.
In the morning it was showering a bit of ice and snow, so we waited a while til the seats thawed, and it was time for our final assault on Batopilas, the mining town at the bottom of Copper Canyon. All I knew was that I had seen pictures of the road and the pictures were, well, they were terrifying. It drops 6000 feet in 9 miles, or some such. There is no guard rail. It is gravel, rock, and more rock. There are washed out sections and burros and goats and chickens and people, the Tarahumara.
