Part I: El Paso to Presidio - December 19 - 27, 2004

[Louis, here's Part I. I hope you can read my penmanship. I'm suffering from 'bike hands,' a loss of feeling in my two outside fingers due to the stress of holding the handlebars over some very rough roads.]


The night before my departure on this trip via river from El Paso to the Gulf of Mexico, Jesse Bogan, the border correspondent for the Sam Antonio Express News, came to may apartment to interview me for an article he hopes to write about my journey once I reach the Gulf in late March. After he scribbled my answers to a multitude of questions, I asked him, "How do you think my trip will go?"

His prophetic answer is quickly becoming something of a mantra for me. He said: "I think you're going to be overwhelmed by the kindness of the Mexican people."

The following day, I loaded my mountain bike, my brand new sleeping bag, and a two dollar laundry basket filled with a week's supply of sardines, water crackers, German bread, and instant oatmeal into my car and drove to Langtry to rendezvous with my father, who, in tandem with Ted Thayer, was helping me with the shuttle for the first half of this trip. We visited Pete, Warren and Linda Billings, all of whom appeared as excited as I was about the trip.

By noon the following day, Sunday, December 19, we arrived in El Paso, under the shadow of the Asarco plant of the west side of town, just upriver from where the Rio Grande begins to define the Texas-Mexico border. There we rendezvoused with Tony Meyers, my best friend since we were ten years old, who would accompany me for the first leg of the journey, the mountain biking stretch from El Paso/Juarez to Presidio/Ojinaga. Within minutes, my father disappeared in my car and Ted Thayer drove off in Tony's truck, and we were left to begin what would quickly become one of the most wonderful weeks in either of our lives.

In the interest of brevity, I'll spare the tedious details of our first two days riding through El Paso Valley on the paved roads on the US side. Those who are especially interested in the history of the Rio Grande might not know that the route we took, on Farm Roads close to the river, was actually south of the Rio Grande until the flood of 1829 rerouted the river approximately five miles south.

By late Monday afternoon, we were setting up camp in an arroyo on the north side of the sparsely traveled Farm Road 192, just west of the former site of Fort Quitman, and very near the end of the last pavement we would ride for the next five days.

Our third day got off to an ominous start when we were loading the bikes and discovered I had the first of four flat tires on the trip. As Tony began to rummage through his gear to retrieve a spare inner tube, we realized we didn't have a wrench to remove my wheel. I had no choice but to take his bike back up to the truck stop at Mile 89 on I-10, a place which I will charitably describe as Faulkneresque. I had to settle for a pair of channel lock pliers.

I should mention here that Tony and I are a study in contrasts. My total expenditures for all the gear I had didn't even amount to $200, and that included both the mountain bike, the sleeping bag, and the channel lock pliers. Tony, on the other hand, looked like a poster boy for REI. His upscale saddle bags were stuffed with - among other things - $80 biking pants, a Blackberry cell phone/text messager, a digital video camera, twin walkie-talkies, top-of-the-line water "bladders" with valved hoses, and more cliff & mojo bars than I knew existed. He did not, however, have such pedestrian gear as a pen knife, a spoon, or a cup.

I had the foresight to bring two spoons and we scammed a cup from a convenience store along the way. Unfortunately, the clerk gave it to us for free only because it sported a large cannabis leaf emblazoned on its side.

Another sharp contrast between Tony and me was that he consumed both food and water at an amazing pace. My spartan diet could have stretched his weekly consumption a month or more. When we left the last opportunity to buy any supplies, Tony said he carried enough food "for two guys to go ten days." Apparently, one of those guys couldn't have been him. By Day 5 he was worried he would run out of food. Meanwhile, I methodically pecked away at my cache of sardines, bread and crackers.

Once we reached the end of the pavement of Farm Road 192, we entered a remote place where few people tread. Enroute to Indian Hot Springs that afternoon, I was surprised that four vehicles appeared, one each hour. Remarkably, the second was a DPS cruiser with two officers from - of all places - Abilene, who were on their way to tough-talk the caretaker at Indian Hot Springs over possible marijuana trafficking. The third vehicle, a bilingual rancher and his Spanish-speaking hired hand, filled our water jugs and insisted we add powdered Gatorade to the liquid. The fourth vehicle appeared just as we were about to set up camp near an abandoned ranch house, on the shore of a temporary lake, the result of November's flooding in the river. We would see these lakes all the way to Ojinaga.

The driver of this last truck, Jesus, or Chuy as he preferred I call him, was taciturn at first. Once I broke into Spanish, he warmed quickly. It turned out he was the caretaker of Indian Hot Springs, an impressive private resort a mile away. Within moments, he offered us a guest room at the resort, citing the fact that a norther was forecast to arrive during the night. We needed no coaxing. We loaded the bikes and gear into the bed of the truck and jumped in the cab for the short ride to our night's lodging.

It would be difficult to overstate how kind Chuy was to us. In addition to giving us a free room and beers, he gave us a detailed description of what to expect in the few villages we would be passing through as we biked the Mexican side in the following days. He was born in one such village, Bosque Bonito (the name turned out to be highly ironic - the town did not sit anywhere near a forest and we would have had to be well into a second bottle of tequila to call it 'bonito') and lived much of his boyhood n the tiny village of Ojos Calientes, which sits opposite the resort. Chuy reported four families currently live there.

Our good fortune at being the recipient of Chuy's hospitality grew exponentially during the night when bitter north winds brought in freezing rains. And, that same night we were awakened by the arrival of three vehicles which stopped just outside our room. The three drivers, all English-speaking, hurriedly transferred two bales from one truck to the trunk of a car before they sped away in a short convoy in the direction of the pavement 25 miles to the west.

Day 4, Wednesday, December 23, we lingered at the guest quarters all morning as the rain fell intermittently and the temperature hovered just above freezing. Finally, about 1 pm, we bid goodbye to Chuy and began the rather interesting business of walking our bikes across the dilapidated swinging pedestrian bridge over the river to Ojos Calientes. It seemed unlikely the bridge would support both Tony and me, let alone the bikes, so we walked in tandem, inching each vehicle across.

A side note here. The river. as it turned out, would have been navigable in a canoe. Of course, I was on the mountain bike because the river rarely has the flow necessary to enable a canoeist to make it from Fort Quitman to Ojinaga. And I can report here that rumors that the salt cedar had grown in so thickly that a navigable channel ceased to exist - rumors I too have proselytized - are greatly exaggerated. A very competent canoeist could have made a fine run on every stretch of the river. Sure, there were logjams and overhangs which would have at times necessitated portaging or lining, but, all in all, the river is running beautifully, especially if you're looking for a narrow stream to run.

The little village of Ojos Calientes was other-worldly, just four primitive homes which could have just as easily been built in the 17th century as the 21st, and a tiny Catholic Church. We crept through the muddy paths between homes, but saw no one. Then we followed a gravelly wash for about a mile before we reached the main road. The wash's surface prohibited riding the bikes.

Just as we reached the main road, a pickup truck towing a pony ('sans' trailer) appeared, and the family inside, a young handsome couple with four wide-eyed young daughters between them, stopped. I could see from the looks on the father's face that he needed an explanation for just what the hell two gringos were doing on this remote stretch of back country Mexico he ranched. He found my account of the trip faintly amusing, and the precious little daughters welcomed the sack of hard candy I offered them.

One advantage the mountain bike has over the canoe is that on bitterly cold days, it's a whole lot easier to stay warm on the bike, especially with the tough conditions the primitive road offered. The surface ranged from fairly good to borderline impassable. We worked hard to make ten miles that afternoon before we arrived at a camp in a sandy arroyo a mile before La Cienguilla Ranch. Two more trucks passed during the late afternoon, both carrying a pair of cattle. They waved, but did not stop.

Thanks to an abundance of mesquite, we stayed warm that night and the following morning. I spied mountain lion tracks on our path to the firewood source, but we passed a tranquil night.

Day 5, we needed to have a more ambitious push toward our destination, but we were slowed by yet another flat tire, and just after leaving camp, we found the road inundated by the runoff of small springs which dotted both sides of the road. We slogged through tough footing, but the wonder of the close canyon walls kept our spirits high.

About midday, we reached Bosque Bonito, a pueblo of perhaps 20 buildings situated on a loma about 300 vertical feet above the river. Due to the cold, only one man in the village was outside. I asked him for directions to the tiny store, but it was closed, so Tony and I pushed on toward the next pueblo, Lomas de Arena, 15 miles ahead.

Leaving Bosque Bonito, the road begins an impressive ascent, gradual at first, which culminates at the top of a mountain pass some 2,000 feet above the river. This climb offered a physical challenge as we walked the bikes up grades in excess of 20 percent. The last mile before the summit merited an avalanche of superlatives, as the road twists through a very narrow canyon, and the Mexicans have poured concrete to withstand the erosion after each rainstorm.

We finally reached the summit, happy, but physically spent, late in the afternoon. Our reward was twofold: the vistas up there were stunning, and we had an express ride of five miles or more on a steep twisting road which delivered us to Lomas de Arenas with just enough daylight left to locate the tiny store, buy some beer, and scurry to the nearest arroyo to set up camp. We collected half of our firewood in near darkness.

I've spent more than a dozen Christmases on the Rio Grande, and on each one that I had company, it never failed that my companion would sing a bar of "I'm Dreaming of a White Christmas." Tony never had to sing a note. We woke up Christmas Eve morning with an inch of snow on the ground, and more fell while we were breaking camp.

As we hugged the river that morning, cutting through the fresh snow on the road, I stopped several times to photograph the Rio Grande. Each shot reveals a postcard scene of burnt yellow salt cedar groves lining snowy white banks and a green river dividing the two. It was sublime beyond my ability to describe it.

Tony was worried because our water supply was running low and his food cache was disappearing at an astonishing rate, so in order to put him at ease, I resolved to get drinking water from the first person we encountered that frosty morning. Luckily, we met Juan Saucedo and his family about an hour after we broke camp.

Juan, a 68 year old father of five grown children, two of whom still shared the modest family home, invited us inside to have coffee after his sons had filled our water jugs. Once inside, we were treated to his wife Ramona's fine cooking. She served us potatoes and steaming plates of beans, while rolling out tortillas on a make-shift counter.

One son fed wood into the cooking stove, then the short adobe brick fireplace in the opposite corner, while the other fired questions about life "all'a," meaning the US. Juan presided happily over the meal, smoking cheap cigarettes and recounting his long, colorful life. He was the former president of the Ejido Emiliano Carranza, but he noted sadly that everyone in the ejido, save Juan's family and one other old man, had long since migrated to the US.

One funny note I forgot to mention: Tony sent a long minute trying to clean the slushy grime off his hiking shoes, but when we entered, we saw the house had a dirt floor.

Juan admitted that he was illiterate, saying wistfully in Spanish, "I can't even write my own name," and he wondered if I might be interested in returning to record his life story.

Before we parted, one of the sons gave me a petrified snail he had found high up in the sierra above their home. Tony reciprocated by giving them two Christmas ornaments and a biking shirt he had planned to give to me.

The next time I make fun of Tony for toting so much gear that he had Christmas ornaments along, I will recall Juan's face when Tony gave them to him. Juan was nearly overcome by tears of gratitude.

One final note: Juan said he met a couple canoeing the river from Fort Hancock to Ojinaga some years ago. I asked him to name the specific year, and he replied, "It was back in the days when there was more water."

Reluctantly, we said our goodbyes and continued on to Pilares, a community of 18 families, which sits against a backdrop of crimson rock columns which form the Texas side river bank.

We stopped in at the tiny store there, and the store's owner, Enrique, and his wife insisted we go in the kitchen to eat. Since we had just lost most of the morning at Juan's, I had to forego their hospitality, but they sent us off with a tin foil filled with delicious bean burritos and a dozen tamales. Tony did have to pay for the two cokes he drank.

After Pilares, the road follows the river much of the way to San Antonio del Bravo, the village which sits opposite Candelaria, Texas. We were able to make good time, passing the hauntingly beautiful hamlets of Los Fresnos and El Comedor, before we made camp in yet another arroyo and smoked twenty-dollar Cuban cigars which Tony had brought from Cabo San Lucas. And, Tony made quick work of most of the tamales.

Our seventh day, Christmas, brought yet more good fortune. The last few miles of the descent into San Antonio were a scenic marvel, and in San Antonio itself, we were the center of attention of a group of a dozen New Mexicans who were in town spending Christmas with their relatives. Many of the locals were on horseback, and although most were friendly, both Tony and I had the feeling we should contain our visit to a brief bike tour of the community.

We crossed the foot bridge to Candelaria in the early afternoon. Many of the planks were missing, so we had to pass the bikes over gaping holes capable of swallowing the entire bicycle.

Then, we hurried out to the pavement, lest a Border Patrolman should arrive. There at the junction of the muddy river road and the western terminus of Farm Road 170, we met Marcelino Lozano, who had grown up in Candelaria and attended the one room schoolhouse. He took a particular interest in our trip because his grandfather had lived his entire life in El Comedor, the site of our previous camp. We chatted in Spanish for 15 minutes before leaving for the town of Ruidoso, Texas.

In Ruidoso, we were summoned over by three men drinking beer on the side of the road. One, in particular, was very interesting. He's part of the group who bought and renovated the old general store in Candelaria. He showed me black and white photographs from the 1930's of his father's first trip to Santa Elena Canyon, and later, the interior of Mexico. I translated for him old yellowing postcards his father's female admirers had written to him from the interior. While we chatted, Marcelino arrived on his way to Presidio to buy beer and offered us a ride, an offer we politely refused.

Later, as we neared camp, Marcelino stopped on his way back to Candelaria to give us a couple beers and talk some more. We would see him a final time the following day as we came within sight of Presidio.

Our final camp was a memorable one. We pursued an arroyo right to the river's edge, and set up our camp in a narrow opening of the salt cedar, between two noisy riffles in the river.

I had no regrets about having taken the mountain bike rather than the canoe for this long stretch, but, sleeping near the river with the sound of falling water, piqued my enthusiasm for the next stretch, Presidio to La Linda, on a solo canoe run.

Ted Thayer arrives in the morning with Tony's truck and my canoe, and all that remains for my business in Presidio is to find a place to launch the canoe. I suspect I will be putting in on the Mexican side about midday tomorrow, December 27th.

[Louis, I wrote this hurriedly and in reduced light, so if you need to edit any of it, I certainly understand. I hope you and your kids have a good Christmas and I look forward to sharing my pictures with you when I reach the end. Keith]