Rail Routes to the Pacific   Air routes are the least interesting, since they can change so easily; it’s just a matter of connecting two points. That’s also somewhat true about sea routes in a sense, just connecting two ports, but initiating new sea routes is what the great explorers were all about. After all, Columbus in his four voyages was the first Transatlantic traveler, and similarly, Magellan, Cook, and the others laid out new sea routes.

Land routes are the most fixed and, once established, rarely vary. The Silk Road connected Europe and China, and Marco Polo was an early traveler. In the US, settlers drove wagons west on the Oregon Trail, Santa Fe Trail, and others. These developed into a road system, eventually paved, eventually becoming superhighways.

But in the latter part of the 1800’s it was the rail routes that captured the imagination. The roads were dirt. Paved roads, even in the industrialized world, weren’t common until the 1930’s or later. For speed, rail routes got you there fastest, one example recently discussed being the Pennsylvania Railroad (Reflections 2006 Series 10). With one exception, these long-distance rail routes were headed in an east-west direction for the Pacific.

A quick discussion of that exception: for at least a century now, there has been an attempt to build the Cape-to-Cairo Railroad, a north-south route in Africa. The northern part is complete. I’ve taken the overnight sleeper from Cairo to Luxor, deep into Egypt. It’s complete in the lower half of Africa: I’ve said I’m planning on taking out of Capetown the Cape-to-Dar trip on Rovos Rail to Dar-es-Salaam. I understand the route does go somewhat further north than Dar-es-Salaam into Kenya, but there is no connection with Egypt, and with the present troubles in the Sudan, Somalia, Ethiopia, and Eritrea, there’s no short-term prospect of this completion taking place.

All the other big rail routes head either east or west to the Pacific. We’ve already had a major discussion of the Transsiberian Railroad from Moscow east to Vladivostok in the Russian Far East (Reflections 2005 Series 8). This is the one that doesn’t use the word Pacific in its name.

Another eastbound one is the coast-to-coast Australian route on which the famous passenger train the Indian-Pacific runs from Perth to Sydney, connecting the Indian and Pacific Oceans. I assume the name is phrased that way and not the other way around because most settlers sailed to Austalia from Britain and the European Continent around Africa or through the Suez Canal, so that Perth on Australia’s west coast was “close” and Sydney in the east was “far”, making the furthest destination the Pacific side.

In North America the direction was instead west to the Pacific. In Canada we had the Canadian Pacific and National Pacific from the eastern population centers to Vancouver and Prince Rupert (Reflections 2005 Series 6). Note that my 2005 around-the-world-by-rail trip connected the Canadian and Transsiberian routes to the Pacific.

In the US we had, likewise from the eastern population centers, the Northern Pacific to Seattle and Portland, the Central Pacific to San Francisco, and the Union Pacific to Los Angeles. All these North American routes named from north to south run westward.

All this discussion now brings us to a most unusual North American route, one that was ingenious—but, as in Africa, was not exactly completed. Or was it? You can argue either way.

Copper Canyon: Rail History   Remember that, as fast as rail transportation is for freight, water transportation is cheaper. The faster you can move goods by rail from the eastern population centers to the Pacific and onto ships, the better.

Around the turn of the 20th century, a man named Arthur Stilwell was a visionary who thought outside the envelope. All the described rail routes went due west. He apparently looked at the map of North America and noticed that, discounting the Baja California peninsula, as you look down the coast from California and across the large curve of Mexico, the further south you go, the further east you end up, in other words, closer to the eastern US. He apparently also noted that the Mexican port of Topolobampo, not far from the town of Los Mochis, is the second-largest deepwater port in the world. Instead of a route just in the US, he envisioned an international US-Mexico rail route that, instead of going west like everyone else was doing, would go steeply southwest instead, from Kansas through Oklahoma and Texas, crossing the Rio Grande into the Mexican state of Chihuahua (and its capital of Chihuahua as well), then cutting down through the Copper Canyon to the state of Sinaloa to Los Mochis and Topolobampo. This diagonal route, he figured, would be a significant 400 miles shorter than the routes that went west. He founded the Kansas City, Mexico & Orient Railway and started construction. Note that exceptionally, he didn’t use the word “Pacific” but instead “Orient” declaring that his shipping route was headed even beyond, to East Asia.

This was a great plan. The problem was, it didn’t work. The “tragic flaw” in his plan was the very conception of it being an international railroad. The route in Kansas, Oklahoma, and Texas was built. I presume some work was started in Mexico, since I see an 1898 date mentioned for Mexico construction. But this was just the era of the Mexican Revolution, of Zapata, of Pancho Villa. There was chaos in northern Mexico, and the rail plan within Mexico faltered.

In 1928, the Kansas City, Mexico & Orient Railway was acquired by the famous Acheson, Topeka & Santa Fe, who wanted their already constructed US portion to to be able to further exploit the West Texas oil fields. They then sold off the Mexican portion and rights. The former route was no longer an international one.

But that’s not the end of the story. Construction did continue on the Mexican portion, over many decades, and was finally completed at the very late date of 1961.

So was Stillwell’s dream realized? I suppose it’s possible to send a freight car today from Kansas City to Topolobampo, so, in that sense, the answer could be yes. But then it’s not all one single railroad, so in that sense, perhaps not.

The Mexican portion of this route is called the Chihuahua al Pacífico (Chihuahua to the Pacific), so there’s that reference to the Pacific again. I’m sure that Chihuahua is a reference to the landlocked state of Chihuahua, meaning that freight rail service starts at the Rio Grande, and Pacífico refers to Topolobampo. However, the passenger service, which is the only remaining passenger service in all of Mexico, only goes between the CITY of Chihuahua in the center of that state and Los Mochis, slightly short of Topolobampo.

I have fallen in love with the word Topolobampo. I assume it’s nothing more than just a port, but the name just rolls off the tongue. I first heard the name when we were in Chicago a few years ago and dined at a quality Mexican restaurant across the Chicago River just north of the Loop, also called Topolobampo. I understand that insiders—and it has many fans--call it Topolo for short. I met a lady from Chicago in the Copper Canyon who was well familiar with the restaurant and its owner, yet was unaware that she was so close to the real Topolobampo until I told her.

I’ve mentioned that the Ferromex rail company now runs the Chihuahua al Pacífico, which is referred to as the Chepe, which requires some explanation.

“Master of Ceremonies” has the acronym MC, which is then made into a word: emcee. In Antarctica, I mentioned that the island named after the (British) Hydrographic Office has the acronym HO, so it’s called Aitcho Island.

If in English we were to make an acronym of Chihuahua al Pacífico, we’d say CP, disregarding that it’s not really just a C but a Ch, and perhaps call the railroad the Ceepee. But learn this about Spanish, which also has a Ch: it regards it as a separate letter of the alphabet (as it does four others), so the Spanish alphabet is A, B, C, Ch, D, E ... This results in the Spanish nickname Chepe (each syllable rhymes with café), which I will be using.

The regular Chepe passenger service runs two daily trains between the terminals at Los Mochis and Chihuahua. One called Clase Económica (Economy Class), makes many stops, and is for local inhabitants. Visitors do not want this train. The other, much more desirable, is the Primera Especial (First [Class] Special). One pair of trains leaves each terminal daily at six in the morning and arrives at the opposite end officially at 8:45 in the evening, but is usually late, sometimes considerably so. However the tour of interest is just within the Copper Canyon itself, and within more reasonable hours, so I will not be going to Chihuahua.

The mountain range the Copper Canyon cuts through is the Sierra Madre, a continuation of the Rockies. The Spanish name Sierra Madre is usually just used untranslated in English, although the translation would be the Mother Mountains.

Each word in the English name “Copper Canyon” tells a white lie. The Spanish name for the entire interconnected canyon region is “Barrancas del Cobre”. The total formation, perhaps four times the size of the Grand Canyon, consists of maybe a half-dozen interconnected canyons, indicated by the plural of the Spanish “Barrancas”. Only one of these is the real Copper Canyon (Cañón del Cobre), located in the upper inland reaches, but it has given its name to the entire group of canyons. As to copper, there is supposedly a small copper mine in one of the canyons, but that’s not necessarily where the name comes from. Apparently at certain times of the year (not in January when I was there) certain copper-colored mosses and lichens (LIE.kens) are to be seen everywhere, giving a copper look to the area. Still, I don’t think we’ll get the name changed to Sometimes-Copper-Colored Canyons soon. “Copper Canyon” just sounds too good, and it’s alliterated, too.

Copper Canyon: Spanish Spelling Quirks   Since we’ve just been discussing the Spanish language here, it’s worth mentioning once again something that was discussed in Antarctica, because I’ve found more confusion among English speakers with the unusual spelling quirk previously seen just in the name Ushuaia. I want to extend what I said before, with more examples.

Where English uses a W for a W sound, Spanish uses a U for a W sound. That is basic, fundamental, and I have no problem with that. It works quite successfully in this manner:

Note that in each case, the U does NOT start the syllable: -gua; bue-; Luis.

The idiocy—and, although I like to be open-minded about things like this, that’s what I consider it—is when this U DOES start the syllable. In this case, even though H is NEVER pronounced in Spanish, it is REQUIRED to put an H before a U that starts a diphthong like this. Watch what happens to these English words starting in W if they were spelled according to Spanish spelling rules:

That is hypothetical. Now let’s look at reality, using Spanish place names. Let’s start with the one already discused in Argentina.

I’ll be using two place names in the Copper Canyon that show this problem, Bahuichivo and Cerocahui, so let’s tackle them now. They each seem pretty daunting, so let’s simplify the problem. In both, WI starts a syllable.

A reader who has frequented Mexican restaurants might recognize the egg dish called Huevos Rancheros, which could be translated “Rancher-Style Eggs”. Here you see the word for “egg” is wevo, but spelled huevo.

[Note: this added H happens not only with W appearing as a U, but also with Y appearing as an I: what would be yelo (ice) is actually spelled hielo, and yerba (grass) is spelled hierba.]

There’s one more item I want to cite, because the story is interesting. The Spanish word for “bone” is pronounced weso (E as in café). It’s logical spelling would be ueso, but it has to be spelled hueso. Now don’t concentrate on the spelling, but on the sound. One of the Florida keys was named in Spanish “Bone Key”, which is Cayo Hueso. Can you guess how Cayo Hueso ended up appearing in English? (Don’t peek.)

It is the island and city of Key West. It has to now be clear to the reader that the English speakers HEARD this name rather than saw the spelling. The W proves it. Then, what we’ve discussed in the past as folk etymology came into play: Weso doesn’t make any sense. Wait! I must have been mishearing it. Of course: this is the westernmost of the keys, so they must have said West. This is one way language develops.

Want further proof that Key West is based on Spanish? Look at the Spanish word order. English says Marathon Key, Deer Key, and this, if it had started as an English name, would have been West Key, or perhaps Western Key. That it appears in reverse order as Key West further indicates its derevation from Cayo Hueso.

Check yourself: the next Mexican state to the east of Chihuahua along the Texas border is Coahuila. How would you pronounce it?

If you said it would be pronounce Co.a.wila, you’d be right.

There is an unusual variation of all this. The Spanish word for “west” sounds like weste (two syllables), but if you expect a U, with an H in front, you’d be wrong. In this case, an O is used instead: oeste, and O doesn’t require this H. Some might argue that there is some O-quality in this pronounciation, something like oweste, but I don’t buy it.

I mention this now because of the Mexican city pronounced Wahaca. It, too, is spelled with an O: Oaxaca, and no one will convince me of any O-ness in that pronunciation.

Finally on this subject, as we see the spelling of Oaxaca, we come to the question of that unusual X.

Spanish is a language that has largely cleaned up its act when it comes to spelling, although Italian spelling is clearer still, as are some others. (English and French spelling are on the horrificly spelled end of the scale.) For instance, Spanish used to use the unusual spellings of Ysidro and Ynez. These proper names are now regularized to Isidro and Ines, but with place names old spellings tend to stick around, and in California there is still a San Ysidro and a Santa Ynez. There was also considerable cleaning up done regarding the X.

X in Spanish writing today is just what you think it would be. If you’re reading a text to take an exam, the words are “texto” and “examen”, and they’re pronounced just as you’d expect. It’s the proper names, especially place names, that can be a problem. In additional to this regular X, let me make up two names (both limited to just Spanish spelling): Archaic X and Mystery X.

Spanish has the KH sound, as does German and Russian, among others. German spells it CH as in the name Bach. Interestingly, Russian uses the letter Х for this KH sound, and would write the name of the composer as Бах.

Spanish uses the letter J for the KH sound as in José (kho.SE) and Juan (KHWAN), and also G in certain circumstances.

[It should be also noted that the strong KH is standard in these cases, although in some regions, such as Mexico and the Caribbean, native speakers do weaken the sound to a mild H, saying ho.SE and HWAN. I will maintain the standard KH sound here.]

Now historically, every once in a while, the letter X was used instead of J for this KH sound. One prime example is in Don Quixote. This was the traditional Spanish spelling from the 1500’s. This is how the name entered other languages. However, it was always pronounced with a KH, and when Spanish regularized this spelling, it respelled it Don Quijote, which is the spelling universally used today in Spanish. Well, just like those above remnant spellings in California, the English spelling was never changed, so English still uses this “Archaic X” long gone from Spanish in this word.

Other respellings may startle you. Although most languages pronounce a KS in Mexico (English) Mexiko (German) Méxique (French), Spanish has always used the KH sound in this name. With regularization, in Spain and many Spanish-speaking countries, the spelling is Mejico and mejicano, and it is primarily in Mexico itself that the spellings Mexico and mexicano with the Archaic X is maintained, probably for reasons of local pride. This also explains Oaxaca, which includes a KH, retaining the spelling with Archaic X.

There are a couple of examples in Spanish proper names of X corresponding to the sound SH. This I find amazing, since Spanish doesn’t have that sound, and since I can’t explain this, I’ll call it the Mystery X. The French version of Don Quixote/Quijote is Don Quichotte, pronounced ki.SHOTT. How would French have used its spelling if that SH pronunciation hadn’t existed at one point in the original Spanish name, too?

How about a glass of sherry? Sherry comes from the town of Jérez in southwestern Spain, and the English name derives from the word Jérez. But how? Spanish pronounces the town and beverage as KHE.reth, but we have to realize that the old spelling used the Archaic X: Xérez. English dropped that final sound and you can see that Xére would have become Sherry only if at the time, X were pronounced SH. But Jérez has KH in Spanish. That’s why I’m calling X pronounced as SH a Mystery X.

[Note that the French word for sherry remains to this day with the spelling Xérès (ke.RESS), which uses that old X spelling, yet avoids saying both SH and KH, instead reducing a KS pronunciation to a simple K. Go figure.]

In the Yucatan Peninsula, there are Mayan ruins in Uxmal, with the X being SH. Perhaps the Mayans had the sound SH, which the Spanish transcribed as X, which continues the mystery. Exceptionally, south of Mexico City, the famous floating gardens in Xochimilco use the pronunciation Sochimilco, but perhaps it had been originally pronounced SH, and shifted to S for ease of pronunciation in front of the following CH. Very mysterious. But keep in mind that the majority of current unusual spellings with X are Mexican only, not general Spanish.

Copper Canyon: The Visit   I am very pleased with my own experience in the Copper Canyon. I’m also keeping in mind that this was a trip Beverly had wanted to do, but we had never made it. I’m very glad I arranged it through Balderrama Hotels, which I found online. They own the four hotels (they also have the train’s restaurant concession) that also service the Sierra Madre Express out of Tucson described earlier. The hotels took care of all the transfers, local tours, and meals, all inclusive. On arrival I got a voucher book with four hotel reservations and three train connections, and Balderrama never interfered with the feeling of independence I enjoy when traveling.

Although I enjoyed walking from El Paso into Mexico the night before, it was a particular pleasure to walk into Mexico definitively for real the next day with my bag. A taxi got me to the airport to fly via Hermosillo to Los Mochis. All airports were modern and efficient. The planes were puddle-jumpers, smaller Saabs with one-plus-two across seating. In Los Mochis the transfer was waiting, brought me to the Santa Anita hotel (where I’d end up a week later) in order to pay the balance and get my voucher book, and then they drove me—just me—to El Fuerte, 1 ½ hours inland.

Although the trip would end again in Los Mochis, I had been wondering why I would start further inland, since the train went to both places anyway. I think there are two reasons. The train leaves Los Mochis at an incredibly early 6 AM, there’s nothing to see in between, and it leaves El Fuerte at a more reasonable 8:30. But they also wanted me to be in their hotel in El Fuerte, and I’m glad they did. The town and hotel were worth experiencing.

It was already a dark 9 PM by the time I arrived, but I stepped out of the hotel and walked a half-block over to the Plaza de Armas (remember in New Orleans?), which was full of activity. There was a church on one side, city hall on another historic buildings elsewhere. Young people were milling about, socializing, even in the January chill. The Plaza was a tree-filled park, with a bandstand sporting light bulbs in the Mexican colors, red, white, green. There was a monument to Benito Juárez.

The hotel, La Posada del Hidalgo (The Nobleman’s Inn), was charming. It had been a mansion built around the turn of the 20C. Even with that relatively recent date, it had the atmosphere of a Mexican colonial residence. Actually, all four of these Balderrama hotels had a unique atmosphere. This one had fallen into ruin in recent years, and was beautifully rehabilitated by Balderrama. As close to the Plaza de Armas as it is, the building was nevertheless built into a hillside, so you walk up a driveway to a series of areas on different levels, surrounded by very lush vegetation everywhere. There were several very large patios, one with a bubbling fountain in the center. The ceiling in my room was supported by beams that were actually logs. I was particularly pleased with my room’s location. It opened onto lush vegetation, and stepping outside there was the sound of water. Walking a bit more into a cul-de-sac there was a stone fountain about 2 meters/6 feet high, with two basins with plants in them, yet overflowing water. A low wall around the bottom had maybe two dozen large candles-in-glasses burning. All you could hear in the late evening was the tinkling of water, while admiring the flickering candles, flowers, and greenery. This inn personified historic Mexico to me.

The next morning was the transfer to the Chepe station. There were a handful of independent travelers, and, unfortunately, the usual guided group tours. I wasn’t the only independent traveler who was aware that, for the best views, you’re supposed to sit on the south side, which is the right going up the canyon and the left coming down. Behind the engine was the restaurant, a bar/lounge car, and three passenger cars.

The Copper Canyon is different from what I expected. I thought it would be dry and desert-like, with cactus and other succulents. It turns out that it is very lush and green, and there are trees and plants everywhere. There are views down to the river(s) going through the canyons, and of rounded peaks on the other side. It’s widely proclaimed that to accomplish this engineering feat there are some 36 bridges and 87 tunnels along the route. Much is single-track, and we did see a freight train pass on one of the double-track areas.

They did a clever thing at one of the two-track areas. Our train got there first, and waited a bit, then the train coming from Chihuahua arrived next to us. At that point the train switched crews. This way the crew that came out of Los Mochis could go back home the same day, and the same for the Chihuahua crew. After proceeding for a bit, we saw the Económica train that was following the one we’d just passed. I presume they switched crews with the Económica train that was following us, too.

Taking estimates off an altitude-and-distance graph I have, Los Mochis and El Fuerte are maybe 100m/300ft in altitude, and this early part is uninteresting. After about three hours of climbing is the first station, Témoris at maybe 1100m/3600ft. An hour of climbing later is Bahuichivo (say WI!), which I’ll be coming back down to in two days, already at about 1650m/5400ft. Finally for many of us, individual travelers as well as tour groups, comes Posada Barrancas after another couple of hours at about 2350m/7700ft. We get off here since we are now near the upper end of the canyon area, although not quite the highest point on the rail line, which occurs a little further up at about 2500m/8200ft. Although no road, only the rail line, goes the whole distance of the Copper Canyon, there are local roads up in this area, including ones going all the way to Chihuahua. Two car tours I’ll be taking will be to nearby Divisadero for additional views and to Creel, the largest town in the Copper Canyon area. Beyond the Posada Barrancas/Divisadero/Creel area the train then descends to Chihuahua, although not that much, since Chihuahua is just slightly lower than Bahuichivo had been earlier.

The altitude is noticeable. I found myself taking a couple of deep breaths on the train, and when I got to the hotel, some toiletry bottles in my bag were swollen, with hand cream oozing out from under the cap, since the bottles still had sea level air pressure in them, less than the air pressure at this altitude.

As to distance, let me figure my return rail trip, which will be a bit longer, but in two parts: back from here stopping in Bahuichevo, then past El Fuerte where I started, to Los Mochis will be about 300k/186mi. The length of the entire railroad is more than twice that.

A large circular area from below Bahuichivo on the low side but not quite reaching Creel is a Mexican Parque Natural, or Nature Park.

The Balderrama hotel here in Posada Barrancas at the upper end of the canyon is Hotel El Mirador (The Belvedere Hotel, or The Viewpoint Hotel). It’s rustic and remote, and up on a hill in adobe style, but rooms and public areas again have those log beams supporting a wood roof. It has the atmosphere of a mountain lodge. A Mexican quartet entertained in the evening. The hotel has an excellent view from above of canyons down below, since we are on the rim. There’s a large terrace for viewing, and the rooms have their own balconies. You could see below a tiny river glistening at the bottom of one of the canyons.

It’s cold, and the welcome drinks at the hotel were frosty Margaritas, which didn’t go down as well as they could have on the chilly balcony. The rooms have heaters, the small fireplaces being just for show, and the lobby has two huge roaring fireplaces going. But there were snow flurries on the terrace in the early evening, and people were regularly standing or sitting around the fireplaces. Well, that’s January in Mexico—at nearly 8000 feet.

The next day was clear and sunny, and a car drove four of us over the highest point of the canyon area to Creel, which was not particularly interesting. But on my second and last day at the top of the canyon area, we woke up to flurries, which stayed on and off all day. I heard that in the morning it was -4°C, which would be 25°F. You may recall that in Antarctica it never went below 0°C/32°F, and there I had a huge red parka with hood, a hat, sweater, and gloves. Many people were taken by surprise at this weather (which I had had since New Orleans), and were even less prepared than me. One woman only had a sweater. I put my two sweaters on under my jacket, and my hands in my pockets. I just could have used a knit cap, and I have more than one of them at home. Still, I’m still quite satisfied with this frosty experience.

Different groups or individuals are on different schedules, either going up or down the canyon, and arriving on different days, so the people you see are always different. On the bus ride this morning I was with about a dozen people in an Elderhostel group. We made three canyon overlook stops, with flurries, including stopping at a hotel in Divisidero, where we stood around the fireplace. In the afternoon, those going to Chihuahua and those going back down the canyons were taken to the station at pretty much the same time, since we were in the middle of the route and the trains would cross. The Chihuahua train came first, which is a cute trick, since there’s only one track, so they must have had a stretch of double track a while earlier. It was cold waiting at the station, but the train was warmly heated.

Remember, I was going back in two steps, and this time I only went to Bauhuichivo, toward the lower end of the canyon area, where the hotel van was waiting to take us to Cerocahui (say WI!). You can also schedule to do the two hotels within the canyon area in the other order—that’s the pleasure of the Baldarrama flexibility available, using the daily trains. Very few got off in Bahuichivo, and only a Mexican couple and their son rode the van with me for a half hour over the bumpiest, worst dirt road you could imagine. In Mexico they seem to like speed bumps a lot on the highways. It was so ironic that this dirt road had periodic speed bumps too—dirt ones--, as though the ruts and potholes wouldn’t keep you going slowly enough. We finally saw the gold dome and tower of Cerocahui’s mission church, so we knew we were there, and at least Cerocahui’s town roads were paved.

Once settled in the Hotel Misión I went directly across the street to look at the Mission Church dating from the 1680’s, so you know there is deep and long history here. Although most of it was rather plain adobe, the apse and area around the altar were done in Baroque sandstone. Inside and out, the impression the church gave was very old-mission-like. Aside from an uninteresting little town square, the only other interesting thing was the Hotel Misión itself, and the lifestyle I would be having for the next two nights.

Baldarrama’s hotel back down in El Fuerte was in the style of a Mexican colonial residence, and had just the slightest bit of urban flair. They said that both their canyon hotels were remote and rustic. This is true. But if El Mirador at the upper end was in the style of a mountain lodge with expansive views, and good road connections to the outside, El Misión was ultra-remote and ultra-rustic.

Hotel Misión was charming, and might be described to be in Mexican colonial mission style, but remote hardly describes it. We were on the edge of the world, both in space and time. We were in another era. It’s quite small, and the common area has a central two-sided fireplace, one side for the lobby, where I had my welcome Margarita by myself, and the other side facing the dining area. Before dinner, two guitar players entertained. Across the long, narrow patio were the rooms, which also had names in tile beside the door. My # 22 was also named Chihuahua, which I thought turned out to be a pleasant coincidence, since I’ve been writing about that name extensively. Behind the rooms were vineyards, where the hotel grew grapes for its own wine, which I sampled at dinner. The room had maroon tile floors, adobe walls, log supports for the wooden ceiling, and wooden lintels across the top of the doorways. All the dark-stained doors each had four vertical hand-carved wooden inserts. It was very Mexican, very rustic, and very “other era” because the rooms didn’t have any modern heating.

They have wood-burning stoves.

The cylindrical cast-iron stoves have a large woodpile next to them. After dinner—we were only nine guests this first night—I had someone light a fire in my stove for me, and at about 8:45, I settled in for the evening. It was unusual having to keep feeding the fire every once in a while, and was a very anachronistic feeling typing on a laptop in between tending to the fire. It’s good that there are two huge extra blankets supplied, which I put on the bed right away.

The full day I had there was bright and sunny, but the trip to the overlook was postponed to the next morning, right before I leave that next afternoon, since the road was icy. That gave me an entire day with nothing to do but relax before the fire in the lobby, which is unusual for me when I travel, but welcome. Since I had already used up the reading I’d brought along, fortunately I found, among the Spanish books in the “abandoned paperbacks” pile, a battered copy of “The Prince of Tides”. I’d seen the film years ago, and apparently I was now destined to read the book, including on tomorrow’s long train ride back to Los Mochis and beyond. It was great.

There were quite a number of independent travelers, thank goodness, but also a number of tour groups. The number of people in any given one of these hotels at one time fluctuated wildly, depending on the train schedule. Most would stay either a day or two. The greatest fluctuation I saw was in Cerocahui, which had two large tour groups one evening (I was with an independently-traveling Scottish couple), and the day I was to leave, after one group had left for the northbound train and before the new ones came in, I was the only guest in the hotel, reading my book in a sunlit rocker in the lobby, and then eating lunch alone.

Earlier that morning, the bus was able to make it up to the Mirador del Cerro del Gallego (Gallego Mountain Viewpoint). Remember that word Gallego (ga.YE.go, E as in café), since I’ll be referring to it in Spain, next May. The view here down into the Urique Canyon was the most spectacular of all I had seen. It was the deepest canyon, and we could see the town of Urique (three syllables) at the bottom and the river flowing through the canyon. The mountains were so lush in the bright sunlight, even in the winter cold, and the shrubbery on the mountains across the way looked like a thick green blanket smothering a lumpy, unmade bed.

When I said the bus made it to the viewpoint, that’s not exactly true. I meant there was no ice to prevent the bus from going up, but it was overheating since the water and oil weren’t circulating properly in the cold weather to cool the engine, and shortly before the viewpoint, it was decided not to go any further, so at a settlement the guides convinced three locals to drive us the rest of the way, and then all the way back to Cerocahui. (I said we were remote, right?) At least the heaters were working in these guys’ cars, which had not been the case on the freezing bus.

I mostly keep to independent travelers, who plan their own trips like I do. We enjoy a common mindset. When speaking to people on tours—and some of them are very nice-- I sometimes feel they’re from another planet. They do seem to enjoy themselves, but they follow their leader as sheep follow the shepherd. One otherwise pleasant woman couldn’t fathom traveling independently and asked me how I had found out about the Copper Canyon and this hotel. I asked another totally clueless woman where their next stop was, and she had no idea whatsoever. My jaw dropped and I didn’t know how to respond to that. She apparently will go wherever she’s taken, and be pleased about it, at that.

When I did leave for the station, I wasn’t taken in a car, but in a bus (one that worked), since, even though I was alone, they were meeting an incoming tour group. I find this fluctuation in the number of people stimulating in a way, since you never know how many people’s paths you’ll be crossing next.

The Chepe trains have a schedule, but this is Latin America, so a schedule is merely a suggestion, a never-to-be-achieved ideal. The official schedule said the train left Bahuichivo station for Los Mochis at 2:15. The hotel did dutifully bring me there by 2:00 (just in case—ha!), but they don’t really expect the train until about 3:15. In actuality, the train came at 3:55. This was not a problem. Under a blue sky, I found a place to sit in the sun and read my book. I reveled in the fact that it just had worked out that, with all the tour groups and other independent travelers going up and down the line that particular day, I was the only one going southbound from Bahuichivo. It was a very relaxing time, reading in the sun. Finally, the huge red Ferromex engine slowly came around the bend, pulling the Chepe cars in their spiffy green-and-orange livery.

The official arrival time in Los Mochis is 8:50. I got in at 10:30, and as ever on this Baldarrama trip, the van was, reliably and dutifully, there to meet me. The driver said 10:30 was not bad, since the night before the train had gotten in at 11:30.

I went back to Baldarrama’s Hotel Santa Anita, where I had picked up the vouchers on the first evening before being driven to El Fuerte. It’s a rather upscale contemporary hotel with marble floors in the lobby and liveried staff, and is in total contrast with the other three more picturesque hotels. I would be here one night until my transfer in the morning for my flight to Mexico City.

In summary, I thought this Copper Canyon trip would have two main attractions, the Canyon itself, and the rail trip on this most historic route. I enjoyed both very much, yet was surprised to particularly enjoy the third interesting feature, the four charming hotels which were an integral part of the experience that I hadn’t expected them to be, giving me a most unusual feeling of traditional Mexico. I liked all of the hotels, but am surprised to find myself saying that the ultra-remote Hotel Misión, where I was forced to slow down and relax into a slow-paced, other-era ambiance, reading my book in front of the lobby fireplace, dining with a handful of other independent travelers, and stoking my own stove in my room, turned out to be the most pleasant experience of the four.