Behind the Image: Copper Canyon Descent

Only One Way To Go—Straight Down
Canon A2 with a 20-35mm 2.8 lens at f.4 for 125/sec on Ektachrome SW film
By Skip Brown

A few years ago I joined a group of mountain bikers on an exploratory trip into Mexico's Sierra Madres Mountains. After riding a few different places on the way down from El Paso we reached the famous Copper Canyon region. One of the deepest canyons on earth, it is also home to the Terahumara, the famous running Indians. Our plan was to bike the region's mountain trails to see where they might lead us.

On a warm day with clouds looming in a threatening sky, we began our ordeal with a 5,000-foot climb from the bottom of Batopillas Canyon. A couple of hours later we crested the canyon rim and found a trail that locals had told us would lead to a Terahumara village. For an hour or two we cruised over rideable technical single track. Occasionally we would dismount and walk our bikes, but mostly the riding was doable, albeit challenging. We had been warned to stick together as there is a lawless element in these mountains, drug smugglers and pot growers who might not take kindly to being interrupted by a bunch of gringo mountain bikers. Threading our way cautiously past yucca and cactus, we traversed the canyon rim on this unknown trail as the weather grew more ominous and the clouds lowered to our level.

As we rode in and out of the clouds, the trail suddenly disappeared. What was once a discernible single-track had dwindled to nothing more than a faint animal trail. Had we missed a turn? Did this trail lead nowhere? We didn't have much time to consider the answer as the sky grew even darker and rain started to fall. We had maybe two hours of daylight left and were a long way from anything. Our camp was scarcely visible, nearly 4,000 vertical feet below at the very bottom of the canyon. We made a few attempts to relocate the trail but realized that we'd be spending the night out in the rain on the side of this mountain if we didn't start down immediately.

So we shouldered our bikes, mumbled a few curses, and began stumbling through the brush and down the mountainside. I don't remember how long it took to slip, slide, and crash our way in biking shoes down 4,000 feet of Mexican mountainside. Through the rain, fog, and encroaching darkness we struggled to find the least-vertical path down, running into dead-end cliffs and impenetrable patches of cactus. After dark a few in our group voted to curl up under a tree and sleep right there in the rain with no food or cover. That appealed even less to me than crashing through cactus in the dark. I said as much, words tinged with exhausted conviction, and we collectively decided to keep going. Finally, sometime around midnight, we crossed a streambed full of huge boulders and finally hit the valley floor not far from our camp. We were battered, bruised, and cut up, but back in time for a very late dinner.

Skip Brown has been a freelance photographer for nearly 20 years. He combines his love of travel and the outdoors with a talent for action sports to create unique images. Skip is a Class V whitewater paddler, advanced rated hangglider pilot, and an avid boardsailor, surfer, mountain biker, and snowboarder. He lives in Cabin John, Maryland, near the Potomac River.