Blisters and Blessings: Day Two on the Camino de Santiago

 

Waking Up in Arcade. Breakfast and the Locals

We awoke from our single beds refreshed even though the room felt like a vintage Camino Way guesthouse out of Lucy and Desi’s 1950s sitcom The Lucy Show. This, we assumed, was because single beds were for people who weren’t necessarily partners. You saw a fair amount of that on the Camino Way. Personally, Cyn and I like to sleep in the same bed. You don’t necessarily get more rest, but it’s a lot more fun!

Once awakened and sensible, we descended to the restaurant downstairs for breakfast. A group of middle-aged men sat by the bar, sipping espressos, with buttered croissants, jacked on caffeine and talking in rapid Spanish over whatever newspapers they had clasped in their hands. It was a lively but good natured discussion, obviously a daily ritual, and I wished I could have gotten involved, but my Spanglish was no match for the latin phrases pouring so swiftly from their mustachioed lips.

Breakfast was served at the same table we had supped the night before: coffee and tart, pulpy orange juice with eggs over easy were placed in front of us along with spicy sausage, thick white toast and rice. We inhaled it, drank some more coffee and surveyed our situation. Next on the Camino Portugués route, our destination was the historic city of Pontevedra, a short seven-mile walk compared to the 14 mile Trail of Blisters we managed to survive the day before.

After breakfast, and back in our room, we re-stuffed our daypacks, I nursed my blisters with a couple of bandaids and we headed outside to bid the wood-sculpted pilgrim at San Salvador de Soutomaior, the church across the street, good-bye. He said nothing in reply. Apparently taking a vow of silence.

The Walk Begins: Roman Bridges and Morning Heat

We saw other pilgrims as we walked through the town, but there seemed to be less of them than the day before. They strode along the path in the sunshine with their backpacks strapped on, some with walking sticks or staffs, others hoofing it old fashioned way. Groups spoke excitedly in various languages, and loners moved over the cobbled stones quiet and determined. The morning was gorgeous but you could already feel the heat. At the edge of the town we crossed a long and beautiful stone bridge, the Ponte Sampaio, one of the most iconic crossings on the Portuguese Way of the Camino de Santiago, with its ten elongated arches. The bridge was originally built by the Romans with masonry that would have done the castles of Camelot proud.

Meeting Father LaSana and His Students

Beyond the bridge, we made our way north, skirting the Rio de Vigo before heading into trees and hills away from the town.  Rivers or streams always seem to be near the Camino because once upon a time there was no running water, no hotels, no restaurants. It was nature or nothing. The streams also have the advantage of being relatively flat, having cut their way through valleys and passes over the eons. Not that “The Way” is ever utterly flat. There were always hills and valleys, ups and downs, much like life.

As we approached the woods, a man walked up to Cyndy speaking perfect English and asked if she was from Pittsburgh. Yes, she agreed, she was. The man knew because Cyndy often kept a sweatshirt stuffed like a little billboard on her back under her day pack that had the word PITTSBURGH emblazoned upon it. He knew the name because he was from Delaware, but currently living in the Philippines.

He was a tall man with a big smile.  How he had ended up in the Philippines and why he was walking the Camino Way was a little complicated. He was a priest—just one of many unexpected encounters you have when meeting people on the Camino. He had asked his bosses to move him from his previous job in the United States to a place closer to the East Coast so that he could be near his family.

“There was a discussion,” he said, “and after a few hours, my supervisors moved me a little further east than I originally intended — Manila.” He smiled his big smile. “I told them that was a little farther east than the location I originally had in mind, but I took the assignment.“

For the past 7 years he had worked as the chaplain in a school for students from kindergarten to grade 12. This explained why he had an boisterous crew of teens clustered with him as we walked.

Father Andre LaSana was a member of a relatively new Catholic priesthood — the Legionnaires of Christ. They sounded unusually similar to the Jesuits – The Society of Jesus — to me — priests who had taught me in high school. I had contemplated becoming a Jesuit myself so I was intrigued. The Legionnaires’ goal, said Fr. LaSana, was to engage not simply within the church, but outside of it – link with the real world. All members of the order take vows of humility, poverty, chastity, and obedience. Very much like the Jebbie’s. And like the Jesuits, it takes a long time to get from deciding to be a member of the priesthood to finally being ordained. Thirteen years in Fr. LaSana’s case.

Legionaires had been founded in the 1940s by a charismatic Catholic priest from Mexico named Marcial Maciel. He grew the Legionnaires quickly and effectively world-wide for over 60 years, but according to the BBC, a 2019 report found that he had personally abused at least 60 children, and that another 33 priests of the order abused minors as well. The total number of children abused by the order since its founding in 1941 came to at least 175, an appalling number and this from a report generated within the order! Fr. LeSana was forthright about this history. In fact he brought it to my attention when we were talking.

The Legionaries of Christ eventually acknowledged their founder's "reprehensible and objectively immoral behavior" as head of the congregation. The "very serious and objectively immoral acts" of Maciel, which were "confirmed by incontrovertible testimonies", represented "true crimes and manifest a life without scruples or authentic religious sentiment", the Vatican said. Maciel was eventually defrocked and the order was required by Pope Benedict XVI to undergo a process of “purification.” Fr. LaSana told me he thought things had changed, but after 70 years of abuse, many questions remain about the church’s early efforts to hide the facts.

We walked on through the morning and I talked with some of the young men in the group. There was Miguel, Emilio, Nick Reyes, Nico and several more, but Fr. LaSana said most of them had Filipino nicknames like BongBong and TenTen, and Jell-o (for Angelo). They came from well-to-do Filipino households mostly. Very bright with excellent English. One student planned to be a doctor, another a lawyer, maybe. He said he wasn't sure just yet which made sense to me. He was only 15. It's early, I told him, and suggested he keep his options open. He looked at me thoughtfully and then said, “Of course. That makes sense.”

I asked them their favorite foods and almost universally they told me it was the Filipino version of McDonald's – fast fried chicken with rice or french fries. They were big fans of American movies but didn't have much to say about the Camino Way, at least the religious aspects of it. According to them, it was just a cool opportunity, and a great way to see a part of the world they might never see again.

Through Forests, Rivers, and Reflections

In time, we split off from Fr. LaSana and his brood, and climbed into low mountains through green forests that provided some relief from the rising heat. You find your mind undertakes little journeys of its own when wandering for hours like this. That was one the advantages of walking The Way. It becomes a spiritual journey whether you intend it or not for the simple reason that it gives you to hours to wander the pathways of your own contemplations. I’ve always found that time expands when I travel. When home we grow accustomed to the same things day after day, but when we travel we cram far more into our day than when we’re home. The first time I took a long trip to Europe in my 20s, I remembered waiting for my parents to pick me up at the airport and thinking surely I had been away for a year. It was only four weeks. But I had jammed so many fresh experiences into those for weeks that I felt time had expanded. This makes travel a kind of time machine, or at least a time expander, a way to get more out of the limits life normally imposes. That is surely one reason why I love travel so much and why Cyn and I were making this journey around the world. The Camino Way was a mini-version of our larger pilgrimage. We were filling each day with more of everything around us, which in turn led to more insights and surprise which made life even more interesting, more joyful, more satisfying, even on rough days.

The route to Pontevedra was idyllic compared to the day before. On day one our battered feet tramped on more pavement than dirt or grass and we saw more cars and trucks than birds or greenery. Today was the opposite. We passed a lovely little chapel as pristine as a cut diamond, and a small farm thick with grapes and peppers and tomatoes.  We found that This section of the Camino Portugués followed Roman Road XIX, a route nearly 2,000 years old and still bearing the worn rock and milestones from the era of the Roman Empire. Circles of yellow sunshine danced through the trees and over moss covered rocks, ferns and birches. If only these rocks could talk, I thought, what stories they could; these thousands upon thousands of pilgrims stretched across time and place in search of salvation and the final resting place of Saint James. At one point I heard a cowbell as we tramped along, and sure enough, there the animal stood among the bushes, indelicately scratching her hind quarters with her back hoof. Clang-clang-clang. I never thought I'd hear that sound in the 21st-century, which shows how much I know about the world.

An Unexpected Fall Near Pontevedra

After a couple of hours we had begun closing in on Pontevedra, but my feet continued losing their battle with the hard ground, and now, not only were my blisters yelping, but Cyn’s had begun to grow a crop of her own. “I hope not,” I said. “Not both of us. We need to find a pharmacy, and get some moleskin.”

Nevertheless, we continued on, in search of relief if nothing else. We were, at least, walking among shaded forest, and had found ourselves walking along a creek of cool water. Out of nowhere among the trees, I stumbled upon a small walled building that seemed to serve no purpose, except as a kind of artistic canvas because it was festooned with artwork, including the silhouetted image of another pilgrim determined to make his way to the grave of the great apostle.

He wore a broad-brimmed Franciscan hat on his head, clearly determined to complete his journey, but static, locked in time. I saluted him as I passed and continued following the stream which must have recently flooded because some of the path was muddy and rutted. For a second I thought I might sit and submerge my crippled feet in the cool water, but decided instead to check my GPS to see how close were to the Pontevedra. That’s when I stuck my foot in a hole and gave it a damn fine twist …

I fell like a sack of beans.

Over time I generally outpace Cyn on our walks. It’s a side effect of having legs considerably longer than hers. I never mean to leave her behind, it’s just that when I turn around to say something, she’s not there! But now she caught up and found me sitting on the damp ground, sock off my left foot, rubbing it as if it were a genie that might deliver a few wishes. If only. Cyn figured I had decided to dip my feet in the cool water too, but I was really checking to see how badly I had twisted my ankle because if it was bad, finishing the hike was going to be a problem. Just getting to Pontevedra was going to be a problem. It wasn’t as if we could hail a taxi and text Uber.

We looked the appendage over. It was nasty, but I had had worse. When I stood up and put weight on it, it wasn’t terrible, as long as I moved forward and stayed on the level. Any turn to the right or left, or any uneven slope or rock, and white shards of sharp pain shot down my leg — thigh to ankle.  I apparently had what doctor’s like to call a high ankle sprain. That was Dr. Walter’s diagnosis, anyhow. Good news. I could walk. Bad news. It takes a long time for this to heal. I put the foot in the creek water right away to reduce the swelling and after 15 minutes, we headed, me limping, into town.

Arrival, Pharmacies, and Finding Relief

Pontevedra

Pontevedra is a charming city, larger than Arcade, considerably smaller than Vigo. We found our hotel, a very clean, modern affair located in a part of the town that lay right along The Way. Before we did another thing, we found a farmacia (pharmacy), easily discovered thanks to the neon green crosses that mark each store (essential knowledge if you’re wondering where to buy blister care supplies on the Camino). Inside we bought a few yards of the Compeed® that the store sold. Compeed is a clear, almost elastic tape created to fight blisters by protecting the skin before it’s irritated, or, if it’s too late, after a blister has formed. Either way it saves the skin from the shoe that wants so badly to rub your life miserable. The stuff was a godsend and once we showered we slapped it on with a vengeance. Immediate relief, but still not as good as moleskin in my mind. But as far as we could see Moleskin is not much sold in Europe.

Showered, cooled and thoroughly Compeeded, we ate at the restaurant downstairs. I have no notes to explain what we shoved in our mouths. I’m sure it was good because walking The Way builds the appetite of a marathoner and anything placed on a plate tastes good. Afterwards, with our feet feeling less fiery, we walked the neighborhood, stopped for a couple of cappuccinos as the sun settled toward the horizon and a listened a raucous flock of birds hidden in a nearby tree make a racket that would have done Lead Zeppelin proud. We didn’t last long into the night, charming as the area was. We were fried and sleep beckoned from our air conditioned single beds ending another unforgettable day on the Portuguese Way of the Camino de Santiago.

I missed sleeping with Cyn for about 20 seconds, and then I was out cold. I think Cyn was asleep even sooner.

Next up … the mysteries of days three and four unfold.

Resource: https://vagabond-adventure.com/library/camino-de-santiago-day-2-arcade-to-pontevedra

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Where the Outlaw Lived: The Hunt for Butch Cassidy’s Ranch

 

The Legend of Butch Cassidy

When you’re a fugitive, with the best detective agency in the Americas on your trail, being 16 hundred miles from anywhere important is probably a good tactic.

It was 1901 when Butch Cassidy, the affable leader of the Wild Bunch gang, known for a streak of railroad heists and bank robberies in the American West, took his “winnings” to Argentina, a country that would cultivate a reputation for concealing notorious refugees. Seeking a quieter life, Cassidy and his two companions Henry Longbaugh (The Sundance Kid) and Etta Place (Sundance’s girlfriend and possible wife) settled in the town of Cholila at the base of the Andes known as the Pre-Corderrilla, near the Chilean border. There they bought a homestead and 12,000 acres of land, determined to go straight and lay low.

The Pinkerton Detective Agency, who had been after the gang in the United States, was not directly involved in tracking Cassidy to South America. Pinkerton could not close the deal to finance Butch’s capture. But by 1903 they knew his whereabouts in South America, and there was a bounty of $10,000 on the heads of the Wild Bunch.

The “family of 3” managed to scrape out a living with a few hundred cattle and a thousand sheep, becoming well-respected in the Corderrilla. But two factors made a peaceable life impossible. The first was the bounty. The second, of course, is that trouble finds troublemakers and after five years as a citizen, Butch reunited with some former “colleagues” who found their way to Cholila.

By 1905, the re-minted Wild Bunch was at it again, taking their act to a bank in Santa Cruz and two years later another bank in San Luis. With the increased scrutiny from law enforcement, it was time to go. Etta returned to the States while Butch sold the ranch and made for Bolivia with Sundance.

How the legendary outlaws died is a mystery. Historians favor the murder-suicide theory while the pair were trapped, surrounded by scores of soldiers, in Bolivia. Other legends have them meeting their fate in Uruguay. The most intriguing theory is that Butch faked his own death in Bolivia and simply went home to Utah. A credible account by Cassidy’s sister places him in Circleville, Utah in 1925 and later dying in Washington State. Unfortunately, all attempts to find his remains have failed.

The most popularized fiction has the men dying in a Bolivian firefight, trapped in a building and surrounded by the Bolivian Army. That’s the version told in the 1969 movie Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. Tired, wounded, out of options, the men burst from the structure to meet their fate in a blaze of glory. If you haven’t seen the movie yet, it’s worth a watch. Ironically, however, the movie did not include the gang’s time in Argentina.

As is the nature of folk heroes, following his death, Cassidy could be found fraternizing with Pancho Villa in Mexico, driving model Ts through the American West, prospecting in Alaska, and touring San Francisco, probably with Elvis.

And the fate of the land? Although occupied as recently as 25 years ago by a Chilean family, today the Cassidy ranch is abandoned. Bruce Chatwin, in In Patagonia, described his own hunt for the Cassidy ranch in 1974. “The countryside had not changed much since the turn of the century. The cabins were in decay, but the structures still stood.” Although there isn’t much left today, fans of the movie would be enthralled by this site. That is certainly what drove me and Cyndy to track down the ranch. I wasn’t easy …

Crossing the Chilean - Argentine Border to Bariloche

The border crossing from Puerto Montt to Bariloche is 8 hours, partly because it takes a long time to get through two border crossings: one at Chile and another in Argentina. I have never seen such a border crossing. Each one takes an hour, at least. This turns out to be a more challenging passage than we originally expected. Taking a rental car across the border into Argentina is prohibitively expensive. Even “puddle jumper” service between the cities is absent. The least bad option seems to be a bus.

These are some pictures of the Argentine border with its towering mountains (and a flag), desiccated forests and motorcycle enthusiasts who drive through Patagonia. Mostly they come from Germany or France. We’re not sure why the forests were destroyed. Possibly from a volcano eruption about 10 years earlier.

On Our Way to San Carlos de Bariloche

San Carlos de Bariloche, or Bariloche, is a city in Argentine Patagonia, located at the edge of Nahuel Huapi National Park. Founded in 1902, it aimed to capitalize on the region’s natural beauty, attracting European immigrants, particularly from Germany and Switzerland, who influenced its distinctive Alpine-style architecture. The expansion of the Argentine railway system helped make Bariloche a popular tourist destination, especially for winter sports at Cerro Catedral, which opened in the 1930s.

The city also became notable during World War II, serving as a refuge for various expatriates, some with controversial backgrounds. Today, Bariloche is famous for its chocolate shops, vibrant food scene, and outdoor activities like hiking and skiing. With a population of around 100,000, it blends its rich history with a lively modern atmosphere, making it a captivating stop for those exploring Patagonia.

The bus finally got us to the charming tourist town of Bariloche. It sits along the glacial, alpine lake Nahuel Huapi. It is immense and absolutely pristine. It reminded me of Tahoe but prettier, deeper, bigger.

From there we picked up our rental car to begin the search for the ranch in Cholila, 3.5 hours south. They had bought the property with the money they made robbing banks in Montana and Utah. That was when The Union Pacific hired the Pinkerton Detective Agency to bring them in dead or alive. The bounty was over $10,000 for the two bank robbers. More on that later.

Late in the afternoon, we skirted the dusty road of Bariloche and headed South with Nahuel Huapi on our right. The sun was descending as we drove and made the Pre-cordillera mountains fierce and fiery. The sky felt like passion and love.

Very soon afterward, it was dark. Nothing buy us, the winding road and the occasional 18 wheeler.

Arrival in Cholila

Cholila was founded in the late 1800s, primarily as a settlement for settlers drawn to the region’s fertile land. The town became a key location for agriculture and livestock farming, which remain significant to its economy today. Throughout the early 20th century, it developed a reputation as a rugged frontier town. The surrounding area was once home to indigenous Mapuche communities, and remnants of their history can still be found. Cholila's remote location contributed to its slower development, allowing it to retain a more laid-back atmosphere compared to other Argentine towns. This blend of history and natural beauty continues to shape its identity today.

We arrived in the town of Cholila in the dead of night.

Our GPS told us to drive across 10 more miles of dirt roads to get to the place we’re staying - La Pilarica. Mostly fisherman go there to relax and fly fish the nearby river. Bill and Vivian run the place and were there when we arrived close to midnight. Bill had hand built the hostel 19 years ago and he and his wife run it. They did quite a job!

Through bits of Spanish and English Bill told me his family had come to the region early in the 20th century. His grandfather ran a mule team (160 mules) that hauled wool from Cholila to Puerto Madryn on the Atlantic coast. Nasty work. Bill said, he was known as the best mule team operator in southern Chile. And he probably knew Butch. Everyone did, because everyone in the town loved him, Etta and Sundance though they probably didn’t know who, precisely, they were, including the mayor and sheriff. One hundred and twenty years later later the town hasn’t changed much.

The Search for the Butch Cassidy Ranch

After breakfast provided by Bill and Vivian, we began searching for the outlaws. We passed some local gauchos down the road, waved and then bounce onto Cholila. We knew to look for the police because the ranch house is supposedly near by.

On the road outside of town, we found Cholila’s one local policeman. He seemed terrified to see me. I ask if he knew where Cassidy’s ranch was and he indicates up the road to the right but I don’t understand a word of detail and he doesn’t understand any of my English. “Donde esta casa de Butch Cassidy” is the best I can do. We continue into the pampa. See the video for more.

On the search we find a small ranch. I think maybe this is it. But it isn’t. A local, quite toothless but very helpful, sits with me. I suggest a map and we work on that, drawing pictures in the dirt. Then we head off again in a new direction. For miles we bounce along until we hit a creek too deep to risk fording in our little VW. As we prepare to head back, we run into some German tourists who speak English. They give us specific directions. And we head back another way much closer to the police station!! That’s me talking to them in their car.

Found Butch Cassidy’s!!!

We made it! Signs all around saying “Cassidy” confirm our hunch. The grounds are unattended, but we are helped along by arrows pointing to the closed, but inviting gate. We pass through to wander the remains.

The ranch features several original structures, including a main house built from sturdy timber and stone, reflecting practical construction. The house is simple, unadorned, with a sturdy porch offering sweeping views of the surrounding landscape, which is breathtaking. Inside, the layout is modest, with basic living spaces that would have accommodated Cassidy and his gang. It is mostly walls and spaces, however. Little remains besides the structures.

Other buildings on the site include old barns and stables, used for livestock and storage. I cannot tell which were for cattle and which were for horses. These buildings are showing signs of age, the wood weathering and the metal rusting. The remnants of corrals and fencing can still be seen, hinting at the ranch's functional past. It is not much different, I imagine, than what Chatwin saw nearly fifty years earlier.

Please watch the video series to take a stroll of the grounds and enjoy the photos below.

Full playlist of all videos from the Butch Cassidy ranch.

Pretty nice for 1901. Here are some still interiors of the living room, kitchen and a bedroom (I think).

Departing the Ranch

Afterwards we find a bar nearby that has a museum loaded with details about the ranch and the Hole in the Wall Gang that Butch Cassidy ran. That’s where you see the color video of Butch bottom right and Sundance bottom left. The other picture gives you a view of the mountains from the ranch. Looks a lot like Montana where Cassidy grew up. It’s easy to see why Butch would have liked it here.

I am catching up on some notes about tracking down the ranch that Butch Cassidy, the Sundance kid and Etta Place bought in Argentina after they were forced to leave the United States when they robbed so many banks and trains that an elite private posse was created to them down. They bought the ranch in 1901 and lived there five and seven years give or take. They actually became real citizens in the small town of Cholila, Argentina. They knew the mayor and became friends with a former sheriff from Montana (possibly inspired by the sheriff they meet in the movie). They lived a relatively quiet life - until some of the posse began to get close. At the time there was a bounty on each of their heads of $10,000 which was an enormously high price in those days. They sold the ranch, Etta Place returned to the United States, and Butch and Harry (the Sundance kid) headed north to Bolivia. Their time living in Argentina at the ranch isn’t mentioned in the famous movie Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid but they did eventually work in a mine in Bolivia and they may have robbed that mine, or they finally went back and made a big bank robbery in Bolivia and that was win the Banditos Yanquees were gunned down in that country. Or at least that’s what most people think. But some say that both survived and Butch Cassidy’s sister swears that her brother came back and visited her in Montana in the 1930s.

Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid - 1969 Movie

 

Of course, our inspiration for taking this side quest into Cholila comes from the love of both history and western cinema that naturally includes the 1969 Butch Cassidy film. If you enjoy stories of outlaws, the wild west, gangs, and heists, it’s probably your kind of movie too. Our contributor Drew Moniot (of Drew’s Reviews) kindly agreed to review of the film for us. Read his review of Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid and then go watch the movie again!

Lovers of cinema, history and the wild west will also enjoy our Dispatches from Deadwood, South Dakota and Monument Valley, in particular (plus all of those in between). We talk about gunfighters and movie magic. Please check those out.

Recommendations

If you’re planning a trip to Cholila (and check out the Cassidy ranch for yourself), or anywhere else in Patagonia, we have many recommendations for you to consider. These are all personally recommended from our own experience. And please see the full list of our travel recommendations from around the world or these recommendations exclusively for Patagonia.

Resource: https://vagabond-adventure.com/library/the-hunt-for-butch-cassidys-ranch-in-cholila-argentina

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Women Who Explore Inspiring Travel Books

 The explorations of women have never gotten their proper due, and it’s time that changed. Women have partaken in some of the most spectacular exploratory feats in history. I realized I failed to make that point in my earlier article The 10 Greatest Travel Adventure Books of All Time, terrific as those books are. This article is a small attempt to remedy that shortcoming. 

See more: https://vagabond-adventure.com/library/best-womens-travel-books

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Riding the El Chepe Express: A Scenic Journey Through Copper Canyon

 

Boarding El Chepe Express

We were excited about boarding El Chepe Express. We had heard and read plenty about it. But getting our ticket and then getting on the train was work. It can be this way in Mexico. When we attempted to buy our tickets online while still in Baja, the Chepe website was a disaster even though we followed every rule (in Spanish) to the letter (perhaps this was the problem?).  Finally I called FerroMex, El Chepe’s rail company, and after many entanglements with our misaligned languages managed to get an email that proved we had paid for our tickets. But did we actually HAVE a ticket?  I wasn’t sure.

Nevertheless, here we were now in the city of Los Mochis, determined to board the train that the marketing brochures wrote would take us through “350 km (220 miles) [passing] Sinaloa up to Creel, into the heart of the Sierra Tarahumara, passing through the majestic Copper Canyon.” The trip would take 9 hours. We would rise 8,000 feet to the land of the Tarahumara people, famous for their ability to run extraordinary distances up and down the mountains. While researching my book Thumbs, Toes and Tears, I had learned that when hunting these native people could run deer down until the animals collapsed.

That morning, a glum taxi driver had juddered us through the dawn light grossly overcharging us before we and our bags were deposited outside the Los Mochis train depot. It was cool and humid. Brooding clouds slowly crept across the sky. At 7:15 the FerroMex-operated Estacion opened. A man dressed smartly in a FerroMex uniform herded passengers with boletos (tickets) into one line, and everyone else in another.  But which line did we belong in? We didn’t exactly have a ticket, but we had payment confirmation. The uniformed agent waved away our concerns. We would be fine; just board when we got the word.

But a few minutes later the train’s conductor, in Spanglish, clarified that we did need tickets. Dutifully, I lined up while Cyn held the fort with our bags. Six people stood in front of us. Departure in 45 minutes. 

We waited. The line was moving at a glacial pace. Evil thoughts began to arise in my mind. We had come several hundred miles out of our way to board this train and didn’t want to miss it, and if we did we were pretty sure that getting our money back would be a nightmare. I fervently wished I was fluent in Spanish. Why couldn’t I make the sounds I needed to make to solve the problems I wanted to solve? The voice in my head spoke: Control what you can. Let the rest go.

A father with two boys and his wife was in the same boat as we were.  He was Mexican, but had worked several years in Texas and spoke excellent English. He had paid for the ride and like us had the proof right there on his cell phone, but he too was told he needed tickets. Now it was 7:30 and a mere two people had moved down the line. The glacial pace, it turns out, was thanks to a FerroMex employee at the ticket counter who was regaling each buyer, in minute detail, about the train’s many amenities.

Our friend was thinking the same thoughts I was. He snagged another railway agent who looked to be in charge and urgently explained our situation. Yes, we still need tickets, she answered in Spanish. Our friend tilted his head in the direction of the ticket agent making the point that we can’t get tickets unless we get through the line before the train departs. She seemed unconcerned, but walked to the ticketmistress and told her to move things along. Six people have now joined the line behind us and four are still in front.

At 7:50 the family in front of us finally makes it to the counter. A pantomime unfolds. The father speaks to the ticket agent. Rapid Spanish ensues.  He holds up his phone. More head waggling on both sides of the plexiglass.  Tick-tock. I can feel things are getting heated. Now the man’s wife enters the picture. She offers the agent encouragement.  Heads begin to nod. Finally the ticketmistress picks up the phone and a minute later she is printing their tickets. Done! I take solace in this. Now that this nice man and his wife have plowed the bureaucratic road for us surely Cyn and I will breeze through.

I step to the counter and show her the email on my phone.

“You must forward your email to to FerroMex,” she says in Spanglish, “and then they will issue her permission to print us a ticket. I jab a finger at my watch.

"No tiempo!” I say, voice rising.

Again, I thrust my phone up to the plexiglass and point at the 8400 pesos (about $500) noted in the email when the mother of the family in front of us re-enters the conversation, earnestly speaking through the plexiglass to the ticketmistress. I love her. In my mind I think of her as “The Virgin Mother of Los Mochis.”  It's now 7:53. Seven minutes and the great Chepe will be gone.

Cyndy sits stoically 50 feet away beside our bags in the now empty train station. By now nearly everyone has boarded. The Mother of Los Mochis implores the agent in Spanish so rapid I cannot possibly comprehend it. Then suddenly, the wife turns, smiling and gives me a thumbs up.

"It's good!"  She says.

“Muchas gracias!” I blurted. I wanted to embrace her. For every difficult human, there are always several good ones.  An instant later we had our tickets in hand. I turned to thank the Virgin Mother, but she and her family had already disapparated.  Was this a miracle?

Cyn and I wheeled away with our bags, tossed them to a waiting porter and bound onto the Premiere Class coach in search of our seats. We plopped down, and then with a bang, the engine of the mighty Chepe began to haul us out of the station precisely on time.   

I grinned at Cyn. “After all of that,” I said, “this better be good!”

Departing Los Mochis

The train’s windows are broad, made to reveal the views. We watched its 12 cars pull us through an immense garbage dump. This didn’t look promising, but trains everywhere travel through the backsides of cities and the views are rarely stunning. We gathered speed and watched shanties fashioned from whatever people have been able to find — cardboard, plasterboard, tarps, plywood, plastic — parade by. White circular tubs stood outside, a flat square of dirt where people can wash. Little flags of plastic or cloth provide a morsel of privacy as the train slides by. Here and there skeletal corrals of old wood teeter in the dirt. A few chickens peck in the dust, an emaciated goat or two munches on tiny clusters of grass, while hand washed clothes hang languidly in the humid breeze and a single rooster patrols a little dirt yard, wings spread, squawking a clear message to all chickens that he is boss. I am reminded of John Steinbeck's descriptions in Grapes of Wrath of the shanty towns during the American Depression.

A few moments more and I witnessed an image that will always remain with me: a solitary young man, maybe 21-years-old, tall, slim with dark hair, raggedly dressed. His paper COVID mask was strapped on his ears as he stood unmoving and unmoved amidst 100 yards of garbage and tumbling plastic bags, gazing blankly into the wreckage. What thoughts, I wondered was he thinking? What dreams did he dream? What dreams was he allowed to dream? And then the train moved on.

As we gathered speed the level of homes upgraded. Slowly the boarded slats and plywood houses we had been looking at morphed into small enclosed yards with porticos and cement walls and proper rooms capped with red corrugated roofs. Ranches began to appear as we came into the foothills, small brick buildings among scrub, rock, cactus, dry arroyos, dust and hard chunks of grass. A cowboy on his horse clopped through a flat plain of dry prairie grass, his battered straw hat swatting at a few horses and brahmin cows as he herded them into a nearby corral.

In time we broke into broad rows of corn filling the plains through which the train resolutely passed. Before the day was done, the train would haul us into canyons the guide books told us were five times the size of the Grand Canyon. It swayed left and right, but its progress was steady as we moved towards the beckoning Sierra Madre. I thought if there was one set of tracks that would be carefully maintained, it would be this one. The express was the most popular attraction in northern Mexico, and it brought tourists in by the hundreds of thousands each year. Now that COVID seemed to finally be abating, the income was deeply appreciated.

Life On Board Chepe

El Chepe’s Premiere Class passenger coach offered a startling counterpoint to the world through which the train passed. It was indeed first class, recently renovated we were told. Leather chairs throughout, brown leather cloth and metal scones for lighting, a linen like ceiling with more recessed lighting, tan with valances recalling the fine Spanish architecture of the old days, and an entire car devoted to anyone who wanted a drink in the first class section. In the bar car all of the big windows had been opened and the train now chugged up the mountains through fresh, cool air while the patrons helped themselves to drinks and had the party going strong by 10:30 am.   

In all of our experience in Mexico, we had never run into anyone who was unkind or the least bit bad-tempered. That changed on the Chepe. The surliest people that we came across were those riding in Premier class. Many of them considered themselves wealthy, entitled to be loud, rude, insistent on their constant care for the battalion of servers on board, seemingly unaware of the poverty around them or even feeling superior because of it. They would order drinks and food and toss away their trash and expect someone else to take care of it which the servers dutifully did.  I wondered if sometimes I acted like this, being just as thoughtless, entirely unaware that I too was a jerk. If so I could only hope this trip would help humble me, help me realize how truly we are all in the same boat and at least deserve an equal shot.  But everywhere it was so clear that so many did not get equal shots and yet they seemed to continue with a smile on their face, working hard, themselves humble and perfectly happy with the state of their lives. Had I been born into those circumstances, I wondered, would I feel the same?

Climbing Into Copper Canyon

Now the views of the river plain below became stunning. We crossed over one of the highest train trestles in the world, the river valley gaping hundreds of feet below. Onward El Chepe rocked, always higher; we rose amongst cliffs of hanging trees and flowers of vivid yellow, pink and periwinkle. We were leaving civilization. In time a broad snaking river appeared, tumbling out the mountains, the Septentrion, which means “going to the ocean.” It seemed to be in a hurry.

For a few hours the rails followed the channel the Septentrion had formed over the epochs. The higher we ascended green rather than brown became the color of choice - pine (Tule) and White Stick trees, Huisache and Jute bushes. The river became a chasm filled with rocks the size of small homes, igneous domes toppled from the ragged cliffs above.

Despite rocking and rolling upward, a small battalion of waiters with perfect, gleaming teeth glided through the aisles carrying platters of snacks and wine, mojitos or tequila from one car to the next. The service was impeccable and we were often asked if we needed anything. Lunch would be served in the dining car around noon and we chose chicken soup with light Seminola and three small roasted pork chops in green sauce.

Higher … now the turns grew sharper, twisting the train into taut switchbacks, and El Chepe made every noise a machine could make, cracking, clapping and rattling, screeching and hissing on its beds, but it never wavered in its journey. Soon the canyon walls approached like closing, volcanic hands, sometimes no more than 10 feet from our window.  Rail workers had had to blast through every one of the railway’s 27 bridges and 86 tunnels to take us on this route. It was truly one of the world’s great engineering feats. The idea for the railroad was inspired when Mexico granted a rail concession to Albert Kinsey Owen, founder of the Utopia Socialist Colony in New Harmony, Indiana. Owen’s goal was to build a socialist colony in Mexico and he needed a way to get people there. Owen’s dream didn’t come true, but Arthur Stilwell who ran a company called the Kansas City, Mexico and Orient Railway began construction in 1900. The route was so rugged, so challenging that last rail wasn’t laid to its terminus in Chihuahua until 1961.

Now the train’s big blue engine began snaking us through fresh stands of pine, and as we approached late afternoon the train seemed to level off a bit. We didn’t see the immense canyon walls you see in the Grand Canyon, there are too many trees, but the canyons are there, and we would catch glimpses, thick with forest hanging along the immense ravines.

Despite rocking and rolling upward, a small battalion of waiters with perfect, gleaming teeth glided through the aisles carrying platters of snacks and wine, mojitos or tequila from one car to the next. The service was impeccable and we were often asked if we needed anything. Lunch would be served in the dining car around noon and we chose chicken soup with light Seminola and three small roasted pork chops in green sauce.

Higher … now the turns grew sharper, twisting the train into taut switchbacks, and El Chepe made every noise a machine could make, cracking, clapping and rattling, screeching and hissing on its beds, but it never wavered in its journey. Soon the canyon walls approached like closing, volcanic hands, sometimes no more than 10 feet from our window.  Rail workers had had to blast through every one of the railway’s 27 bridges and 86 tunnels to take us on this route. It was truly one of the world’s great engineering feats. The idea for the railroad was inspired when Mexico granted a rail concession to Albert Kinsey Owen, founder of the Utopia Socialist Colony in New Harmony, Indiana. Owen’s goal was to build a socialist colony in Mexico and he needed a way to get people there. Owen’s dream didn’t come true, but Arthur Stilwell who ran a company called the Kansas City, Mexico and Orient Railway began construction in 1900. The route was so rugged, so challenging that last rail wasn’t laid to its terminus in Chihuahua until 1961.

Now the train’s big blue engine began snaking us through fresh stands of pine, and as we approached late afternoon the train seemed to level off a bit. We didn’t see the immense canyon walls you see in the Grand Canyon, there are too many trees, but the canyons are there, and we would catch glimpses, thick with forest hanging along the immense ravines.

FAQ

Q1: Where does the El Chepe Express route begin and end?

A: The El Chepe Express runs between Creel, Chihuahua and Los Mochis, Sinaloa, passing through the heart of Mexico’s Copper Canyon. Most travelers ride from Creel to El Fuerte, or vice versa, to capture the most stunning scenery without committing to the entire 9-hour journey. The full El Chepe Express route between Creel and Los Mochis takes approximately 9 hours, though it can vary depending on the number of scenic stops and dwell time at stations. Shorter segments, like Divisadero to Bahuichivo or El Fuerte to Divisadero, offer gorgeous views in 3 to 5 hours.

Q2: What kind of travelers ride El Chepe Express?

A: You’ll find a mix of Mexican families, older tourists, and intrepid travelers, especially in Clase Turista (Tourist Class). The vibe is more low-key than luxury trains in Europe or Japan — but it’s authentic, unhurried, and social. Passenger behavior varied sharply by class. While many travelers were quiet, kind, and respectful — especially the servers and working-class passengers — those riding in Premier class were often loud, entitled, and dismissive of others.

Q3: What is the experience like on board El Chepe Express?

A: On our ride, the train was comfortable, clean, and modern, with huge windows, friendly staff, and surprisingly smooth rail. The food and drink options were solid (think sandwiches and beer), and the onboard vibe was relaxed — part transit, part sightseeing.

Q4: Is getting tickets for the El Chepe Express complicated?

A: It can be. Even with a payment confirmation in hand, travelers may still face confusion and delays when converting proof of purchase into actual tickets — especially at the station in Los Mochis. We had paid 8,400 pesos online but were still asked to line up again and submit the email confirmation to FerroMex before tickets could be printed. The process was glacially slow due to a chatty agent and unclear protocol.

Resource: https://vagabond-adventure.com/library/riding-el-chepe-express-through-mexico-copper-canyon

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