Story by Jim Glendinning, Photos by Dave Mattson

“C’mon boy, no, no, this way, good work.” Behind me, Tony Sr.’s anxious voice reassured his horse as it struggled on the steep trail. We were on the second day of a trip into a remote region of the Copper Canyon in Chihuahua’s Sierra Madre Mountains.

Described as tough by one of the few gringos to have done it, the trail was living up to its reputation. Our pack train of four horses and four burros, with six tourists and four local handlers, lunged onwards and upwards, skidding on rocks, sliding on loose earth.

On previous trips to the Copper Canyon area around Creel. I often stayed at the Sierra Lodge, a luxury log cabin close to Cusarare waterfall. The cabin, as well as the Riverside Lodge in Batopilas at the foot of the canyon, is the inspiration of an adventurous American, Skip McWilliams. It was here that I heard about McWilliams’ new discovery: a lost hacienda in a remote canyon, two day’s hike from the nearest road – where we were going.

A Basque family called Ochoa founded the hacienda two centuries earlier. To avoid the Spanish, they deliberately chose remote place. They planted orange trees from Spain and channeled water from the nearby river to irrigate the orchards. The indigenous Tarahumaras called it “Wa’Chahuri,” the place of aromas. Until the fifties, over a hundred families lived there. Now only one family remains.

Approach to the area is by the Copper Canyon train to Temoris station, 5 hours from Creel. A local bus connects with arrival of the second-class train. We bump along the dirt road uphill for 50 minutes till we reach the town of Temoris. It looks prosperous. The traffic-filled streets are clean and the shops well-stocked. 

Here we meet Lico who has worked for McWilliams for 20 years and has driven here 10 hours from his home in Batopilas. He will escort us to Wa’Chahuri and back. More immediately, he will drive our bags the next morning to Batosegachi, elevation 4,720 feet, the jumping off point where we pick up horses and burros.

We settled in at the Hotel Bustillos on the plaza and passed a quiet night in clean, $25/night green-painted rooms. The next morning a slight, elderly Mexican in a cowboy hat arrived to inform us he would be our guide for the day. This was 80-year old Chico Campos (above, on horse).  He swung easily onto the saddle of his horse and led us out of town on the 5-hour hike to Batosegachi.

The hill-top village of Batosegachi consisted of some houses, a church, and about 50 people. We slept in beds and on the floor of a renovated cottage and ate a splendid, simple meal of tortillas and beans at the house of a neighbor, Lupe.

In the morning, our pack handler Gregorio turned up. Trim in build and quiet of manner, he eyed us carefully then started immediately to load the four burros, tightly strapping on our packs. With two teenage helpers, Ramón and Martín, “El Jefe del Burros,” to handle the burros (above), and Gregorio and Lico as our guides, our group now totaled 10 persons.

The morning passes uneventfully as the easy trail follows a wooded ridge line then drops steeply to a river. The six members of the group have now established their preferences. Dave, our photographer, who has a GPS device, and Tony Jr., who wears gaiters, are hoofing it vigorously out front. There’s only one trail so they are not going to get lost.

Next, Pam the only female in the group and Tom the banker alternate hiking with riding. Pam is clearly relishing the landscape and loves to stop and take pictures. Then the cavalry, myself and Tony Sr. together with the other horses ridden by Lico and Gregorio, plus the burros exhorted and prodded by the boys.

By midday, we climb again, perhaps 1,500 feet, and can see an uninterrupted panorama of mountain and canyon stretching perhaps 80 miles to the horizon. Not a house, not a trail in sight. Pure wilderness.  

The trail drops down through oak, mesquite, prickly pear and jarilla, a small green willow-type tree. On the few flat stretches, the going is easy. But whenever the incline steepens the horses slither and scramble. The hazards of the trail are equally the loose gravelly sections and the rocky parts which require an extra lunge by the horses to surmount the boulders. Still – the group is happy, the temperature is in the low 70’s and we are making progress.

Suddenly, from behind I hear Tony Sr. calling: “Tom, Jim, I’m wounded”. We turn our horses around and go back down to trail. Tony arrives, still in the saddle, but with blood streaming from his head. We get him off his horse.  A tree branch has caused the damage, he failed to duck. Pam meanwhile has turned up, and takes purposeful action: she sits Tony down on a rock and starts to clean the scalp around the cut.

While painful and a shock, the damage, a 2-inch scalp wound, certainly could have been worse. Tony decides he can continue, even asks for a photo to be taken. But the incident gives food for thought: what if the branch had punctured his eye? The basic answer is that this is not the place and time for what ifs. If we had doubts about injuries, we wouldn’t be here.

Hours later, the vegetation changes. We have crossed a watershed and are dropping down. It is hotter but not stifling. We now see organ cactus and saguaro cactus. Gregorio gives us a piece of papachi to eat, a fruit with spiky yellow skin and brown jelly inside. It tastes slightly bitter but serves to take my mind off my ass which is suffering after 7 hours in the saddle. As it happens, the need for careful steering of my horse, a responsive, sure–footed animal, makes me forget the aches and pains. And the scenery is glorious.

By late afternoon we have reached a river which we briefly follow until it divides. We are at the junction of the Wa’Chahuri and Mochomo Rivers (above), elevation 1,920 feet. It is time to camp. Lico lights a fire, we spread our sleeping bags on the sand and break out our various provisions: burritos for the Mexicans, cans of tuna or exotic freeze-dried stuff for us gringos.

During the night, a stray burro approaches and pushes its face one foot from the sleeping figure, Tom. Suddenly awakened, Tom shouts at the burro which doesn’t move. Apparently we have camped on his trail. Unconcerned, the burro finally moves away. We resume our sleep, the deep sleep of the exhausted. It is peaceful here. We’ve done three quarters of the trail.

In the morning, refreshed, we’re ready for the last lap, starting with a dramatic passage upriver between the cliff walls. This is El Cajon (the box), the protective gateway to Wa’Chahuri. (below). The burros are unloaded so the packs can be carried across on the horse’s backs, out of the water. The water is above the stirrups but the horses manage to wade the 30 yards between the cliffs. In higher water, they would have to swim.

The group now divides, the hikers hugging the bank of the river which leads to Wa’Chahuri. The trail for the pack animals climbs sharply again across a cliff face, but by now we’re inured to switchbacks and steep drop offs. Finally, the trail descends and the track widens. Stone fences now border the route, and we spot abandoned terraced fields across the river. Soon, a patch of lush green foliage appears ahead of us, an orange grove, and within it the outline of a roof, below the roof a cluster of buildings. We cross the river, climb a steep paved track, pass an enormous banyan tree and enter a deserted courtyard surrounding. No, not quite deserted – at the corner of the main building which fronts the courtyard, a young girl shyly pushes her sister forwards. We have arrived.

A tray with glasses of freshly squeezed orange juice arrives unordered, carried by a sturdy woman with long black hair. This is Mercedes, wife of Lico who tends the hacienda’s cattle and mother of six girls, two of whom are cautiously approaching us. The juiced is unchilled since there is no electricity here, rich and slightly tangy, and absolutely delicious. 

We sit in the open porch, happy to be at rest. Some roosters wander around the swept yard and two gaunt dogs eye them warily. A pink hibiscus tree adds color. It is quiet, no noise of motors, and no phone. We notice a cross high on the mountainside across the river, perhaps the object for a hike tomorrow. Certainly we’ll be bathing in the clear flowing river just below the hacienda. For now we are content to relax. Slowly I become aware of a sweet fragrance pervading the yard. It’s the oranges.

We’re at the place of aromas, Wa’Chahuri.

The Wa Chahuri house, as viewed from the orange groves planted below which surround the villa.

Jim Glendinning lives in Alpine, TX. He is the author of  Adventures in the Big Bend, and runs trips to the Copper Canyon twice a year. He can be reached at jimglen2@hotmail.com.

Dave Mattson is an avid hiker, photographer, and musician who lives in Terlingua. He’s also part of the Gazette’s core staff.