Mexicali Blues…and other early adventures of the Mexican Overland RURP Phreaks
Set the Way-Back machine for…way back. The year was 1980 or sometime thereabouts. Weed was still cheap. New music was mostly a disaster with the exception of some Punk. The smiling Buddha was the only decent punk venue in town. Ozzie got fired from Black Sabbath. We had pretty much no digital anything. No internet, PC’s, cell phones, nothing ‘i’; no Gore-Tex, sticky rubber, cams, or any of the other stuff we all take for granted these days. We were young, full of piss n’ vinegar, and not all broken down, and climbing was still fairly new to us. And we were ready for our first international adventure.
We already knew enough from Carlos Castaneda that Mexico was the place to be from a spiritual/psychedelic perspective, and we also knew that the third, fifth, and seventh highest mountains in North America were there. What more was needed….nothing….the equation was complete. Except for the cast of characters…
Ross. Ross was an interesting dude. I suppose that he was my first real climbing partner, as he was the guy that actually got me into climbing in the first place. He had long hair and a funky beard, and always had good weed. This cat dug the same kind of music I did and had seen the likes of the Jefferson Airplane, The Grateful Dead, Janis, Jimi, and Moby Grape. Ross was a good mountaineer, and had this crazy uncanny ability of being able to recall the names and heights of every mountain within 500 kilometers; and he had weed.
Bruce. Bruce was an interesting dude as well. I ended up doing the majority of my technical climbing and technical drinking with Bruce. Not only was Bruce a solid leader on shaky gear, but he had a very logical, and unique way of thinking about things. I always thought that he seemed to have had a real understanding of the universe at a base level; so to speak. In later years Bruce went on to build glass springs, quantum computers, and other fun stuff. For some reason I never worried about anything on a climb if Bruce was there.
So that was all there was to it; we got passports and plane tickets to Mexico City. And that’s when it all began, it was Cowboy Neal at the wheel of the bus to never-never land.
The night before our departure, the three of us were sharing a few beers in one of our favourite Skid Row hotels; The Cobalt. Renowned for its rough character and even rougher strippers, it was a very seedy place to say the least. While not really germane to this story, an interesting event took place. Two of Vancouver’s finest wandered through the bar which in itself was not at all an uncommon occurrence. However, several beers later they came back in and made a beeline for our table. After exchanging a few pleasantries they got straight to the point. The City of Vancouver would be pleased to buy me a case of beer if I would be so kind as to be in a police line-up. Say what? As tempting as ‘free’ beer always is, I was somewhat hesitant based upon our early flight in the morning… especially in the event I get fingered for something! I declined their most generous offer. But to this day I still wonder what that experience would have been like.
Our first post flight challenge after arriving in Mexico D.F. was getting out of the airport. This was easier said than done. Our baggage; i.e. our packs and climbing gear were not on the baggage carousel. The Senor Jeffe of Lost Baggage was obviously very concerned with our plight, and wanted to make a complete inventory of everything that was in our packs. Our ears perked up at hearing the phrase ‘Ropas Hombres’. Obviously Hombres is Men, and Ropas can only mean rope right? Men of the Rope! Totally cool! We thus referred to ourselves as such for the rest of the trip. What a bunch of jamokes. After this he informed us very apologetically that ‘maybe’ our baggage was on the twelve PM flight to Lima Peru. Maybe? Really??? Then in true MORPH fashion we did one of the most logical things possible. I being the only Spanish speaker (and that statement is a real stretch, since I only had one year of high school Spanish; although I did get an A in that class, thank you very much!) stayed in the arrival area with our carry-on gear, while Ross and Bruce went to investigate further afield. About twenty minutes later they come running up to me carrying one of our large packs like a stretcher, with the two others laid on top like a body. All they said was ‘hurry-up we gotta get outta here’…
I didn’t ask questions, nor did I hesitate; I grabbed the three day packs and we bolted together out the front entrance of the airport and dove into the first taxi we saw. This in itself was a bit comical. The three amigos, three big mountaineering packs, three day packs, and the driver all crammed into a clapped out Toyota Corolla or something like. The suspension was totally bottomed out and it was a wild and careening nighttime ride through the barrios to the heart of Mexico City, where our stalwart driver was taking us to a hotel that his brother-in-law works at…. Ai-yi-yi… All of the time he was inquiring of us….”you boys?…you smoke the marijuana?”
Our first objective was going to be Pico de Orizaba which is nearby the village of Tlachichuca. So you may be wondering at this point how does one get from Mexico City to Tlachichuca? Why, you take the bus of course. We loaded up our gear and hoofed it from Citatelpec Park to Terminal del Norte. We figured that we could take a bus from Mexico City to Puebla. Another one from Puebla to San Salvador El Seco, and that we could hitchhike or walk if worse came to worse the remainder of the way from El Seco to Tlachichuca. So this is indeed what we did. In El Seco where the bus dropped us off there was a gas station, where we were able to fill up our fuel bottles with premium grade PEMEX automobile gasoline. The creased old attendant at the station seemed bewildered at filling our little MSR bottles, plus I think that we got ripped off on the price to boot.
We walked down the road a piece, set down the packs, and stuck out our thumbs… as simple as that. It turns out as I found out years later, that this may not be the sign for hitchhiking in Mexico. A long time passed as well as a very large number of vehicles, including large empty farm trucks, but none stopped, although everyone smiled and gave us friendly waves. This got demoralizing, but eventually a farm truck stopped for us, and amazingly it was headed for Tlachichuca. We got in the open back and a couple of the guys from the cab jumped in the back with us and we barreled through the Mexican countryside. What was really cool is that our mountain Ciltatapetl (Pico de Orizaba) was already looming over us. What was really frustrating is that we got passed by a bus… Puebla – Tlachichuca…. It turns out that busses do go everywhere in Mexico
Our truck dropped us off in the village square and we ‘paid’ for our ride in Canadian chocolate bars. This was a really funky little village. Our first stop was to find Senor Reyes. He is the man in the town who can arrange for jeep transport up to the climbers hut Piedre Grande. It turned out though; Senor Reyes was out of town on business. His brother-in-law (what is it about Mexicans and their brother-in- laws?) however was planning to take the family up to Piedre Grande in the morning for a picnic, and is more than willing to give us a ride…. Cool. Our next stop was the bakery with its wood fired oven, and delicious freshly baked bread. We hiked a kilometer or so outside the town along the road up the mountain and set up camp in a clearing off to the side at a spot that Senor Reyes’ brother-in-law said he would meet us. His only admonishment was… no waiting…they would be by at zero seven thirty and if we weren’t ready… too bad….they would leave without us, and we would be walking.
The night started well with a good dinner and fresh bread, even though I did spill half of my dinner onto my pants. We were soundly sleeping in the forest well after dark, minding our own business when…. Bang! What the hell? More fireworks and gunshots, music, people shouting, and donkeys walking through our camp. It turns out it was some fiesta day or another, as it often happens to be in Mexico, and there was a travelling party passing by. Eventually the revelers left us and we had a fitful remainder of the night. Even with the poor sleep we were able to break camp and be waiting at the roadside at the prescribed time.
Soon a jeep pulled up towing a pick-up box trailer. The jeep was filled with people. The trailer was filled with coolers, food, beverages, more people, and soon with three gringo climbers and their gear. It was a long, slow, and steep ride. There was one point where everyone including grandmother needed to get out and walk up a steep hill. We were getting high now and we had to stop to let air out of the jeeps tires. Eventually we arrived at fourteen thousand feet and the hut. It seemed funny to us to drive to a base-camp that is as high as Mount Rainer is. Even funnier is that the Reyes clan was going to picnic there. We thanked the family for their help, and set up shop in the hut which was huge. We found out that we were not the only climbers here either. There were two Mexican guides and their client, an elderly Japanese man of seventy two years of age. I tried to go for a run which as could be expected at that altitude, did not last long or end well.
We ate, prepared for the climb, ate some more and then slept. We awoke with the other three climbers in the early morning hours, gagged down some breakfast, and set out. It was comical to us that the Mexicans and the Japanese gentleman were wearing their crampons in the hut and up the first couple of thousand feet of rubble. We opted to wait for the snow and ice to put ours on. The route was totally easy and straight forward…just a long and exhausting slog, compounded by the altitude. Ross, Bruce, and I were moving independently of one another and had long since passed the Mexicans and Japanese.
It was probably a combination of inexperience and altitude befuddlement that led to what happened next. We had split up the loads in our daypacks to be somewhat even in weight distribution, although not practically so. I can’t really recall all that we had with us but for some twist of fate, I had most or all of our water in my pack, yet none of the sun-block. Moving at our own pace we became quite spread out from each other. I was feeling great and was having an amazing day. It was slow going, and strenuous but I kept a steady pace and was no worse for wear. Eventually… there I was… on the summit. Alone. There was an old toppled over metal crucifix that was encrusted in ice crystals, long and growing in the direction of the prevailing winds. It was a bluebird day. I was soon joined by a solitary raven with whom I shared some gorp and who kept me company for a while. It was crazy to think that here I was and as I looked to the North the next highest mountain would be Denali or Logan, many thousands of kilometers away and likewise but with even greater distances to the east and west, and still very far to the south in Ecuador was anything higher.
I lingered about an hour and eventually I was joined, not by Ross and Bruce, but by the Mexicans and their client. They informed me that my friends were still a ways down the hill. I opted not to wait any longer and made my descent to meet them. They were tanked, and had run out of water. I had the water. They drank their fill and pressed on for some time further, but they were beat, and had no recourse in the end but to turn around and head down with me. I felt bad for them, but they did get to the west rim of the peak. I also paid a price that day. While I may have had water, I had no sun screen. My face and ears had very severe sun burn that plagued me for the remainder of our Mexican adventure. I was in pain and discomfort for many days and I looked like a leper with skin sloughing off leaving bright red oozing sores. There would be no picking up any young ladies looking like that!
We had somehow negotiated a jeep ride back down, and for some unknown reason we switched vehicles with another jeep that was headed up, when we were about half way down. Eventually without mishap and with only two bus rides we ended up back in Mexico City, where we took a rest day. Our next task was to get to Popocatepetl. For this we adopted the same strategy of walking to the bus station with our huge packs, taking a bus to the nearest town; in this case Amecameca, and thumb the remainder of the way. And with little ado this is exactly what we did. We were able to catch a ride, again in a big truck, but they dropped us off where the road splits to Ixtacihuatl, and we hoofed it in the remainder of the way.
There was a large hostel that we stayed at. The rooms were all painted blue and had the look and feel of jail cells. And for all I know they could have been at one time. There was an old caretaker who looked after the place and who was always packing around an even older looking rifle. We hooked up with a couple of climbers from Colorado. These guys were okay, but what was really nuts was that they used the same fluid for drinking as they burned in their stove. The five of us gringos and the old caretaker were having a great time passing the bottle around while swapping lies. The old Senor was a crack-up, as he was the only one who would wipe of the mouth of the bottle with his shirtsleeve before taking his swig.
The following day early, at about 0400 the three of us set out again. This time however there was a reversal of fortunes. I was feeling dead tired and very weak. We had not covered much ground at all, before I bailed. Ross and Bruce were well acclimatized and had plenty of water and continued on to bag the summit at 1345 while I hung out back at camp with the old caretaker. They both made it back at 1700; it was a thirteen hour round trip. I was relieved to see them and especially happy that they made the top.
That was the end of our climbing for this trip and the remainder of our time in Mexico is a bit foggy in my recollection. I do remember one crazy evening in a bar drinking with some Mexican chap who at one time had played football for the University of Saskatchewan, or the Saskatchewan Rough Riders, or some team like that. He wouldn’t sit down; he stood by our table shooting the shit with us all night. This guy paid for our whole evening, food, booze; the works. It was amazing that we could even find our way back to the hotel in the state we were in.
sketch by bruce
Soundtrack:
– Mexicali Blues – Grateful Dead
– Lost in the Ozone – Commander Cody and the Lost Planet Airmen
– Benny the Bouncer – Emerson, Lake and Palmer
– Comfortably Numb – Pink Floyd
– Cheap Sunglasses – ZZ Top
– Romance in Durango – Bob Dylan