The Copper Canyon lies west of the city of Chihuahua in Mexico's Sierra Madre Mountains. Actually a network of canyons as much as a mile deep, the canyon is as isolated as it is breathtaking. Though it has been inhabited for centuries, there was no road into the canyon until the 1970s, only a network of trails passable only on foot and by burro. Today's road is barely better - an incredibly rough, steep and narrow route that winds along the steep canyon walls thousands of feet from the bottom. Lined with crosses memorializing those strayed to close to the edge, it is perfect for the motorcyclist looking for adventure and grit in his chewing gum.

Our intrepid adventurers included Linus Brewer and Margie Denton, husband-and-wife doctors from Roswell, New Mexico; Randy Kremlacek, a telecommunications executive from California, and yours truly, a motorcycle magazine publisher. We were following Roger Pattison, off-road rider extraordinaire and winner of the 1992 La Carrera de La Plaz race, who was making his seventh trip into the canyon, spoke passable Spanish and continually lied about the difficulty of the trails we were about to ride. We assembled in El Paso, Texas, with motorcycles, support van, trailer, 80 gallons of gas and 20 gallons of drinking water. After spending two-and-a-half hours getting the necessary permits and documentation, we were headed for Chihuahua, some 200 miles south of the border.

Chihuahua is a large, modern city and that night's accommodations at Hotel Casas Grandes were quite civilized. We toasted the coming adventure with tequila and laughter. The morning found us traveling west through the rolling foothills of the Sierra Madre and a fine four-lane highway. By the time we reached Creel the road was a winding two-lane and we unloaded the bikes to enjoy the final forty miles of the day's trip from the saddle. Our destination was the tiny Tarahumara village of Samachique. (The Tarahumaras are the Indians that inhabit the canyon, known for their distinctive dress and long-distance running.)

Situated in a mountain valley near the edge of the canyon, Samachique is a rocky, dusty hamlet of ramshackle houses with no electricity and no running water. But what they lack in creature comforts they make up for in hospitality. Marta Lopez welcomed us into her family's home, cooking our dinner over a wood stove. We ate beans and tortillas by lamplight and unrolled our sleeping bags in the attic.

The sounds of roosters, pigs and dogs woke us up in the morning, and frost covered our motorcycles in the 8000-foot elevation. The day quickly warmed and after breakfast (more beans and tortillas) we were off to get a taste of what the roads and trails of the Sierra Madre had to offer.

After a few miles on the dirt roads we ventured into the myriad of trails that criss-cross the region. Cut by burros, the trails can get real gnarly real quick. Lin, Margie and Roger were on Gas Gas Pamperas. Their extreme lightweight and tremendous low-end power made them the motorcycle of choice for work like this, and they stepped lightly over the washouts, fallen timbers and rock ledges. However, Randy's DR350 and my KLR250 were not nearly as well suited to the extreme trails, where their heft, relative lack of low-end power and high gearing forced us to bludgeon our way while the Pamperas danced.

Numerous falls did not dampen our enthusiasm, nor did the wasp that flew into my jacket and stung me. Stopping for lunch at a canyon overlook, we could hear the talking drums of the Tarahumaras and wondered if they were talking about the crazy American motorcyclists who were crashing through forest. After seven hours on the motorcycles we had accumulated a whopping total of 27 miles on the odometers.

Back in Samachique that afternoon, we spent more than an hour giving rides to the all the village children who dared, some 30 or 40 in all. We were not sure who enjoyed it most, the kids or us. Margie went out of her way to offer rides to the girls, impressing them with the thought that they could do anything the boys could.

Next morning we loaded the van and hopped on the bikes for the trip to Batopilas, the village at the bottom of the canyon. The road down is 42 miles of rocks, foot-thick dust, fatal drop-offs and spectacular vistas. Thanks to seemingly perpetual construction, the switchback section of the road is open for only an hour each day. Waiting at the construction stop was an odd collection of vehicles including the public bus with passengers from Germany, Israel, Canada, France and the USA. Enterprising Mexicans were selling snacks and soft drinks to the captive audience. From our vantage point we could barely see a bridge over the river, the Rio Batopilas, at the bottom of the canyon more than a mile below us.

When the road was opened we roared down the steep road in a cloud of dust, sliding through the sharp curves in our best flat track style. This was where the Kawasaki and Suzuki were in their element. Upon reaching the bridge we immediately shed clothes and jumped into the water. Thirty seconds in the cold water was enough to achieve total refreshment.

While not as steep, the rest of the road snakes ominously along a cliff. Crumpled vehicles can be seen at the bottom and we encountered a pickup draped over the edge, tenuously hanging on by one wheel. Around each curve is another remarkable vista and we have to limit our picture-taking for fear of using all our film.

After the dusty, three hour ride, Batopilas was truly a vision of loveliness. At the end of a beautiful arch bridge, nestled along the river on the shady side of the canyon, it is a magical place. School children sing as they walk home, women wash clothes in the river, burros are led through the street and the thick fragrance of orange blossoms fills the air. Near the end of the single cobblestone street that runs the length of the village, lined by white buildings and lush trees, we find our destination, the Hotel Mary.

The hotel is simple but clean, with a courtyard where they let us park our van and motorcycles. Though Batopilas is said to have been the second town in all of Mexico to have electricity, it only comes on for an hour now and then. Otherwise lamp light and candles provide illumination and lots of atmosphere. At the cantina across the street we sipped cervezas and sampled the local liquor, a tequila-like distillate called lechugilla that tastes faintly of kerosene. Our evening meal was taken at one of the local casitas, private homes that serve meals to the touristas. It was tortillas and beans again, but now with a little beef and potato stew to break the monotony.

Morning found us fresh and eager to hit the trails. Frustrated at the seemingly slow pace of bike prep, Randy paced the patio and with his best drill sergeant voice shouted, "all right ladies, are we gonna ride or make doilies?" Doilies all done, we headed deeper into the canyon. First stop: the Lost Mission at Satevo.

Built in the 1500s, the picaresque stone mission was virtually inaccessible until a road was built a few years ago. It is mysterious because of its isolation and lack of potential parishioners. Following the trail further into the canyon, we cross the Rio Batopilas via a pedestrian suspension bridge. As the last bike to cross, the swaying bridge proved quite a challenge, forcing me to give up trying to balance and simply foot-paddle the span.

Recently bulldozed roads took us up, over and around the majestic desert landscape of the canyon until we came upon a small house, a ranchito, seemingly in the middle of nowhere, covered with flowering vines. A couple of men approached us and, after introductions, invited us for lunch. We drank warm Fanta on the porch while the women cooked frijoles and tortillas on a wood stove. As we were saying our goodbyes, we asked how many head of cattle they owned.

"Only a few, for that is not our work," said our host.
"What is your work, then?"
"Oh, we grow the best marijuana in Mexico!" he proudly declared and dispatched his son toward the river, who returned a short time later with a hatful of strong-smelling herb that he insisted we take as a gift.

That afternoon, the quest for great trails caused us to ford the river. Crossing the slick, cantelope-size rocks in the riverbed was difficult and Randy fell. He clawed frantically for the kill switch as the bike went over, still the DR had sucked water. The mood was solemn as the airbox was drained and spark plug was removed, but and the engine turned over without protest and water sprayed from the spark plug hole After a few minutes the engine sputtered to life. We made two more river crossings that day and Randy fell both times, but successfully stopped the motor before it inhaled more agua. Later, back at the Hotel Mary, Randy mentioned that he thought he'd clean the bike up a little. We suggested it didn't need it. After all, he'd thrown it in the river and beat it on a rock thrice today, just like the Mexican women did their laundry.

Roger told us the next day's ride would be up a trail along the ancient aqueduct that supplies the village. The trail was beautiful, passing through a virtual tunnel of trees along a steep hillside above the six-foot-deep concrete aqueduct. Stepping around a large rock my rear tire slid out and the bike dropped toward the rushing water. A footpeg hung on the edge was all that saved me from being the brunt of jokes the rest of the trip.

In the tiny settlement of Cerro Colorado, children rushed from the school to see the motorcycles pass and Senor Sanchez, from whom Roger had hired burros during on his last visit to the canyon, offered us some of his homemade chincharones. The burro trail became more and more difficult until it was deemed impassable. A couple of vaqueros we encountered verified that the only way out was the way we came.

Next we explored a newly cut road so steep it seemed that nothing but a motorcycle or a bulldozer could possibly use it. Then down across the canyon, through the water once more (Randy stayed vertical this time) and up the other side. We climbed high up a mining road carved into canyon walls. Lin's pocket altimeter read 6800 feet as we crested the rim and looked back at one of the most spectacular views I have ever seen. Margie's Pampera was already on reserve when we headed home and soon the other two were down to their last liter of premix. When Margie ran out of fuel, Roger traded his bike for hers and coasted as far as he could. Eventually a towrope was deployed and the Kawasaki became a tow truck for the last few miles into town. We had covered more than 60 miles.

We were all a little sad to leave Batopilas the next morning, but the road to the outside world was calling and we enjoyed every rugged meter of it. At the lower construction stop we looked back down into the canyon and could see people and burros slowly moving along trails like the ones we had ridden. Cactus gave way to pine trees as we climbed from the canyon. When the Kawasaki began to run out of power we opened the airbox to find it supremely clogged with the silty dirt we had come to know intimately. At Marta's that night we reminisced about the trip and prepared to return to civilization.

It was great to get back on the perfect asphalt of the Creel highway. Blasting through sinuous curves in the morning sun, testing the lean limits of the Kawasaki which exploring the upper limits of the rev range was exhilarating. At the plaza in Creel we explored the shops, visited with the locals and regaled some American touristas with only slightly embellished tales of motorcycling the Copper Canyon. For most, Creel was as close as they would get. A few might make the journey to Batopilas by bus or hired car. But five of us got deeper into the canyon than any of them would imagine. The dust caked on our riding suits gave testimony to our adventure.

By Robert Entrop