March 17-18

Bhuichivo to Los Mochis

The End of the Line

(No internet hook-up last night because we did not return from dinner until late and I knew that I would have plenty of time this afternoon to jot down a few entries. We are on the final leg of the RR trip, rambling slowly through semi-desert of Sinaloa.)

March 17

Our day started with a sunrise hike, leaving at 5:45. About a dozen of us joined a guide for a mile hike up the hill behind us. It was $10 per person. A bit steep. Good view of the rigs and the town, though.

We finished our trinket shopping. I am convinced that all of this “Mexican handiwork” is being mass-produced in India or China. It’s the same dishes, blankets, etc. at every stop. There just aren’t enough Mexicans to mass produce this stuff. We're buying it, though.

A final barrel taco and chile relleno and we rolled out of the station at noon.
We rocked back and forth. Empty plastic bottles littered the countryside, as they have everywhere in Mexico. They are the national flower of this country. The Sierra Club would be apoplectic at the amount of litter through the countryside.

A donkey hitched to a single-bladed plow stalled patiently in the middle of a half-plowed field, waiting for his master to return from the mid-day meal. He was just standing there, motor in neutral, waiting for the next “gee” or “haw” or the Mexican equivalent.

We passed Indian groups. Many of the young girls, no older than 12, carried babies (their own). Children having children as the saying goes.

What was supposed to be a quick two-hour trip stretched beyond three hours as we waited at sidings for passing passenger trains, and then stopped as a couple of air hoses blew. Don’t want to be without brakes on this trip! After passing through about 20 tunnels we arrived at our destination. A siding in Bhuichivo—an old logging town. (An interesting fact about logging hereabouts—the logs are cut in 8-foot (approx.) lengths so they can be stacked sideways on trucks and RR cars for transportation.)

Hardly settling in, we jumped into a waiting bus for the bus-ride from (or to) hell. This was the classic Mexican driver, careening down a dirt-washboard road, dodging potholes and bumps, as pick-up trucks raced by in the opposite direction with inches to spare. Once again, these buses had no leg room, so my knees banged into the metal seat-back in front continuously for the 20 or so miles to our destination—a mission school in the middle of nowhere.

The mission school (for Indians) was adjacent to our dinner spot for the night. Although I could editorialize a bit about this entire venue, I will merely describe the visit to the mission and dinner as “a long road to a little house.” (What was represented to us in advance as “black sea bass” was poorly disguised tilapia, a fish that I vowed never to eat again 10 years ago, after seeing a truck parked along a filthy canal in Mexicali with a pescado sign—selling tilapia open air in the 100 degree weather. With great imagination bordering on hallucination, I pretended that the pescado before me was in fact sea bass and choked it down.) We would soon jump back in the bus for the return trip, made even more terrifying by the darkness on the thrill ride back to our siding. (There must not be any other restaurants in these parts. I think that this might have been a good time to declare a “fast” night.)

Over the last few days we have noticed that our “house batteries” won’t hold a charge, after being pumped up by the generator. The big negative of this is that our “gas” refrigerator requires a certain minimum voltage to run the control panel. When it falls below a certain level, it shuts off the gas. I was able to purloin some distilled water from a fellow traveler and topped off the batteries, but alas I might have been a bit too late. They may be cooked. Will be watching this closely—there is a Walmart in Mazatlan that may have some RV batteries. We have about 6 more days of dry camping in Baja.

March 18.

Awakened to the sound of a speeding locomotive (ours) passing by about 6 a.m. to hook us up for the next leg. Dog owners bounded out of bed to walk their dogs before the whistle blew at 7, signaling “all aboard.” Firing up the generator for the microwave and coffee pot, we ate on the move as the day unfolded. Going though approximately 50 tunnels during the day, up to a mile in length, we had a renewed appreciation for the amazing engineering feat that this railway is. We looped down canyon walls, crawled through deep cuts, just imagining the amount of labor and skill required.

At one lengthy stop on a siding we fired up the hot water heater and then got in the day’s shower which we had skipped due to our early departure.

The scenery was spectacular as we rode down a river canyon, the vegetation thickening with lush green surrounding us. Occasional villages of a couple of “shack houses” were off to the side. Kids lined the tracks to wave to the rich Americans passing by. We were once again movie stars.

Soaring cliffs and mountains rose above us. We passed a large emerald green reservoir (a big “basin” one of the trackmen advised us). Soon we passed the Chihuahua/Sinaloa border and just that suddenly the green growth gave way to pipe organ cactus, a flattening landscape and the slow crawl through miles of nothingness. Dirt trails are visible to the side of the tracks, and cows laze under scrawny trees, “shooting the bull” together and looking at us warily as we cruised by.

Janice has gone to the back of the rig for a nap, having tired of the current monotony.
Probably about 3 more hours of this until we arrive in Los Mochis, where we will spend a final night on the flatcars until unboarding in the a.m. We will have dropped from 5000 feet to sea level on this ride. Start chilling those margaritas, Los Mochis—we’re on the way.

[Note: Approximately 6 hours after this entry, we pulled into the station at Los Mochis. It was 9:15 pm. For the final 2-1/2 hours, we careened slowly down the track, often at a jogger's pace, peering into the semi-darkness which gave way occasionally to backyard parties lit by single bare bulbs hanging from trees or fenceposts. The wealthy locals had an additional bulb glowing inside. We prayed silently that those manning the various track switches would be alert this evening lest we make an unannounced departure from the tracks.

Upon arriving, the four dogs in the group bounded off the train, shedding 'doggie Depends' and relieving themselves along the tracks. They had been 'holding it' since a single siding stop at 12:30. Carly—enjoy your vacation in Vegas.

By 10 pm we were in bed, being serenaded by a brigade of roosters that surrounded us, as well as yelping dogs sending barrio challenges back and forth across the tracks. A lonely locomotive hummed steadily through the night, waiting for orders that never came. It was still there in the morning, its crew vanished or sleeping below window level, perhaps shambling in the aftermath of Sunday evening's libations.

I was awakened during the night. I sensed that Janice was also awake, and queried, "What time is it?"

"12:40," she replied.

I whispered "Happy birthday dear," and rolled over. After all, it was March 19.