Festival International Cervantino Part 2

  On Thursday afternoon with the help of an acquaintance I retrieve my final two guests from the airport. With the arrival of Anna and Alan we are now seven, and after they unpack I'm ready to make them acquainted with Guanajuato.

The first thing to be accomplished is to get pesos. For the most part withdrawing money with your ATM card is the best way to go, and ATM's are usually where you'll get the best exchange rate. You will pay a fee for this, about one to two dollars, so I withdraw enough to last three or four days. By U.S. standards Mexico is pretty inexpensive. For our first night together I take them to Mestizo, one of the best restaurants in the city, and just a short walk from the house. We are seven. Five of us get steak dinners along with a salad, or soup. There are glasses of wine. Bottled mineral water. Desserts and coffee. When the bill comes it is approximately twenty three U.S. dollars apiece, including tip. Everyone is completely amazed and agree that in the U.S. this would have been a very expensive meal.

Dorantes Trio

After our late dinner we walk through town. The streets are filling up, the atmosphere is fun and inviting. Charlotte and I have tickets to see Dorantes Trio. Just outside the door Anna scores a ticket and gets in with us. The venue is small and intimate, maybe a hundred people. David Pena Dorantes, who the program describes as the patriarch of the modern flamenco piano, does not let us down whatsoever. David's blistering piano is accompanied by a relentless percussionist, and the most athletic base player I've ever seen. The music, once tender, races off at a frantic gallop combining melody with odd or opposing timings, along with notes that challenges the listener. But the music is not obscure, no it is often playful, roiling, and rollicky. But almost always there is an edge or twitch to it.
The trio takes the audience to the tipping point and plays with them over and over again.
After the show the three of us walk back to the house admiring the beauty of Guanajuato at night. It's 12:40 when we pass through Plaza San Fernando, and while many of the restaurants have closed a few are still open with people drinking wine, or having coffee and a dessert.

Street musician

On Friday things start to run together. Anna, Alan, and I take in the Museo de Momias. This is my second trip and it still creeps me out, but Alan is in love with the place and takes half a million pictures. The one sure thing about being dead is that no matter how good looking you are when you are alive, we all look like crap when we're dead.
Later in the afternoon a few people head to the Auditorio del Estado for a dance program. Afterwards we meet up  at the house for wine and to catch-up. Then it's back out for dinner before walking to Los Pastitos for a free show called Stalker Theater, Pixel Mountain.
For many Americans when I mention travel to Mexico they bristle. In fact everyone who joined me on this trip had a story to illustrate what I'm saying. But for me Mexico, the city of Guanajuato, and this event, Cervantino, more truly represents the international nature of this country.
Stalker Theater is an Australian physical theater company founded in 1989. Pixel Mountain is a collaboration with artists from South Korea. This dance performance on both a horizontal, and vertical plain, along with lighting effects, was created to call into question technologys' effect on the fast developing country of South Korea, and its people. I only know this because I read the program, and at this point I have to be honest, modern dance performances like this go over my head. But with that said this was a visually stimulating, and thought provoking performance. The interplay between the dancers and the lighting effects is beautiful. The performers are both beholden to the bonds, and actuate the reality created with light. In the end I feel that I have seen a truly wonderful piece, even if it's meaning is lost on me.

Pixel Mountain

Riding the Funicular

Festival International Cervantino 2014 Part 1

  One year ago I started this blog to write about the city of Guanajuato and the festival called Cervantino. If you read my very first blog post you'll find that I'm impulsive, not much for planing, but have a desire to share this event with others. You'll also read that I was told if I wanted anyone to go that I had to plan early, and that is what I did.
I started sending out invitation along with possible itineraries in January/February and by the end of May I had a group of seven, including myself, on board for a trip south. I had never traveled in a group this size and had never organized anything like this, but I felt that if I could just get them down there, that the charm of Mexico would do the rest, and that is exactly what happened.

I flew south about four days before the first of my guest arrived and caught a couple of shows that weekend. The first show was called Article 13 and was held at night in a large dirt lot.

Article 13

The title of the show Article 13 pertains to the Universal Declaration of Human Rights, a document adopted by the UN General Assembly on December 10th 1948. Article 13 of that document states that 1) Everyone has the right to freedom of movement within the borders of each state. 2) Everyone has the right to leave any country, including his own, and to return to his country. The directors of this play/installation piece used small vignettes, along with video and audio to tell the story of migrants. Silent actors go through the motions of washing their dusty clothing, at their feet are cut out photos of children, men, and women, giving a feeling of remote sadness, of loss. In another rectangle seated on a crate sits a young man smoking, waiting, but for what. The chance to cross the border, to start a new life? The unknown factors of his endeavor weigh heavily. He knows that he could be robbed, or killed by gangs that prey on people such as he, but he also has the need to create a better life for himself. As you read this, at this moment around the world, tens of thousands of people are put into this situation. They are frighten and filled with anxiety, and this is exactly what is conveyed by this very emotional piece. Suddenly, after we had been there for a hour or so, flood lights that surround the grounds are switched on, the crowd is frozen in place. In the blaring light all of us are exposed, there is no place to hide, a twinge of fear passes through me, and by the reactions around me I am not alone. The effect is visceral, deliberate and completely effective.

Templo de la Valenciana

On Sunday Anne-Marie and I drive up to Templo de la Valenciana to see a group from the country Azerbaijan. Alim Qasimov and his daughter,  Fargana Qasimov are accompanied by two very talented musician playing instruments that I have never seen before - the Kamanche, and the Taar. Alim and Fargana sing their traditional folk songs in clear, strong voices filled with emotion. As I sit listening I can't help but wonder if they could be singing about the heart ache and loss that was so well depicted in Article 13 from the night before, emotions that are universal, timeless.

By Thursday afternoon my group is assemble and safely ensconced in a beautiful home owned by my friends Ethan and Anne-Marie.

Ethan & Anne-Marie 2009

Since my first visit to Guanajuato 2009 I have watched their home be transferred from a wreck to a palace. And ever since that first trip I have been going on and on to people about Guanajuato and trying to convince folks to take a chance on heading south. Now in 2014 I have a group of six friends, all from different eras in my life, gathered for the last weekend of Cervantino. Coffee in the morning, wine at night - let's have some fun!

https://www.flipkey.com/guanajuato-vacation-rentals/p646012/

Out for dinner in Guanajuato

Alaska. The Whole Story, Part One

   I've wanted to go to Alaska for years. When I was a kid my Dad would load Mom, myself, and a friend of mine into his blue pick-up with over sized camper, and we would drive all over the western United States. At first the trips were just week long reconnaissance missions of the California, Oregon coast; we were living in L.A. and Dad wanted to move. Then later he started taking two weeks, and the drives got very long, as a teenager it was two weeks of sleeping. But Alaska was the place Dad really wanted to see. I remember him studying maps with a magnifying glass and comparing campground books by lamp light sitting in "His" chair. Unfortunately as the years went by my dad's once passable driving got to be pretty scary, and there was no way in hell mom was driving to Alaska with him, and so the dream ended. As far as why I wanted to see Alaska, that's easy. Alaska is a vast empty region of immense landscapes, it is a place that challenges our perceptions of our very significance. And why ride a motorcycle to Alaska? If you want to see Alaska then drive your car, truck, motor-home. But if you want to experience Alaska, its changes of mood, temperature, and smells, then ride a motorcycle.

The first five days of riding are just hot. When I make it to Bend,

Or that first day its hovering around a hundred degrees. My friends Dean, and Yumiko are there visiting Dean's mother Doris. I get a swim in a pool, a barbecue, and a good bed to sleep in. All the comfort and good company are hard to leave the next day, but I've got a ton of miles to cover and am starting to feel the pull.
From Bend I head north up Hwy. 97, I planned on staying the night somewhere along the Columbia river but when I get there I'm so disgusted that I pass right through, and keep riding north. I've spent a good portion of my life in river canyons, and have seen dams, and the man made infrastructure used to move electricity, but nothing I've seen could prepare me for this crime. At Biggs, where I cross, the river is bisected by 97, and paralleled on the south bank by Hwy. 84. At the intersection there is a truck stop with mini marts, fast food, and a few rundown hotels. It's blazing hot, and the place is jammed with trucks and cars vying for fuel and a slurpy. On the north side of the river are railroad tracks, and above that is the Lewis and Clark Hwy. It's like naming the reservoir behind Glen Canyon Dam, Lake Powell. And above the highway, along the rim is dozens and dozens of wind turbans. At the bottom of all of this lays the impounded waters of the Columbia, barely moving between the John Day dam, and the Dalles. The  body of water between the two dams is called Lake Celilo. A reservoir that buried the falls it is named for, and a once thriving fishing village. I get fuel but no slurpy, cross the bridge to the north and continue. Maybe only twenty-five miles further and the highway starts to ascend into the pines, the temperature cools, and I come across an oases with just what I'm in need of, coffee. While I'm there enjoying an iced mocha and a piece of baklava, I remember a scene from a family trip. We are driving along a highway in Oregon that my dad really liked because of the thick forest that bordered both sides of the road. We had driven this stretch the year before, but now something was wrong. Dad kept peering left and right, then right again. Then with no announcement he pulled off the road into a turn out, got out of the truck, and walked back into the forest, I followed him. We walked through a thirty yard band of trees and then entered a clear cut. For as far as we could see the forest was gone, stripped. In its place was the tracks of machines, and the piles of discarded tree branches. Dad didn't say anything, he just stood staring for a fair amount of time at the destruction, then turned, and we walked in silence back to the truck. I know now how he felt. Later that afternoon I make it to Yakima. The temperature on a bank reads 102 degrees.
The next day I cross into Canada and am rewarded with some comic relief.
"Passport."
"Yep here you go."
"Take off your helmet."
"Where are you going."
"Well through Canada, the Yukon, and then into Alaska."
"Do you have any firearms, or bear repellent."
"No."
"Do you have any fruits or produce."
"Nope."
"Your sure you don't have a gun."
"Err no gun."
"Where are you from."
"Reno, Nevada."
"Do you own a gun."
"No"
"YOU DON'T OWN A GUN."
"Nope"
"Okay, pull into lane three, leave room for others to pull in behind you, and give your passport to the officer inside. NEXT."
Huh, well that went well. Thirty minutes later I'm given the okay and set free in Canada. It's hot, windy and I still have over two hundred miles to go, but I'm north of the border and the trip is starting to feel real.
The next day, my fourth, is another day of what I would call utility riding. For sure the scenery above Cache Creek, BC is beautiful. A broad open agrarian landscape with a hint of the mountains that await me further north, but my first goal of the trip is one more day away.

Bear Glacier

On day five I make it to the junction of the 16 and 37, the Cassiar, Hwy. and turn north. Immediately there is a change in how the road feels, its much more narrow, and there is a sign about entering grizzly bear habitat. The next ninety-eight miles to the Stewart cut-off are thrilling. The mountains have grown, and there is no doubt that even though I'm traveling on a highway, I have entered a wilderness. Step off the road to the west and you would cross the Coast Mountains. But leave the road to the east and you will not hit another road for hundreds of miles. Between Hwy. 37 and Hwy. 97, the Alaska Highway, is the Skeena Mountains, the Stikine Ranges, and the Omineca Mountains, along with untold numbers of rivers. When I make the left to the small communities of Stewart and Hyder I have to stop just to slow my emotions down. I'm grinning from ear to ear and laughing in my helmet. I ride the thirty-eight miles to Stewart slowly. The air is cool, but not cold, and though it's windy it doesn't seem to have any strength to it. I pass the Bear Glacier then enter a narrow ravine with signs that say Avalanche Zone, No Stopping Any Time. I crane my head around to the left, above me is a huge gash in the mountain and at the top of it is a hanging glacier with a hundred foot face of ice that leans out over the gash. Anything that falls from that will certainly smash the road I'm on. I speed up. Once in Stewart I get a room then head back out to explore and to see the Fjord, The Portland Canal.

The Portland Canal

Heading South

     My ride started in the heat. Then the road Gods smiled on me and I rode for four days in cool comfortable weather. But now on my way south I've been riding in wet, rainy weather. Yesterday I rode the 150 mile from Haines Junction to Haines in a constant rain and sometimes windy conditions. It was still very beautiful, and all in all I had a great time.
Now I'm waiting for the ferry to take me to Bellingham, Washington. More updates when I reach a good wifi connection. Back in the lower forty-eight Friday morning.

Haines Alaska

Denali Hwy between Cantwell and Paxon

Dalton Highway

  Planning for a trip like this is essential, that is until it rains all night and it turns the Dalton Hwy into a mud cross, an event that I have zero experience at. But there I was, a short distance from Fairbanks and already putting on my rain jacket. What I didn't, and couldn't know was that it had been raining all night just north of Fairbanks where I was staying with friends, waiting for a window in the weather.

Riding the Dalton Highway to Prudhoe Bay has been on my list for sometime now, so when I turned onto it from the Elliott Hwy I was excited, but also nervous. I'm a pretty caution person, and my intuition has may times payed me back in aces, but yesterday morning, in the rain, there was no time for contemplation. I was riding a muddy, sloppy, mess of a road, and not to sound dramatic, but just trying to survive.
The Dalton is a narrow road filled with pot holes, and if it was in my back yard, and if I had been with a few buddies, yesterday would have been a laugh. But the Dalton is a working highway roamed by speeding semis hauling loads in and out from Prudhoe Bay. At one point early into the fifty-six miles to the Yukon crossing, I round a left hand bend, start up a steep hill, and heading at me is a speeding big rig taking up most of the road. Mud sprays several feet from its churning tires, and behind it is a cloud of muddy water and flying rocks. Its like seeing a huge charging beast coming at you, and it prompts the same emotion and flash of fright. I pull as far right as I can, but because I'm going up a steep muddy hill I don't want to stop. When he passes me I duck my head at the last instant to keep my face shield from being coated with mock, and I feel the wind blast hit the bike. This happens to me several more time before I reach the Yukon.
Once past the bridge, and seated in the restaurant with a cup of coffee, I weigh my option. The Arctic Circle is sixty miles away. Wiseman, where I have a place for the night, is about one hundred and thirty. While there I get talking with another motorcyclist, Paul Smith, who is heading for the Arctic Circle, and so I decide to at least get to there.
The rain had stopped for the most part, but I do get another cold shower at Finger Mountain Wayside, and from there to the Circle I ride in a light drizzle. All this time the landscape around me is dark, devoid of color and feature, unwelcoming.

Paul and I at the Arctic Circle.

Once at the Arctic Circle the rain stops, and after lots of picture taking, the clouds begin to lift revealing the broad landscape to the south I have ridden through. But to the north the clouds still hang low and lay on top of the distant mountains. For sometime I think about which way to go. I get no positive feeling about going further north and so turn south.

Rae thanks for the Jack.

Alaska Highways

  All the days have run together to create a montage of rivers, ragged far off mountains, and rolling forest of dwarf trees. The yellow dotted line connects the points, and in places the vistas are so immense, and the air so clear, that you can almost see the next point a hundred miles away.

From Watson lake we rode, we being two new friends Steve, and Dennis, to Skagway via the small town of Carcross. At Carcross the character of the scenery changes and the light takes on a sparkle, an almost magical quality that adds to vast landscape as it changes to high alpine. We ascend for almost forty miles through a landscape of bench lakes, meadows, and small wind combed trees bent by a cold wind the knocks us around. Above us clouds swirl around huge mountains with hanging glaciers. From miles away the wind blows a short lived rain shower at us. We cross White Pass, the modern equivalent to Chilkoot Pass, which is northwest, and the site of gold mining history. Then we descend a deep, steep walled canyon with waterfalls that cascade from dark gashes in its walls and that meet a roiling river in the canyons bottom. Then, in what seems like and impossibly short distance, we reach Skagway.

Reno to Fort Fraser Canada

Hot. Thats what this trip has been. Hot asphalt, hot air, and hot rider. And what have I seen...plenty.

After a fun night with Dean and family in Bend, Or. I started north with the intention of riding a short distance to the Columbia river. The ride to the gorge is beautiful. High plateaus and farming, alfalfa stretches to the horizon. I pass a scene that could be from an Andrew Wyeth painting - small farm house, with barn all set in a wheat field. On my left in the far off distance lurk snow curved volcanos. Then on the horizon dozens of wind mills take shape. After an hour of being battered by the wind I make it to the river, but I can't stay, it's too awful. I feel like I've rode in to a crime. The once mighty Columbia lays in bondage by dams. Roads jammed with tourist gawk at the "Beauty" And wind mills mock the rivers existence. Hours later I make it to Yakima, Wa. It's over 100 degrees - I get a hotel room.

The next day is very long, Yakima to Cache Creek, BC. about four hundred and thirty miles, but now I'm well north of the border.

On the fourth day riding I pass through Prince George and spend the night in Fort Fraser at a camp ground. Then the next day I make it to Stewart.

More Later.

Alaska.

Tuesday morning, the bike is loaded. I'm lost for words. So what's the idea? Ride three thousand miles to Fairbanks, then another four hundred and eighty to Prudhoe Bay. Alaska, the Brooks Range and its north slope, to Deadhorse, have been part of my imagination for years. And now that the day to leave is here...

Ultra Marathon Caballo Blanco 2014...Kuira Ba!

   It has been nearly two weeks since I return from the Copper Canyon and my head is still reeling with scenes of the running people, the deep hot canyon where they live, and the affection I felt there.

Before leaving home I worried that this trip and the UMCB may have lost it's magic now that Micah

is gone. On my first journey to the race I had no idea of what to expect. My only frame of reference was the book Born to Run and my love for Mexico. My 2012 trip had a huge impact on me. The Tarahumara completely floored me. Here are these people living in this extremely remote and rugged landscape in a way, a fashion, that has changed little in hundreds of years. They are part of their surroundings, part of their environment, and their identity is strongly tied to it. But above and beyond their beauty, both physical, and dress, I was amazed at the fact that they exist, that their culture exists, and that it's just a short journey away. Two years ago when I signed up for the race I had no idea of the door I was opening. Two years later I am so glad that I returned. Micah's race, his dream has lost none of it's magic, this is still a very special event.

Urique Canyon

   There is almost nothing better then seeing the wonder on the face of a friend when you finally arrive at the destination of your travel. So was the case on driving into the Canyon this year. I was sharing a ride with Dean, his two little boys, and his mother Doris, along with Jim and a couple of locals from Urique. As the truck rounded a corner and we caught the first view of the Canyon the mood of weary traveler was instantly replaced by wonder. For both Jim and I we knew what to expect, the grand sweep of the Urique canyon stretching out; I think for Jim, Darkling Thrush, and myself it was like coming home. But for Dean and crew it was "WOW we're going there!" From that moment all of the travel miles faded and the reality of the trip welcomed us in.

The next day, Friday, Maria and Flint organized a walk up to Guadalupe Coronado, its a chance for people to meet and to become acquainted. Later in the day I reflect on the people I met, how open and friendly they all are, and that the overriding theme in our lives has been to experience life. This is a group not happy looking on from the side line. Nope, we want to be thrown into the blender with the spices, chocolate, and tequila, then offered up around the camp fire. That night there is a big cookout at one of the camps set up for the Tarahumara and it appears that a few hundred people are there. I hang off to the side and get a chance to talk with a man who tells me that he, his son and a few others have run for two days to get here. This kind of makes my own journey seem easy. Heck I just sat on my butt for two days, going from plane to train, to van. This man ran untold miles to get here. But we are both the same. Our similarities outweigh our differences. Kuira Ba...we are all one. A couple of weeks before I left to head south a line passed through my mind...from the dust of the rings of Saturn...I was beginning to understand what it meant.

On Saturday Dean and I head out for a run to keep our legs loosened up. We talk about race tactics, the people we've met, and how good it is to be here. We run into Hiroki who is out doing the same. He tells us that he is not racing this year, but is there to pace his teacher; how cool is that.

School yard at Guadalupe Coronado.

   Sunday morning, time to go racing. At 4:00 am I wander into town to have breakfast. Right across the road from Entra Amigos the Tarahumara runners and their families are lining up at an outdoor camp kitchen for breakfast. Soon we will all be running together, wrapped in our individual thoughts, but sharing the experience. After a breakfast of potato burritos, coffee, and fruit I walk back out to Keith's place, stretch a bit, change clothing and return to town. I'm only there a short while before the race starts and off we go.

The first leg of the run up to Guadalupe Coronado is just fantastic in the dim light and cool air of early morning. After forty-five minutes the leaders come blasting back down hill and for a short distance my pace quickens with the excitement. At the church I pick up my wrist band, and head back down. I'm feeling great and exchange comments with other runners on how beautiful the canyon looks in the early morning sun light. At the bridge there is a large crowd cheering runners on and I get a big boost of energy from all of the applause. But now the real work would began.

Two years ago I had no idea of what I was doing. Hell, when I finished the first loop that was my longest run to date. Now I had two years of running to fall back on and was determined to finish.

I walked the long hill to where the single track begins. Once at the aid station I watered up, fueled and started the long climb to Mesa Naranjo. Part way up the climb I caught up with my new friends Kiki, Ramon, and Felix. On Thursday night we had shared a table at Mama Tita's and they asked me many questions about the course. I shared with them all I knew and they were nice enough to buy me dinner. Now we were all grinding our way up the climb. Kiki asked me how much further it was and when I tell him that we are only halfway, he says "John lie to me. Tell me we are almost there, not much further." I tell him "sorry man but we still have a long f-ing way to go." When the trail starts to level off towards the top I pick-up the pace and leave my new friends behind.

After the aid station I have my only moment of doubt in my ability to finish. But before the thought can fully take hold I erase it from my thinking completely, never to let it reappear. But the reality of finishing in eleven and a half hours becomes a concern, when I decide to let that go, I completely relax and the run takes on a new level of fun.

Back in Urique I'm greeted by Dean's family Kenji, Enzo, and Doris. I fill up on water, fuel, and food. As I'm ready to leave Doris hands me a potato burrito, this last act makes all the difference in the next nine miles.

A short way outside of town the front runners pass me going the other way. I am completely amazed to see how fast they are going. For me I settle into my pace and concentrate on staying hydrated and fed. Then on a down hill I see a runner coming the other way who looks familiar. It's Arnulfo Quimare. I call out his name and clap my hands. His face lights up with a smile.

Once at the bridge I fuel up with pinole, orange slices, and food from my pack, then cross the foot bridge and start the climb to Los Alisos. Two years ago God showed up at this very spot, took one look at me and laughed his ass off. Then just to add insult to the humor he reached over and turned up the heat a few notches. This year I was ready, I knew what was coming. But with less then a mile to go before the top I felt the effort starting to get to me. Immediately I put down a gel, salt tab, and lots of water. "Just make it to the top" I told myself and "you've got this in the bag". By the time I reached the top I had recovered a bit, but I was still very tired. I drank a bottle of fuel, ate grapefruit slices, and two hot handmade corn tortillas. I stay there for a long time enjoying the scene and the camaraderie. When I finally head down I'm feeling revived.

On my way down I pass Ramon on his way up. I'm really glad to see him. He looks tired, but he is still moving. I encourage him on, and tell him to eat and drink before he heads back down. When I get to the river I take off my pack and submerge myself until I feel cold. Then start back to Urique.

The run back to Urique goes great. I'm walking the ascents and still have enough in my legs to run the flats, and the descents. For a while I run with Flint but he sends me on my way when the runner he is with becomes sick. Next I run and have a good conversation with a guy named Hector who is from Chihuahua. Then before I know it I'm back in Urique.

When I get to my drop bag I run into Kiki. He is in sandals, his ankle is black and blue, his race ended after the first loop. I reload my gels, grab another bag of my trail mix and am about to leave when Kiki asked me "Don't you have a headlamp?" "Oh man thanks so much for saying something." I grab my headlamp a couple of orange slices, along with a bean burrito and head out of town.

Finished

The next five miles to the turnaround at Guadalupe Coronado is hard as hell. My legs are really tired turning my uphill pace into something of a stroll. But runners coming the other way keep me going. I see Dean a short distance from town on his way to a sub eleven hour finish, his first ever ultra...way to go Dean! I see Luke on his way into town, looking strong and putting in a fantastic time. I also see many Tarahumara men and women on their way to finishing and I'm thrilled to think of the day that we've shared. Then a short distance from the turnaround I see Hiroki. He takes up my hands and says "Kuira ba John Kuira ba!" These words, "We are all one," and his enthusiasm warms my heart and makes me think of all the people I had met while on this journey. I'm totally worn out when I make the turnaround but something has changed. Maybe it's the pinole, or the gels, or a friend's words of encouragement. Whatever it is I start to feel so much better and find that my legs have more run left in them than I thought. As I head down the last hill to the bridge I can once again hear a crowd, though much smaller then the morning, cheering on the runners, and once again I get a boost of energy. Now I'm just a short distance from a goal that has been two years in the making. As I get closer to the finish the street becomes more and more clogged with people. Right before the finish line I practically tackle a guy then almost get taken out by a kid on a bike just steps before the timing mat. Then I've finished. I'm just floored. Dean is there. Tyler, Tony, and Pat are there. Some guy races over to cut my timing chip from my shoe. It's all a blur. I am really happy.

  The next day I walk around town eating and saying good-bye to people who are leaving. The Tarahumara are lined up to collect their food vouchers, and the town has a feeling of slowing down. That night there is a big group dinner at Keith's, along with a birthday celebration for Gary. The people who I have met in this canyon, at this race, are some of the finest I've ever known. They all have generous hearts and talents beyond the label of ultra runner, and they are all made from something just a little different...from the dust of the rings of Saturn.

  I want to send out a big Thank You! to Maria, Josue, Cecy, and all the volunteers who made this event possible. I also wanted to thank the town of Urique for being so welcoming. And finally I want to give a shout out for the Corrida de los caballitos. This in it's self was worth the price of admission.

   See you all next year!

Running with Friends

   Tomorrow morning I fly to Los Mochis, then early the next morning I board the train for Bahuichivo. Eventually I'll make it to the little town of Urique. I find it really wonderful to think of all the people, all around the world who are now aiming for a dusty little town in the bottom of a very deep canyon. From all over the Barranca del Cobre the Tarahumara will arrive, and as friends we will all go running together....from the dust of the rings of Saturn....we are all made from the stuff of the universe. Caballo if it hadn't been for you none of us would have known this place and the beautiful people who live there. I am sure that I will not be the only person sending a prayer of thanks towards the heavens this weekend.

Heading to Guanajuato?

  If you are traveling to Guanajuato and need a place to stay I have a recommendation...http://www.flipkey.com/guanajuato-vacation-rentals/p646012/  I've stayed here many times, and have watched it being transformed from a three hundred year old wreck to the  beautiful, inviting home you see here; this blog was started here, and my Copper Canyon story written at the kitchen table.

Calle Positos

Alhondiga