Views from of the canyon rim from the Divisadero. From this point, you can only see about a third of the way down.

Seen it all before. The local kids were more interested in our bikes than the world's deepest canyon.

Seeing as Devisadero is also a stop on the scenic trainline (the Ferrocarril Chihuahua al Pacifico), a thicket of stalls have sprung up selling tourist trinkets and food. Here's my lunchtime snack: blue corn tortillas stuffed with tomato, vegetables, cheese and potato.

Don't forget the salsa.

Recently, Jeff and I have been shedding kit with a zeolous fervour. Part of this streamlining includes investing in new home; I've been trying out Jason's TarpTent while my own is on order. The Rainbow is a singleskin tent that will sleep two. The pack size is tiny, and it weighs less than a kilo, compared to my 2.5kg Terra Nova Solar 2. Should be ideal for the warmer climes ahead.

At grimey, dusty San Rafael, the road turned to dirt. 5 clicks out, it began to descend sharply into the canyon.

Down and down it went. A lovely way to spend Christmas day...

A roadside shrine carved out of the rockface.

Then it began to undulate ever upwards once more. After what felt like a bout of interminable climbing, we were suddenly rewarded with sweeping views into Barranqua de Urique, one of the deepest canyons in the area. It's over 1800m from top to bottom.

Then began a steep, switchback descent down to a lowly 550m in altitude.

There's Urique in the distance, via a dirt road that switchbacked for 14 straight kilometres.

Urique itself is an old mining town. Nowadays it seems quite affluent. I noticed that kids had nice new bikes, and even remote control cars. Crawling along the one way main street in a pickup or jeep seems to be the main pastime in the evening, beer in hand. Shame.

Up Hill being the operative words. Urique is also famous in ultra endurance circles, for it's home to various races where Tarahumaras and international runners battle it out up and down the steep, rocky terrain of the canyons. Running barefoot or in sandals made from old truck tyre tread, the loincloth wearing Tarahumaras are fabled for being able to run hundreds of miles without stopping, using specialised breathing techniques so effective they can chase down deer. Almost completely injury free throughout their lives, they often run into their 80s and 90s.

Urique is also home to Entre Amigos, an idyllic campsite set on the outskirts of town, run by American old timer Keith. Pitch your tent, use the facilites (a kitchen, compost loos, wood-powered shower) and forrage to your hearts content in the organic gardens for 10 dollars.

Urique's sub tropical climate felt a world away from alpine Creel, where it had been snowing just the previous day.

A wonderful place to recharge on fresh, organic food, hike and relax. Here’s Jeff having a morning read. In fact, the article was on the drugs trade in the border area we'd just passed through. Although I'd never felt threatened in any away, it quoted a sobering fact: 14 000 deaths over the last three years, the vast majority of them unsolved. Many murders take place in Nuevas Casas Grandes, the town we’d ridden through just a few days before…

We did our best to make a dent into the abundance of grapefruit dangling off the trees.

Jeff went to work juicing a couple of dozen of them, serving up two generous glasses each of the sweetest, most succulent grapefruit juice I've had.

And Anna forraged in the gardens for fresh veg, serving them up with potatoes and avocados on a fresh tortilla made in a local lady's kitchen.

From Urique, the dirt road continued downstream, past old, windscreen-smashed pickups.

The Urique River, one of the six waterways that created this canyon complex.

Of course, hills never look as steep as they feel. This one felt almost vertical.

The road then dropped back down to the river. Ahead, lay the new linking section, via a crossing that was knee deep in places.

Initially, it climbed steeply for 16 or 17 kilometres, on a loose surface that was so steep I had to push. And scramble for grip. Again, it doesn't look so bad in this picture. But believe me, it was...

As I didn't leave until after lunch, I barely made it to the top of the first climb, and found a ledge to roll out my mat and sleep on. These birds were my alarm clock the next morning.

And this was my view.

At times, it was more of a slab of slickrock than a jeep track. That was when it wasn't rutted and strewn with babyhead rocks.

The descents were just as bad, and my rack sheared half way through, requiring an on the fly repair. Good old hose clamps.

Settlements were few and far between.

The parched white church at Corareachi, standing against the blue sky like a set from a Sam Peckinpah movie. Later that day, when I eventually reached the junction, I met a Mennonite family, wearing old fashioned plain, modest prairie clothing. Shane and Cindy had brought along their 5 kids, aged 2-10, to help friends of theirs working at the Mission Hospital. The family would be based out of this tiny, scruffy settlement for a couple of months - the kids were home schooled. And how long would their friends be there? 'As long as the Lord needs them to stay here,' came the answer.