A paved climb led us out of the funky, colourful cowboy settlement of El Vergel, before we turned back on a dirt track leaving the vast state of Chihuahua and crossed into Durango. Finally! It’s been a long time coming… After a sharp descent, the path rolled up and down towards a ridge, where the occasional small village working the timber trade – oaks, pines and douglas fir – peppered the way.

Up in the juniper forest, there were plenty of good camping opportunities, and ample dry fuel to cook and keep warm. We’ve built a fire almost every night we’ve been in Mexico, laying our pots on the embers, the air rich with the smell of sizzling garlic as we chat or read.  Our soundtrack was the call of cayotes. The area is also home to deer, turkeys, razorbacks (wild pigs) and mountain lions. 

Max was the first person we met in Durango, and his kindness boded well for the road ahead. After providing us with the rare insight of accurate information for a route the mountains, he appeared from his house bearing gifts of chocis – one of our all time favourite chocolate biscuits – and toilet roll! He’d been surprised to see us camping that morning – apparently no one does that round here – and warmly wished us well for the journey ahead: Que Dios le lleve – May God carry you safely.

The road was still steep in places, but easier going than the last couple of days, and very quiet. 

It wounds its way in and out of the forest.

Trucks loaded up with timber passed us by, their loads swinging precariously from side to side as they pumped their brakes on and off, negotiating the pothole-strewn track.

Streams were generally dry, so we stopped in villages for water, or found the occasional spring. It seemed clean enough not to need to treat it.

A fast, dusty descents into a forest settlement. These places felt truly remote. In heavy snow or during the rains, I expect they’ll all but cut off from the rest of the world.

Cuidado! Careful! The cattleguards round here are death traps for cyclists, as they’re placed long ways, rather than across the road.

Finally, the road broke out onto a ridgetop, affording views of the surrounding mountains.

From here, it wound its way every downwards. Almost as challenging as the steep sided barranacas of Copper Canyon, it felt like we might be leaving the most unforgiving of the Sierra Madre’s mountains behind.

Finally, we emerged out of the dusty heavens alongside a active silver mine, riding through the rough and ready settlement of Guanacevi, a higgledy hotchpotch town with a clutch of wild looking bars.

We camped on a hillside a little down the road. Spot, an emaciated puppy, came to join us, and nuzzled up in Jason’s tent out of the wind that blustered all night. The evening proved to be an eventful one. While we were gathered round the fire, two military soldiers crept silently up on us, stepping ominously out of the darkness. Togged up in full combat gear – body armour, handguns and knifes – they cut quite a menacing look. ‘What are you doing here?’ one demanded in a surly tone, his long assault rifle in his hands. We explained what we were doing and they relaxed, chatting and asking us about the trip. Still, they did enquire as to whether we had any drugs or firearms, and poked around our kit a little before their searchlight went dead. Watch out for the cows and the rattlesnakes, they advised, disappearing back into the undergrowth…

Coupled with rolling hills and a strong headwind, the next 60 kilometres were tough ones.

Thankfully, after the unremitting, crumpled mountains of the last few days, it felt like the landscape here had softened. Endless forest was replaced by brush and open views

In fact, it was a quiet, beautiful road – blighted only by the ridiculously strong headwind that slowed us to a crawl. The gusts were strong enough to knock us off our bikes.

A nice little spot for a roadside picnic.

Tepehuanes proved to be a colourful, rambunctious place. Compared to settlements in Chihuahua, which felt closed and cold, people here wandered the streets and plied their trades. Still, as we were riding around searching for a hotel that wasn’t closed and run down, a man in a thick, american mexican accent advised me to be careful: ‘Don’t take any photos of people here. Lots of men come down from the Sierra,’ referring to the narcos who hole up in the mountains we’d just been riding across.

Plenty of colourful wall art. Good bike-leaning walls.

And nice colour co-ordination…

The central church gave Tepehuanes a colonial, Spanish feel.

As did its central square, around which men were sitting in the shade of trees gossiping. Various street vendors were selling local goods – cheese, honey and chunks of quillote – chunks of sucullent agave that’s chewed on and then spat out. Choppy, uplifting Mexican music piped out from the shops. It was a great scene. Way more happening and friendly than anywhere I’ve travelled through in Chihuahua, a state that in comparisson felt bleak and unfriendly, blighted by its drugs and corrupt cowboys.

And shortly after photo… (burp)