Tuesday morning dawned bright and crisp in the high elevation, with the sounds of roosters, donkeys, rattling pickups and horse hooves on cobblestone the morning alarm. A bit of wandering early for some photos brought smiles and interesting encounters, followed by a breakfast of scrambled eggs and thinly sliced ham, with a great cup of café de olla.
BMW Breakfast Bros
Our plan for the day was to ride horses to the top of the mountain to the old ghost town, “Pueblo Fantasma”, overlooking Real, the abandoned mine and buildings dating to the late 1600’s.
Hank spotted a friend on the street who was adorned in Bohemian apparel and a big smile. I can’t pronounce her name, but she’d grown up in Real, then lived in Denmark with her Danish mother and had recently moved back. We were introduced to a friend of hers from Ireland, Brian, a photographer who was doing a documentary on one of the religious festivals in Real.
We talked cameras for a while before our caballero whistled and motioned for us to follow him. We huffed and puffed up one the steepest streets in town to a pile of ruins which served as holding pens for the horses.
It’s a long and steep climb to Pueblo Fantasma, so the horse trek was well worth the 300 pesos per person - roughly $15 US.
Feeling absolutely nothing like tourists, we plodded our way up the narrow streets on cranky horses, who were determined to injure or scare the rider.
The steep old road was slick and polished cobblestone initially, falling away to polished rock. The horses were being assholes, no doubt hating their lives, pushing and fighting, slipping and sliding along sheer drops, the burro-mounted caballero yelling occasionally at one or the other of the horses.
We passed through ruins of old haciendas and mine related buildings, now only partial stone walls remaining. At one point, Real De Catorce was the richest town in Mexico, its silver mines producing huge quantities of wealth. Many rich men and opportunists built haciendas, but abandoned them and fled for their lives when during the Mexican Revolution, Pancho Villa, one of the generals of the revolutionary forces, headed for Real, killing wealthy landowners as he crossed the country.
Bypassing the ruined Pueblo, we rode all the way over the mountain, descending what could only be called a goat trail in most places. It was seriously steep and narrow, our guide yelling at the horses as they proceeded to lurch and argue with each other. At times it was a bit harrowing. At times it was terrifying.
Our route passed through various ruins and mine buildings, dynamite shacks and granaries, eventually ending up at a church from the late 1600’s perched high above the valley leading into Real. Hank and I had tried to reach the old church previously by motorcycle from a different route but had run out of daylight, so getting to visit it was a nice surprise.
From the high place, we watched as a military convoy of Mexican “Marinas” slowly wound their way up the mountain road below us on the way to Real.
After exploring the church and shooting a zillion images, we had to backtrack up the steep and narrow trail to the top, and I’ll admit I wasn’t too thrilled about it. My horse was being a bitch or a bastard, bashing me into another horse as often as possible.
We crested the top again and came to the ruins of the original mine, it’s 1000’ deep shaft taking a rock ten seconds to strike bottom. The various building ruins related to the mining process for silver, crushing the stone and washing the product. A lone mine shaft we explored brought us some silvery sparkles in the darkness, illuminated by the light of a cell phone.
The little stone sheds held dynamite for the mining operations and were built a ways away from the other buildings.
The final leg back down to the town was as disconcerting as the way up, the horses fighting each other and slipping and sliding their way down the steep trail and polished rocks.
Our guide was paid and tipped, the walk into town short where a sidewalk cafe provided pork pozolé and gorditas while we watched the folks on the street. Clumps of “Marinas” walked past and spoke to us with big smiles and friendly faces despite the military gear. Seems the military enjoyed spreading cheer… thankfully I might add. Maybe they are tasked with being friendly to ingratiate themselves for good public opinion, or maybe they are just friendly. Who knows, but it was nice to be around a Mexican military group who weren’t wearing black masks.
Pozolé!
The girl from Denmark and Brian from Ireland…
After lunch we separated for various ways and I found a few photo ops on the way to the hotel.
Perusing the little shops, I bought a bracelet from a local artisan, for whom my 500 peso note was too large to change. He gave me the bracelet and indicated for me to go and bring back the money at a later time.
As we attempted to converse, a vagabond couple walked up and began speaking to him in Spanish. I wandered away and eventually got enough small change to return and pay for the handmade clay bracelet. The couple were still there and we spoke. Patricio and his girlfriend were from Italy, having flown to the Yucatan where an old Suzuki motorcycle had left them stranded. They’d continued their journey all over Mexico and central America by bus, but he was excited to talk motorcycles with me. He was aware of our arrival on the GS’s and where we were staying, apparently as did the whole town.
Patricio and his girlfriend
As the day faded, I made my way back to the hotel, spending a few moments looking over the motorcycle. On the street, I watched as a lone blind man made his way up the street with his walking cane. As he passed, I said “Buenos Tardes!” and he smiled and nodded, of course only knowing the greeting had come from his left.
As the sun set, the four of us headed for the roof of the hotel to watch the sunset and generally act stupid.
Once the sun had dipped below the mountain, the cold air of nightfall drove us down and to a restaurant for dinner.
Earlier, Patrick had seen 4 riders coming into town on adventure bikes and they ended up having a meal with us that evening. They had trailered to Del Rio from Kansas and then ridden to Saltillo where they met their Mexican motorcycle guide. Incredibly, one of the riders recognized Patrick from a previous trip to ride in the Himalayas, where they’s ridden together years before. What a small world it is.
The exertion in the high altitude had taken its toll on us lowlanders and we headed back to hotel where the others packed for leaving. Hank, Patrick and Larry all had to be back in San Antonio but I had no deadline and had decided to stay a couple more days to spend a little time kicking back and shooting some pics. My previous trips to Real had always been rushed and I wanted to savor the solitude and spirit of this little magical town.