Back From The Barrancas

I had a weird summer, you know. Between hard personal decisions and a nagging little injury, my spirit was weighed down by many thoughts and questions. A lot of those gravitated around a place I love, a place I had come to consider a second home; Urique. I spent many moments wondering how my friends were doing, how the overall situation was and about what the future would hold for this running paradise.

So when the opportunity arose for me to travel back down to the Barrancas, even though for a very short trip, I packed my bag in a heartbeat.

On the road with a truckload of giggling chicas :)

Ever since Michael Miller and I drove out of Urique with heavy hearts, we both swore we would be back no matter what. As the year was slowly nearing its end, Michael told me he had received some positive news from the other side of the border and that there was a window of about a week where not only we could go, but we would also be joined by our good friend Patrick Sweeney, who’d just finished another awesome feat of endurance by running the Chicago Marathon, then running to New York City and running the NYC Marathon as well, Forrest Gump-style.

The positivity started from the get-go. Seeing Sweeney was a real treat, and getting to road trip with two of my best running friends put a huge smile of my face. Even though we red-eyed it all the way, there was still room for happy-hour shenanigans, breathtaking runs and hot pepper shopping.

Beautiful morning run atop Creel

Everywhere we looked, traversing Mexico’s northwest from the Arizona border all the way down to Creel, things seemed pretty quiet and relax. There was only a single roadblock on the whole way, which can only mean that things have cooled down quite significantly.

The magic of the Canyons started for me as soon as we reached Mario’s cabins, nested on a magnificent promontory in San Isidro, where our Raramuri friend Horacio was waiting to take us on an evening run to the rim. Although I have traveled to many places in the Sierra, the canyon top is one of the places I have been the least so I was delighted to discover the trails that lead to Cerro Gallego, the Urique overlook, as well as the gorgeous creek trail that descends into the village of Porochi, where both Miguel and Horacio live. We came back at sunset, just in time for drinks by the bonfire Mario had lit for us. It was perfect.

Cabañas San Isidro, our friend Mario's gorgeous ranch

We set out the next morning, on foot, and descended unto Urique through rugged, ancient trails that are sometimes etched into the boulders by centuries of travel. I was shocked at the amount – and steepness! of the climbs that lead to the rim before the descent begins. On the way, Horacio was generous with information on local farmsteads, connecting trails and meaningful landmarks. Our spirits were high and we felt how specially meaningful it was for us all to be coming again to Urique, on foot, together, using the ancient trails of the People we respect and celebrate.

On the way down to Urique

After a rather difficult hike, we emerged in Urique to the symbolic chant of mourning doves. It brought me a sense of peace and closure, and a strong feeling of being back home. We met with our friends in the government and exchanged meaningful words, united in wishing to perpetuate the running tradition Caballo Blanco created.

Walking to the gate at Entre Amigos almost brought tears to my eyes. The place looks as beautiful as ever, and our friends Maruca and Tomas were waiting for us, all smiles, like they were welcoming their own family. Seeing that beautiful garden once again, and the trees loaded with fruits, was a true joy.

And just when things couldn’t get any better, our friend Prospero and his wife Sabina showed up to give us great news about the Caballo Blanco Trail Project and share even more ideas for the future.

We will be back, Barrancas!

Of course, things are not perfect in the Barrancas. They never were. There are crimes committed frequently all over the Sierra. The people’s struggle with violence is very real and must not be forgotten. But as things stand right now, relative peace appears to have returned, people are back to their daily occupations, and life seems to go on.

Although the race we’ve known and loved will now be an event organized and promoted by Urique, as a runner and as a friend of the Running People, I will be back in March. And so will others.

And that’s a really good thing.



You can follow our work at Norawas de Raramuri on our official website, www.norawas.org

Running Trails In Gatineau

Olaf, Augusto, Eric and Flint tackled some pretty slippery, damp and awesome single track last weekend. Foul language ensued.

Sonja's Run

The car ride to the mountain was just talk and laughs, between TMI stories and coffee-induced jitters.

It was Sonja’s first trail run this fall, and we were both very happy to hit the forest together for some fresh air, good times and beautiful colors.

We parked the car and walked slowly to the trail head. We chose to run the trail counter-traffic, so we would not startle the many walkers and hikers who came to the park, often with their little kids.

We started slowly, because I can’t run fast right away. That’s just how it is, and I’ve learned that the more I listen to my body, the more it gives back.

Sonja trots along, teasing me that she didn’t come here to be passed by strolling grandmas…

The air is fresh, but not cold. Under the vast patches of shade, scents of fallen leaves and soft moss fill the air. When the forest clears, some glorious sun rays shine through from the blue skies, lighting the trees on fire with colors of yellow and red. Little busy squirrels rush about, their cheeks full with pine nuts and other goodies to hide away for the cold months to come.

The first hills, soon enough, get us both warmed up, and the crispy sounds of our feet on the trail start to pick up the rhythm. We’ve got plenty of food and drink, so we can go at it to our hearts’ content. At the first fork, I turn right for the rolling hills leading up to the mountain bike tracks. The trail alternates from a leaf-covered mud path to some pretty coarse riverbed rocks, making both runners dance and dodge as they weave around smiling walkers, panting dogs and excited little kids, who cheer them along. “Look, mama! These ones run!”

Past the wooden bridges over the creek, the trail splits. Right into the woods, left straight up in a brutal ascent to the first summit. Sonja, not skipping a beat, veers left and looks at me over her shoulder, smiling. “Slow down, girl, I can’t keep up!”. As she hopped up the hill like a mountain goat, all I heard back was “catch me on the downhill!”.

I slow down to a grind, trying my best not to break into a walk. I’ve been practicing the “grannygear” method Scott Jurek explains in his book, slowing my cadence to almost a standstill stomp, but still swinging my arms forward like when running. It feels awkward at first, but I found it works pretty well. I’m not sure if it actually makes me any faster than walking, but it doesn’t break my rhythm and helps recuperate from the climb way faster.

At the top, I can’t even see Sonja anymore. I hear a couple crunches from the sound of her feet on the rocky path, so I know she’s not too far ahead. I also know that “my section” is coming… It’s subtle at first, but the other side of the first summit is a downward slope that rolls to the bottom of a high valley before the climb to the second summit starts. From this point, I have a good 2.5, maybe 3K of progressive downhill running, which means I’ll come down flying. I’m all warmed up now, and I can almost hear the muffled giggle of Sonja pressing on, putting as much distance as she can before the hill gets serious.

I catch my breath from the climb rapidly, then simply let my legs follow the inclination of the path. Dodging sharp rocks and roots, I fall into a nice, rapid pace that gets my adrenaline going. The air is still crisp and makes my eyes teary, so I wipe them frantically, trying to get as clear a vision as possible.

After a couple turns, I see her in the distance. She’s running hard, dancing around mud patches and other hazards, her elbows widespread to maximize balance. I smirk, thinking how we must look like crazy chickens being chased by some invisible predator.

Now that she’s in my sights, I close in gradually, making sure not to freak out the Sunday morning strollers. Some smile, others offer some encouraging words. “Wow! Go, runners!”.

Getting ever closer, I start to hear her breath, heavier with effort and the thrill of fast running. She knows I’m right behind and she’s giving all she’s got to not make it easy for me to pass her. At this point, we’re storming past the walkers, breathing hard and smiling wide, kicking dust and leaving rolling rocks in our wake.

“Meep, meep!”

I jump to her left, then right in front of her, nearly out of control, making the last part of the way down closer to a frantic tumble than a controlled descent. “Damn you! Wait for me at the bottom!”

It takes only a couple more minutes before the rampage is over, and Sonja comes in about 30 seconds later, panting, laughing and half-dizzy, still in disbelief that we both survived unscathed. “Want to do the second summit? We could grab something to eat there, then run down the other side.”

We take a right turn in the high valley and start the second climb, the one called The Calvary. It was created by monks a long time ago, who built miniature chapels along the wooded path with frescoes of the crucifixion and religious sculptures. They make a strange sight, these little white houses surrounded by the dense forest, but we don’t mind them. They’re just part of the landscape.

The second climb is more forgiving than the first, so we stay together, running stride-for-stride, struggling against the little rolling rocks and catching our breath on the plateaus. That section is filled with large cedar trees with wild mushrooms at their feet, changing the ambient red and yellow foliage to a deep summer green and rich earthy browns on the forest floor. The air is dryer, and the proximity of the open summit is palpable with a cool wind rising.

Sonja, who took her hat off, is all smiles. “Wind in your hair?” She only nods, her expression making a much better explanation than any word she could say at that point. It makes me happy to see her like that.

The naked rocks atop the Calvary offer an ideal, sun-baked spot for a gel and a couple sips of lime-flavored water before the easy home stretch, a forgiving, gentle slope that switchbacks down to the parking lot, passing through an old maple sugar shack converted into an interpretation center.

As we jog down the last kilometer or so, I turn to my friend. “So, how was it?”. “Let’s do this again, sometime”, she just answered, winking. It had been a fantastic run, one of the best this year, and they both knew it.

A run that would be easy to remember, for a long time, with a simple closing of the eyes, a deep breath, and a smile.

Dance, Dance : The Green Mountains

I discovered the Green Mountains, a remote forest reserve in Quebec's Eastern Townships region, a while back... Last Saturday, I went down there and brought my GoPro along.

Wanna dance?