The 400-mile “El Chepe” rail journey makes six stops at small towns or villages along the way where one can exit the train for an overnight stay to explore the canyon.  The first of these stops is Creel, one of Mexico’s “Puebla Magicos,” or Magic Towns, a category designated by the Secretariat of Tourism for their natural beauty, cultural or historical significance.   Creel is also the main backpacker destination, offering hiking and camping excursions deep into the canyon.   At an elevation of almost 8,000 feet, it is also the coldest of the tourist stops.

I would have so loved to get off the train in one of the little towns and ride to the bottom of the canyon on horseback or do some hiking.  But for one, I did not have the clothes for it.   At 6,000 to 8,000 feet, it was c-c-c-cold at elevation, and I had packed for sunny, 80 degree Oaxaca.   Also, my limited Spanish is not good enough to veer too far off the beaten tourist trail.   And finally, one thing I have learned in my travels is that more remote excursions like this do not lend themselves to “solo travel,” lest you find yourself hiking in Nepal all alone with an entourage of 20 men following to “serve” you, a river passage with only Chinese-speaking people resorting to drawing stick figures to communicate basic needs, or driving across Tibet and sleeping in a tent with three guys you never saw before.

So alas, I opted to stay on the train for the duration of the ride.   I just figured I would look at this trip as a “reconnaissance mission,” getting the lay of the land and gathering information for a return trip with like-minded, Spanish-speaking companions when it wasn’t peak holiday season or the dead of winter.

Creel is also near the highest elevation point of the train at 8,000 feet. From this point onward, the train would begin to descend in elevation, even making a 360 degree loop over itself upon decent.

The second and most well known of the tourist stops is Divisadero, along the Continental Divide.   This is the only stop where there is time for “thru passengers” go get off the train and actually peer down into the canyon itself.  It is a little known fact that the train ride through Copper Canyon does not actually roll through the canyon.  I hesitate to point this out, for fear it will somehow diminish the thrill of riding this train through some of the most beautiful countryside I have seen in all my visits to Mexico.   But the fact is, you get 15 to 20 minutes at the Divisadero stop to see the only “traditional” canyon view.   This reminds me of one of my favorite quotes about travel.  “The traveler sees what he sees.  The tourist sees what he has come to see.”  (Gilbert Chesterton)

In order to reach the canyon overlook, one must first navigate the stalls of trinkets, tee-shirts, and trash, all emblazoned with scenes and slogans from the canyon.    This is also where the indigenous women from the Tarahumara tribe, or Native American tribeswomen sell their hand-made handicrafts.   They wear the traditional brightly colored clothing, and practice weaving elaborate baskets from pine boughs.

The name “Tarahumara” means “those with nimble feet” or “people who run fast,” as the natives are also known for their long distance running ability, covering up to 100 miles over vast elevation changes wearing little more than Hurache sandals!  There is a non-fiction book written about the running ability of the “Rarámuri” tribe, as they refer to themselves, called “Born to Run.”  It was written by a man who came to study the low injury levels experienced by runners in this type of footwear.

Many choose to maintain their traditional way of life by living in remote caves along the walls of the canyon, purportedly to sustain their traditional way of life.  The cynic in me also says the “guided tours” to visit these villages also have a little something to do with the desire to preserve their cave-dwelling culture.

The stop in Divisidero was also an opportunity to sample lots of local offerings, such as the blue corn tortillas stuffed with pork and covered with green chili sauce and queso fresco like my seat-mate devoured in front of me, once back on the train.  But 15 minutes to walk to the canyon overlook, check out the indigenous people, and eat Gorditas is about three days and 45 minutes too short.   Having spent my 15 minutes at the canyon rim, I had to resort again to the dining car.

Breakfast is the only meal in the dining car requiring reservations.  Once that meal is done, passengers are free to come and go and sit as long as they like.  So once we left Divisidaro, I headed up for a late lunch.   In trying to communicate with the waiter using my limited Spanish, a young man turned around and said, “I speak English, perhaps I can help you.  My name is Michael.”   Now for anyone who read my book about my round the world trip back in 2002, they would know how eerie this was, because it is the exact same sentence that I heard when on that Yangtze River trip with only Chinese-speaking people.   Right down to the young man’s name, “Michael.”   I swear, both times, I heard trumpets in the background.

Michael came around to sit for a while.  He was from Mexico City, but currently living in Atlanta studying science and English at Emory.   We had a nice visit comparing stories about life in Atlanta, where I lived for eight years.

By now, the sun was starting to sink low, casting long shadows through the gorge, so all but the die-hard photographers had retired to their seats.   I decided to walk the length of the train, and discovered that the very back car was completely empty, except for two armed guards carrying machine guns, dressed in all black “federale” clothing.   I swallowed hard as I considered the implications of this – it was a toss-up over whether I was concerned to be on a train that needed armed guards, or relieved they were there for our safety.  They allowed me to “passe” on down the aisle, where I stood for at least an hour, watching the scenery unfold and the rails roll out from under the train from the back window.

By now, the temperature had warmed up considerably, and I had the back vestibule all to myself, since no one seemed to wander back that far.  I can’t think of any other way to describe this feeling than “gleeful” as the train was now traveling through some pretty dramatic curves at high speeds.  With the wind in my hair, it was almost like being in the back car of a horizontal roller coaster.

But all too soon, we lost our sunlight.  The last glimpses came as we crossed the giant River Fuerte at dusk, too dark to even photograph, but it was a beautiful silvery shimmering river against the inky black twilight.  I regretted having missed the last hour of what is reported to be the more beautiful part of the journey, but the trade-off of traveling during the shorter winter months was seeing the beautiful blanket of snow.

The last of the tourist town stops along the railway is El Fuerte, another of Mexico’s “Pueblo Magico” towns.  Since it was now dark outside, I decided to get off here rather than the big, reportedly “unattractive” city of Los Mochis.  Christmas was approaching, and I didn’t want to spend Christmas Eve in a big, unwelcoming city.   So as the train slowed to a stop at the tiny El Fuerte station, I bid all my seat-mates goodbye with a wave and “Feliz Navidad y Prospero An~o!