La Ruta Huasteca

'There is a place I know, way down in Mexico, high in the old Sierra Madres. Where many outlaw banned, from across the Rio Grande, have found a haven, a holdout, a hideaway...' - The Waybacks (San Francisco bluegrass)
The words of this song echo in my head as I wind my way through the Eastern Sierra Madres, which separate the middle of Mexico from the Gulf of Mexico. Indeed, it appeared like these mountains could provide quite a safe refuge for people trying to escape the law across the border, or even within their own country. Silhouettes of mountains behind mountains cut the sky with sharp irregular peaks like a used saw. Tropical trees and plants cover these slopes, and where possible, orange trees, coffee groves, and fields of cane have left their mark on the hillsides and foothills. I have seen no sign of outlaws though. Instead, what I have seen is a simple people with indigenous roots strecthing back to 600 years Before Christ, adapting to a modern world that seems to be affecting their culture in definite but harmless ways, living in a landscape that is both astounding to see and humbling to experience. The Huasteca people live an area that covers five eastern states of Mexico. Although their dialect changes from place to place, the rest of their culture is much the same throughout the scattered pueblos that dot the hillsides. The Huasteca Potosina is the area in south eastern San Luis Potosi where these people live, although from what I can tell, it is better known for the immense amount of natural beauty clustered in a very small amount of land. This area is home to huge waterfalls, birthplaces of rivers, surrealistic castles, and deep abysses in the jungle floor. Of the many places to visit in this area, I was able to take my time off the main highway and explore some of them...
TAMASOPO. My first stop off Highway 70, which led from the city of San Luis Potosi to Ciudad Valles, on the other side of the mountains, was a small town 9 km down a mountain slope into valleys of sugar cane, where thick clouds gathered every morning to create hidden, wet jewels. I encountered some cascades just off of the main road that wound its way through the valley. Water tumbled down in several different locations into pools 5 to 8 meters deep and then stepped its way along the valley floor to continue into the river which ran through this valley. A little bit developed, but beautifully done, gardens and restaurants surrounded the pools and there were even stone diving planks and rope swings. The water was perfectly refreshing. I dove off every rock and swam in every pool I could, relishing in the rejuvenating coolness. Above from here, high in the foothills, was the Puente de Dios, where the same river's waters, emerging from caves, fell through openings in the rock walls to create deep pools where caves below created a downward current and pulled the water further down along the slopes. The Puente (or bridge) was hard to discern, as it was the part of land that I descended onto to peer onto the pools, but hardly seemed a bridge. It was at this spot, that after hearing about a cave higher up the mountain but not too far away, I decided to make the journey to see the birth of this river. Having left my sandals with my bike 700 something step up the other way, I embarked barefoot, not wanting to put on my biking shoes. Halfway up the half rock, half dirt path, I barely avoided stepping on a four foot long, one inch thick snake, that slithered away quickly into the bushes. Rethinking my thinking, I descended back to my shoes, and away from the Puente. Upon emerging from the wilderness, one of the locals reassured me that the green snakes were not venemous, but that there were four types of snakes that were. I didn't quite catch his broken Spanish to find out which four those were.
TAMUL. The next morning, I had an amazing ride through the valley. The fog soon lifted enough for me to see cane fields stretching their flowery limbs up into the dense jungle foothills. It was flat, windy, peaceful, surreal. I crossed back up and over the 70, this time going south on a road that I only realized I could due to local maps of the touristic area, printed on huge posters at keys junctures throughout the area. At the small, nothing town of Naranjito, I turned off the paved road for a 10 km trek down a dirt, rock road to the Casacadas de Tamul. Although these cascades are probably the best known of the area, they are harder to get to, and because it was the middle of the week, I was the only one on this path. I set up camp by a field of sugar cane next to a blue green river that ambled its way south east. I walked along a path downstream. Soon I saw the towering cliffside of a mountain that rose in front of a huge dropoff. The river I was following suddenly disappeared, and was replaced with the roaring sound of huge waterfall. Making my way to the side provided panoramic views of the cascades that dropped 105 meters to the river below, which had cut its way through these mountains in much the same way the Colorado River created the Grand Canyon, except to say that this canyon was not wide at all. I sat there, by myself, meditating on the side of this huge natural wonder, humbling myself before creation. That night, a few Mexican guys my age drove up and set up their tent right next to mine. Turns out I had seen them at Tamasopo, and they were doing a little tour of the area themselves, a bit more in style though. That night, we traded songs on my guitar, as we lay on a grassy patch by the river, gazing at the brilliant stars in the sky. In the morning, I returned with my new found companions down to the waterfall, and we descended some ladders to the shore of the river below. This provided new sights that were just as amazing, if not more. The morning fog was lifting. The sun was rising behind the falls. The refraction of light through the fog and water's mist created rainbows that contrasted brilliantly against the blue of the river and the green of the cliffs. Although my next destination only lay about 30 or 40 km southeast, I decided to take up my friends' offer for a ride. They were going to be visiting some archeological sites of the ancient Huasteca a bit east of Ciudad Valles, and then going to my same destination. Knowing that I was running of out cash and that I would probably not find an ATM in these remote villages, and also enjoying the conversation and human interaction they were providing, I decided to take my first car ride in Mexico. It was bitter sweet. I watched the km's fly by, and marveled in the feats of modern engineering. The archeological sites proved to be quite,...., boring. They quite possibly could have been the creation of several school children playing in the backyard. Maybe it was due to my previous experiences in Mayan ruins that belittled these sites. However old and brilliant these new sites were, it was obvious that the Huasteca people never amounted to quite the civlized empire that the Mayans of southern Mexico and Guatemala did. After the ruins, we rushed back west and then south along the 85, towards the Sotano del Golondrinos. Running out of time and light, they decided to drop me off half way up the unpaved road that led to the next natural wonder. Luckily, a couple of ranchers happened up behind us as I was beginning to load up my bike. Barely having time to put myself in the truck bed (with no tailgate), they sped off. At a certain point a few km up the road, I guess they decided they were hungry. They opened up a freshly fried chicken, a packet of fresh tortillas, a few coronas, and a tin of jalapenos and had dinner on the hood of the truck right there on the side of the road. Being the generous type that inhabit most of Mexico, they shared their dinner and refreshments with me, left their trash by their feet and loaded back into the truck. Thinking it was not the best time to lecture my drivers about the proper habits of throwing your trash away in a can and keeping the environment clean, I gathered it up in a pile, placed it on some rocks, and jumped back in the truck bed. Sometime later, the sun had set, and the truck stopped. I unloaded my things, as they said I was at the spot. A local kid, expecting a tip of course, showed me to a spot to camp, and there I camped, knowing only that I was high up in the mountains, in some sort of small town, camped a grass patch on a cliffside. I could see nor get the feeling for not much else. What I did feel was the sadness at having realized that I lost a sandal. This was not just any sandal. This was one of a pair of sandals that I had bought in Telluride the year before and had gotten signed by one of the world's great banjo players, Bela Fleck. Now, somewhere in Mexico, this sandal bumps around in the back of those rancher's truck. Surely it will end up on the side of the road, or better yet in one of the many beautiful rivers in this land.
SOTANO DE LOS GOLONDRINOS. At four thirty in the morning, I woke up (don't ask me how), and walked back down the road towards the touristy looking sign I had seen the night before. It pointed down a bunch of steps into darkness. Using my headlight, I descended down after paying my 20 peso fee (all these places have some small fees) towards the abyss that lay somewhere on this jungle cliffside. I finally arrived, and there was just enough light in the very early morning to make out the boundaries of the cliffs that dropped below into the earth. The Sotano de los Golondrinos is a hole (sotano? not quite sure of the exact translation), 55 meters wide at the top, and 512 meters down to the very bottom that suddenly and surely exists on this mountainside. Every morning, a few families of bright green parrots and a huge population of white necked swallows emerge at dawn, circling their way up the air currents that spiral out of the hole and eventually fly out into the jungle to eat their share of the insects. Every night, they descend back into hole, in much the same fashion. A yellow string of caution tape separated me from the very edge, but a local guide provided a rope, with which he tied one end around my waist and the other around a rock, which gave both him and me the security needed that I may inch towards the abyss' edge and peer over into the heart of darkness. The chill of the morning lingered in the air that day, and the swallows refused to emerge at dawn. Instead, almost four hours later, around eight thirty, finally some parrots came chattering their way out. Following them, in not quite the same herds as I was expecting, were the swallows. More silent, except for the whoosh that you felt as they flew past and over your head, they emerged in droves and flew out into the wilderness. The show was not that spectacular (bats flying out of Carlsbad Caverns in New Mexico is a bit more astonishing), but the place was indescribable. I eventually tore myself off of the rocky cliffside and back up to my campsite where I packed up and started the descent down the rocky mountain path. I had to stop every few hundred meters to give my hands and arms a rest from clenching on the brakes so much to stop me from careening recklessly down the rocks and braking my bike.
XILITLA. After getting back to the 85, I continued south about 30 km, and then turned off the road once again to the make the eight mile trek straight up into another mountain side towards the small town of Xilitla. This town had a funky vibe to it. The sun of King James III (I think) of England, Eduard James made his home in this mountainside in the 1960's. Modeling his 'castle' after surrealist art, the place is a trip. I didn't visit the castle that night, instead choosing to find a funky hostel close by. The hot shower and bed proved much needed after a week tromping around the jungle. The hostel was very artsy and was run by some foreign travelers that were very nice. I slept in one of six beds that were placed inside one of the six or so teepees on the hostel premesis. In the morning I visited the castle. Sprial steps led to nowhere. Sprial steps led open balconies and rooms. Staircases zigzagged up the mountain walls to pools from a river flowing through the open air castle. These same staircases merged with jungle pathways that led up and up toward a bamboo tree house with an incredible view of the mountains to the east and the small of town of Xilitla far down below.
I could have spent several days wondering through those rooms and pools and gardens. I could have spent several weeks wading in the pools created by the Cascades of Tamasopo. I could have spent a lifetime marveling in the glory of the cascades at Tamul. Instead, I chose to return to the hostel, pack up my things, and return to the main highway heading south. What took me and hour and a half to climb up the afternoon before took me ten minutes to descend this midmorning. I hit the 85 and continued sounth toward Tamzanchule. Here I sit, telling my story. I am not sure where I will stay the night, but I should probably go figure that out before the sun gets completely blocked by the mountains and sets, casting shadows and night over the tiny cities and villages, the rivers and cascades, and any plush camping sites where me and my bike decide to set up camp.


Follow my story with some sights. I uploaded pictures. Sorry for any boring repetition. I have been amazed.