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Last year, during a seven month period the author drove nearly 25,000 miles in a 1988 Toyota 4Runner from Connecticut all the way to the southernmost city in the world – Usuhaia, Argentina, passing through some of the world’s most beautiful scenery on some of the world’s worst maintained and most dangerous roads. He ended his 12-country odyssey in Paraguay, where he sold his car and flew home to the USA, forever changed by his life on the road during what was a truly remarkable undertaking. While a full recounting of his journey would require many volumes, the author has agreed to provide us with glimpses of his travels and insight into what he experienced. This is the first in a series of five articles.  To the End of the World  Part 1: A Journey Through the Mountains of Mexico  By: Charles Ragsdale  It wasn’t until I heard “Riders on the Storm” blasting on my stereo as I cruised down highway M-10 in northern Mexico that I felt my trip had truly begun. Nearly two weeks earlier I had left my home in Connecticut and all that was familiar and safe in order to do something I had never even imagined was possible.

Fixing the Toyota 4Runner

It was on the highway speeding through Mexico and listening to the perfectly timed appearance of Jim Morrison’s voice as I saw dark stormy clouds and lightning flashing far away over the surface of the vast desert plain that I felt the profound stirrings of emotion I had been expecting. It was at this time that I got the first hints of the life-altering series of bizarre and unforgettable experiences I would soon have.

One of my first destinations in Mexico was Creel. A small town placed high in the Sierra Madre mountains, it is the gateway to the magnificent Copper Canyon; a natural wonder that puts the Grand Canyon to shame. After spending a couple of days seeing the sights, it was time for me to go on. I looked at my map of North/Central America and saw that the Pacific was rather close, but that the mountains blocked my way and the only road to the Pacific lay far to the south near Mazatlan. Disappointed, I pulled out a highly detailed map of northern Mexico. Looking closely I saw a faint dotted line connecting a few small villages nestled in the mountains that lie between Creel and the Pacific. Intrigued, I asked the locals about the possibility of driving over the mountains to Los Mochis, a city on the Pacific.

All told me that it wasn’t possible and that I would have to take the highway south and cut across to Mazatlan. I then approached a trucker who was doing some maintenance on his rig and asked him about it. The first thing he asked was whether or not I had a four-wheel drive car. When I told him I did, he replied that the dotted line was a road, but that it was unpaved and in very poor condition, and often impassable. He did say though that it was infrequently used by the Mexican government and by some of the villagers who had heavy-duty pickups. I said thank you, and he smiled and shook his head after he wished me good luck.

The next day I left Creel early in the morning to begin the reputedly impossible drive over the Sierra Madre mountains to El Fuerte and Los Mochis. The trip started off well, and in less than an hour I had reached Divisadero and stopped to enjoy some breathtaking views of Copper Canyon. I continued on, finding the road paved all the way to the last medium-sized town, San Rafael. 

The pavement then abruptly ended, as did the carefree driving of the early morning. The “roads” that followed could best be described as poorly maintained hiking trails barely wide enough for a car by US standards. My pace slowed to a crawl, and for the next eight hours I never left second gear and rarely was able to exceed 25 miles per hour. In many stretches 15 miles per hour felt dangerously fast. 

That said, the passage through the Sierra Madre Occidental was so incredibly beautiful and gave me such a sense of adventure that it ranks among the most interesting days of my life. After a few hours I came upon the village of Bahuchivo, where to my great relief I was able to buy fuel and food. The reader would be mistaken to imagine a brightly lit Exxon station with a Kmart. This “gas station” consisted of a middle-aged Mexican man siphoning fuel from a rusty 50-gallon drum at the front gate of his ranch. The people I came across were amazed to see me, given that few cars pass through the area, and almost none had ever seen a vacationing gringo. To characterize the villages as rural is an  understatement; I can’t imagine any place accessible by vehicle could be more isolated. In some parts I “drove”(crawled over rocks and ruts, avoiding sudden death at every impossibly sharp and steep turn) for a couple of hours without seeing a single solitary soul. 
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"Upon reaching the reservoir I became alarmed. It was already well into the afternoon, and I didn’t see anyone. I honked my horn and yelled to no avail. I began to consider the possibility that the ferry wasn’t operating or had broken down, which worried me."

After Bahuchivo came the long haul to La Reforma, about a four-hour drive. I had thought La Reforma was going to be a small town; in reality it was a collection of houses nestled in a valley, where in my best estimate one hundred people lived. From there I made my way to Choix, which was accessible only by a ferry ride across a reservoir. Upon reaching the reservoir I became alarmed. It was already well into the afternoon, and I didn’t see anyone. I honked my horn and yelled to no avail. I began to consider the possibility that the ferry wasn’t operating or had broken down, which worried me. I had only enough gas to go forward, since there hadn’t been any for sale in La Reforma, and Bahuchivo lay far behind, out of my range. After about a half-hour of sitting there without solving my dilemma, fortune smiled on me. A man road up to me on his bicycle and asked me why I was waiting. I told him that the ferry wasn’t coming and we tried honking my horn again. When that didn’t work, the man (obviously a local) motioned for me to follow him. We went around a bend in the road and found a small motorboat nestled against the side of the reservoir. We hopped in the boat and sped across the reservoir to where the ferry was docked on the other side, which from the sound of its running motor appeared to be in good working order.

After exchanging some less than civil words with him, I convinced the captain to bring the ferry over to the other side and carry my car across. For his help I gave the man on the bicycle a ride to his house, which was on the outskirts of El Fuerte. As we neared El Fuerte, the road improved gradually until – and what a moment it was – it turned into pavement! After nearly 11 hours, I had driven 130 miles through the mountains and was within reach of the Pacific. I dropped off the man at his house and sped on. Euphoria filled me; I honked on the horn, sang along with my music, and tore down the road at over 80 mph. I went past El Fuerte and got it in my head that despite the late hour I would reach the Pacific that same day and jump into the water, at last cleansing myself of the incredible amount of dust that had completely covered me and my car in the hot and drought-stricken mountains.

I cruised on, racing over the hills in the remote desert area between El Fuerte and Los Mochis, when I noticed my car began to slip out of gear as I downshifted from fifth to fourth while going up hills. This grew worse and worse until it got to the point where depressing the accelerator did no more than rev up the engine. I pulled over on the side of the road and vainly attempted to fix the problem myself, glancing uneasily at the sun’s low position on the horizon. I decided to seek help and waited for a car to pass. Over the next hour several cars went by, although none of them stopped, apparently with good reason. I later found out that the area was notorious for highway robbery, and that a favorite tactic of the criminals is to fake a breakdown and prey upon good Samaritans who stop to offer assistance. 
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Finally as the sun was setting and I had resigned myself to sleeping in my broken down car in the middle of nowhere, at the mercy of murderous thieves, an old man and his wife came sputtering by in an aging pickup and stopped. We were unable to start my car, but after pushing it forward and getting it moving, I managed to jump start it (with a manual drive this is accomplished by letting go of the clutch and popping it into first). My plan was to limp the remaining 40 miles into Los Mochis in first gear, as I feared that any shifting might damage the transmission even more. Luckily the man in the beat up pickup followed me, because a couple miles down the road the gears would no longer engage even in first and I ground to a complete stop.  Fortune smiled upon me once again. The man in the pickup had a sister who lived with their 80 year old mother about two hundred yards away. He inched his pickup forward to lock bumpers with me, and then pushed me with his car all the way to his mother’s house. We entered a dirt road off the edge of the highway, and to my surprise it led to a couple of humble homes.

"I was also overcome with gratitude for these people who had so little yet welcomed me into their home, fed me and gave me a place to sleep."

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As we neared the second house an old lady, a middle-aged woman, a teenage daughter, and a young boy came out to greet me. Needless to say, at this point I realized how Alice felt when she followed the White Rabbit. I was also overcome with gratitude for these people who had so little yet welcomed me into their home, fed me and gave me a place to sleep. 

I slept in a covered patio area on a folding cot, with a view of millions of stars in the crisp and clear desert night, with only the sounds of the animals and the wind to keep me company. I woke up early and was able to convince some people living nearby to give me a ride to Los Mochis so I could search for a mechanic. Once there I was able to find a mechanic who was not only skilled in fixing transmissions, but also willing to load all his tools into his car and drive the 40 miles to where I was stranded (the extortionate fees charged by Mexican tow-truck companies made towing such a distance impractical).
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The ride back to the little ranch felt great. I rode in the back of the mechanic’s pickup along with his three teenage helpers, who made me feel as if I had been transported back to the early 90s as they blasted a mix tape of MC Hammer and Vanilla Ice at high volume. Back at the ranch I waited for a few hours while they removed my whole transmission on the spot. They concluded that the clutch plate was shot and needed to be replaced, but the mechanic also cautioned that it might not be possible to find a suitable replacement. He said that, “if God willed it,” he would be returning the next morning with the correct part and that I would soon be on my way. I was left standing next to the dirt floor house I shared with three women, a young boy and several chickens, wondering when or even if the mechanic and his assistants would return.

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Apparently God did will it, because they returned at 10 o’clock the next morning, jubilantly displaying the correct clutch plate for my Toyota. Three and one-half hours later, the job was finished, the plate was perfectly adjusted and my car shifted like a dream. I wasted no time in speeding down the road to the Pacific, quickly reaching a small town near Los Mochis called Topo. There I immediately jumped in the water and swam in the ocean, enjoying the sea and sun before I sat down to a delicious meal of pescado zarandeado at a beachside restaurant. I took time to sip a cold beer and reflect on what had happened and what lay ahead as I looked out at the smooth, pure blue waters stretching to the horizon.

To contact Charles Click Here
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