Summer was approaching and it was time for Jessica to go. She would be gone for three months. I dropped her off at the airport and continued home empty handed. The car I was driving wasn’t insured, so I was less than happy to see police lights in my rear view mirror.
With all the fines I got from driving an uninsured car, it was nearly impossible for me to make the trip to Mexico. But with her help, I did. Two months of cyber communication would drive most men into psychosis, and it was no different for me.
I got away from the computer screen in late June. I packed up a pint of Fireball and left by train out of Moncton. Once aboard I settled into seat 13 and waited for lift off. If you’ve never been on a train it’s a bit like space travel. There’s close to no friction between you and the untouched New Brunswick wilderness. In no time I was out of whiskey and staring at acres of old lonely branchless pines riddled with tumors and starting to rot into hilly terrain. New Brunswick’s backland is a graveyard of erect skeletons. Some are stunted standing like midgets reciting ancient poetry. Others are thin and anorexic, or horned and angry like the cacti of my destination. The nightmare forest was interrupted in Rogersville.
Our train came to a slow and showed a handful of relatives, one of whom was a sweet little girl holding a piece of paper that read “bon voyage”. I took a deep breath and closed my eyes. Later in the evening, via rail 15 was running along the Miramichi River. I studied the Appalachian mountain belt on the opposing side and watched it trace the horizon till midnight. I would make it to Quebec City by dawn to meet my mother and get ready for my flight the next day.
I felt relieved once up and above the clouds. Before crossing the Mexico boarder we hit a patch of fog so thick I felt like lice on a sheep’s back. Then, in the blink of an eye, the map below turned to sand, sand, sand. The pilot spotted Chihuahua and started to circle it like a hawk. Like a tornado we descended into the city centre.
Thunderous rock giants fence Chihuahua from desert and wild. I landed, was thrilled to see Jessica, and held her like a beautiful stranger. Something was awkward and nervous about our encounter. I couldn’t help but feel wary about the stale and dry death just beyond the ring of holy rocks surrounding us. We stood there and dangled like an albino flower for a bit before getting a cab to the Casa Grande Hotel.
The city was like a hornet’s nest and I tried to explore it without getting stung. Jessica and I headed to the movies and found out that Mexicans can’t go without a handful of jalapeno peppers on their popcorn. After a few days we departed Chihuahua’s urban centre and hopped a train into the mountains. The ride was scenic, and showed tall Negro pines with green hair sad for water under the gigantic sun. Our destination was a small town called Creel about five hours south.
Upon arrival a chub named Juan Philippi who was 10 years old greeted us. He introduced us to another local, who for a price showed us around for the weekend. Even though he spoke no English he was a great man for the job. He took us to a place called The Valley of Mushrooms and Frogs. It was a stone valley of rock formations with two different kinds of gigantic rock on top of each other. The balancing rock would tip if you gave it a strong push.
We continued into the forest where small natives, untarnished by Spanish blood, were dressed like flowers with children on back and by side. Our trip continued down the highway and into the unknown, where short wide bush trees dyed like blood reached for love on the roadside. I was itching for peyote as the group descended into the Copper Canyons towards the renowned hot springs. Once there, Jessica and I split to a secluded spring and showered under the cliffs. I unpacked the 25 pounds of Corona I lugged down and caught a mad buzz.
Our translator, Veronica, told us the story of a native who she saw on the side of the highway. “We asked him if he needed a drive back into town. He said no and looked at us like, ‘are you kidding?’ The man said he was in a hurry. Later when we arrived in town the man was already there going about his business.”
Veronica explained to us how well the Tarahumara people knew the land and how incredibly fast they were. Back at the lodge I had my first taste of what they call a Michelada. It was a local Mexican beer serenaded with a massive amount of spice. Between the beer, sun, and spicy food, Mexico was my place to be. I didn’t want to leave, but I had to.
I was in Newark, partly intoxicated from the adventure, and partly from the tall glass in front of me. My plane was delayed so I had another, and another. What a bill I racked up. Before I knew it my plane was being boarded. I sat there and thought to myself, “I’m not going to pay this bill.” So I didn’t.
The trip ended like it began, me giving a middle finger to the law. Except this time I got away with it, and there I was, on a night plan over Newark. In the plane arching high over electric islands and manufactured wilderness. At the back, I sit comfortably as the delighted fugitive.
