This is one of the wonderful stories Micah originally wrote on his site caballoblanco.com.
By Micah True
My introduction to La Sierra Madre of Mexico was in November of 1994. That was the summer when a team of 7 Tarahumara indians, [most of them from the same village of 400 people], smoked the Leadville 100 mile race. I had been recruited to run with a Raramuri[runner], to pace him the last 50 miles of the race. During the course of running all afternoon and night with Martiamo Cervantes [who finished 3rd], We became good friends, a friendship fueled by the shared experience of a 10 3/4 hour run together, ups and downs[both literally and figuratively], and mutual respect.
That winter I made an announcement over a Boulder public radio station that I was looking for coats and sweaters to deliver to the Sierra Madre mountain town of Choguita, the town located at 8,700 feet where my Raramuri friends lived.
The coat drive was a success, giving away 400 quality coats and sweaters to the men, women, and children of Choguita.
The gnarly drive to this beautiful mountain valley was such a rough and traumatic experience that I was in no hurry to leave this lovely valley, where I camped and visited with the people for a week, having the opportunity to share some wonderful trail running; also running the 'jeep' road that had taken me 5 hours to negotiate 30 miles in my camper truck, in 5 hours 15 minutes by foot! This run required much less gasoline and stress then had the drive!
The winter had passed; I had traveled to Southern Mexico and returned in the spring for a visit, showing up in 'la sierra' just in time to participate in a 75 mile foot race. This was exciting to run with the Raramuri on their home turf! The night before the race, all of the Raramuri were gathered to eat dinner and I was introduced as being the amigo of often-time winner Martiamo Cervantes. I was greeted warmly as all had heard of this 'loco' gringo called 'Caballo Blanco'. The man called horse [me], grinningly produced a photo of a flying saucer hovering over lake Attitlan in Guatemala. The wide-eyed raramuri were even wider eyed when I announced that the beings in the flying saucer were my "ayudantes"[helpers]. Surely this crazy gringo with the extraterrestrial helpers would be the man to beat! The race was to begin at 7 a.m.
That night was a typical night before a race kind of a sleepless night. I was up bright and early eating oatmeal and downing a big cup of some strong espresso.-7 o'clock in the morning came, and the Raramuri were engaged in their pre-race, high-tech stretching and warm-up session; this consisted of laying around on rocks or smoking cheap filter-less cigarettes! 9,10, 12 o'clock rolled around and by this time I was exhausted from using up all of my nervous, coffee induced energy. The Raramuri on the other hand, were/are the most relaxed people who I have ever seen!
The race finally started! I was surprised to see the 20 or so Raramuri go out in a sprint, like it were a 5 km race. I, on the other hand[or foot], plodded along, actually eventually catching up to 2 of the 20 Raramuri. The race went into the middle of the night/early morning. The winner took 10 hours and 5 minutes to make this mountainous run; the next 5 runners were all within 5 minutes!
May the Raramuri and all our relations [all of them] continue to run free!
This is one of the wonderful stories Micah originally wrote on his site caballoblanco.com.
By Micah True
The summer of 1993:
I awoke in Boulder Community Hospital after a severe bicycle accident. My helmet had been split in two and numerous cuts around my eyes had required many stitches. The last thing I remembered was flying over the handle bars of my bike while speeding downhill at about 35 miles an hour and hitting a patch of gravel on the long, paved descent.
I would not let them [the hospital] keep me over-night. I had no health insurance, and a horse has got to eat! I had them call my good friend Robin, who came to the hospital to take me home and nurse me. She would tell me later how delirious I had been, and how she had nearly returned me to the place I had been so adamant about leaving!
After a week or so, I could move around without too much pain, so, decided to celebrate being alive by entering the Leadville 100. I had run a 22 1/2 hour Leadville some six years earlier, gotten 10th place while running very cautiously because of not running for the couple of months between the Western States 100 and Leadville. I had run over a cliff at a switch-back early-on during the Western States 100 mile run, seriously spraining an ankle, and ran on it until the doctor made me stop at the 85 mile point, when I could barely pick up my elephant-like swollen foot to step on the scale to be weighed. The following year, I had been in the very best cardiovascular condition of my life, having run 170 mile weeks and winning a couple of fifty milers, so, had gone for it at Leadville, only to suffer a stress fracture in my tibia and tendon damage from running too much and too hard on my bum left ankle, having to retire at the half-way point. After that run of assorted foot injuries and disappointments, I had stopped racing all together and had cut back quite a lot on my running
Here I was, five years later, with a good month to train, ready to celebrate my good fortune of being alive.
That '93 Leadville run was when the three Tarahumara of Mexico's Sierra Madre mountains and deep canyon country had traveled north to literally run for food. There had been a severe drought in their homeland, people were hungry, malnutrition was rampant among the children; they were starving. The Tarahumara people were cursed with an extremely high infant mortality rate. The Tarahumara runners had been promised bulk food for their villages if they would travel with a 'gringo' sponsor up to the states to run, so they did.
While running that year's 100 mile race in the mountains of Colorado, I ran very cautiously, and smoothly for the most part, having some friendly interaction on the trail with old Victoriano, the 55 year old Raramuri who had started slowly and gradually gained ground, moving as smoothly and gracefully as the afternoon storm clouds on a typical Rocky Mountain summer day, passing the rest of the runners to win the race. Cirrildo, who was from the same village, finished in second place, and Manuel Luna finished in fifth place. I got 28th, in not too bad of a time of a little over 24 hours. I was happy enough considering how I had felt a month earlier.
The next year I was all set to greatly improve on my Leadville performance, having been very healthy and training for a year, ready to roll. The only problem was, the race had filled within a week of entries being accepted in early January, when I had been in Chiapas and Guatemala entertaining Mayan-Chamula revolutionaries after having had a head on collision with a cow on a mountain highway a few days before the January 1st, 1994 Zapatista revolution. The happy Indigenous spectators had butchered the unfortunate bovine on the side of the road, while a few of them were helping me to repair my truck enough to make a get-away before the police came, or the army who were stationed near-by, or the wealthy land-owner of the cow. We had straightened out the fan-blades enough to keep them from knocking into the bashed radiator that was streaming out water faster than I could pour it in, then they told me there was "mucho aqua" in a stream near to their village. We threw some of the meat and Indians in the back of the truck and three of the Chamula crowded into the front seat with me. The normally very darkly serious Chamula could not help but laugh when I cursed with a smile, "Pinche vaca; no bueno para nada!" [Damn cow; no good for nothing!]. "Good to eat!"-- they chorused. We then drove near to their mountain village where they feasted and I was treated like some kind of hero, albeit, a very frazzled hero horse, filling up all of my water containers, and then some, before leaving and driving my beat-up truck back to the camp-ground on the outskirts of the town of San Cristobal De Las Casas, arriving in a cloud of steam, with whistling radiator and screaming engine block singing in disharmony. I had felt an urgency to get my truck out of the mountains of Chiapas, to drive it to the coast and park it at my friend's coconut plantation five hours away. I worked on the truck steadily for a few days before driving it out of there on New-Years day morning. Upon arrival at the coastal village of Puerto Arista, the whole town had been gathered around the television, watching the Zapatista revolution occurring live in the streets of San Cristobal!
"Well, shucks; I really want to run this race, and am an old time, loyal friend of this event; won't you let me enter?" I had pleaded with the race director, who did not even remember my name, or who I was, even though I had run the "family'' like race four times. No chance; the race had grown big now, and entry was at a premium. The "New York Times" and many publications had written the story of the 55 year old Mexican winning the race. Leadville was now a huge spot on the ultra-running map! The race and their corporate sponsor, a shoe company, had benefited considerably from all of the publicity, the feel good story of the impoverished Indians running for their communities; and not JUST running, but winning; and a 55 year old in sandals at that! A deal was made with the 'gringo' promoter who had driven the Tarahumara north, to bring another team of seven Raramuri to the '94 race. I think that part of the deal was to wear the race-sponsor's shoes for a photo op.
I received a phone call from the gringo sponsor/promoter of the team of Raramuri. He was looking for help, someone who could run and knew the course, to pace some of "his" runners. "Sure, I'll do it, providing I can run the whole 50 mile return with the runner of my choice." "They tend to run faster as they go; you think you can keep up?," he challenged. "If I can't keep up, then they don't need me," I confirmed. .........
Of course, almost anybody can run with anybody after the second anybody has already run 50 miles at an average elevation of over 10,000 feet!
I had driven my infamous cow-killing camper truck from my cabin in the mountains near to Nederland, Colorado, up to Leadville to meet the seven Tarahumara runners and their sponsor. Instantly upon meeting the runners, a good-looking Raramuri [who looked kind of like me :] and I made eye contact and each broke out in huge grins, picking each-other to run with. The gringo sponsor was amazed at the immediate communication between Martimiano and I; especially since the 'gringo' showed obvious disdain for me, at first. He would later open up considerably, being much friendlier and showing much more respect to me, this other, kind of 'loco' gringo who had introduced himself to the Tarahumara by the nick-name "Caballo Blanco."
I had been given this nick-name by the Mayans who inhabited the highlands of Guatemala, where the trail-running man had run the slopes of many of the country's high volcanoes, interacting with the smiling villagers along the way; and the not-so-smiling military during a time of civil war. While spending a few winters circling the volcanic crater lake of Attitlan, I would run into a village, greet the Indigenous people, buy some tortillas and bananas, then move on from village to village in this way. When I tired, I would get a room for about a dollar, jump in the lake to bath, relax and munch out on tropical fruit and an assortment of other goodies the rest of the evening. It was a rough life! .... After awhile, as I would be entering the outskirts of each village, the women and children would line the streets calling out "El Caballo Blanco," and the kids would follow me, laughing. Kind of sweet; so I carried this name with me throughout my travels in Latin America; and I think that the image of a caballo blanco must be rather endearing to Latin and Indigenous people, because I have always been greeted warmly, bringing a smile when I introduce myself.
While in the mountain cabin where the Indians, gringo sponsor, and I were staying, I was addressing the runners; "There is a woman who will be running the race; a very special woman runner who has great powers, como una bruja" [like a witch]. She has a very good chance of winning this race! The Raramuri were talking frantically among themselves; "A woman win?". At that, the gringo's eyes rolled back in his head and the now familiar scowl had re-appeared on his face. The only word I understood of the fast and quiet-speaking Raramuri, was "bruja"; this word being repeated softly by all of them; "bruja....bruja.....bruja".....like, did ya hear that? bruja! "The best way to run this race," I continued in my gringo horse Spanish; "is, do not PASS la bruja until near to the end; run her down like a deer." The Raramuri were chattering very briskly; the language sounding like a flock of birds, with maybe a little martian thrown in; the gringo sponsor scolded me with an intense glare. It seems the Tarahumara believe in both brujas and space-men.
It was too late for the sponsor to shake me. The Raramuri had taken to me, this caballo loco; and besides, he needed me to run with the leading Raramuri as they liked and trusted me.
Mr. Promoter kept the Raramuri as isolated as he could; at least, isolated from anybody when he was not around to protect them from the outside world that he had brought them to. A television crew was in Leadville to televise the race event; the town buzzing with it's usual pre-race excitement; and even more so this year. "La Bruja"-- Ann Trason, was widely known in ultra running circles around the world as being the best woman ultra-distance runner on the planet, having won many a race among top women AND men; a living legend. There would be a very strong field all around for this race, a breakthrough year for Leadville. Many of the American runners had begun to complain about the presence of the Raramuri. Also, many of the American runners were thrilled by the return of these beautiful and unique people. It was a mixed bag. Mr. Promoter would strut around town with "his" runners in tow, making sure that nobody would get too close. It seemed to me, that although shy, the Raramuri also enjoyed interacting with friendly people. Who doesn't appreciate a smiling face showing kindness and respect? Certainly, not all of the faces were smiling.
There was a tension building between the promoter, race officials, and the race sponsor. It looked like the Raramuri promoter was going to pack them all up into his van and take them back to the border. It seemed there was an argument about some payment. I don't know; I was just having fun visiting with the Raramuri in the cabin, while telling stories and showing them the decals of animals on my infamous camper truck, pictures of the Oso [bear], leon de la sierra [mountain lion], and Pescado [actually, a big salmon that I don't think they have ever seen or have a word for]. The night before the race, it looked like the gringo promoter was going to take his Indians and leave.....too bad. Then, at the final moment, apparently a deal had been struck between all concerned who had been arguing.
I don't think that anybody asked the Raramuri what they wanted to do.
Guadajuko [Tarahumara word meaning: cool!] Vamos a correr [we are going to run].
4 a.m: Let the games begin.
Over 400 runners were lined up on sixth and main street to start the Leadville 100. Most were stretching and shaking off the pre-race jitters. A group of seven runners in colorful blouses, wrap around skirts, and home-made tire-tread sandals were standing to the side, totally relaxed, performing their Tarahumara stretching routine that consisted of doing nothing. It was too cold in the mountains at 10,000 feet, and there were no big rocks near the street to accommodate the usual pre-race practice of laying around on rocks; so, the Raramuri just stood there, showing no signs that they were about to depart on a 100 mile race through the mountains of Colorado, competing with some of the best Ultra runners in the United States.
The shot-gun sounded the start of the race.
This year, there were a few younger Raramuri, including 25 year old Juan Herrera, who went out much faster than had the team of older Tarahumara that had come to Leadville the previous year. There were many more runners than usual in this year's race, that had filled up beyond the entry limit, in very large part due to the presence of the Raramuri. The first six or seven miles of the race were on pavement before merging onto a single-track trail around Turquoise lake. For the runners wanting to be among the leaders, a strategy is to be sure to start fast enough so as not to be behind too many people when running on that single-track trail in the dark, early hours of the morning. Of the seven Raramuri running this years race, five were all from the same mountain village of about 500 people. The gringo promoter had found them simply by asking around in la Sierra Madre, where did the best runners live. Juan Herrera and My friend Martimiano Cervantes were favorites among the Raramuri to win. Juan had told me that the 41 year old Martimiano was the best runner in their village. Juan was very confident, almost cocky. Martimiano just grinned; he was cool and confident.
During the early stages of the race, I was just hanging out near to the mountain cabin in my camper truck, reading and resting. I would meet the runners and promoter in Twin Lakes, at the 40 mile mark. Pacers were allowed to begin running with the racers at Winfield, the 50 mile mark, just a few hard miles after descending the mountains from the high point of the race, crossing Hope Pass at 12, 600 feet.
The first runners coming off the Colorado trail into the village of Twin Lakes, at 40 miles, were "La Bruja"--Ann Trason, and Matimiano, who had made the mistake of passing la Bruja, and another Tarahumara runner who had also passed la Bruja. Juan had arrived just after the others in the lead pack. Everybody in the lead pack was setting an incredibly fast pace on this beautifully sunny Rocky Mountain day. Just before entering the aid station in Twin Lakes, Ann had re-passed Martimiano and the other Raramuri who had passed her. "Ask them how it feels to be passed by a woman!," snarled la Bruja. "Learn Spanish and ask them yourself," I smiled. She was intensely competitive. "I hate them," she was heard to have said.
I jumped in the promoter's van to ride around the mountain to meet up with the runners where they would be arriving at the dirt road after running over the mountains and crossing Hope Pass. Here they came, descending the mountain, in almost the same order that they had arrived the last I saw them; la Bruja in first place, this time followed by Juan, Martimiano, and the rest of the Raramuri, then a large gap before the other top Americans began to appear. My man, Martimiano, arrived at the dirt road with that usual big, peyote eating grin on his face. I grinned back, and a spectator handed him a cold bottle of Coke. Martimiano downed the coke in a second, then began to run the three miles on dirt road to Winfield, the turn around point of this out-and-back course. I trotted across the road from him, where I was excited to begin pacing him at Winfield. I knew that with Martimiano, I would get a good 50 mile run in! Half way to Winfield, the Indian was doubled over, holding his belly, groaning. The carbonation from the Coke had caused a huge gas pocket of a stomach ache; Martimiano was hurting. He hobbled the last couple of miles into Winfield, seeing la Bruja and Juan strongly running back on their return trip to the trail that would take them up and over the pass again, in the early stages of their return trip to Leadville.
At the 50 mile turn-around in Winfield, Martimiano was taking his time, trying to barf, unable to get anything out but a loud, musical "brrrrp". It was not looking good for the cool Raramuri with the handsomely chiseled features, lean muscular body, and almost perpetual big grin. He was not smiling now! I made him eat a banana, grabbed his hand, and said "andale huevon!" [move on big-balls--a Mexican term for lazy]. He laughed and reluctantly came with me, walking back up the dirt road until I got him to trot, then run back to the trail, seeing a handful of other runners headed for the turn-around, in closer proximity to us. I verbally drug him up the steep trail leading us towards the ominous Hope pass; telling him that this is where I had always wanted to quit, feeling crappy, too. I told him that when we reached the mother mountain of "Esperanza" [Hope], mama Esperanza would reward us by blessing us with power, and send us on our way down her gentler side with speed and grace. Sure enough; she did! Martimiano had recovered. We had lost a great deal of time battling his illness, but, he had returned from the near-dead, and we were flying with the grace of Esperanza, dancing over rocks on the long descent to the lake-side town of Twin-Lakes, still in third place, with nobody near behind us, and La Bruja with the stalking Juan ahead of us.
Up ahead, after his arriving at Twin Lakes, Juan Herrera had been joined by his pacer, a very talented distance runner from San Diego named Jamie Williams. They were tailing la Bruja and her pacer. Whenever la Bruja would pull over to tie her shoe, take a pee, or whatever, Juan would stop until she was ready to continue, being sure to follow my advise: "Don't pass la Bruja." I would later read an account of the race by La Bruja, Ann Trason. In her account, she had said how un-nerving it had been that Juan would not pass her, as if to say that he could pass her whenever he wanted.
Martimiano and I were enjoying the smooth and roller-coaster like section of the Colorado Trail between Twin Lakes and Half-Moon campground. I told him that we would caminar [walk] the steeper ups, and run the downs and levels. When we hit an up-hill, Martimiano would say "arriba [up]; caminamos [we walk]". "You call that an arriba?! Andale, huevon"; I would crack the verbal whip at the laughing, lazy Indian; and we would run the hill.
We were on the roll again, up and down the roller-coaster, coming out of the wooded trail and into the Half-Moon campground aid station, where a film crew was waiting; the camera-man rudely pushing the camera into the face of the uncomfortable Martimiano; the commentator announcing; "Coming off the trail in third place, at this, the 70 mile mark, is a Tarahumara runner, Martimiano Cervantez, and his American pacer, Colorado's Micah True. Micah, can you tell us; is there any kind of secret to the amazing endurance of the Tarahumara's.....what do they eat?" I did not want to hang around long, as Martimiano was clearly uncomfortable, but I answered the question; "Why yes, that would have to be the three P's. The Raramuri eat the three P's every chance they get." The commentator was excited to have the scoop. "Ladies and gentlemen, you are about to hear it, exclusively on this station; the nutritional formula that is the secret of the Tarahumara! Micah, What are the three P's?" "The three P's, are: PINOLE, PISTO, and PINOCHA". We turned to run away as the commentator loudly repeated into the camera, the secret nutritional formula of the Tarahumara. Martimiano wanted to know what was so funny, as I had an even bigger than normal grin on my face. He wanted to know what I had told the television commentator. The three P's, according to Caballo Blanco, were: PINOLE [corn powder]--PISTO [hard booze]--PINOCHA [slang word for female genitalia]. Please excuse me. I had to pick the laughing Indian up from the trail, because he had been laughing so hard...........Andale [move on]!
We were running at a fast enough pace to cover the long dirt road section between Half-Moon campground and the Fish Hatchery aid station in the daylight. After Fish Hatchery, which is a medical check-point, begins a long jeep-road climb that seems to go on for-ever, up over Sugar-loaf pass. When Martimiano would start to get too serious, I would remind him to eat his three P's. We would laugh and lightly hike the long climb.
It was after crossing the pass and running down the other side, that Martimiano and I began to have an extended conversation about 'La Bruja'. My Spanish was definitely limited, and so was Martimiano's, as he is a very traditional Raramuri who speaks the Raramuri language and very little Spanish, yet; our communication, under the full moon, and during our whole race journey, had been very good. We understood each-other completely. Sometimes, laughter speaks much more clearly than words. We spoke of how much respect we had for La Bruja and her amazing performance ahead, and how we were going to tell her so later, after the race. We were going to present her with "Korima" [a gift].
It had been on this section, the descent from Sugarloaf pass before arriving at May Queen campground, when Juan had finally over-taken La Bruja, flying by her in the night with his pacer, Jamie, letting out a loud war-hoop! Jamie could barely keep up with the blazing Juan, who picked up his pace to arrive in Leadville, the winner and new course record holder, taking almost 30 minutes off of the previous record; finishing in a time of 17:30. Ann had run the third or fourth fastest Leadville 100 ever, with an amazing time of 18:04! This time shattered the previous women's record, that I believe she still holds, and most likely, always will.
Martimiano finished 3rd place in a time of 19:40. 4 of the first 5 finishers were Raramuri. The 7 Raramuri all finished in the top 11.
At the awards presentation, I gave a speech honoring the great runner, Ann Trason; saying how Martimiano had been very impressed with her, and had made her a gift [korima]. "On behalf of my Tarahumara friends, we would like to present Ann Trason with this gift." The Nike sponsored athlete came forward to receive her gift, a pair of hand-made huarache sandals.
The Tarahumara were never invited back to run Leadville, even though standard race policy is that ALL past champions are invited automatically. This rule did not seem to apply to the Raramuri.
May the Raramuri and all of us continue to run free.
This is one of the wonderful stories Micah originally wrote on his site caballoblanco.com.
By Micah True
It was a sunny winter day in the Batopilas canyon of the Copper Canyon region of Mexico. The man called 'Caballo Blanco' was running back from the Tarahumara village of Munerachi, where he had looped into from a mountain trail and was now running trails along the river on his way back to his home in the deep canyon town of Batopilas. He passed an ancient Tarahumara indian walking along the trail. The two foot travelers acknowledged each other with the tarahumara greeting 'kuira'[hello].
Caballo Blanco had finished his 24 odd miles on the trail, had taken a shower, walked to 'Clarita's' for lunch, visited with friends all day, and was now sitting on the porch of his friend Mario's tienda[store] when the ancient old Indian whom he had passed in the morning, was entering the town of Batopilas, some 12 miles from where Caballo Blanco had encountered the old timer hours before. Caballo Blanco asked Mario to get him something to eat and drink, quickly!
Upon the old mans passing the tienda, Caballo Blanco handed the ancient Tarahumara elder a bottle of Coke and some really sweet cookies, along with mouthing the word 'korima'[gift]! This kind of junk food was not what the running man would have given had he had his druthers, but the old man responded with a big toothless grin and happily accepted the sweet treats. Mario, who speaks fluent Tarahumara, conversed with the old indian awhile, speaking very slowly, forming each word carefully, as the old indian was deaf and could read lips.
The 'gringo' called Caballo Blanco was moved. This old Tarahumara indian was nearly 100 years old, and he was still walking the trails all day to get to where he was going. Nobody ever told him that he could not do this! Nobody ever told him that he was supposed to be in an old folks home, or hospital. This old Tarahumara would walk until he died, and there was something profoundly beautiful about this.
What are our limitations? Are these limitations dictated by our culture? Quien sabe. To me, this old Tarahumara indian is a hero, an inspiration, a free man.
Run Free, Micah True [Caballo Blanco] La Sierra Madre--Mexico
This is one of the wonderful stories Micah originally wrote on his site caballoblanco.com.
By Micah True
In a small Ranchito called 'Los Alisos' lived an octogenarian couple named Señor and Señora Torres.
"Corazon, you are my left arm", he told her. "And you, you are my right", she said.
It had been a long time that they had been together, either remembering a time when they were not.
"They say the world is changing", he said. "Oh, is it?..... I love you".
It had been many, many years since they had sex. Yet, they made love every moment of every day and night. With a mischievous twinkle in her eye, she said,
"Remember when we made love the very first time, under this tree, this 'alisos', so many years ago?"
And the alder had lived a full life, tall, wide and strong; it's presence and strong spirit watching over them and their rancho. Daily, they would visit this ancient spirit, spending time together in the comfort of it's friendly familiarity, like the relation that it was. And other relations, la familia del pajaros azules [blue birds] would visit, feeding on the kernels of maiz that she would leave out for them daily.
The Torres clan had laid claim to this little piece of property in the lush arroyo 'Los Alisos', that is one of the many side canyons of La Sierra Madre, running like so many winding arteries into the heart of the 6,000 foot depths of the mighty Urique canyon in the Copper Canyon region of Mexico. The family had resided in this arroyo paradise since Mexican miners had discovered silver in the canyons, oh, many generations back. And what remained among the alders, the sister sycamores, the ruined adobe structures of a past thriving settlement, was the old couple and their ranchito, along with an orchard of giant toronjos [grapefruit trees] that produced the most grande, ripened on the tree, sweetest grapefruits that one would ever experience.
The Torres family had no money; they did not need money; they were rich, having each-other, the company of the alders, sycamores, los pajaros azules, giant grapefruit trees, their garden, plots of corn and beans. What more was there?
Sometimes, a 'gringo' hiker would pass the rancho, wandering the canyon country, dehydrated and disoriented. 'Los Alisos' would seem like a mirage, an oasis with her lush bounty of fruit and fresh spring water. These encounters also provided wonderful entertainment for the old couple, and a chance to extend hospitality, to hear stories of other places while sharing of their now vanishing world.
The old man knew every little goat trail and shortcut that there was in la sierra, and could climb like a goat, leaving young hiking travelers in the dust, their tongues hanging out; this was good fun.
The old man had just escorted some exhausted, disoriented young hikers to the rim of the canyon, bid them 'que le vaya bien', and continued his walk to another rancho even higher in la sierra, where he was to examine a couple of burros that were for sale. The acquisition of these animals would make life easier for his amor verdad [true love], who cooked over a wood fire, daily gathering the wood fuel, grinding the corn by hand for the fresh, whole grain and hand patted tortillas gordos [fat ones].
He had been gone, walking and visiting, for a couple of days, and on his way back to Alisos. Old man Torres stood on a rock overlook, taking in the incredible views of the grand canyon, that in all these years, he had never lost his awe and appreciation of, in all it's beauty, no matter how many times that he had gazed upon her; like his wife; like La Sierra Madre [the mother mountains], that in his heart, was a metaphor for his beloved one. They were all connected.
He was now walking on a soft, high mountain trail that was covered with pine needles, gradually descending into oak trees that had huge leaves like elephant ears, that when dry, would fall to the ground, covering the trail, rendering it invisible but for the rocks and the leaves that would make a loud crunching sound when walked on. This loud crunch of the leaves in the calm silence of la sierra, would announce the approach of on-coming people or animals from a great distance.
The ol' timer reflected on how this year, something strange had been occurring; the pajaros had been dying; and his favorite horse had suddenly taken ill and died from some mysterious ailment. The people had said that a new virus had arrived from 'el otro lado' [the other side]; and was being passed on, carried by mosquitoes.
It was while eating a lunch of maiz tortillas and frijoles, that he suddenly felt a sharp pain in his left arm, his heart fluttering. The octogenarian was up and running; gracefully springing from the firmly planted rocks that he called 'ayudantes' [helpers], avoiding the smaller, fist sized rocks that could trip one up; these he called 'chingocitos' [little fuckers]. He was moving like a runner many years younger; he just knew that he had to get back to his amor.
Upon arrival at the ranchito, he found his love in a weakened state, shaking from fever, unable to move. He cradled her in his arms all night, nursing her with warm tea and grapefruit juice, kissing her, telling her he loved her.
In the morning, she opened her eyes and with a smile on her face, asked to be buried under the old Alisos where they had first made love;
"and do not forget to feed los pajaros azules."
Then, she passed. The old man buried his beloved where she had asked, then planted yet another young alder on top of the mound of earth that was her grave. He made the sign of the cross, then spread a couple handfuls of maiz kernels on the ground, welcoming the blue-birds as they fed; the old timer knowing that their spirits would be here, together always. What better place to be?
This is one of the wonderful stories Micah originally wrote on his site caballoblanco.com.
By Micah True
It was late in the winter of 1995. The gringo called Caballo Blanco had returned to the Copper Canyon after spending the winter running through the jungles of Quintana Roo, on the Yucatan peninsula. The previous fall had been his first trip to La Sierra Madre Occidental [the mother mountains of the west]. That is when he had delivered 400 quality coats and sweaters donated by the good people of Boulder, to the village of his new Tarahumara runner friends whom he had met at the '94 Leadville 100. Every man, woman and child of the high mountain village of Choguita had received a quality coat or sweater, coming from a town that was known for quality. Caballo Blanco had vowed to return, and to visit the deep canyons that he had heard so much about, to run and explore.
Here he was, sitting on the train on his way to the 6,000 foot deep canyon town of Urique, where the plan was to do a fast/pack running trip over to Batopilas canyon in 1 day. Nobody that anybody knows had actually made this trip from town to town in one day; oh sure, from river canyon to river canyon at times, but not the towns of Batopilas to Urique or visa-versa. Of course, thought Caballo Blanco rather confidently, the people that live in these parts are just a bunch of cigarette [did i spell that right?] smoking Mexican cowboys and marijuana growers! And the Tarahumara Indians that lived in the canyons had no reason to travel from one canyon to the other. Certainly an ultra runner from Colorado would have no problem making this journey in one day. The man called horse had hitch-hiked from the train station to the village of Urique, where he got a $5 bed in the hotel canon, ate a hearty meal in the morning, then set out for his canyon to canyon run. Running down river along a new dirt road, he would look across the Urique river to the east, at the mother mountains, seeking out a trail that he could take out of the canyon, climbing to the top of the mountains, where it would then be easy sailing down into the Batopilas canyon [not!]. A local had told him about a new motorcycle trail that the governor of the state was building for his spoiled son, who was an avid motorcyclist. No problema! This nice smooth trail climbed upward, not too steep, and Caballo Blanco was on the move, endorphins buzzing through his happy state of cerebral bliss.
What happened to the trail? It seems to have disappeared, like it was 'beamed up'. Every which way he searched, following goat trails that would dead end at a little abandoned rancho, circling back to point 0, nada; looking at his watch, so much for a record, unless he got moving soon. Heck, it was only a few hundred meters to the crest of the mountains, as the buzzard flies; and they were, los zopilotes [buzzards] circling overhead, curiously watching this gringo loco who was now scaling the flaky rock faced mountain, water bottle between his teeth, looking down below at the long drop, above at the grinning vultures who were anticipating a meal. How did he get himself into such predicaments? Sometimes, in the quest for adventure, he would find himself living an epic that really was not so enjoyable while it was happening, although fun to tell stories about later. Crawling on his belly like a reptile, pulling himself upward by grasping at plants growing precariously from the canyon-side, he finally arrived at the rim and crest of the mountain, exhausted. Regaining his breath, he ran along the mountain ridge to the south, knowing that Batopilas was in a southeast direction. Oops....a dead end again, this time surrounded by tall weed like plants with big buds that smelled strongly of skunk........hmmm... Buzzing along his way again, or out of his way, the thirsty horse-man had been dry quite awhile now. He took a pee that was orange in color. He recalled being dehydrated at the Wasatch 100 miler one year, peeing the same color. "Hey Gordon, what do ya think of this?", he had asked his rocket-scientist running buddy that day in the past, that was now blending into the present. "Not good"; had confirmed Gordon, showing why he was a rocket scientist.
Spotting a shallow pool of water, colored brown with cow shit, he filled one water bottle, dropped two iodine tablets into the murky mix that was floating in his water bottle, made the sign of the cross, and continued his run. Stumbling onward, he spotted a little ranch where a Tarahumara man was plowing a field. The Tarahumara man sent his young son to the well to fill Caballo Blanco's water bottles, and gave the depleted traveler a bag full of pinole. "Korima" [sharing], was the only word spoken by the gracious Tarahumara; and fueled by the korima, the generosity of these humble people, fueled by the beauty of La Sierra Madre, the running man called horse continued his run without incident until arriving that night at the lovely deep canyon town of Batopilas, thoroughly trashed, humbled by La Sierra Madre; NO records!
This is one of the wonderful stories Micah originally wrote on his site caballoblanco.com.
By Micah True
It had been a good winter in La Sierra Madre of Mexico. Caballo Blanco had spent his first winter season in Batopilas canyon, getting to know the people and finding his way around. He had run strong, having had run two races with the Raramuri people, and was beginning to feel that he had found his way home in the deep canyon country of the mother mountains.
It was April; and time to start driving his '69 Chevy truck back up to the states to begin another work season. The peaceful horse had heard that there would be a spring--Easter week protest at the Nevada nuclear test site, on Western Shoshone land adjacent to the test site. The test site was on land that the U.S. government had stolen from the Western Shoshone nation in the 50's in order to test nuclear weapons. Of course, The method used to steal the land was the paper method; paper money and paper words in the form of a legal contract.
Driving his old '69 Chevy truck north through the highlands of la Sierra Madre, Caballo planned his route for the trip. He had always wanted to visit a point on the map called Silver City in New Mexico, and the Gila wilderness area; and more specifically, to swim in the Gila river, where he had read that his childhood hero, the Apache warrior Geronimo, had been born.
Why was Geronimo his hero? He had refused to go onto the reservation.
Crossing the U.S. border at the small village of Columbus, New Mexico; he drove 80 miles due north to the high desert town of Silver City, located at the foot of the Gila mountains. Upon arrival at the local hostel, he bought a bed and was filling out the paper-work at the front desk when he noticed the display of postcards for sale. The White Horse-man saw the fierce face of Geronimo, holding a rifle, flanked by warriors. Without thinking, he automatically bought the last six remaining post-cards, and went to his bed, where he read the back of the card, that said; "Geronimo, flanked by his best warriors; Naiche, Fun, and White Horse. Photo taken in the Sierra Madre mountains of Mexico in 1886."
While not very surprised by this synchronicity, the traveling man was inspired to get a good nights sleep and continue his mission; to drive his pick-up to the Nevada nuclear test site. There, he would sweat in the lodge, participate in ceremony with the people, and play a small part in the planning of the Easter Sunday mass action that would culminate the week of the protest encampment.
Caballo had arrived in the desert of Nevada, sixty miles north of the decadent city lights and wasted water of Las Vegas. Tents and tepees were set up along the scrub covered landscape, across the highway from the guarded main gate that marked government property, the entrance to the little town of Mercury, that was the main facility, where government workers, scientists, and contractors resided during their various work shifts.
The Western Shoshone spiritual leader, Corbin Harney, with the persistence of the bear that is his spirit animal, led morning sunset prayer, which consisted of facing each of the four directions, in prayer, acknowledgment and thanks to "All our relations"--the rocks, trees, crawling ones, winged ones, four-leggeds, and us, the confused ones; the two-leggeds [humans]. The confused ones because we tend to consider our-selves to be separate from the rest of nature.
After running cross-country in the desert, circling the encampment from hill to hill to hill to hill, in all of the four directions, Caballo was standing, facing west towards the setting sun; thinking. A Native American participant approached the contemplative man, asking; "What is your spirit animal?"
"Funny you should ask. I was just thinking about that;" answered Caballo Blanco. "My spirit animal is the white horse."
"I can see that. You should always be aware of, and cultivate the presence of the white horse;" confirmed the native man.
They entered the sweat-lodge, along with the rest of the men of the encampment. The women had a separate sweat-lodge, where all would purify them-selves before dinner and meetings; the meetings educating the campers on nuclear issues; and planning the week of prayer leading up to the Easter action.
Caballo was always sitting on the out-skirts of these meetings, taking them in, but, not really participating in the planning, or the actions of the various groups of eco-warriors
All of the group actions consisted of ultimately getting arrested, and Caballo had no intention of getting arrested; and in fact, had a strong fear of any kind of incarceration; a fear that he had carried with him all of his life, having had recurring dreams in his youth of being held captive, unable to move freely, trapped on a reservation. He was definitely more than a little claustrophobic. Perhaps that was a reason he is a long distance trail-runner!
It was Easter Sunday. The mass action was beginning. All of the campers; Shoshone people, activists, hippies, house-wives, and grannys against war, were marching towards the main gate to the Nevada nuclear test site, holding banners and chanting; the drummers sounding the peace drums.
As usual, El Caballo was walking behind, watching and taking it all in.
He spotted a 250 pound man in a wheel chair that was being pushed by a couple of women; at least, they were trying to push him. The man in the chair had cerebral palsy and seemed delighted to be a part of the demonstration. Caballo was moved.
He approached the man in the wheel-chair, speaking to the man and the women who were protectively watching over him. "Can I push you? I'll take you anywhere you want to go".
"Yeah;" said the man, excitedly.
The women reluctantly stepped aside.
"I'm White Horse; whats your name?
"Bond," answered the man; but, I did not understand what he was saying.
"What?"
"Bond......007^; confirmed the man.
"Oh.... Bond! Hey, 007; Let's go. I'll take you anywhere ya want to go. Want to go up to the front with the drummers and eco-warriors?"
"Yeah!" exclaimed the excited man.
Caballo grabbed the chair and started running, pushing the big man towards the front of the procession. "Beep-beep....beep-beep," sounded Bond; and the sea of protesters parted to let us through. We were cruising, and Bond was loving it!
We arrived at the front of the long procession, with the drums sounding, the warriors chanting; and the big security guards who were at the gate, issuing warnings: "Go back; do not cross this line onto government property, or you will be arrested."
A group of Shoshone elders were gathered, sitting to the side while the crowd sang songs of protest. I recognized one of the elders as being Bill Rossy.
"Hey Bond, ya want to go over and join Bill and the other elders?" Bill signaled us to join them. Bond was honored to be in the company of the elders.
The whole throng of protesters formed a circle around us; the elders, Bond and I. I was massaging Bond's shoulders and neck. The energy surged through him and into my fingers when the crowd danced in a moving spiral, in and out, around us, chanting; "Si se puede [yes, we can].....si se puede.....si se puede....si se puede; four times for the four directions. They continued the spiral dance and chant for what seemed like hours. Bond was rushing; he had never before been in such a place. I was feeling a contact rush from the energy that was being emitted from Bond, and the honor of having helped him to be in that place, at that moment.
The spiral-circle dance had ended. The crowd of protesters was walking to the main gate of the nuclear test site, to cross the line and be arrested, go limp, and be dragged to a cattle pen that was being used to hold prisoners until they were processed by the Nye county sheriff's office.
I was talking with Bond. "Hey Bond; I'm gonna take a run through that desert. This is for you, brother." I said adios to Bond and walked to the forbidden line, where the guard was addressing me with his often repeated speech; "You are trespassing on government property. Turn back or you will be arrested."
I smiled; "Catch me if you can, fat boy." I counted coup by lightly touching him, then, ran through the main gate, surrealistically running through the desert, headed for Mercury and the mountains beyond; not really knowing where I was running, just running, and praying; feeling released of that fear of being arrested. So what; arrest me!
After a mile or two, I saw that nobody was coming after me, so circled back to the main gate, where all of the protesters who had crossed the line were being held in the holding pen, singing; the women shrilling. I circled the holding pen four times, then stood in front of the main gate, taunting the guards to come after me. "Come on; earn your pay; get some exercise." By the looks of them, the guards could certainly use it.
"Why don't ya get in your dune buggy and come get me?"
The guards were talking among them-selves, discussing the situation. I heard them say that they should send Jones after me, because "Jones runs a mile every day."
"Your gonna have to do better than that, Jones!"
I came close enough to all of the guards so that I would count coup by lightly touching each of them; they, wondering aloud what the hell I was doing. Then I turned to continue my run across the desert. "Adios."
The desert was beautiful; this place of nothingness; nothing but life and spirit.
State patrol cars were zooming up the road towards Mercury. I looked to my right, away from the road and towards the desert peaks that loomed jaggedly above the vastness of scrub, cactus and other relations, who's presence I was acutely aware of, thanking them for sharing their home with me, the cross-country running horse.
I was galloping briskly for those hills, knowing that once I reached the rocky steepness of the mother mountains, I would be safe from anybody chasing me down with motorized atv's or other vehicles.
The wind was blowing through my longish hair, the light of the desert sun bathing me with inspiration; silly and free...free and silly.....like a child that I am, at times. I was in my 40's, going on four; running for no reason but to be a part of where I was running.
Reaching the hills, and climbing; sandaled feet stepping lightly over the loose, scree rocks [chingocitos--little fuckers], that could trip one up. Every chance I had, would step on and spring off a firmly planted helper rock [ayudante], boosting me forward. "Gracias ayudante!"
At the top of the highest pyramid shaped peak, the panorama of this desert 'wasteland' was as stunning at that moment as anything I had ever seen. I stood on top of that peak all day, looking around and praying; the prayer consisting of appreciation of the environment, the moment, the connectivity of all of us. Yes, even the big fat guards!
At the end of the day, just before the setting sun, I scurried back down that peak and across the desert from where I came, in a direct line towards the main gate; the guards lined up to stare at me coming straight at them, with a big, inspired grin on my sun-kissed face. I was calm as the saguaro when i stopped in front of the guards to say; "Thanks for letting me run across the desert. It is really beautiful out there."
"Oh, it is, huh!"; snarled one of the big boys, who seemed to look forward to busting me.
"Have ya ever been up there?" I pointed to the pyramid shaped desert peak. "You should really go up there some time; really incredible views of this beautiful place; might make you think twice 'bout the bombing and nuclear tests."
The Nye county sheriff had long since processed and released all of the protesters.
There were a few who stuck around to see what would happen to me.
The sheriff approached; "Did ya have fun out there?"
"Yes, I did."
"Ya know, ya really hurt the big guys feelings." He gestured towards the beefy guards who I had insulted.
"I'm sorry. I just wanted them to come after me. Are you going to arrest me?"
"Do you want me to arrest you? THEY do." The big boys were drooling for revenge.
"I don't care; do what ya want or need to do."
The sheriff took out his citation book. "I'm going to write you a citation for trespassing."
"Last name?"
"Horse," I answered.
"First name?"
"White."
"Address?"
"La Sierra Madre mountains of Mexico."
Continued the sheriff; "Ya got a telephone number down there, White Horse?"
"No phones....we send messages by drum."
The sheriff shook his head and handed me the ticket.
"350 bucks!?" I exclaimed with shock.
The sheriff smiled; "Hey White Horse; is anybody ever going to find you? Have a good Easter."
The sheriff had a point there. He was a good guy.
Mas Locos y todos... For me, the celebration of 2008 is more special than ever, and as a result, I have pulled all stops to help create beauty.
As many of you know, It was a difficult late summer/fall for the ol` Caballo, having contracted and just recovered from West Nile virus, then driving my truck over the edge of a 90 foot cliff just before entering my destination of the deep canyon town of Batopilas. I count my blessings; you all, among them.
What probably saved my life was the fact that I took out a tree while falling. That broke the fall. That tree gave her life for me. Thank you sister.
After recovering, a certain intensity to really live came over me. Who knows where or what I will be next year, and I have become obsessed to leave something of sustainable significance behind...hence, the seed farm. I almost traded some of my personal values in exchange for a pretty good donation to our seed farm...NOT to me; to our sustainable agriculture aspect of this run event.
Thanks to our unconditional sponsor, El Zorro del Cielo, and his donation to us through Native Seeds/Search, I will soon be prepared to purchase up to 10 tons of corn for the Raramuri people. The prizes for the top 10 runners is 7 1/2 tons of corn, and any canyon Raramuri who finishes the run receives 500 pounds of corn......After the 10 tons--20 thousand pounds are awarded, anybody else who finishes prizes are up to me to supply. And I hope to have the honor to buy more!
This event is not about the BEST....we want to encourage Raramuri to run, whether good runners or not.
SEEDS: In taking full responsibility for my decision to turn down the gear company offer to donate pretty good--but, not good enough money to our seed farm, in which all of your feedback was very important to me, wondering what the true cost of accepting money from a corporate interest would be, I feel personally obliged to do my best to give back to NS/S and grow that seed farm, so that in the future, we will not have to deliver so much corn.....So that the people will once again take pride in being the self-sufficient, independent ones that they have historically been.
The world is changing. The basic concept of unconditional love remains the same.
It would be really cool to have the ability to go out and win a thousand bucks this race, then give it back to the people! That will not happen for me, so, I pledge a thousand bucks from whatever I earn as a guide this year to our 2009 seed farm.
Thank you all so very much for attending this party....taking the time and expense required to do so.....I REALLY appreciate you, from Mas Locos, to aspiring to be, to aspiring to aspire.
Tu Norawa--amigo, Kaweki Rosakame--Caballo Blanco
Sunday morning was announced by the many roosters crowing. The RD, Caballo Blanco, did not have to worry about awaking on time, because he had not slept - all week! He would sleep when it was over. It was a beautiful race/run in which everybody involved was able to actively participate and see the progress of the race as it unfolded, due to the format of out and back loops, up river and down. Each loop had an added trail extension climbing 1,500 feet or so up lovely side canyons. The course is mostly rough dirt road with the extensions being awesome trail, some rocky and narrow; the Los Alisos loop, 7 miles total of trail extension, is absolutely gorgeous! I had the opportunity while trotting along, to encourage all "Bien Hecho" - well done.
105 runners finished the 47 mile ultra marathon to win the minimum 500 pounds of corn awarded to ALL finishers, including 64 year old Tom Masterson, from Canada and Boulder, el Marmot, who finished the 47 miler in just under 12 hours. Tom gave it away to the old folks of Urique. All "Gringo" participants finished the 36 1/2 mile version, at least. Bien Hecho!
Places 1-5 won a ton of corn each. Places 6-10 won over $200 dollars and a half ton of corn.
In addition: First place won 30,000 pesos - over $2,000 Second place: 20,000 pesos - $1,500 Third place: over $1,000 dollars Fourth place: over $600 dollars Fifth place: over $350 dollars
Further calculations add up to: The top 5 won a total of 100 costales of maiz. The second 5 won total 50 costales. The finishing 95 after that won a total of 475 costales.
Yes, MORE prizes to finishers than winners.
625 costales of Maiz, at 50 kilos a costale, is over 62,000 pounds of Maiz - the cash equal value to purchase other foods as needed - which is 31 tons of Maiz.....
NOT a bad day at the office!
There were 7 beautiful Mukiras [Raramuri women] running, and they all won excellent prize money and maiz [corn]. Lucilla, the local health clinic worker, finished the race in 14 hours, showing why women are tougher!--:] She won cash and corn. We had one "gringa" woman run with us this year, compared to the eight we had last year - Thank you Vicky Stephens of the U.S. Army! - and we hope to have many more again next year!
The international winners ALL gave their corn back to the Raramuri and local people in whatever form they chose. The overall race winner, Will Harlan [El Chivo], gave all of his cash and corn to the first Raramuri, third place Arnulfo, saying that Arnulfo was the "True" champion, not having the luxury nor means to be able to train, covering ultra distances in daily life wearing huarache sandals just to work and live, tending his goats. When Arnulfo was asked by the press what he was going to do with all the money he had won, he said "Comprar chivas" [buy goats]....It was very beautiful that the winning "Chivo" [goat] would choose that spirit animal as his helper--:] Everybody won a wonderful experience. The participating Tarahumara runners were all fed and housed during their stay in Urique, treated with respect, like champions.
The "gringo", international runners interacted with all like the brothers and sisters we are. Everybody and anybody who participated in the 2009 CCUM [Copper Canyon Run], in any way, shape, or form, was sure to have left the deep canyon country knowing that we are ALL winners. To run free in peace and harmony, to act out of love and KORIMA [Raramuri word meaning: sharing], transcends the negativity, greed and violence that has become and remains all too common.
May the Raramuri and ALL of us continue to run free.
Andale!
Micah True Caballo Blanco---RD
Top 10:
Will Harlan [el Chivo[ North Carolina--6:38:51 Hiroki Ishikawa [El Dragon] Japan--6:45:48 Arnulfo Quimare--Munerachi, Batopilas--7:05:36 Juan Quimare--Munerachi, Batopilas--7:11:22 Silverio Morales--Guachochi--7:14:03 Florencio Quimare--Ocorare, Batopilas--7:17:40 Luis Cleto--Piedras Verdes, Urique--7:19:22 Roberto Salinas--Guachochi--7:27:30 Selvando Gutierrez--Munerachi, Batopilas--7:34:15 Jamil Coury [El Carnero] Arizona--7:39:05 Nick Coury [El Aguila] Arizona--7:39:05
225 starters for the varied distances. 105 finished the 47 mile Ultra Marathon, including the last finisher in over 14 hours, Lucilla Vega of Urique.
An AMAIZING 31 tons of corn [the value of] was awarded to the people.
In case you are wondering "What the ........"
The top 11 were already mentioned...Nick and Jamil tied for 10th place. We had 4 Mas Loco gringos [and Hiroki!] in the top 11, but only Tom Masterson finished the 47 miler after that. The rest were mostly Tarahumara with LONG names, that I cut to two! And upon typing most of them, I could not send nor save - lost in cyberspace!
So, finally managed to get this list out between cyberspace and copper Canyon trail-space!
Maurilio Churo--Bocoyna- Marcial Luna--Gavilana, Batopilas Jose Madero--Choguita, Guachochi-- Erculano Reyes--Guachochi Isidro Borica Piedras Verdes, Urique Felipe Quimare--Chinivo, Batopilas Manuel Luna--Gavilana, Batopilas Arturo Hernandez--Guaguevo, Urique Juan Roman--Guachochi Emilio Torres--Guapalyna, Urique Leonardo Perez--Piedras Verdes, Urique Anastacio Perez--Piedras Verdes, Urique Jose Hilario--San Jose Del Pinal, Urique Ignacio Bustillos--Guachochi Juan Contreras--Guachochi Santiago Hurapache--Munerachi, Batopilas Dolores Estrada--Huicorachi, Urique Corpus Estrada--Huicorachi, Urique Sebastiano Gutierrez--San jose, Batopilas Martin Quimare--Chepatare, Batopilas Porfirio Villegas--San Jose, Batopilas Arnulfocito Mendoza,-- Santa Rita, Batopilas Rey Gutierrez--Batopilas Arfonso Gutierrez--Batopilas Ignacio Palma--Kirare, Batopilas 9:19 Juan Churro--Bocoyna Ramon Leon--Corareachi Carlos Herrera--Choquita, Guachochi Sebastiano Contreras--Guachochi Eligio Batista--Guachochi Roque Perez--Guachochi Juvencio Rojas La HIguera, Urique Modesto ubezari--Cineguita Barrancas Isidro Carillo--Churo, Urique Arturo Gonzales--Guachochi Manuel Munoz--Guapalayna, Urique Benjamin Nava--Panalachi, Bocoyna Rosario Quintero--Piedras Verdes, Urique Clemendo Patricio--Batopilas Mario Rodriguez--Urique--10:02 Antonio Palma--Batopilas--10:05 Emigdio Hernandez--erocaui, Urique--10:12 Evaristo Cubezari--Chinivo, Batopilas--10:14 Marciano Salmeron--Huicorachi, Urique--10:15 Luis Cubezari--Batopilas--10:17 Loreno Herrera--Guachochi--10:19 Selvando Cubezare--Batopilas Juan Rojas--Batopilas Horacio Estrada--Huicorachi, Urique Evaristo Leon--Coreachi Jose Merino--Mesa de Moribo Porfirio Villegas--San Jose, Batopilas Javier Cubezare--Batopilas Albino Gonzales--Guadalupe Coronado, Urique Santos Gonzales--Guachochi Angel Aguilar--Churo, Urique Julio Cabada--Pie De La Cuesta, Urique Reyes Gonzales--Gpe Coronado, Urique Pablo Ortega--Cerocahui, Urique Bautista Gonzales--GPE Coronado, Urique Ramon Ramirez--Guachochi Porfirio Gonzales--GPE Coronado, Urique--11:17 Lazaro Cubezare--GPE Coronado, Urique--11:24 Enrique Salas--Huicorachi, Urique--11:50 TOM MASTERSON--BOULDER COLORADO-11:53 Nicolas Mora--GPE Coronado, Urique--11:56 Felix Nunez--Batopilas--11:56 Felix Nunez--Batopilas javier Moreno--Urique Patriio Leyba--Batopilas Rafael RAMIREZ--Urique--12:08 Bruno Portilo--Urique--12:08 Lorenzo Castro--GPE Coronado, Urique Evaristo Cubezare--Cineguita las Barranas Juvenio Gonzales--GPE Coronado- Morenos Contrera--Guachochi Luis Martin--Guachochi Rosario Ramos--Guachochi--12:14 Miguel Perez--Guachochi--12:15 Eber Urial--Chihuahua--12:23 Daria Gabelgan--Chihuahua--12:23 Felix Ayala--Coreachi--12:30 Gabriel Mora--GPA Coronado Sergio Moreno--GPA Coronado Frederico Tores--GUachochi Ercolano Urapachi--Batopilas Carlos Cocheno--Urique Antonio Prias--GPA Coronado Antonio Delgado GPA Coronado Arnulfo Gonzales--Urique Candelario Perez--Guachochi Hermilo Gonzales--GPA Coronado
Women.
Maria juliana--Huicorachi, Urique--10:29 Cristina Vega--Guachochi--12:28 Mariela Largo--Guachochi--12:28 Luciela Vega--Urique--14.00