The Copper Canyon railway

I spent a couple of months in Mexico in 1999 in what, I suppose, was a toe in the travelling waters for me. Life was very different then: I was married, had responsibilities and all my focus and energies were directed towards my children, something not possible right now. Because things were different and we were where we were in life we could only afford those 2 months away when really we wanted 6 and In order to maximise our time we centred our attention on the Mayan heartlands in the south of Mexico, Belize and Guatemala and the beaches of Cancun and Acapulco. During this trip we bumped into a septuagenarian couple from Darlington called Cecil and Joan on 4 or 5 separate occasions and during one of our conversations they positively raved about the Copper Canyon railway. Since then it's been on my bucket list and so it was that we woke to our alarm at 0410 on Thursday morning and packed an overnight bag for a trip on this train. It was a slightly mute affair as we staggered around our room in the half light, semi-conscious and half delirious due to the ungodly hour. Neither of us are renowned for our ability to prise our ageing masses out of the sack until we absolutely have to but there was also something of an atmosphere in our room too on account of our "having words" the night before. I say we'd had words, it was more a case of Kerry standing in open mouthed incredulity as I vented about the parlous state of my potential footy watching over the next few days, one of which would see England in action. I probably don't have many sympathisers out there but, for me, the bi-annual football tournaments are just about as important as life itself. It is imperative that I see all the games that I possibly can and nothing, but nothing, can get in the way of an England game. I felt I was facing an impossible situation: potentially miss several games and possibly even England v Sweden or forego the opportunity to ride one of the worlds most scenic railways.  The station at Los Mochis is about 4km out of town so we went by taxi and were the second people there, arriving at 0455 for the 0600 departure. As we entered the station the one other guy there asked me to shut the door and over the course of the next hour it became apparent why. The area is riddled with mosquitoes and while we waited to board I was bitten 7 times and Kerry twice. Two of mine even penetrated the shirt I was wearing so it was a particularly determined assailant that took a shine to my gringo blood. I was also bitten on the left eyebrow, the swelling which, coupled with my still bloodshot eye, resulted in my appearance taking on that of the vampirical love child of John Merrick. Despite me taking more hits and them evolving into rock hard lumps over the next day or so I don't think I came off as badly as Kerry. Hers itched so much that she considered amputation of her left foot to deliver herself from her purgatory and it became so inflamed and painful that she had a job walking on it. At about 0530 the booking office window opened and we handed over a wad of pesos in exchange for 2 first class singles to Creel, a town 3/4 of the way to Chihuahua and where we had identified as being the optimum place to bale. You might think I see enough of trains back home and that the prospect of 10 hours trundling along at about 30mph would be enough to do my nut but you'd be wrong. I love foreign trains, there's something so exciting about the hubbub at the station before you board and of course everything on-board is so different from back home. Trains allow you to move around, you can take a leisurely trip to the John and not gag at the whiff emanating from the plastic kazi like on a bus and here in Mexico you can even lean out of the window at the ends of the carriages. So off we set, only 1 minute late at 0601, trundling through the state of Sinaloa at the aforementioned 30mph. The first 4 hours were pretty drab to be honest, flat farmland and scrub was the order of the day, though it was fascinating (if that's the correct word) to behold the utter poverty of people living in shacks by the side of the line. We also saw a few dead cows just laying by the line side, one of which was being eaten by vultures. Just over 4 hours in, as I was beginning to wonder what all the fuss was about regarding this railway and considering allowing my increasingly heavy eyelids to succumb to gravity, we entered the canyon. I'm not sure that I have the vocabulary to describe to you what we saw over the next 4 hours but I'll do my best. It was magic. Towering peaks surrounded us as our little 3 carriage train chugged ever upwards and we crossed bridges, went through tunnels and negotiated precipitous cliffs. With every passing minute you could but wonder how engineers ever built this railway, it is surely one of the most fantastic feats of engineering history. The immaculately turned out train crew were pointing out the places of interest as we progressed and it all made for an absolutely wondrous experience. At one point the line zig zags up a cliff before disappearing into a tunnel and then emerges into yet another breathtaking gorge. It is simply phenomenal and your wonder is heightened because you can stand at the open windows and soak it all up without panes of glass in the way. There is a loop at Divisadero so that the train in the opposite direction can pass and this is a 20 minute stop where a frenzy of taco sellers and craft stalls vie for trade. There is also a viewpoint for the canyon here and little Indian kids wander about trying to sell wristbands and the like. I'm an absolute sucker for a little girl looking forlornly at me whilst tugging at my trousers saying "diez pesos" so we bought two! A couple of hours later we arrived at Creel and made for the hotel Plaza Mexicana. It was a great move for the £32 per night tariff included brekkie, dinner and, most crucially, full sky tv. Even better was that Italy v Croatia was just starting on replay and was to be immediately followed by Spain v the Micks. Heaven! On Friday we had a quick look around, climbing up to the statue of Christ overlooking the whole town, but there isn't an awful lot to occupy you without taking a tour down into the canyon, hiring a quad or mountain bike or similar. As we discussed our departure at the station before heading back to the room to watch England v Sweden we met an English guy called Charlie from Oxford. Though plummy gobbed and prematurely grey his was a fascinating tale. He works in farming for 6 months of the year, cash in hand, spending the other 6 months on his lonesome travelling the world. He lives as cheaply as possible, hitchhikes, gets put up by an extensive network of friends and seemingly is about as free as one can imagine. Well, depends on your definition of freedom I suppose. I know people that that sounds like utter hell to. Maybe the definition of freedom is to work your nuts off and to spend 80% of your income on utilities, phone contracts, sky tv and running a car and just living for weekends. I don't know. Back at the room the usual roller coaster of emotions was experienced as a turgid encounter became hope, despair and anger and then unabated delirium. At last we have beaten Sweden in a competitive fixture and a draw against Ukraine will see us into the quarters. Plus, as things stand, we appear to have a master tactician at the helm and someone who can identify what needs changing during a game. Dinner that night in the hotel was a strange affair. We were brought a hearty soup to start containing rice, potato and carrots as well as a hulking knuckle of inedible meat. With that despatched we awaited the main course with interest only to be furnished with a yoghurt. We weren't entirely certain if the main was to follow the pudding or what so sat there like bookends to see what transpired. As it turned out nothing did. The knuckle soup was our dinner and, without wishing to sound ungrateful whilst in a country with such visible poverty, it was barely enough to feed a 2 year old so we ended up going out for another meal later on. Saturday was a travel day with us catching the train back to Los Mochis. There was confusion over the departure time of the train as one sign at the station suggested it would be 1147 and another 1227 whereas the ticket office clerk said 1120. In the end it rolled in at 1215 by which time we'd stood there for 90 minutes, handing out a few pesos to some Indian kids and watching them eat ice creams on us. With Creel at an altitude of 7800 ft and Los Mochis at sea level the train essentially coasts downhill for 10 hours. I reiterate though, what a joy and privilege it is to make this journey, truly one of the most memorable things we've done so far. The state of the track leaves an awful lot to be desired, the half dozen wagons being left to rot in the gorges having presumably derailed at some point don't fill you with much confidence and the impromptu epitaphs to track maintenance guys who have presumably plunged to their deaths is more than a tad disconcerting. Don't let anything like this put you off though. If you come to Mexico, do the Copper Canyon.