Chapter 29
The past is never dead. It’s not even past.
—WILLIAM FAULKNER, Requiem for a Nun
I WAS ALREADY awake and staring into the dark when Caballo came scratching at my door.
“Oso?” he whispered.
“C’mon in,” I whispered back. I blinked on my watch: 4:30.
In half an hour, we were supposed to start out for our rendezvous with the Tarahumara. Months earlier, Caballo had told them to meet us in a little glen of shade trees on the trail up Batopilas mountain. The plan was to push up and over the peak, then down the back side and across the river to the village of Urique. I didn’t know what Caballo would do if the Tarahumara didn’t show up—or what I’d do if they did.
Travelers on horseback give themselves three days for the thirty-five-mile journey from Batopilas to Urique; Caballo planned to do it in one. If I fell behind, would I be the one wandering lost in the canyons this time? And what if the Tarahumara didn’t show—would Caballo lead us into no-man’s-land to search for them? Did he even know where he was going?
Those were the thoughts that kept me from sleeping. But Caballo, it turned out, had worries of his own. He came in and sat on the edge of my bed.
“Do you think the kids are up for it?” he asked.
Remarkably, they seemed fine after their near-death day in the canyons. They’d put away a good meal of tortillas and frijoles that evening, and I hadn’t heard any sounds of distress from the bathroom during the night.
“How long till giardia hits?” I asked. Giardia parasites, I knew, had to incubate for a while in the intestines before erupting into diarrhea, fever, and stomach cramps.
“A week or two.”
“So if they don’t come down with something else by this morning, they might be okay till after the race.”
“Hmm,” Caballo muttered. “Yeah.” He paused, obviously chewing over something else. “Look,” he went on. “I’m going to have to pop Barefoot Ted between the eyes.” The problem this time wasn’t Ted’s feet; it was his mouth. “If he gets in the face of the Rarámuri, they’re going to get real uncomfortable,” Caballo said. “They’re going to think he’s another Fisher and split.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to tell him he’s got to keep it shut tight. I don’t like telling people what to do, but he’s got to get the message.”
I got up and helped him roust the others. The night before, a friend of Caballo’s had loaded our bags on a burro and set off for Urique, so all we had to carry was enough food and water to get us there. Bob Francis, the old backcountry guide, had volunteered to drive Luis’s father the long way around the mountain in his 4×4 pickup, sparing him the hike. Everyone else turned out quickly, and by 5 a.m., we were picking our way over the boulders toward the river. The canyon moon glittered on the water and bats were still darting overhead as Caballo led us to a faint footpath skirting the water line. We fitted into single file and shuffled into an easy jog.
“The Party Kids are amazing,” Eric said, watching them glide along behind Caballo.
“They’re more like the Comeback Kids,” I agreed. “But Caballo’s big worry is—” I pointed ahead to Barefoot Ted, whose outfit for the hike consisted of red shorts, his green FiveFinger toe shoes, and an anatomically correct skeleton amulet around his neck. Instead of a shirt, he wore a red raincoat with the hood knotted under his chin and the rest flapping loose over his shoulders like a cape. Jingling from his ankle was a string of bells, which he’d gotten because he’d read somewhere that Tarahumara elders wore them.
“Good mojo,” Eric grinned. “We’ve got our own witch doctor.”
By sunup, we’d left the river and turned up into the mountains. Caballo was pushing hard, even harder than he had the day before. We ate on the move, chomping down quick bites of tortilla and energy bars, sipping conservatively on our water in case it had to last all day. When it got light enough to see, I turned and looked back to get my bearings. The village had vanished like Brigadoon, swallowed whole by the forest. Even the trail behind us seemed to dissolve into the thick green foliage as soon as we passed. It felt like we were sinking into a bottomless green sea.
“Not too much farther,” I could hear Caballo saying. He was pointing to something I couldn’t make out yet. “See that cluster of trees? That’s where they’ll be.”
“The Arnulfo,” Luis said, wonder in his voice. “I’d rather meet him than Michael Jordan.”
I got closer and saw the trees. I didn’t see any people.
“The flu’s been going around,” Caballo said, slowing down and tilting back his head to squint at the hills above us for signs of life. “There’s a chance some of the runners will come later. If they’re sick. Or if they have to take care of their families.”
Eric and I glanced at each other. Caballo had never mentioned anything about the flu before. I eased my hydration pack off my shoulders and got ready to sit down and rest. Better take a break now till we see what’s next, I thought, dropping the pack at my feet. When I looked back up, we were surrounded by half a dozen men in white skirts and pirate blouses. Between blinks, they’d materialized from the forest.
We all stood, silent and stunned, waiting for a cue from Caballo.
“Is he here?” Luis whispered.
I scanned the ring of Tarahumara until I spotted that familiar whimsical smile on that handsome mahogany face. Wow; he really came. Just as unbelievably, his cousin Silvino was right beside him.
“That’s him,” I whispered back. Arnulfo heard and glanced over. His lips twitched in a slight smile when he recognized me.
Caballo was overcome with emotion. I thought it was just relief, until he reached out with both hands toward a Tarahumara runner with a mournful, Geronimo-like face. “Manuel,” Caballo said.
Manuel Luna didn’t return the smile, but he sandwiched both Caballo’s hands with his own. I walked over. “I knew your son,” I said. “He was very good to me, a real caballero.”
“He told me about you,” Manuel said. “He wanted to be here.”
That emotional reunion between Caballo and Manuel broke the ice for everyone else. The rest of Caballo’s crew circulated among the Tarahumara, trading the special Tarahumara handshake Caballo had taught them, that light rasping of finger pads that is simultaneously less grasping and more intimate than a big ol’ powerpump.
Caballo began introducing us. Not by name—in fact, I don’t think I ever heard him use our names again. He’d been studying us over the past three days, and just as he’d seen an oso in me and Barefoot Ted had spotted a monkey in himself, Caballo felt he’d identified spirit animals for everyone else.
“El Coyote,” he said, laying a hand on Luis’s back. Billy became El Lobo Joven—the young wolf. Eric, quiet and ever watchful, was El Gavilán, the hawk. When he got to Jenn, I saw a flicker of amused interest briefly light up Manuel Luna’s eyes. “La Brujita Bonita,” Caballo called her. To the Tarahumara, steeped in tales of their two magnificent years at Leadville and the epic battle between Juan Herrera and Ann “the Bruja” Trason, calling a young runner “The Pretty Little Witch” had exactly the punch of nicknaming an NBA rookie “Heir Jordan.”
“?Hija?” Manuel asked. Was Jenn really Ann Trason’s daughter?
“Por sangre, no. Por corazón, sí,” Caballo replied. Not the same blood, but the same heart.
Finally, Caballo turned to Scott Jurek “El Venado,” he said, which even got a reaction out of too-cool Arnulfo. Now, what was the crazy gringo playing at? Why would Caballo call the tall, lean, and supremely confident-looking guy “the Deer”? Was he giving the Tarahumara a foot tap under the table, a little hint how to play their cards on race day? Manuel remembered very well the way Caballo had urged the Tarahumara in Leadville to sit patiently on Ann Trason’s heels and “run her down like a deer.” But would Caballo favor the Tarahumara over his own compatriot? Or maybe it was a setup— maybe Caballo was trying to trick the Tarahumara into holding back while this American built an unbeatable lead….
It was all mysterious and complicated and thoroughly entertaining to the Tarahumara, whose love of race strategy rivaled their taste for corn beer. Quietly, they began to banter among themselves, until Barefoot Ted barged in. Whether accidentally or prophylactically, Caballo had bypassed Ted in the introductions, so Ted presented himself.
“Yo soy El Mono!” he announced. “The Monkey!” Hang on, Barefoot Ted thought; do they even have monkeys in Mexico? Maybe the Tarahumara don’t know what a mono is. Just in case, he began hooting and scratching like a chimp, his ankle bells jingling and the sleeves of his red raincoat flapping in his face, somehow thinking that impersonating a thing they’d never heard of would let them know what that thing was.
The Tarahumara stared. None of them, incidentally, wore bells.
“Okay,” Caballo said, eager to drop the curtain on this show. “?Vámonos?”
We reshouldered our packs. We’d been on the climb for nearly five straight hours, but we had to keep racing the sun if we were going to have a chance of fording the river before dark. Caballo took point, while the rest of us shuffled into single file among the Tarahumara. I tried to put myself last so I wouldn’t slow down the parade, but Silvino wouldn’t hear of it. He wouldn’t move till I moved first.
“?Por qué?” I asked. Why?
Habit, Silvino said; as one of the top ball-racers in the canyons, he was used to keeping tabs on his teammates from the rear and letting them pull the pace until it was time for him to slingshot off for the final miles. I was tickled to think of myself as part of an All-Star Mixed Tarahumara-American Ultrarunning Team, until I translated what Silvino had said for Eric.
“Maybe,” Eric said. “Or maybe the race already started.” He nodded farther ahead. Arnulfo was walking right behind Scott, watching him intently.