Singletrack/MTB
Gravel/All-road
Dirt-road Touring
Fat-bike
Giant Agaves and Permagrins on Oaxaca’s Micro Vuelta
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As Oaxaca’s eco centres open their gates to outsiders, Cass heads back into the mountains to re-ride a familiar route with new friends—and a dog in a trailer behind him. Doing so reveals that even in the height of the dusty dry season, the Sierra Norte remains awash with life, as long as you take the time to look around you…
Perhaps at this point, Huesos needs no introduction. Since he’s entered my life, I’ve been sneaking his disarming permagrin onto the site whenever the opportunity avails itself, because there’s no doubt that this former street dog’s smile is contagious – in the best possible way.
Certainly, it’s one reason why I’ve struggled to see him leave my side, which has had two consequences. The first is that I’ve delayed aspirations to travel beyond Mexico for now, keeping instead to local bikepacking trips. The second is that I’ve delved ever more deeply into a genre of bicycle touring previously unknown to me: dogpacking. In terms of the latter, I initially added a doggie backpack to my gearlist for singletrack overnighters into the Sierra Juarez. Then, in eyebrow-raising discordance with the minimal setups I aspire to, I bolted a rack and milk crate to my ridiculously lightweight titanium bike, to open up trips along the Mitla valley floor with my four-legged friend. Then came the addition of a third wheel, in the form of Frances Cycles’ beautiful handmade Farfarer, adding further style to Huesos’ ride.
But this post isn’t about gear as such. It’s about our ride: retracing the first Oaxacan loop I posted to the site, after unexpectedly finding myself rehomed here during Covid-19 limbo. It’s now been over two years since I first rode the Micro Vuelta de la Sierra Norte, because shortly after we completed it, the region completely gated itself off to the outside world. It’s only as the worst of the pandemic finally subsides that these small and close-knit Zapotec communities, dotting this vast and rugged mountain range, are finally reopening to outsiders again. Community-run eco centres are back in much-needed business, promising the passing cyclist everything from a tableful of delicious Oaxacan fare and a chance to fill bottles with spring water, to a cosy bed in a rustic cabaña, or a simple spot to pitch a tent.
It’s now mid-March and we’re in the midst of the dry season, augmenting the call of the mountains all the more. Granted, it also makes the climb to enter this higher realm more punishing too, especially in the initial escape from the now dusty foothills that guard the valley floor. Oversleep and it’s at least a couple of hot and sweaty hours before elevation offers some respite, and you can break free of the desert brush and bathe in shade cast by towering pine-oaks teeming with flowering epiphytes. It’s this high-altitude montane cloud forest, so abundant with plant life, that makes the Sierra de Oaxaca – one of the most well-preserved biospheres in Mexico – so very appealing.
Thankfully, I have company to share this clammy challenge. Tim and Cassie Buhl are en route from Montana to Guatemala via the Western Wildlands, the Baja Divide, and the Trans Mexico. I’m especially happy to have them along as both are dog lovers to the fingertips, which means they’ll be able to offer input into Huesos’ comfort and well-being, too. They’re aboard their trusty Tumbleweed Prospectors, and like many long-distance bikepackers, they’re constantly analyzing ways in which they can streamline their belongings, especially given the climbs that await them in Guatemala. Knowing full well how valuable it can be to glean saddle time with potential new gear, I offer to loan Cassie my Tailfin AeroPack, as she’s begun eying her Chromoly rack with increasing suspicion. We even decide that with the reopening of the region’s eco centres, we’ll avail ourselves of their cabañas and save weight by leaving camping gear behind – putting money into local pockets too.
It’s the morning of our departure and of course, my bike preparations take a longer than expected, because this is the first multi-day trip I’ve planned with the Huesos in the trailer. The promise of an unrelenting day of sunshine means I’m keen to follow a more direct route to our first night’s stay, the eco centre at Arroyo Guacamayas, a site that lies perched high above San Agustín Etla at over 2,800 metres. I’ve learned from experience that at this time of year, anything short of a sunrise exodus means payment in beads of sweat. And, not that I’m making excuses here, I also admit that I’m worried that such a big first day risks being too much for both me and Huesos, especially as the trailer, and what he makes of it, still remain an unknown quantity.
To claw back some valuable time – and more importantly, to trim down a pre-climb prelude of undulating foothills – we follow the abandoned railroad out of Oaxaca, a service that once ran all the way to neighbouring Puebla. Besides, following the railroad has its own somewhat haphazard charm. Popular with local cyclists, a potholed dirt road hops and skips from one side of the remaining tracks to the other. En route lies Mogote, a Zapotec archeological site with a steep flight of steps that promise both a far-reaching view across the Etla Valley and an audience with an old, decrepit, but magnificent organ pipe cactus. From there, it’s countryside roads that pass enormous Fuschia Bougainvilleas – invasive gifts from the colonial Spanish – brightening up an otherwise ochre landscape. There are challenges too, even if they mostly involve racing to overtake put-put moto-taxis at topes – speed bumps – so jarring they’re enough to put your back out, before we retire to refuel at a pre-climb roadside diner, Oaxacan style. Comida economica, my favourite!
To think that once, in my search for high mountain drama, I might even have considered such sedate countryside touring somewhat tame! Now, with two years of exploring terracerías to my name, I’ve learned to love nothing more than linking one small village to the next, enjoying the ‘mundane’ as much as the more glamorous sights that this remarkable state has to offer. Sometimes these snapshots are as simple as a newly painted mural adorning a cemetery, or a man piloting a yellow trike loaded with furniture. A faded American pickup truck pressed into service for perpetuity, or double-tubed Benotto singlespeed leaning up outside a barbershop. Even a memela dolloped with salsa on a plastic plate, perfectly offset by a plastic tablecloth, can capture the essence of why bike touring in Mexico now feels so very unique and special to me.
We can’t delay the climb any longer, though. As expected, it’s long and relatively arduous in places. We’ve passed midday and Huesos waits for me in any thin slice of shadow he can find. Sweat stings my eyes and has me wobbling from one side of the dirt road to the next. Still, we’re riding light and we have a cabaña to look forward to. The younger version of me would likely have shaken my head at such indulgence. The 48-year-old one has learned to enjoy seeing his money go directly into the communities that have been my dormant neighbours for these last couple of years. And besides, at less than $15 per head for a night in a lovingly maintained, adobe-brick structure, it’s not exactly breaking the bank. When we do make it to Ecoturismo Arroyo Guacamaya – set just below a tiny hamlet that’s only been open for two weeks – we’re welcomed in warmly by the Zapotec manager and made to feel very much at home. Dinner is a banquet of fish soup, quesadillas, and cucumber and lime agua fresca; Huesos is happy too, feasting by my feet on kibble, tortillas, and a bone. The night is a quiet one, which is never a given because here in the Mexican Multiverse, you’re rarely far from a pack of barking dogs or a midnight brass band practice.
Beyond Arroyo Guacamayas, our ongoing climb is unpaved, just the way I like it. Those who chat to us the following day – when we pause to negotiate a digger churning up the land – report with excitement that cement is finally coming to the area, maybe even this year. I know full well that paved roads bring a number of benefits to these remote communities, yet still, I’m always disappointed when one more mellow dirt road in the world is lost to the inevitable advent of fast vehicular traffic. Not that I have too much to worry about right now, because we soon turned turn away from the roadworks to trace the old forest track to Ixtepji instead. Narrow and dust-free, it’s exactly what we’re after. As I’d hoped, Huesos trots alongside his newfound pack on the climbs, lingering to sniff and investigate any sights and smells that catch his attention, then hops in the trailer on longer descents. He’s still young, so I don’t want him to overdo it.
Shortly past an particularly impressive and tall grove of old-growths, Cassie’s Gaia app suggests that a dirt road that I’d not had a chance to investigate will likely connect further up along the route, saving us a descent and a climb in the process. We decide to give it a go, and initially it feels like a good call. Bromeliads cling to pine trees and wispy lace lichen hangs from knurled oak branches. Gigantic blue agaves dwarf our bikes and spindly Santa Catarina thistles stand head tall around us. Verges team with lupines and delicate red Sierra Madre Lobelias. Despite the lack of rainfall, the forest is alive and well.
Unfortunately, our enthusiasm for travelling through this wonderfully unblemished land is soon tempered when we’re stopped by a pickup truck, and our plans challenged by two men from the nearby town of Nuevo Zoquiápam, to whom this tract of land belongs. Apparently, not only is this road is closed to outsiders, but there’s a conflict with the neighbouring community of San Agustin Etla at the moment.
To be fair, I’ve had similar experiences in the Oaxacan mountains before, and despite my best intentions, there’s often no way of avoiding them. Rarely are there any barriers that suggest onward travel might be questionable, and in this case, we’ve even following handmade signposts that point us towards Oaxaca, in a way that certainly suggests the road is relatively well travelled. Still, it’s clear that the plight of three tourists and their dog is far from a priority for them, and we’re told in no uncertain terms that we’ll need to turn back. Explaining how far we’ve come, I ask instead if we can continue through on this one occasion and they agree, though we’ll need to pay a nominal fee first. This isn’t quite as dubious as it sounds. In the Sierra Norte, a number of communities charge outsiders to access their land. Generally, a receipt that ensures it’s an offical decree, and that the money will be put back in community coffers to help maintain the forest.
Negotiations over, our self-appointed escorts drive ahead of us to ensure we know the way (or perhaps, lest we’re tempted to stray onto other enticing dirt roads), before drawing us a map in biro on the back of a piece of cardboard and bidding us farewell. Sure enough, the road does connect with the original Micro Vuelta route, as we’d hoped, and it does so further up the valley from Nuevo Zoquiápam, saving us a few hundred metres of climbing. We’re now on Ixtepeji land and ahead lies just a short stin to the Centro Ecoturístico La Cumbre Ixtepeji, where we spend the night in another cabaña. At close to 3,000 metres, it’s far cry from the valley floor below and cold enough that we thoroughly enjoy the fire that’s been preapred for us – the chopped wood is so expertly stacked in the cabaña’s chimney that it takes just a single match to set it ablaze, where it spits and roars for the next hour.
Come morning, we can’t quite manage to extricate ourselves from under the various heavy blankets draped across our beds, at least in time for the sunrise climb to Peludo Chico lookout, a slightly optimistic plan I’d pitched the night before. But we do get up early enough to enjoy the glorious morning light across the Sierra de Juárez, enjoying the company of both Huesos and Tank, a friend he’s made at the eco centre. Tank’s nickname seems apt considering his stature: short legs and a torso that’s pure muscle. As the two newly found friends trot behind us, they wrestle and roughhouse in doggie bliss, then, they chase us on our ride around Ixtepeji’s fabulous trail network. I’ve planned a short singletrack sampler that feeds us back down to the eco centre for a classic Mexican mountain breakfast: fried eggs, frijoles, avocado, and tortillas. I just wish I could say the coffee was as strong and fresh as the salsa. Pro tip? Order the Oaxacan hot chocolate and lace it with your own stash of instant supplies for that extra morning mocha zing.
All that remains is the long and whirligig return to the valley floor once more, passing flowering maguey and the delicate, claw-like flowers of Mexican Hand Trees. The descent is steep too, so much so in parts that it’s concreted for grip. Huesos is enjoying a free ride behind me because it feels prudent to let him rest his young paws after all his efforts over the previous days, which is exactly what I’d hoped where I’d hoped the trailer would help out. Perhaps because of this, however, it’s not long before I’ve cooked my brakes and I’m wailing my way down the mountains like a banshee. Note to self: pump levers and don’t drag them next time.
From San Andrés Huayapam, a town famed for its tejate – the pre-Colombian frothy and fermented energy drink made from mamey and cacao, served in painted gourds – a rough dirt road leads us towards the outskirts of Oaxaca and straight into its city hubbub. First though, there’s the obligatory stop for ice cream at one of my favourite paleta emporiums – or rather, a blink-and-you-miss-it, family-run corner store, which can only just fit a freezer full of colourful delights. If the sheer variety feels overwhelming, may I recommend queso y mora…
In stark contrast to the cool mountain air we awoke to, it’s oppressively hot down in the frying pan of the Mitla valley floor. The climbs are too steep to be tackled with 17 kilograms of Zapotec pup behind me, so Huesos is back out of the trailer and loping along once more, his long tongue slapping around to either side of his snout. Back in the trailer when we hit pavement again, he beams generously, benevolently, and handsomely at everyone with whom we cross paths, leaving me to field the flurry of waves and peels of laughter that come in reply. The sight of this street-dog-done-good in his fabulous chariot never fails to bring smiles into the world… which feels especially good, given these troubled times.
Then, our dusty convoy is wiggling through city traffic and we’re back home once more, windows open and fan blasting to circulate hot and stuffy air in my apartment. Tim and Cassie load their bikes back up to full fighting weight in preparation for their ongoing travels. We all bid each other a fond farewell, before they head back to their hostel to scrub off a thick layer of dry season dirt. Perhaps saddened by the loss of his pack, Huesos flops down on the sofa for an afternoon siesta.
Accessing the Sierra Norte by bicycle is always a challenge, and even more so with a dog in tow. But having Huesos along for the ride is also a good excuse for me not to rush. To stop and spend time, and pesos, in these mountains. To commune with the maguay, the bromeliads, and the ferns.
This trip has also reminded me to reach out and say a friendly hello to those I meet. A smile and a “buenas tardes”, or a “que le vaya bien”, goes a long way in these small mountain communities, as does thanking those who live there for sharing their roads and their land. Set against the open-hearted kindness of the vast majority of people I meet, even the unfortunate news of road closures can be viewed in a positive light: it’s a good reminder that we’re lucky to have as much access as we do to this vast swathe of community-owned forest. If it means adjusting my expectations as local decorum demands, so be it. The Sierra de Oaxaca is a beautiful land owned and maintained by those who have lived here for millennia, and I feel grateful to be able to pedal my bike through much of it. And on this occasion, to have Huesos along for the ride, too.
Complementing the San José del Pacífico Grand Dirt Tour, this vueltita into the Sierra Norte offers a chance to explore the rugged mountains that provide a lush backdrop to the beautiful city of Oaxaca, famed for its fine cuisine and vibrant arts scene. Choose from a lean dirt road option, lace in cross-country singletrack as you go, or set up a base camp and spend a day hiking or riding the techy delights around La Cumbre. Whatever your preference, prep yourself for the climb ahead with a cup of Oaxacan coffee, devour a tlayuda en route, and enjoy a night or two camping out in the high country, where old-growth forest and a network of trails await. Full route guide here.
Follow along with Cassie and Tim’s via Instagram @funpedaler.
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