A gringo traveling in beautiful rural Sonora

In mid-March, I drove south from Rio Rico, Arizona to explore rural Sonora, something I’ve done many times.

As spring approached, the pull of this beautiful place had become irresistible. That’s because I kept wondering whether the huge cottonwood trees that line Sonora’s Rio Magdalena were leafing out.

The cottonwoods there, were indeed, leafing out – at least two weeks ahead of the cottonwoods that line the banks of the Santa Cruz River in the valley below my Rio Rico home.

The canyon near Curcurpe. It's carved out by the Dolores River, which feeds into the River Sonora farther south. Both rivers are among the rare perennial rivers in Northern Sonora. (Courtesy of Jack McGarvey)

I then drove on south to Santa Ana, a crossroads city where Mexico’s Route 15 meets Mexico’s Route 2.

I checked into my favorite “dog friendly” motel – Santa Ana’s Motel San Francisco. Via the Internet, I’d booked a suite ($500 MP or about $42.00 US) on the second floor, located above the utility room that Carmen, Dora, Rosario, and Lupe use to keep this somewhat dated motel one of the cleanest – possibly – in the Universe.

We exchanged hugs and cheek kisses all around. As we did, Lupe asked, “¿Dónde están tus niños?” By which she meant, where are my two golden retrievers?

I popped the rear door open on my van and out popped my dogs, tails swirling. They were as happy as I was to greet this merry quartet of smiling women.

I then handed Lupe a package of Nabisco’s Fig Newtons. And when I did, the women erupted in laughter, because they remembered one time I’d stayed at the Motel San Francisco, I’d denuded a fig tree in the lot behind the motel.

Once settled in, I then planned another trip to Curcurpe. To do that, I’d drive along a secondary Sonora state road, a winding road, well engineered, but not very well maintained.

But there are no real hazards on Mexico’s secondary roads, although when one dips down into a wash, it’s wise to slow down to pass over ribs of earth and rocks and stones, which were no doubt deposited there by the same “monsoon storms” we share.

Anyway, when I left Santa Ana early on a sunny Sunday morning, I discovered, once again, that the road to Curcurpe is, a “road less traveled.” It passes through a region that is almost unpopulated.

March in Sonora means flowers blooming with silver-tipped sahuaros framing huge vistas beyond. (Courtesy of Jack McGarvey)

During my two-hour-drive, I met my first oncoming car midway. Its driver smiled and waved at me. I smiled and waved back. (That’s an endearing Mexican custom when driving rural roads: One must smile and wave.)

As I drove, I glimpsed fault-block mountains (geologically speaking) streaking along my driver-side window. They had been anciently tilted up by the movement of cracks in the earth’s surface. They were topped off by huge cliffs draped with stunning colors, like vermillion streaked with marigold-yellow. Plus, patches of gunmetal gray lichens pasted on dizzyingly high cliffs of pinked, mauved, lavendered, and russeted sandstone.

I passed by ocotillo in full leaf, its nimble branches drooping under the weight of bursting vermillion blooms. A bit farther on, I passed a forest of sahuaros fattened by winter rain, their tops silvered by the morning sun.

When I arrived at Curcurpe, I took a left turn to drive into a canyon carved out by an ever-flowing, shallow river.

On my way up the canyon, I smiled and waved at a family that was cooking up a carne asada in a cave alongside the canyon.

After my dogs had drunk deeply from the river and romped around in its clear, pure water, I turned my car around.

When I neared the family on my way back, a boy of about ten flagged me down.

As he approached, my dogs stuck their grinning heads out the window, tails wagging fiercely. The boy hesitated.  “¿Muerden?” he asked.

“Nunca. Ellos sólo dan besos.”

He laughed, came closer to rub Molly’s head and asked, ¿Tiene hambre, Señor?”

“Sí, tengo mucha hambre,” I replied.

“My mamá says you must come eat with us,” he replied.

I remembered The Rule: “When in México, to decline an invitation to eat is to sin.”

And so, I shook the boy’s hand and accepted his invitation to enjoy one of the tastiest lunches I may have ever had.

The river is perfect for my "water dogs," Molly and Utah. (Courtesy of Jack McGarvey)