My feet throbbed as we pressed through the cloud forest between La Neveria and Latuvi in the high Sierra Norte, just outside of Oaxaca, Mexico. Everyone knows the cardinal sin in trekking is trying to break-in out-of-the-box boots on a real trail. I should have known better. Wearing my Italian boots a few times to the local Albertsons grocery this winter wasn’t enough. Yet, in simply looking up at the virgin forest, my aching feet became an afterthought.
The Sierra Norte boasts ten types of pines and eight species of oak trees, so thoroughly strung with Spanish moss and air plants that a distant hillside appeared gauzy. Bromeliads, mosses, snake cactus, and tiny, fragile orchids thrive in this high country. Huge, hulking maguey plants seemed to glow in the first light of the day. Their broad, thorny fronds sagged over the walking path. But the thing I grew to love most on my four-day trip through those mountains were the bird songs.
In these remote, rarely visited mountains, the brown-backed solitaire never made any money off his looks---plain plumage, medium build. But the bird’s trilling, accelerating calls are stunning – and nearly continuous. As we departed the tiny mountain town of La Neveria (named in respect to its historic role in selling ice to the residents in the valleys below), the solitaire never let me trudge too far without rewarding me with song. Our guide, Jonatan Cruz Ceballos, who grew up in the nearby village of Benito Juárez, said the brown-back solitaire’s voice sounded like pouring water. Water was a theme with Jonatan. He was so acquainted with the natural springs that he timed our breaks at spigots emerging from the hillsides deep in the forest, stopping and pointing to the natural springs trickling from the slopes before he knelt to drink. There were always two open pools; one for the animals to drink, and one for humans. Ours was covered by a few agave fronds, a cup nearby for dipping.
We followed the same pre-Columbian trading route used by Zapotec people for thousands of years. The network of footpaths went back and forth between Monte Alban and its neighboring communities. Before the Spanish arrived, it’s estimated that half a million people lived in the Oaxacan Valley. “This route goes from coast to coast—the coasts of Veracruz, to the Oaxacan coast. And all across this route, the Zapotec people walked across the valley, the mountains, the valley again,” said Jonatan. He said that as they traded with neighboring tribes, the Zapotec modified their language, culture, and art. The result is a complex cultural tapestry that, remarkably, still retains much of its character and independence.
The eight high mountain communities, or Pueblos Mancomunados, though independent, share a common area of natural resources. Their names ring like birdsong: Benito Juarez, La Neveria, Latuvi, Llano Grande, San Miguel Atmatlan, Lachatoa, Yavesia, and Caujimoloyas.) Community service drives them, and much is expected from the residents. Everyone must participate in unpaid, one-year community service assignments. Jonatan explained how he has accepted volunteer positions at the school and as a peace officer. Eventually, he will have to take his turn in administrative duties. All of these positions are unpaid, mandatory appointments, requiring that you put aside some of your personal aspirations and put the community first. Itzel Perez, who married a man from Caujimoloyas and now works as a tour organizer for Expediciones Sierra Norte said, “All the people have the decisions for what position you might get. You might do the beds for one year, or work in the ecotourism office, or the community restaurant. In ten years, you can be the mayor.” It’s a bedrock style of democracy.
Though I had a hard time with the translation, mancumunados seem
Ecotourism has slowly taken hold in the Sierra Norte. Programs are designed for small group, experiential, sustainable visitations. Of course, if you want to design your own route, you are free to come and go as you want. Guests are introduced to the foods, the way in which the people live at this elevation, and most importantly, their enduring concepts of community service. The communities decided that each village must have cabins, a restaurant, and various hiking and outdoor opportunities. Add in classes in medicinal plants, traditional foods, and opportunities to visit people’s houses for shared meals, and you get the Rutas de la Naturaleza, linked trails that lead to authentic experiences in a natural setting.
As our small group pulled up the long incline toward Latuvi, we passed a pair of American hikers and their guide heading in the opposite direction. We stopped by a stream that, if I didn’t know any better, looked like a high mountain trout stream in Colorado. I peeled off my boots and soaked my feet. It occurred to me that a Zapotec traveler might have rested at this same spot some 4,000 years ago, perhaps mildly concerned about being watched by a jaguar. Farther, as we neared civilization, we saw fields of calabaza and chilacayote squash dotted with little, temporary huts where farmers take their midday meals.
We reached Latuvi, a quaint village with steep cobbled streets and an enormous basketball complex. Basketball is the preferred sport in these mountain communities. It makes sense as there isn’t enough flat land to construct a soccer pitch. At the ecotourism office I refilled my water bottle while the others snatched some WIFI signal, the first we had in days. My cabana was a comfortable adobe building that looked out over the tumbling expanses. There was a fireplace with kindling and logs already in place. The days were hot, but the evenings sent the thermometer plummeting. I could see irregularly shaped squash and corn fields in the distance, dangling farmsteads that seemed pinned to the mountainside.
A street dog that was obviously related to my first Labrador, Sweets, came to my door and looked in with sympathetic eyes. We recognized each other immediately. She attached herself to me and followed as I went down the winding mountain path to meet a woman who makes the ancient drinks pulque and tepache, both slightly alcoholic beverages made from the “honey water” drawn from maguey, or agave, plants. This high up, you don’t say buenas tardes. You say padiuxh, as a Zapotec traveler would have said one-thousand years ago. Words here are a pleasure. So is having a stray dog see something in you that seems to have been missing for months.
The dog waited patiently by my side while Jonatan described the importance of the agave plants to the local culture. Mrs. Marta, who hand-crafts these ancient drinks, harvests up to 200 liters of honey-water from a single maguey. She makes her living selling fermented beverages, to the community. The huge agave, blue in the twilight, was taller than Jonatan. He said when he was a boy, he’d take the broad leaves, remove the spines, and use them as a sled to ride over the pine needles on the steepest inclines. He’s never seen snow.
Jonatan explained that Mrs. Marta uses the same agave plants her mother planted. It takes that long for them to mature to the point that you can harvest their nectar. She’s now planting new plants that she will not live to see their use. The next generation will inherit them and her recipes. In this way, the culture continues. There are no short-term ventures up here. We were not allowed to go into the room where Mrs. Marta worked; fermentation relies on microorganisms, and she didn’t want ours in the mix. But we were welcome to the outcome.
The pulque was wonderfully sour, a bit like kombucha. There was a plain version and a version with sweet banana. The tepache was stronger, and flavored with pineapple.
The dog accompanied me back to my cabin. She cocked her ears at the songs of solitaires. I wanted to peel my boots off and get some rest. The next day was full of more hiking. We were headed to Llano Grande. At the cabin door, the dog watched as I unlaced my boots. “Padiuxh,” I said. She cocked her head. I left the door open in case she wanted to come in.
Some kids were coming up the street and she joyfully ran to them, wagging her tail the whole way. They knew her. And she knew them. She flopped on her back and the children rubbed her tummy. She closed her eyes at their touch, more evidence that she was a direct descendant of my old hunting dog, gone now some twenty years. Somebody whistled across the lonely valley expanse. The dog trotted to fetch her dinner. Her ears were up and alert.
How is it that I meet her wherever I go?
About the Author: Dave Zoby has been writing stories about the outdoors for over twenty years. A regular voice in publications such as Gray's Sporting Journal, The Drake, Wyoming Wildlife, and others, Dave is an avid fly fisherman and upland hunter. His essays have won awards and been anthologized. Dave lives and teaches in Casper, WY.
