Along the Trans-Mexico Trail
Oaxaca to Raudales Malpaso, February 11 — 25, 2025
Okay, so Monday, February 10th, Rebekka drove me to the airport super early for a 6 AM flight to Oaxaca. I decided to fly first class ’cause it wasn’t much more money, and they let me check my bike for free. Went with American Airlines ’cause they were clear about the bike box size, unlike my headache with Southwest in 2023. My trusty bike, a Bombtrack with 3″ tires and the comfy Jones handlebars that I used in Baja, won’t fly Southwest again until they change their rules.
Last year, I drove my trusty Subaru all the way from my home in Colorado to Nicaragua and back. This year’s plan was different: ride a gravel bike through the mountains of Oaxaca down to Guatemala.
On the flight from Dallas, the guy next to me was renting a car, and his hotel was near my Airbnb in Oaxaca. He offered me a ride, which was awesome. We managed to squeeze my big bike box into his Jetta by folding down the back seats. That made getting started in Oaxaca way easier. The mountains and the bike ride to Guatemala were finally about to happen.
Day Zero–Oaxaca–Cerro del Fortin and Monte Alban
February 11th, 2025
My home in Manitou Springs, Colorado, nestled in a canyon, is tranquil and quiet, a stark contrast to the cacophony that greeted me upon arrival at the Airbnb. The first night felt less like a peaceful escape and more like being an unwilling participant in a relentless street party.
Directly outside the door, a busy thoroughfare pulsed with the city’s restless energy. Adding to the urban symphony, the bar next door erupted in a boisterous celebration that stretched into the early hours. Exhaustion offered a brief reprieve until 11:30 PM, only to be shattered by the persistent revelry that didn’t subside until after 2 AM. Just a few short hours later, street noise woke me at 6 AM.
That morning I embarked on a run to the summit of Cerro del Fortín, a silent sentinel across town. Armed with Google Maps as my guide, I intuitively navigated a web of trails that snaked their way upwards, each step a move away from the previous night’s chaos. My descent followed a different path, a tapestry of winding trails eventually merging into the familiar grid of city streets.
Refreshed by a shower and breakfast, the allure of ancient history beckoned. Monte Albán, the legendary Zapotec ruin, became my next destination. Relying once more on the digital compass of Google Maps, I initially sought a local bus route, only to abandon the wait after ten fruitless minutes. I hailed a taxi, eager to wander the ruins of a civilization long past.
It was almost lunchtime, and it was getting hot. So, after quickly looking around the museum, I went outside to walk around the old ruins. The ruins were very impressive. There was a big open area in the middle, and buildings around it had stairs going up from the center of that area. I heard a tour guide telling his group that the area had a special sound effect. He showed them by clapping his hands.
I also saw a doorway to a tomb that had been dug up at the site. I didn’t know until the next day, when I visited a museum in Oaxaca, how amazing the things found in that tomb were. One of them was a really cool skull decorated with small blue-green tiles. After spending a few more days seeing the interesting things in Oaxaca, I was ready to start my trip.
Day one – Oaxaca to Mitlá (35 miles)
February 13, 2025
The ride to Mitla was mostly flat. The map I had on my phone app, “Ride With GPS” wanted me to go on the highway. So, I used Google Maps for bikes instead. It took me on a nice dirt road that didn’t have much traffic.
The day before, I had sent a message on WhatsApp to the place I was staying, but they didn’t reply. When I got there, the owner said her phone was broken. But they did have a room for me, and it was cheap, only 200 pesos (which is about $10). The room was very simple, and the shower had cold water. But the place had a really nice view of the old ruins and the church.
I found my way to the ruins and walked around. I went inside the palace, which had four rooms. I also saw some stairs going down into the ground, but there was a sign saying not to go in. Later, my friend Michael Miller told me that they had found the entrance to the underworld there, and the Spanish built the church right on top of it. When I asked someone who lived there if the Spanish built the church, they said no, the Zapotec people did. I don’t believe that.
Day two Mitlá to San Pedro y San Pablo Ayutla (35 miles)
May 9th found me bidding farewell to my simple yet charming posada in Mitla, the morning air crisp with the promise of a challenging ride. Today’s itinerary: a 35-mile journey to San Pedro y San Pablo Ayutla, a destination that lay nestled higher in the Sierra Norte mountains. The route, as the locals say, was interesante, punctuated by not one, not two, but three significant climbs. The grand finale, an 11-mile ascent boasting a formidable 2800-foot elevation gain, had me ready for day’s end.
The journey itself unfolded with its own unexpected charms. Along a quiet stretch of road, I encountered a couple wonderfully convivial gentlemen. Their curiosity piqued by my loaded bicycle, they engaged me in lively conversation, eager to learn about my travels. They spoke with pride of their small pueblo, extolling its hidden tourist gems and generously offering me a place to stay and a personal tour. While the invitation was tempting, the day was still young, and the pull of my intended destination remained strong. They did, however, graciously offer a glimpse into their traditional mezcal production – an impressive operation that spoke to the heart of Oaxacan culture.
Upon reaching San Pedro y San Pablo Ayutla, I settled into the reasonably comfortable “Hotel del Bosque” for 700 pesos (about $35.) A welcome shower washed away the dust and exertion of the day. With an eye towards tomorrow’s ride, I ventured out to gather provisions: a few pieces of ripe fruit and four liters of precious water. The mountain air here was a refreshing change, a cool embrace that prompted me to reach for my jacket as dusk painted the sky.
My quest for a highly-rated pizza joint on Google Maps proved fruitless, the establishment apparently a ghost of its digital presence. Undeterred, the aroma of sizzling corn led me to a local taco stand, where a couple of satisfying quesadillas became my evening repast, a simple yet perfect end to a day of challenging climbs and unexpected encounters.
Day Three San Pedro Ayutla to San Miguel Quetzaltepec (36 miles)
February 15, 2025
Location: San Miguel Quetzaltepec, Oaxaca, Mexico
Conditions: Arrived utterly spent – exhausted, drenched in sweat, and experiencing a significant bonk. The final climb into town was brutal, marking the third major ascent of the day.
Accommodation: Finding lodging proved to be an unexpected mini-adventure. Despite Google Maps indicating a hotel in the vicinity, multiple inquiries yielded no immediate results. Finally, a local young woman directed me to an orange building – a hardware store. Tucked away behind the hardware store, with minimal signage, was a very basic hotel, arguably even more rudimentary than the Mitla hostel. The elderly owner quoted a price of 150 pesos (approximately $8 USD).
Amenities were sparse: no hot water in the shower and no towel provided.
Hydration: Post-shower, my immediate priority was replenishing fluids. I purchased 4 liters of water to compensate for the significant loss during the day’s relentless heat and climbs. My daily water consumption in this climate is substantial.
Food: Locating a restaurant mirrored the difficulty of finding the hotel. Several misleading directions later, I finally stumbled upon a suitable establishment tucked away up an alley, its entrance somewhat hidden. It was clear that local knowledge was key to navigating the town’s less obvious amenities. Tourist traffic in San Miguel Quetzaltepec appears minimal. Notably, I haven’t encountered a formal gas station in the past two days, only the occasional handwritten sign on houses advertising “Se vende gasolina” (gasoline for sale). Observations: The town feels very local and untouristed. Basic amenities are present but require some effort to locate. The lack of formal infrastructure (gas stations, clearly marked hotels) is noteworthy. The resourcefulness of the locals in providing services like gasoline from their homes is interesting.
Day Four Quetzaltepec to Rio San Andres (27 miles)
Right then, let’s just chalk that one up to experience, shall we? Today’s “hike-a-bike single track” – and I use that term loosely – proved to be less a trail and more an exercise in bushwhacking with a two-wheeled companion. The descent to the river? A comedy of errors. Lost the supposed path no less than four times. And the grand finale? A verdant curtain of thorns that swallowed the “trail” whole. Naturally, one does what one must. Abandoned the trusty steed to reconnoiter a route to the water’s edge, only to return and find the bike had decided to play hide-and-seek. An hour of delightful floundering later, reunion was achieved. The subsequent wrestling match to get the bike through that green hell to the river crossing? Let’s just say my trusty multitool’s scissors earned their keep, diligently snipping the tenacious vines that threatened to claim both me and my ride.
Camp for the night is a postage stamp of dirt amidst a boulder field beside the now-substantial river. The stove’s hiss provided a welcome soundtrack to dinner.
Climbed into the tent expecting a modicum of comfort, only to be greeted by the stifling embrace of a 500-foot elevation sauna. Sleep came only in the altogether natural state, sprawled atop the sleeping bag.
And now? A rather rude awakening in the form of a steep, unrelenting single track ascent. A cursory glance last night suggested a morning of constant trailfinding. Ah well, keeps things interesting, doesn’t it? Onwards!
Day Five –San Andres to campsite near San Pedro Acatlán and the forest fire
February 17th, 2025
Alright, buckle up buttercups, ’cause Day Five was less a leisurely bike ride and more a Darwinian test of wills against gravity and some seriously overgrown real estate. We’re talking a five-mile “hike-a-bike” – and I use the term generously – that clawed its way up a casual 2700 vertical feet.
Seriously, the highlights of that particular suffer-fest are best experienced through the magic of moving pictures over on my YouTube channel, Part II of this epic (read: slightly insane) adventure.
That first mile, wrestling the bike outta that jungle clinging to the riverbank? Lordy, that alone ate up a solid hour-plus. Think Indiana Jones, but with more grunting and less cool hat. Surprisingly, after that little slice of hell, there were even, like, sections you could actually pedal. Score!
Saw a local campesino with his entourage of donkeys and a pack of barky perros, then later on, a few young chicos hoofing it downhill near where the “single track” finally threw in the towel and morphed into a dirt road. Progress!
Cruised through this… collection of houses that probably wouldn’t even qualify as a wide spot in the road, before finally rolling into the bustling metropolis of Santiago Malatepec. My stomach was starting to sing the “feed me, Seymour” blues, so I went on the hunt for a comedora. You know, a place where a weary cyclist can score some grub.
Got the classic local directions: vague hand gestures and a hearty “Alla!” (Over there!). Right. Because that’s crystal clear to a pasty gringo who’s been communing with thorny vines all morning. Half the time, these culinary oases have zero signage. You gotta play Sherlock Holmes, looking for a steamy pot presided over by a señora and maybe a couple of wobbly tables. Nada in Malatepec, and zip in the next blink-and-you’ll-miss-it village of San Pedro Acatlán Grande.
Finally, Lady Luck (or maybe just a decent sense of ridge-line aesthetics) smiled upon me, and I snagged a primo campsite about a hundred meters off the road. Sweet relief!
But as the sun dipped and the shadows got long, I started noticing some serious smoke signals – two distinct fires and a whole lotta haze just below my scenic perch. A quick text to the better half, Rebekka, and my internal “danger Will Robinson” alarm started blaring. Decided discretion was the better part of not being crispy, so I broke down camp faster than a NASCAR pit crew and started pedaling down the road. By the time I bailed, I could see actual flames and hear the delightful crackle of a burgeoning inferno.
Given that the next “towns” are just a handful of houses scattered every ten or fifteen kilometers, I’m not exactly holding my breath for the local volunteer fire brigade to show up with their trusty garden hoses. Guess Mother Nature’s doing some aggressive landscaping. Good times!
Day Six –Campsite to San Juan Mazatlán
Alright, Day Six, let’s do this! Fueled by some gourmet trailside cuisine (read: instant coffee and maybe a slightly squished granola bar), I was back in the saddle by the crack of 8 AM. However, things were looking a tad… dim on the tech front. My phone was flatter than a pancake in a cartoon, my GoPro was blinking its last desperate SOS, and my GPS unit was contemplating early retirement. Code red: gotta find a hotel, stat. Luckily, the next dot on the map, San Juan Mazatlán, was a mere eight miles down the dusty pike.
Rolled into this pueblo, feeling like a tech-dependent refugee, only to be greeted by a chain strung across the main drag. Small-town security at its finest! A friendly dude ambled over to unhook it, and I launched into my well-rehearsed “Hay un hotel aquí?” (Is there a hotel here?). Blank stare. Tried again, enunciating “ho-TEL” like I was talking to a particularly dense toddler. Still nada. Finally, whipped out my phone, typed “hotel” in the Notes app, and showed it to him. The dude looked at it like it was ancient Sanskrit! Turns out, while he spoke Spanish, the concept of a “hotel” hadn’t quite made its way into his indigenous vocabulary. Whoops.
After making several inquiries, I finally got pointed towards… City Hall. Apparently, that’s where you inquire about the local room-renting situation. Turns out, no fancy “hotels” here, just cuartos – rooms. And when it came to dining? Forget Yelp. We’re talking comedores – basic, no-frills eateries. Found two in the whole town. Scored a solid torta (ham and cheese melt – the cyclist’s best friend) for lunch at one. Dinner at the other was a hearty plate of eggs, beans, chorizo, and, of course, the ever-present tortillas. Can’t complain, gotta fuel the machine!
San Juan Mazatlán? Let’s just say it’s not exactly Times Square. Not a whole lotta hustle and bustle. And you know what? The lack of traffic between these little pueblos is kinda telling. Seems like life in these remote indigenous villages is pretty self-contained. Folks stick around town, and the world outside doesn’t intrude too much.
Day Seven – Mazatlán to campsite by Rio El Chapuzon outside of Loma
February 19, 2025
¡Ay, caramba! Day seven started with the best of intentions, you know? Left Mazatlán around 6:30 in the mañana, cruisin’ for a chill 66 kilometers to San Juan Guichicovi. ¡Qué va! (Yeah, right!)
First outta town, BAM! Another gate. This dude wants to see my identificación and starts layin’ down the law: “No puedes pasar por aquí, güey! Road’s closed. Zapotec versus the autoridades – it’s a whole telenovela.” Said I could only turn right. ¡Órale! He lets me through, and what does this gringo loco do? ¡Izquierda! Left, baby, straight onto the road my trusty GPS told me to take. ¡Tómala!
Didn’t even make it four pinche miles before I’m descending to a river doin’ its best impression of a flash flood across the road. Figured, “Eh, it’s shallow,” and splash! Right through. Immediate karma in the form of a hill that looked like it was personally offended by my existence.
Downshifted like a good ciclista, and SNAP! My chain said “adiós.” And wouldn’t you know it? Señor Smarty Pants here forgot the chain tool. ¡No mames!
Stuck in the middle of nowhere, lookin’ like a pendejo. Then, like a freakin’ deus ex machina, a tuktuk rolls down to the river, packed with three mujeres and a dude lookin’ like he’s on a leaf-cuttin’ mission. Asked him, “¿Podría llevarme a mí y mi bici de vuelta a Mazatlán?” (Could you take me and my bike back to Mazatlán?). Offered him 250 pesos. The dude was all, “¡Órale!”
Crammed the bike (front wheel MIA) and my sorry self into that little putt-putt, and vámonos!He took me to a mecánico who was surprisingly MacGyver-esque. Fixed the chain, but had to shorten it, so say adiós to my highest gear.
¡No hay bronca! (No worries!), I was back in the game. Left Mazatlán the second time, and the gatekeeper just waved me through. ¡Qué milagro!
About halfway to the next pueblo, ¡madre mía! Hit a mud puddle that had “wipeout” written all over it. Down I went, lookin’ like I’d wrestled a swamp monster. Did my best to rinse off in the less-muddy part of the puddle, then kept on truckin’ to Loma, population: about six hundred and twenty almas.
Found a super cool dude who let me use his hose to de-mud myself and the bike. Now, I needed WiFi like a cerveza on a hot day to figure out where the heck I was and if I needed a Plan B. Asked him about internet. Blank stare. Showed him the networks on my phone. Nada. This guy might not have even known what the internet was. ¡Qué fuerte!