Written by and Photos by Redd Walitzski. Posted in Rides
You could ride through Mexico in a week. Charting the most direct route on Google Maps, you can put together a journey of 2,688 miles comprised of mostly well-paved highway, passing through much of the country but interacting with little of its culture, history, or the people that make it magical.
On the traditional Pan American North-to-South-America route, many riders devote a month or less to Mexico, a country that spans the same length as the west coast of the U.S., with a culture running back to at least 1,500 BC. Even this route misses more wonders than you can imagine: tiny Pueblos Magicos (“magic towns”) in the highlands, pristine stretches of unexplored coastline, and ancient pyramids tucked deep into the jungle. So, I opted to discard the traditional to focus on a more varied journey, one that would take me six months and cover over 9,000 miles.
The varied beauty of Mexican roads, from colorful Pueblo Magicos to the Yucatán jungle.
When I set out from the southern U.S. border in December of 2021, I had no firm plan for a route or even a clear destination. I had a six-month visa, and a dream to slowly explore as much of Mexico as I could at that time, all as part of the ultimate goal to reach Patagonia. My trusty Royal Enfield Himalayan (nicknamed “Kaleidos”) and I traced a circuitous route across mountain ranges and through barren deserts, along both the Pacific and Gulf of Mexico shores, from the Baja Peninsula to the Yucatán. Taking it slow, taking the road less traveled, to destinations hidden from the well-trodden tourist route, opened my eyes to countless rich facets of this beautiful place.
My trusty Royal Enfield Himalayan (nicknamed “Kaleidos”) and I traced a circuitous route that cover over 9,000 miles through Mexico.
Some days, I’d cover less than 100 miles, on roads so serpentine it would take hours to go the briefest distances. Other days, I would stay put, living for a short time in a town or village like a local, riding my motorcycle only to the market to buy mangos and guayabas (guava), taking in the stories, flavors, and colors. While this is not the kind of journey that follows a plan or an itinerary, I did set out with a string of “quest markers,” descriptions of places along the way that would catch my imagination: a church buried by lava, a lagoon of seven colors, a cloud forest dancing with butterflies. I looked for places with mythical-like names and finding them was the quest. Experiencing them, falling into the awe of the moment, falling in love with them, is the story. That is, my story.
The striking beauty of Baja California.
At the Cancún airport, you can buy most traditional Mexican handicrafts unaware of the origin of any of it, from colorful Alebrije spirit animals to ornately painted ceramics. I’ve always been inquisitive and learning about the sources of beautiful art and craftworks resonates within my soul. My curiosity brought me to a remote region bordering the states of Puebla and Hidalgo, where indigenous Otomi artisans in a string of tiny mountain towns produce an exquisite type of rainbow-colored embroidery called “Tenagos.” The landscape there is a picturesque tapestry of winding mountain roads, some made of patchy cobblestone, others dirt or stretches of rough pavement. They lead to the types of villages that might not see a foreigner for months at a time. With lodgings few and far between in this area, I stayed in a small eco-hut near Honey, Puebla that looked like something dreamed up by mountain elves. When I asked the innkeeper about a local waterfall, she told me she could provide a guide to explore a few of the secret cascadas(waterfalls) not pictured on any maps. Delighted I accepted without hesitation.
The guides turned out to be Ozmo and Lupita, ages 10 and 8. I wandered into the woods behind these children, amazed by the perfect maps they carried in their minds. They told me about different plants and flowers while sharing secret nooks of their playground with me: three waterfalls and a tiny cave that smelled of deep, damp earth. This short glimpse into their lives, what it would be like to grow up in a remote little village in these rolling mountains, stuck with me—one of those moments that makes travel to other cultures so precious.
A watercolor sketch of a waterfall in Chiapas.
Another similar wandering path led us to the tiny indigenous town of Angahuan. It’s situated at the base of a volcano that had formed in 1943, swallowing the village of Paricutín in lava, devouring everything but the church. My dream was to ride the Enfield across the flowing fields of black lava to the buried church. At first this proved difficult, with the main path blocked to keep travelers from attempting it without a paid guide on horseback. Back at the cabin I was staying in, my host Juan drew a map on a napkin, including the areas of the volcano to skirt militia activity, before setting out for a second try.
Some silty two-track led to the lava fields, and riding across the expanse of obsidian sand to the church proved as surreal as I’d hoped. I had a quick lunch from one of the many quesadilla vendors and explored the ruins of the beautiful little church, the volcano’s cinder cone watching from the distance. Unfortunately, upon returning to Kaleidos, I discovered I’d picked up a nail in the rear tire. Adding a little air to the rapidly deflating tire, I limped back to town. While I had the tools to change the tube, it was a task I’d never tried alone. With daylight on my side, I opted to make the push home, and again my host came to the rescue, tracking down a mechanic on a Sunday, fittingly named Jesus. He fixed the tire in no time with tools from the back of an old pickup truck. Just one more small example of the generosity that permeates this land and people.
A volcano that had formed in 1943, swallowed the village of Paricutín in lava, devouring everything but the church.
I have a passionate curiosity about nature and wildlife, especially entomology*. One of the most enchanting moments of the journey came unexpectedly when I took a gamble and followed a detour to chase a swarm of butterflies. For weeks, as I was weaving a wandering path through Jalisco, Guanajuato, and Michoacán, strangers asked me time and time again, “Are you going to visit the monarchs?” I was uncertain—it was early March, and this late in the season, my expectations of viewing the mass monarch migration were low. Yet I found myself within a day’s ride of the mountain range where the butterflies overwinter; even the butterfly murals lining the tiny pueblos along the way seemed to beckon me. When the monarchs darted around Kaleidos as we crawled our way up the steep, narrow cobblestone road to the entrance of El Rosario Monarch Sanctuary, and my local guide Carmen began to show me clusters of butterflies, it was all very exciting.
Coming from Seattle, this upper-altitude forest felt like home—the whispering pines so reminiscent of the northern groves near Mt. Adams that I almost forgot I was in the heart of Mexico. Signs built up the anticipation—200 meters to the butterflies… 100 meters… all of which felt ridiculous because there were butterflies as far as the eye could see. The monarch colonies, high in the branches, were utterly surreal and utterly breathtaking. Orange and black honeycombs of wings, delicate against the rough pine bark, the butterflies grouped together so tightly, fluttering and shivering their wings in the cold morning sunlight, it was like they were talking to the sky. As I stood speechless, they began to awaken. A small group of us observers and guides watched in silent awe. More and more monarchs caught the wind upwards, dancing between the branches and gaps of every part of the forest. The beauty of their flight was completely overwhelming, so much so that I was on the verge of tears. The monarchs were on the cusp of their great northward migration, and you could almost taste their anticipation as they began to awaken and fly. It struck me that their journey north would cover as many of the miles I had ridden south, our paths echoing each other in reverse.
Searching the next river bend in Oaxac.
It’s easy for most of us to fall into a script of what a long overland adventure should look like, or even avoid a country because of what others say about it. Life, time, and money are all real hurdles, but I believe that life is brief, and hurdles can be overcome if one allows their dreams to transform into realities. There is something wonderful to be gained from exploring a single country or region more deeply, doing your own research, and taking the time to really get to know its people and cultures. Perhaps smaller bites can be as nourishing to one’s overlanding appetite as a single giant meal. I’ve leaned into this mindset and taking on “the epic ride” in chapters has proved a more feasible and more rewarding way for me to undertake this journey. My bike is waiting for me at Royal Enfield Cancún with plans to return to it after organizing the Central America chapter of our voyage.
A first glimpse of the Caribbean near Punta Allen.
While I long to return to Kaleidos and begin the next stage into Belize, Guatemala, and beyond, in truth if I was left with only the choice to continue to explore Mexico, I would do it without hesitation, backtracking along winding dirt roads with the fading glow of a high desert sun tracing our shape into the distance.
* The branch of zoology concerned with the study of insects.
Redd Walitzki is an artist, explorer and avid naturalist. With her Royal Enfield Himalayan “Kaleidos”, Redd is on a journey from North to South America, sharing the beauty they find on the way. You can follow the adventure at ReddWalitzki.com and @explo.redd on Instagram.
