El Potrero

Kirk

"The real change is on the way," was the banner that heralded our arrival into Hidalgo. As we rounded the corner and were faced with El Potrero standing 2,500 feet above the southern corner of the town, we were collectively struck that we were finally on the way. We drove closer in awed silence, finally turning into a gated drive with a simple sign: La Posada. With its humble entrance we could never have guessed that we had stumbled upon backpacker heaven. Luli oversees the place with a relaxingly singsong voice. A crystal blue pool has hammocks hanging over one corner, where to our great surprise we found the Spanish climber Dani Andrada lounging when we arrived. In the kitchen the other climbers spend the noche trading stories from the rock and passing a bottle of tequila. Every morning, waking to the unreal monolith, I had to fight the urge to pinch myself to prove I wasn't still in a sueño.

I asked Luli what la posada is in English. She hardly spoke any English at all, and explained slowly. La posada es un lugar donde reciben personas. She asked if I knew the story of Mary and Joseph. They come pleading for a place to stay, and when they are taken in, that is a posada. "Sí, pero esa es la diferencia, aquí tú pagas." No, I told her. Este lugar es una posada por mi corazón.

Eight or so rooms line the entrance. A cooking area for the guests, and a café with tacos and nachos for 15 or 20 pesos. Showers, trees for hammocks, open and covered campsites with no clear boundaries. Forty-five pesos a night. Less than five dollars.

And then the climbing. Enormous limestone walls as far as the eye can see. Logan and I climbed our first multi-pitch. Daniel and Chaz Ott led us, and by the end we were well over 200 feet up, the highest either of us had ever been on rock. One cannot help but feel a humble gratitude amidst something as massive as El Potrero Chico.

We had heard a lot about the dangers of northern Mexico. Our experiences with the locals were nothing but favorable. Saturday night was a fiesta for a local climber's birthday. Slacklining, hulahooping, barbecuing, cerveza, a new family of nativos. Late into the morning I played classic American songs and the entire party sang along in broken English. At 4 am the groundskeeper Gallo came and said, "Lo siento amigos… pero no más!"

As I lay on my stomach by the pool, quiet broken melodies sung by Gallo drifted across the breeze. I hope I can remember this moment forever.