After we failed at our attempt for buckets of capulines (See Picking Capulines) we decided it was too beautiful a day to waste and continued down the other side of the mountain in Myrtle.
We stopped at a little town for some water and snacks and took it slow, as a good Sunday drive should be.
My husband mentioned that when he was a boy, he took of Chava Herrera’s herd of goats near our current location and left them to overnight in some caves. There was nothing to be done but go and see the caves.
We parked Myrtle in the shade, off the side of the road and headed down the path to the base of the mountain. This road was a little more difficult than the capulí trek, at least for me in sandals. There were hundreds of little picky rocks and larger potential ankle breaking rocks and mesquite thorns. Therefore, I took my time. My husband and son, with their work boots we call mata viboras (snake killing boots) had no such problem and soon outdistanced me. My son called back that I should hurry up. I responded with “slow and steady wins the race.” My son said that he and dad were steady and I was just slow.
Before too long, we came upon the caves. More than 20 years have passed since my husband used these caves to shelter the goats in his care and according to him quite a bit of the cave has collapsed, so there weren’t as impressive as in his mind’s eye. My son and I, however, were impressed enough.
We headed back up the trail and took Myrtle down to Cerano. We stopped to get gas, just in case (See Driving Hazards–Gas and Illumination) and were passed by 2 policia estatal (state police) vehicles. Three more vehicles joined the caravan in La Calera. We jokingly said we needed to get to La Yacata before they set up their “checkpoint” but lost them at the crossroads between Yuriria and El Moral. We stopped at the store for some goodies but didn’t see any sign of the police.
However, turning into La Yacata, we nearly ran head on into 3 of the same state police vehicles parked and picnicking. Guess they wanted lunch before starting the fishing. (See Driving Hazards–Mordidas). Ni modo (whatever), we were done for the day and wouldn’t be venturing across their net to risk getting caught for something or other any more that afternoon.