Huayápam in Flood August 15, 2022
The hiking destination today is in the hills northeast of Oaxaca City, in a place called Presas Tlalixtac de Cabrera, just outside Huayápam nature park. We board the bus labeled Huayapam outside the baseball stadium, and already the skies are ominous, but the newly arrived American hikers have yet to experience rain during this so-called rainy season. “Big deal, it’s only a little water,” one jokes. They are happy just to be spared the high altitude sun for the afternoon. Most are dressed in running shorts and t-shirt, with a water bottle. Hypothermia is not on anybody’s mind.
Leaving the bus outside the park, we walk along a dirt road connecting a few farm houses. Curious campesino onlookers scratch their heads at the gringos intent on marching into a coming storm. The cattle beside the road are not as inquisitive. One gringo pauses to photograph an organ-pipe cactus in the eerie violet light framed by roiling black clouds, marveling at the beauty. The hikers push on.
After crossing a bridge with a sign indicating Santa Rosa, I notice that the clear creek below is barely trickling, such must be the water demands of this parched agricultural acreage. This will soon change, as the farmers are aware and the cows oblivious. The last structure we encounter before our climb is a half-collapsed adobe farmhouse. Surrounded by tall cacti, it is a picturesque scene of pastoral antiquity that causes the photographer to again choose his shot for the friends back home.
We climb when a trail appears to the north. Most of the terrain is solid bedrock interspersed with reddish soil and thorny brush. Our destination is unclear. Somewhere near here is a dam which contains a large reservoir, the lake which welcomes campers and birdwatchers to the Huayápam reserve, but all I can see are arid pastures, the rising wooded slopes, and the descending clouds.
When the rain hits us, it is an instant downpour. For a few minutes, the twelve of us gather beneath one small shade tree, but there are not enough raincoats and umbrellas to go around. The tourists’ phones are getting drenched, those dressed for a jog are already shivering. We have only climbed about 400 feet, but this hike is clearly over. The rain intensifies as we begin a rapid descent.
The trail has become a stream, which only grows as we lose altitude. Chocolate water gushes from the rock above us, and soon we are walking in ankle-deep currents of muck and churning stones. Sideways gusts render the umbrellas useless. Reaching the dirt road, we are joined by the cattle searching for solid earth upon which to stand, but the road has turned into a pattering pond.
“They are blocking the way,” says one nervous gringa. “They have horns, the bulls might charge.” Her name is Gaia, an animal worshipper from Berkeley, and she recently moved here for apparent astrological reasons, I think, to be closer to the spiritual center of the universe, or in better alignment with planet Saturn, or something like that.
I reply, “I think they’re steer, not bulls.”
“What’s the difference?”
“Sin versus con Huevos.”
The vegan city-slicker does not notice the distinction and tries to climb the hillside to avoid the clueless beasts, only to slip in the mud with the frightened chihuahua she is carrying. Finally, the cows seem to show some interest in the strange creatures, perhaps realizing for the first time in their lives the power they possess. One manages to snort some mucous, the closest the poor dripping guy will ever know of aggression.
The rest of us gather at the dilapidated adobe house to check the water damage. We are not alone. On the ceiling hang bats the size of rats, but they are not going anywhere. At least not yet. We do not plan to wait to find out. Even the group leader Angel is shaking with cold. His lips are turning blue. We push on, crossing the bridge over the now-raging Santa Rosa River, which must be delighting the farmers to no end. Our own delight, by contrast, is abruptly terminated.
Fortunately, a bus is passing just as we reach the main road, and we pack onto the overcrowded vehicle, except for Gaia, who has managed to beg a ride from a couple driving down the mountain, pleading that her little dog is in danger of freezing to death. On board, every window is open to relieve the fog, so the driver can see his way off the mountain. The humid body heat is a welcome reprieve to those of us saturated to the bone, standing and swaying as the bus careens back into the city.
The flooding near the stadium is impressive. We are passed by half-submerged motorcycles imitating jet skis and smaller cars rushing through the red water lest they stall. This is what the rainy season looks like in Oaxaca. Given the shortages endured this summer, it is probably a pity it does not look like this more often.