Looking out my Backdoor: A road less traveled

Jim phoned, “Would you like to go to El Amparo? John and Carol are coming. Be ready in half an hour.”

I’ve been wanting to go see the ghost town of El Amparo for three years. Beginning in the early 1500s, the mines were a rich source of gold and silver. From boom town Etzatlan, miners trudged over the mountains to work and brought back refined minerals through our town to Guadalajara to Spain.

In the heyday of El Amparo, historians and local stories confirm that the mining town was quite the cultural center with symphonies, theater, schools, sports and medical care, all supported by the mine owners. Amazingly, the mines operated 400 years, even during the Revolution. Though to see the place is to say, ah, yes, isolation in this mountain valley kept the outside world away.

Throughout the centuries, the mines changed hands, ultimately to be owned by a corporation in Pennsylvania until 1938 when a “workers-of-the-world-unite” sort of rebel gathered the union leaders and pulled off a coup. The owners shrugged and pulled out. Production was down, the rich veins had probably been milked dry.

Altruistic as a movement may sound, it seems somebody will rise to the top with ulterior motives. Rumor, gossip and history agree that the new leaders were more interested in wine, women and song than in equipment and maintenance and the boom went bust.

We set off in Jim’s pick-em-up, up, up the cobblestone streets of Etzetlan, up the mountain on a dirt road past the Mirador (lookout atop the mountain guardian of Etzatlan), into the mountains beyond. We rolled through a section of country that reminded me of the old mines in the Little Rockies, from back when I was in high school. The vegetation, the rock formations were so similar.

On and on we went, on switchbacks, fording creeks, through oak forests, through meadowland, down and up again where rushing water had carved gullies into the road. We rode through country with vistas so beautiful to steal our breath.

Whether they be ghosts in El Amparo, I do not know. I never saw a ghost, though I felt the spirit of the place, the quiet. I saw the ruins, remains of architecture once stunning in its sophistication. A few people live there to this day. How many, I cannot guess. Two dozen? I never saw a person but a half dozen casitas were obviously occupied.

Bits and pieces of the impressive administration building still stand. Partial walls of other buildings are everywhere we look, Stone walls, some looking like fortifications, criss-cross from here to there. We guessed at function and made up stories.

We walked a path devious, winding through the hills, across creeks. Stopped at what we named the main shaft. Who knows? Thoroughly enjoyed our exploration adventure, enjoyed each other. The hills, of course, are riddled with mine shafts.

Back in the truck, we decided to drive the back road through the ancient town of Las Jimenez. More switchback rough road, forded numerous creeks, most of them dry, chose the wrong option more than once, turned back and said, ah, grateful for four-wheel drive and high clearance.

Above Las Jimenez we stopped and stared in awe at the impressive ruins on the hill above what might once have been a town. Carol and I decided it must be an old monastery. The men said a tequila distillery.

Once we zig-zagged our way down and around for a better view, below the monolith on the hill a long low brick structure. Yes, a monastery with rooms for a hundred monks.

Continuing on, we eventually reached a paved road with Ahualulco in the distance. Jim kept track of mileage. How far, he asked. John guessed 24, Carol 30, I topped out at 82 and held firm. Seventeen, Jim smirked. We had been on the road or afoot exploring for over five hours.

Another 15 minutes, tired, hot, hungry and happy, we climbed the stairs to the palapa at Soky’s for fish tacos.

This morning, still curious, I went to Google with a question. The “monks’ cells” at Las Jimenez turned out to be a processing plant where the rocks from the mines were crushed and the gold and silver extracted. The building, in ruins, at the peak of the hill, might have housed transformers, Mr. Google speculated, since nobody knew for certain.

I still say it was one time the monastery. Though perhaps monks built a cathedral and mine owners pushed them out and set up transformers. Mere speculation.

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Sondra Ashton grew up in Harlem but spent most of her adult life out of state. She returned to see the Hi-Line with a perspective of delight. After several years back in Harlem, Ashton is seeking new experiences in Etzatlan, Mexico. Once a Montanan, always. Read Ashton’s essays and other work at montanatumbleweed.blogspot.com. Email sondrajean.ashton@yahoo.com.