They say the best stories —like life itself, where the climax arrives first, and the journey backward reveals how it all came together.
So let’s start with this: After a day of riding from Durango to Parral on what I first called the John Wayne road until seeing a sign that said; 2023 became the Pancho Villa highway, next we encountered every kind of weather imaginable, including a freezing rainstorm, and then, as if the road wanted to please us, we encountered incredible mountain twisties.
We stopped twice, once looking for lunch and the next at what resembled an ancient Roman aqueduct.
Apparently Mexico does have several of these. And today we found out that Chihuahua (the city in the state of Chihuahua) has its own impressive colonial-era aqueduct!
But back to the story and less about history: Earlier I found myself snoring blissfully through what was supposed to be a “strong therapeutic” massage in Parral, Chihuahua.
The tequila from lunch, the road fatigue in an endless stretch of the straightest road you’ll ever find in Mexico. They all conspired perfectly.
According to Dale, I was out cold for the full 50 minute massage session—pure, uninterrupted siesta heaven. Best unintended nap of the trip for me and for a mere 640 pesos.
But to get to that glorious surrender, rewind to our arrival in Hidalgo del Parral (Parral to everyone here), a true Pueblo Mágico tucked in southern Chihuahua.
This historic mining town, was founded in 1631 as San José del Parral, and once reigned as the “Silver Capital of the World” thanks to legendary mines like La Prieta and La Palmilla.
It was even called the “Silver Capital of the World” by the Spanish King Philip IV in the 17th century due to its rich silver mines.
Apparently something like 20 tons of silver were taken out of these mines and shipped to Spain. Some of it you can easily see scattered about in anyone of the dozen churches in Parral, such as in the altars, ornaments, retablos (altarpieces), or other elements.
Some famous Mexican churches (e.g., in Taxco, Guerrero, the silver mining wealth directly funded lavish silver-adorned interiors.
Today, Parral’s streets still echo with that old-world charm—colorful facades, quiet plazas, and a palpable sense of history.
But the town’s most famous chapter belongs to Pancho Villa. The revolutionary icon retired nearby in 1920 at Rancho Canutillo, but on July 20, 1923, he was ambushed in town—his Dodge touring car was riddled with bullets in a notorious assassination.
The preserved vehicle and memorials draw visitors year-round, with annual reenactments and the epic Cabalgata Villista horseback parade honoring his legacy every July.
We rolled into our perfect base: Hotel Boutique El Viejo Mundo, a charming spot right in the historic district. This isn’t your average hotel—it’s home to one of the world’s largest private tequila collections!
Owner Edmundo Chacón has according to him 3,600 bottles, rare and vintage bottles, mostly blancos, displayed like art throughout the property. A true tequila museum with rooms attached. We got to talking and sometime later he told me this story:
He said that the plan was clear when he and Maria got married: six months touring Europe—Paris, Rome, Madrid, the whole dream.
My tía Chela gave us cinco mil pesos as a wedding gift from her savings. Back then, that was a fortune, enough to change your life.
We stared at the envelope, we looked at each other, and decided to put it toward the enganche—the down payment—on a little house and a business. ‘Europe will wait,’ we told ourselves. ‘On our first anniversary, for sure.’
Our first anniversary came. The house was still bare, just echoes and cold floors. So we used the money to buy furniture—a sala set, the comedor, the new refrigerator everyone was talking about. ‘Next year,’ we said again. ‘Europe next year.’
He paused, eyes distant, as if seeing that empty living room all over again.
“Next year turned into the year after. Then the first baby arrived. The kids grew up, school fees, quinceañera, university… Sixty-some years later, I can still picture the exact streets in Paris we never strolled, the cafés in Roma where we never sipped espresso, the view of the Alhambra at sunset we never saw.
We bought the house and we furnished the house. We raised good kids in the house. But we never traveled. …… sorry guys for you that believe that story. It was all made up. It’s basically my way of telling you that don’t let them tell you when Mexico safe to ride. It’s always been safe for us. Unfortunately, outside right now it’s 34° and where we’re going, which is creole it’s right now 28°.
Lunch for me today featured a flawless traditional margarita—smooth, balanced, no harsh edges—that went down dangerously easy alongside of Swiss chicken tacos, mountains of fresh guacamole.
Road-weary and a bit sore, I asked about a nearby massage. The waiter scribbled on a napkin: something like “Dalet Salón Spa”. Directions were: “See that pink building down there, Across from the white pickup truck, walk upstairs, and to the back.”
We followed the directions to a full-service ladies’ spa—hair coloring in progress, cupping treatments rolling by on carts. No problem she said, come back in 30 minutes.
To kill time, we strolled to the local church (closed for a funeral), took some photos and then returned for our massage sessions. Dale opted for relaxation (500 pesos), I chose therapeutic with extra pressure (640 pesos). Meticulous instructions followed: underwear on, precise positioning, even a blindfold for Dale.
The moment the oil hit and those nails traced my back? Game over. The margarita’s warmth, the ride’s exhaustion—I was snoring within minutes. The therapist never interrupted; she just kept the flow going with more oil and gentle pressure. Fifty minutes of pure, snoring bliss.
Parral wrapped up day four beautifully: revolutionary history, silver-mining legacy, world-class tequila, unexpected massage, and miles of open-road freedom and great memories.
There will be no medal waiting for anyone of us for making it all the way to Batopilas. There is no finish line. In a few short years, the rest of the guys won’t even remember the name of this place, but for some of us who have taken on the chronicling way of doing things they’ll just be memories for you and I Here’s to making memories.
Ralph aka Trawlercat
. 🏍️🇲🇽
Trawlercat Chronicles 