Good things don't always come easily; and some of the best things require time and energy. So in a travel world of long haul flights, superfast trains and purpose-built resorts as close to the airport as possible, getting down to Batopilas in the Copper Canyon region of northern Mexico's Chihuahua province doesn't exactly offer instant gratification. It's a bumpy, winding journey down from Creel in the high country into the Batopilas Canyon; and Creel itself is a few hours from Chihuahua City. And how you get to Chihuahua is your business, but wherever you're coming from, unless you live in southern Texas, it's a fair old stretch. But rest assured that time spent making that trip is an investment that will be repaid many times over.

It is January. While Creel shivers under a thin covering of snow, and icy winds knife their way under your skin and into your bones, the bottom of the canyon yawns and stretches blissfully in the subtropical warmth. I've come to Batopilas find out more about the Tarahumara, or 'Raramuri' as they call themselves; but also simply to be there, to experience the place and to be out running and hiking in what I am sure will be an environment unlike any other I have known. And as it turns out, I am also there to meet a challenge, to become mas loco. The bus dumps me in the town square and I wander back the way we came to find the house of my running guide, Micah True, which locals tell me is next to the Chula Vista hotel. The hotel owner, Mario, contacts Micah in his house by the disarmingly simple means of shouting very loudly.

The house of Micah True is 70 or so feet above the the road on the side of the canyon wall. Micah True lopes down to meet me, his rangy frame topped with a straw hat, locally-made huaraches on his feet, and immediately we are embroiled in a planning session for my stay there. The possibilities seem endless, but in the short term we establish that the first thing will be to have a long outing as a good range-finder, giving me a look at what sort of terrain I will be dealing with for the next ten days and giving Micah an idea of my fitness and experience.

Micah tests my mettle to the full. After eight and a half hours on the trail, we are both a bit further down the road, so to speak. I am convinced that I am in some kind of paradise, albeit hard on the feet and legs, and Micah knows I can probably handle the tougher side of touring on foot in the Copper Canyon.

I've visited some of the world's most magnificent cathedrals in my time: Chartres, Canterbury, Cologne, and like Copper Canyon, they all seem to start with the letter C, for colossal, captivating, charming and so on, because the Copper Canyon is like a cathedral in more than just its magnificence. It is a humbling place to be; awesome in the true sense of the word. If you're so inclined, it makes you aware of the power of the Creator; if you don't believe in Creators, then the stunning beauty of what fills your eye at every turn of the trail will remind you of the wonder of nature and how damn lucky you are right now this minute to be there.

With my initial test hike (and run - every so often, when we hit a nice soft, flat stretch of trail, Micah would without warning break into a steady trot for a couple of minutes) out of the way, we set out our intinerary for the coming days, taking into account my own needs of learning about certain aspects of the Tarahumara. Basically, we allow for three days to get from the town of Batopilas, out of Batopilas Canyon, over the top and down into the Urique Canyon to the town of Urique, spending much of the first day near a Tarahumara village, and sleeping under the stars until we got to the relative luxury of Urique. We would start in a day's time so as to coincide with a Tarahumara gathering, but first there is the little matter of a trail run. Micah proved himself throughout my stay to be a caring guide, with a good feel for my capabilities, knowing when to press on and when to go easy. But he has his competitive side too, of which I wholly approved, and as we run a five-mile trail to a local church, take a swift breather and head back, he frequently asks questions of my running capacity so that it becomes something of a fartlek session. I am able to report that if you fancy indulging your competitive instincts with Micah over 50-odd miles of tough terrrain, then you'd better be very, very good; if you want to get to the front in an uphill sprint or in a quarter-mile dash for the line, you'll stand more of a chance. It is a great workout, under a warm sun and on a trail that is very runnable but never so even that you don't have to watch your footing; and it is my first step towards becoming mas loco.

As we make our way over to Urique in easy stages, Micah tells me about a Dutchwoman who had accompanied him a while back. Together they made the trip up from Urique, over the top of the canyon and down to Batopilas in one day - 13 hours, to be precise. Which had impressed Micah; and which tickled my own competitive instincts. This was what Micah refers to as being mas loco. Even though it is a trip he himself can run the entirety of, few of his clients need less than two days to do it. As we walk and jog our way to Urique, it occurs to me that this woman came from the one of the flattest countries in the world. If she could make this three-day trip in one day then perhaps I could. But maybe she was superfit, a hill specialist or a marathoner supreme. Discreet questions elicit the information that no, she was a big strong girl with lots of energy (of many kinds!) and drive, but she wasn't an accomplished athlete. I mull it over. And I have plenty time to do so. On our first day we hike to the Tarahumara village, four hours away and after spending the afternoon there, hike back for an hour as the sun dips rapidly below the canyon walls and find a river beach to camp on. The next day is a full seven and a half hours, mainly climbing upwards out of the canyon. We camp at Los Alisos, a tiny ranch of grapefruit and coffee beans, where we drink the home-produced coffee - light, winey, and gentle on the caffeine. And the next morning we roll up our sleeping bags and roll gently into Urique, at the bottom of the canyon, in a three-hour jaunt. Once you get into the sweet rhythm of perpetual forward motion, three hours on the trail doesn't seem like much.

We check into the Hotel Cañon, stroll around the cowboy town of Urique in the rising heat of the day, eat, enjoy a long siesta, then eat some more: fuelling up for the journey back. So this is it: I tell Micah that I think maybe I want to try for the mas loco club, to see if we can make it back over to Batopilas in one day.

At eight sharp the next morning we are good to go: fresh clothes, fresh legs, the sun in our faces, a big breakfast in our bellies. Brushing off a couple of Australian tourists who want information, reassurance, advice and more reassurance, we hit the trail and soon break into an easy jog. Why not? The slope is gentle, the road is good, our legs are strong…It's not as if we're racing, but it just feels right to be moving forward at a trot. As Micah turns off the road onto the rocky trail, climbing steeply out of the canyon, we settle back into a walk, but churning out a brisk rhythm that gives my quads a gentle injection of lactate. It's steep, now and for the next few hours - think the longest stairclimber session you've ever done - with a coffee and tortilla break at Los Alisos, yet when we hit the flatland at the top of the canyon we run, cruising at a happy canter through the undulating forest, revelling in the shade, the cool, humid air and the soft, springy trail until the forest thins and the gaping void of the Batopilas Canyon stretches out before us.

Time to rest, refuel and take stock of the situation. We've made good time - excellent time, in fact, round about the five-hour mark so far. We're sitting, eating pinole, on the exact same rock that we sat on on the way over two days ago. It's a gigantic boulder with a flat top, and when you climb up onto it, like kids into a treehouse, you can see out over the Batopilas Canyon, looking down over the winding descent we are about to undertake. And off we go again, leaving the enchanted forest to drop down onto the mean, ankle-hating, sunbeaten trail. This is where you need to concentrate, concentrate and concentrate harder. Focus on keeping your thighs strong as they are thumped into submission by the steep downslopes; focus on what lies underfoot as gravity drags your feet down fast onto evil rocks and ridges. And this is where any deadening of the spirit from fatigue is offset by the profound beauty of the canyon. How can you not keep going when all around is such massive natural energy? And a magical moment that almost robs me of speech: half-way down the canyon, rounding a bend that juts out into thin air, in front of me a flock of emerald-green parrots clatter through the sky, the sunlight bouncing off their wings. The green against the red ochre of the canyon against the searing blue of the sky is still etched on my mind.

By now it's not a case of if I'll make it over in one day - we're three-quarters of the way back to Batopilas - but, even more exciting, how long it will take. I'm tired now, definitely, but feel that I still have energy within me. We make our last fuel and water stop, and Micah tells me that we're looking at a sub-ten-hour crossing, so I set off at a speed-walk over the now flatter terrain. We've come down off the steep descent and onto dirt roads. It isn't long before we break into the inevitable run, this time with a hint of urgency on my part. Micah senses this and, after I've burnt off a jet of adrenalin that comes from Heaven knows where by galloping into the middle distance at six-minute mile pace (we're running with loaded rucksacks, remember), he takes over, setting a brisk pace. For him this is a regular run, for me..well I'm in unknown territory after eight-and-a-half hours of running, climbing, hiking and more running. But I so want to arrive in Batopilas running that I make myself keep up. A tepid shower of rain comes from heaven, cooling us off, damping down the dusty trail and suddenly I begin to recognise the surroundings. Micah must be smelling the stable, too, as he picks up the pace a notch and we tumble off the trail onto road, real road leading to the river bridge that marks the entry to Batopilas. I know that my face is one huge grin, I have no eyes or nose or cheeks any more, just a grin. Micah flicks his watch out of his pocket. Nine-and-a-half hours total, nine hours of trail time.

Mas loco. Crazy, crazier, craziest. This is it.