The sunshine I sought was soon reddening my nose in the helmet and forcing me to take breaks in the rare shade trees along the highway. The small villages along the highway were a fine stop for gas, snacks, fish tacos and fruit. At this rate, it seemed like the $500 I converted to pesos would last me until next year. Climbing up to the central portion of the peninsula situated at 3000 feet, I was happy for the low number of trucks today as the winding roads had no shoulder and often precipitous drops where the brightly colored remains of fiberglass semi body panels signaled their fateful descent. Rolled and flipped vehicles sat hundreds of meters down ravines, completely stripped of all useful engine and transmission components by the resourceful and wily locals. Roadside graves, adorned white crosses and sturdy concrete shrines dot the spartan highway as memories of those who passed on this dangerous stretch of asphalt. More rain greeted me in the high Desert and I drove into the back end of drenching storms that also blew my way so they became more intense until I had cleared the frontal boundary. With all this wet and cool weather, I had started to second guess my vacation down here as though I'd have been better off in coastal Oregon. Wet and shivering, my numb fingers struggled to snap together the tent which was sodden once finally erected, just in time for the stars to come out and coyotes yipping at the full moon. Oh man did those stars shine bright against the oppressive moonlight.
After converting my dollars into pesos at a 1:20 conversion rate, I drove through the Tecate border crossing and up to the barrier and gate arm. A red light glowed and quickly turned green. Nobody took my passport or asked any questions. Cautiously I rode forward until a guard waved at me and pointed toward the exit. This may have been the least stressful entry ever. An hour before I was sitting in my tent in the San Diego mountains. The feeling of dread and caution I recalled on my first entry ino Mexico two yeas ago was completely gone, replaced with eager anticipation of the upcoming adventure. In Tecate, I sat at a battered blue overhead sign pointing west toward San Felipe or east toward Ensenada. It suddenly dawned on me that I had nowhere to go, no solid destination or goal for this trip south of the border. A strip of beach on the Pacific with fresh mussels at low tide and crashing waves on blue rocks materialized in my mind as a cofortable destination for the evening. It was cool in the 50's as I meandered down the relatively quiet pastoral Ruta Del Vino past sprawling vineyards, rustic shacks of workers and through small dusty villages with topes, steep and abrupt speedbumps, that forced me to crawl over them. In Ensenada, the sea fog was thick and billowing around the cruise ship tourists who meandered in and out of the gift shops of the Malecon. The rich aromoa of grilling meat and spices on a charcoal fire billowed from Tacquerias under a sign reading 10 pesos ($.50) each. It was a comforting moment when I stopped in to Tacos El Poblano for two of their mindblowing Tacos Al Pastor, the red spicy meat shaved from a beehive shaped vertical rotisserie. Following Hwy 1 south, I only earned brief glimpses of the sea as the fog remained along the coast keeping things chilly and damp. There were fewer military checkpoints now than two years ago, their small concrete huts, stacked tire traffic diversions and sun shades had quickly fallen into disrepair in the short time, such are the realities of intense sunshine, wind and heat in Baja. Filling up a battered water bottle along a roadside creek, I enjoyed the fledgling spring growth on the oak trees in the canyon. Water is precious in Baja and although inexpensive ($1 for 3 Gallons), I'll take free any day. In the small seaside town of Ejido Erindira, I obeyed each ALTO sign and eased my way past the dusty storefronts and brightly painted houses. An old roosterms scratched in the dirt and and goat stared cautiously as I plodded along. Everyone I waved at in passing waved back and I kept looking all over for those "Bad Hombres" I was warned about. Turning north up the coast, I crunched my way up the Tecate Score race route with walled vacation homes on the hills to the right and crashing surf to my left. The coast here is a network of small beaches and rocky headlands with free camping anywhere not explicitly signed, and usually in English. Finding an area near the water but behind a windbreak of shrubs, I set up camp in the gusty afternoon half light struggling through the fog and clouds. The silhouette of a cross stood erect on the adjacent cliff and a head popped up along the rise. I waved a lot the fisherman who wore a wool Baja style pullover with pointed gnome like hat. He waved back and I noticed his fish camp just around the corner. The pounding surf and stiff breeze made for a lot runs chilly and spray-damp few days on this rocky coast. Rain storms would blow in and send me to the tent for reading or another cup of coffee but the sunsets seemed to be spectacular. After a few days on the chilly oceanside, my bones longed for a sun-baked desert of cactus and creosote bush farther inland. The towns south along Hwy 1 here are employed mostly by the large fruit and vegetable companies with sprawling acres of greenhouses and factory buildings for sorting, processing and packaging. Sooty retired schoolbuses with colorfully painted and old script stenciled print shuttled the workers from towns up the highway to their jobs in the fields and plants along this strip. In San Quentin, I pulled in beside a mid 80's Ford truck sagging under the bed full of oranges. A sign read "3x25" which I assumed meant three oranges for 25 pesos ($1.25). "Tres naranja por favor" I asked the weathered woman who pulled out a black shopping bag and began stuffing it with oranges. The scale balanced to 3 kilos and she handed me the sack. To my astonishment it was not three individual oranges but 3 kilos for that price! At least I wasn't going to get scurvy south of the border.
The sunshine I sought was soon reddening my nose in the helmet and forcing me to take breaks in the rare shade trees along the highway. The small villages along the highway were a fine stop for gas, snacks, fish tacos and fruit. At this rate, it seemed like the $500 I converted to pesos would last me until next year. Climbing up to the central portion of the peninsula situated at 3000 feet, I was happy for the low number of trucks today as the winding roads had no shoulder and often precipitous drops where the brightly colored remains of fiberglass semi body panels signaled their fateful descent. Rolled and flipped vehicles sat hundreds of meters down ravines, completely stripped of all useful engine and transmission components by the resourceful and wily locals. Roadside graves, adorned white crosses and sturdy concrete shrines dot the spartan highway as memories of those who passed on this dangerous stretch of asphalt. More rain greeted me in the high Desert and I drove into the back end of drenching storms that also blew my way so they became more intense until I had cleared the frontal boundary. With all this wet and cool weather, I had started to second guess my vacation down here as though I'd have been better off in coastal Oregon. Wet and shivering, my numb fingers struggled to snap together the tent which was sodden once finally erected, just in time for the stars to come out and coyotes yipping at the full moon. Oh man did those stars shine bright against the oppressive moonlight.
2 Comments
Tracy
2/27/2017 04:51:33 pm
Thanks for the update..
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Mike Saunders
2/27/2017 04:54:29 pm
Doing great. Thanks for checking. I had no service down there for quite a while. There are more posts upcoming :)
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Mike SaundersIn May 2014 I quit my job to ride a Honda Ruckus over 69'000 mi and counting. Wild camping most nights and cooking most of my own meals, I keep the costs low and the landscape changing. Archives
April 2018
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