After hrefueling in Calexico and getting blasted by an oil hungry CBP diesel truck , I set west through the open expanse of land toward the distant mountains in search of cover. The southern crosswind blew my bike all over the lane and tendrills of sand slithered across the asphalt. I was happy to be wearing my hi-viz vest as night closed in and I rode toward the darkening stormy horizon. The highway ends at the interstate and I'm forced to ride 8 miles climbing 3000 feet along I-10 on the shoulder into the blackness. Bands of vehicles come in waves but I slowly make progress up the hill at 15 mph cresting near the desert observatory and turning onto the old highway. Wind driven rain begins to fall when I coast into Jacumba Hot Springs and I'm not energetic enough to set up camp. The library has a front porcheck awning where I park the bike and lay out my bag beside it. The strong line of storms rages eastward and I smile at my fortunate dry location. A sign in the parking lot says I'm being watched by cameras but the Customs and Border Patrol SUV's that idle past don't seem to notice me right out in the open. It's a bit tough to sleep though beneath a row of fluorescent lights. The following morning was foggy and cold cresting the 4500ft mountain but I was happy to be back in California On the north side of Borrego Springs stands a public art display with hundreds of metal sculptures dotting the landscape. The unpainted metal has oxodized in the desert and slowly begins to take on a copper hue. Below is an elephant which dwarfs La Tortuga. As the sun began to set, a rainbow materialized behind me over camp leading to a most impressive natural spectacle. Nearly every visitor in Arroyo Salado was standing on hilltops admiring the unusual low angle light and stormy clouds.
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It was a blue sky day heading out from Bahia De Los Angeles to Hwy 1. Arriving at the junction near Punta Prieta, I sat at a crossroad both literal and figurative. I had considered spending a month or so down in Baja but felt like I had satisfied my beach-bum desire. Further south was a continuation of desert driving for days and the arrival in La Paz. The warmer waters of the southern beaches are nice but something kept pulling me to ride to an unexplored corner of the peninsula. Considering my phone no longer had the saved apps for GPS and navigation, photo editing or audiobooks would make beach camping a bit boring, I decided to head north toward the next larger town of San Felipe. It felt right following my heart to a new place and new experiences rather than the same roads Turning at Agua Leon, the wide rocky dirt road is dusty and rutted. I eat the dust of a tractor trailer before quickly passing it in a sandy ditch paralleling the main road. This route was once a rough trail which led through a mountain range and to the Sea of Cortez and then improved for truck traffic. After many years, the government has begun construction of a paved highway to connect the east and west coast of the peninsula at this southern point. Progress is slow going and the many highway worker camps dot the rough washboard gravel. In this photo below, large diesel tractors and backhoes push truck-sized boulders down the hill in crashing dust clouds. It looks as dangerous as it sounds but the operator sucking the diesel and dust doesn't seem to mind. Located about an hour from anywhere is the desert home of Coco, an 80 year old man who operates a desert cantina, rest stop and place for weary travelers to rest. Years ago he became a fixture stop among the desert racers and off-road community. Complications due to drinking and diabetes forces the amputation of Coco's legs nearly 20 years ago and yet he still has built this home and destination in northern Baja.
Saying Hello to Coco, I bought a beer for $1 and hung out as he reveled the gathered crowd with stories and his affable presence. He was witty and confident in his home rest stop, his notoriety and legless curiosity endearing. The ingenuity of his construction efforts and the creativity of his coping with the handicap to operate an Eagle 4wd wagon or his quad was admirable. There was much laughing as he had the only female ride take a seat on his lap for a picture. Heck, I even got a shot with the Baja legend.
I awoke in the morning to the chatter of birds in the cholla under a cloudless blue sky. The sun was warming the high desert quickly and drying my damp gear on the boulders I hid behind in the previous night's wind. A feeling of abundant comfort and peace washed over me with the promise of warm and sunny weather for the next few days. Traffic was light out on the narrow and twisty Hwy 1 as I motored into the Valle De Los Cirios. My destination was only 120 miles away so there was plenty of time for breaks and some GoPro video. Mid morning, my phone shut off after a particularly rough patch of road. I swapped batteries and attempted to turn it on and finally resorted to a factory reset on the side of the road. Without any service, the phone went into lock mode and needed to verify that I wasn't a theif. It suddenly occurred to me how much I rely upon this micrcopmputer for navigation, fuel tracking, e-books, music and photography. Not letting the hiccup get me down, I pressed on and soon ran into a cluster of camper vans at the small Llantera where the road splits off 66km to Bahia De Los Angeles. I introduced myself to the small gaggle of English speaking travelers and gathered that most were on their way to the Bay. Naturally, everyone passed me by on the desolate desert road where I stopped often to breathe in the perfume of pink desert flowers in bloom mixing with the drying creosote bushes. The Borja, a Seussian deciduous tree that grows only in this specific region, populated the desert, it's red blooms a unique spring occurance. Hummingbirds buzzed past to the blooms in a frenzy of activity and buzzing wonder. Rounding a bend, the azure waters of the Sea of Cortez washed over the tan desert under a baby blue sky. Abrupt volcanic peaks ringing the Bay of Los Angeles form a natural amphitheater to this critical spawning habitat for whale sharks, turtes and whales. The town appeared unchanged since my previous visit two years prior. Running into the van folk at Dos Pinos Cafe de Mariscos, they had just wrapped up dinner and drinks and were heading for Playa La Gringa on the north end of the bay, the end of the road. I borrowed the wifi password to restore my phone then set off toward the free beach. The paved road fizzled out and became rocky riding up toward the hillside where "Welcome La Gringa" was written in white painted rocks. A few other RV's were positioned on the sandy crescent shaped beach. A striking view of the nearby mountains reflected off the calm water where brown pelicans floated past and the depths beneath teaming with sealife. Although the water was in the 50's, I took a short swim in the salty water, admittedly mostly for bathing purposes than pleasure. The cold immediately took my breath away but was equally invigorating. Two traveling Vanagon couples I met were great company on the cool beach. Out in their wetsuits, through snorkels they say rays, baby shark, many fish, abalone and scallops. Sipping a cold beer on the beach beside a campfire surrounded by laughter, my head tips back to the sky where a dazzling spectacle of the heavens sparkles in the clear Baja air. You can follow Mak and Owen on their great website and instagram: http://www.boundfornowhere.com https://www.instagram.com/bound.for.nowhere/ The next few days were spent relaxing along the beach with the odd 10mph crawl into town on the scooter. Having the small mercados nearby with affordable vittles made life easier on me since I'm limited on total food and water capacity. I picked up a few beers each day which were sold individually for about $.50 a Tecate. The curving beach terminates at a small island which offers stunning 360 degree views of the Isla Angel De La Guarda, Sea of Cortez and the volcanic remnants ringing the Bay of Los Angeles. Winds blew from the northwest during most of the visit with some days being blustery but enjoyable in the abundant sunshine behind a wind block of some sort. On the first night camping at La Gringa, a short but stocky man of about 45 or 50 walked up as I was collecting scraps of wood for a campfire. He asked if I wanted any wood so Matt and I accompanied him on a walk down the beach. He spoke rapidly in Spanish and I struggled to keep up but learned he was from Nayarit and spent December to May here in a home built along the beach. He told us he missed his children who live in Bakersfield and Sacramento. His dog was quite excited but incredibly obedient, a gorgeous golden brown short coat and sensitive eyes like caramel drops. Pushing the stout door open on a small outbuilding, he reaches down to a knee high pile of hand chopped wood begins handing the arm sized logs out to us. We take a couple then have to refuse, realizing there isn't a tree in miles and he must have walked far to get this wood which he probably uses to heat the cabin on cold nights. We asked how much he wanted for the wood and he refused payment saying it was a gift. Accepting our invitation back to camp for a beer, Chelo returned with a bundle of wood himself and delighted us with his big smile, storytelling and joyful persona. As the fire died down, I watched Chelo's figure lit by moonlight fading westward down the beach, his trotting companion obediently by his side. Here's that "Bad Hombre" I was warned about.
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. |
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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