Monday, 3/29
Then I got in the van and attempted to find a way to drive to the Pacific side of town. I should have invested in a map, since I wasn’t able to find the shore—but I did hit a lot of hidden speed bumps. Streets and bumps in Cabo aren’t very well-marked. After blundering around for a while, I found the main highway and headed north towards Todos Santos on the west side of the peninsula. I had come south on the other side.
I saw some splendid empty desert, then in late afternoon, the highway came close to the Pacific. I stopped for a look, and found a beautiful deserted beach. I nearly stayed for the night, but then decided to keep going.
Tropical thorn scrub south of Todos Santos. View of Sierra de la Laguna.
Todos Santos looked like a nice, laid-back town. Supposedly, there are lots of artists and artisans here, but I kept going. A little south of La Paz, I found a dirt road leaving the highway, and then a smaller road leaving that. This turned out to be a property subdivision but with no houses on it—so there was a grid of little dirt roads laid out in the desert.
My camping spot, with yet another charismatic cactus and road dust.
The full moon was coming up right after sundown, and I found a spot with a little cleared meadow where I could sit, have my beer, and watch the moon come up through the cactus. The desert here has a distinct smell, a good smell. I wouldn’t call it aromatic or herbal like the cirio desert is in northern Baja. The closest I can come is that it smells something like leather. I took a little hike along the roads. There was a low chorus of crickets, and by chance I found one. I noticed it had rather strange proportions, before it hopped into the night.
From La Paz to Loreto, my destination, is a long drive. Past La Paz, you climb to the crest of a low plateau—and then you are in the Magdalena Desert. It’s formed by the rain shadow of some mountainous islands just off the Pacific coast. It’s very flat, and in the center, pretty barren. But as you go further north, it gradually becomes more vegetated, until you are in a heavy agricultural zone, around Ciudad Constitution and Ciudad Insurgentes.
I stopped in C. Constitution for gas, lunch and cash at an ATM. I pulled into one gas station, and waited for a while—it appeared crowded and busy. After a while, a boy about 10 came over and asked me what I wanted.
I said “Gas.”
He said, “There isn’t any. But there is at another station up the street.”
So apparently all those cars that made the station look so busy were just using the gas station as a parking lot. Gas—in Mexico it's a government monopoly.
Emboldened by my good luck with tacos in Cabo, I walked into a taco joint on the main street. Now, C. Constitution has no tourist business, so this was bound to be the real thing. The place was pleasant and clean, open at the sides, with a thatched roof. Two middle aged women in bright blouses were at the counter. They greeted me pleasantly, and asked me what I wanted. I asked for some tacos. They said: “No tacos here, only tostadas.” I asked what kind, and it turned out they had only seafood: fish ceviche, octopus ceviche, shrimp, etc. I asked for one of fish ceviche. They do no cooking there. Ceviche is uncooked—the fish or whatever is marinated in lime juice to cure it. They add some chopped onions, chopped cucumbers, and chopped tomatoes, and plop it on a tostada with a quarter of an avocado. It was pretty good—not very spicy, and tasted fresh like a spring day.
So I decided to try another of shrimp. These were apparently already cooked and chilled. Everything was sitting in a few coolers. They chopped the shrimp, then added the chopped onion, cucumbers, and tomatoes, then squeezed half a lime over the whole thing, and served it up on a tostada. This also was good—I put some bottled salsa on it—being careful to avoid the habanero salsa (the hottest kind).
Gordo’s tacos were extremely tasty and fairly spicey—with loads of fat. These were probably a lot more healthy, but not so flavorful. Just the native flavor of fresh seafood.
Leaving C. Constitution, you go north a ways through the fields to C. Insurgentes, then the highway turns east to cross the peninsula. You gradually increase in altitude, then enter a broad canyon, bordered by very impressive volcanic mesas. You take the canyon all the way to the divide of Baja near the east coast. Then for maybe 10 miles you ride the crest north, then abruptly the highway plunges down towards the Sea of Cortez, with many sharp turns. Here high mountains composed of horizontal layers of lava drop with tremendous cliffs toward the Sea of Cortez—you can glimpse a few blue bays down below. Back towards the mountains, there are little meadows of golden grass among the cactus catching the late afternoon sun. I stopped maybe 4 times to take photos, and whenever I did, it was very hot. Trying to drive safely, and also look at the amazing scenery, was a big strain. I was getting a headache.
By late afternoon, I made it to sea level at the southern edge of Loreto Bay. I turned off at the first road where there was a little village, having a hunch it led to the beach. Sure enough, it turned out to be the Mexican camping beach. No fees. It was at least a mile long, and had maybe 20 families camping in trailers and other rigs.
The only problem for me was the sand was pretty soft. I backed the trailer towards the beach close to the road, hoping it was firm enough there. Then I went for a paddle down the coast, while the sun set and the stars came out. The wind was dropping, so it was safe. The atmosphere is a bit hazy with dust—which mutes the colors, and makes the peaks go layer upon ever fainter layer, fading into the distance. Two miles offshore is an island that’s extremely rugged and picturesque.
The Mexican way of camping is pretty similar to Americans, but the rigs aren’t so luxurious—partly I imagine because you can’t get a big self-powered RV onto a beach with sand. The Mexican set-ups are less organized than American ones—a bit haphazard. We’re in a national park here, but there’s no ranger or fee. Jet skis and fires are not allowed, but as night fell, I could see three fires burning, one jet ski on the water (although idling tranquilly). Periodically, there were sounds of loud radios playing Mexican music.
As I had supper, the full moon came up. I stepped outside. The blue darkness was stunning. Out in the Sea of Cortez, there are absolutely no lights. No lighthouses, no ships. North, I can see the lights of Loreto far in the distance. To the south, there’s a high cliff on a point, and the sandy beach curves around to meet it. There’s a semicircle of scattered lights from the campers on the beach, and three campfires glowing red. All is deep shades of blue and purple—the stars are faint in the moonlight and haze. The North Star is noticeably lower than we see it in Wisconsin—and the face on the moon is tilted to one side.
As I’m sitting typing, a truck pulls up and there are lots of loud clanging sounds of large metal poles. It seems they are constructing a huge tent next to me. There’s loud Mexican music playing from the cab of the truck, and their headlights are trained on the huge tent they are erecting. I hope there’s not going to be a fiesta tonight. But soon they are finished--the darkness and silence return.
Now I’m sitting out by the water’s edge in my chair. A short, stout man comes up to me and starts talking in bad English. He says he wants to camp, but doesn’t have any blankets. So he’s going to stay an hour, then drive all way to Ciudad Constitution where he lives (about three hours), then come back the next day. This sounds insane to me—and quite likely I have misunderstood him, because of his bad English. I explain how I never drive at night. He says he also dislikes driving at night.
Then he explains that he’s the high school English teacher in C. Constitution. He takes his students on field trips to the beach, where he tries to get them to talk to Americans, but they are reluctant. This explains whey he came right up to me and started talking, without some much as a hello or introduction.
I talk to another man briefly. He’s getting buckets of salt water. I ask him what it’s for. “For the clams,” he says. I ask if he’s a clam fisherman. “No, I just bought them.” Evidently he’s going to keep them alive and fresh for a while in the salt water. He says he’s going to make clam soup. I’ll bet it’s a lot different from our New England clam chowder.
Wednesday, 3/31
Today I get up before dawn to paddle around Isla Danzante.
My destination--Isla Danzante, in the calm of early morning. It's about 5 miles long, and perhaps 2,000 ft. high
When I push off, it is very calm—no wind, and almost no waves. I cross to the island in half an hour and start rounding the island. I take it slow, looking and taking photos. I’m looking for fish in the clear waters, and sometimes I see them. Finally, about 10:00 am, I spot a lot of fish, and decide to stop for a rest and take a swim. I haven’t seen anyone, so I decide to go skinny with my mask and snorkel. There’s a good number of fish, though not as many in number or kinds as at the two other places I snorkeled.
I’m swimming among some enormous boulders—the fish like to hide in the spaces where the boulders come together and make caves. What really catches my attention are the sea fans growing on the boulders, plus a few little branches of coral—nothing spectacular. But I do see something that looks like clusters of orange flowers, each the size of a quarter. Thinking that maybe it’s a sea anemone, I touch it, and it turns out to be hard—maybe a coral. There are some huge sea urchins, and some large and very colorful sea stars. Then I spot a very large shell with a toothed edge to the shells, and the two halves are open. I touch it, and it snaps shut. I see several others, and after a while deduce that it’s a sea scallop. They used to occur in huge numbers of Guardian Angel Island, but they were fished out.
The surfaces of the boulders are a bit “furry,” with tiny sea fans, it turns out, and if you look carefully, you can see lots of little fish close to the surface of the boulders in this little “forest” of sea fans. I don’t want to stay too long, because of sunburn, so I come out after about half an hour, just in time to see a motor boat approaching. I quickly pull on my pants, but the boat stops just offshore. I can’t figure out what he’s doing. Just waiting? Later, I discover that he’s the “support boat” for a group of kayakers, and he’s waiting for them to arrive. A little further around the island, I come across two groups of kayakers on guided tours. So, it seems I’m on the thousand dollar paddle.
While I was swimming, the wind came up. Already there are whitecaps, and it’s getting stronger. The wind is early today. But luckily, I’m paddling with the wind. It’s not too long before I round the north end of the island, and portage a few feet across a little isthmus, to save paddling another half mile. Now I’m going south on the leeward shore—into the wind, but the wind is mostly blocked by the mountainous coast—my plan for handling the wind was a good one. Now and then, I get a strong gust, but the waves here are small.
I discover a beautiful little bay with several beaches, and paddle in. Close to the shore, I can see the water frothing. Then a flock of pelicans arrive and start diving into the frothy water. I paddle over, and soon I’m in the middle of it. Under the water, I can see a school of large fish. Apparently, these large fish are feeding on a school of smaller fish—when they start to feed, you see big splashes, and some large fins above the water. Then the smaller fish start to jump out of the water, and some jump repeatedly to get away, almost walking on the water. Then the birds pile in and there’s a frenzy. Frigate birds show up, to possibly steal a pelican’s catch, and gulls show up as well. At one point, the feeding frenzy erupts all around me, and I’m splashed with water. Four pelicans dive in close to me.
Fish in a feeding frenzy--soon the birds will join the party.
Next, I see a bunch of birds feeding on the water’s edge, so I paddle over. Several vultures are feeding on a large fish—but when I approach, they fly away, leaving the fish to some gulls, who aren’t as shy. The gulls start to fight over the fish, and two get into a very vicious battle, with their bills locked on each other’s head. The battle continues for sometime, until the victor gets the fish for himself. At this point, I start to paddle away, so the vultures and a raven return. The gull immediately gives way—vultures trump gulls, gulls trump ravens.
Two male gulls battle for a dead fish with beaks locked--while the mate of the victor watches.
I leave the pretty little harbor as the group of kayakers arrives. There are a series of beaches and coves down the coast. I stop in the third for lunch, at 12:30, because this cove has some shade from a high cliff.
Lunch spot in shade of far cliff.
View from lunch spot. There are lots of these "mushrooms" on the island--huge boulders carved by wave action.
Up on top of the cliff, some ospreys are nesting, and they are scolding me throughout lunch with their screeching calls. One of the ospreys chases for quite a long distance after a vulture which comes into the area, diving at it, teaching it a good lesson.
Out in the channel, the water looks dark with many whitecaps—so I know I’m going to have to wait here till about 5:00 pm. I figure I could make the crossing, but it would be extremely strenuous, and a little nerve wracking. Better to wait.
The channel I have to cross to get home--still windy.
The problem is, I have no chair or even a pad to lounge on, and nothing to read. I take everything soft in my kayak, including even my platypus water bottles, and stuff it into a dry bag to make the back of a chair. I use my PFD for the seat of a chair. I find some rocks positioned to make the framework for my chair, and settle down for lunch with a beer. It’s not the most comfortable seat, but better than rock.
It’s a long afternoon. I take photos. I try to snooze. I watch the birds, and look at the rocks and shells. At 3:00, the sun’s moderated enough so I start to climb to the top of a headland. It’s a very steep climb up a ravine in my tevas—the rock is rotten, and the stones round and loose. To make it harder, there are cactus about, including the deadly cholla. So I’m very, very careful and deliberate—after all, I’m killing time. At one point as I’m passing a cholla, I slip and come crashing down, but luckily I just miss the cholla. Finally on top (see photo above), the view is tremendous. But I can see it’s still very, very windy.
At 4:30, the wind seems to be abating slightly. Why not get started now? I have a ways to go south before I cross, and even if I start to cross while it's still windy, the wind will start to abate soon. Carefully, I bail out the kayak completely, and tie everything down.
Further along the coast, the cliffs catch the afternoon sun, and the view is amazing. The wind is moderating. When it finally comes time for me to cross, the wind has dropped a lot, and it has also shifted, so now it’s nearly behind me as I make the crossing. In this part of the channel, I’m getting the full waves from the Sea of Cortez. They are big, but not so steep as to cause any problem. I arrive a little before sundown—tired—and notice that the population of campers has increased hugely. Now there are some new people camped right next to me, on either side.
In talking to my neighbors, I discover this is “Holy Week.” It’s a four day weekend, and I’m on the Mexican free camping beach. The big tent they pitched last night near the trailer? That’s the beer tent. The owner has put up some pennants, started a generator, and put up a sign for beer. He must also be selling tacos, because there are some salsa bottles set out. But he doesn’t get any business at all tonight. Everyone is in a festive mood, and several fireworks go off. Children are playing soccer on the beach.
Mexicans camp just the way they live. They make do with whatever they have. There are hardly any of the backpacker type tents like you see in the US. Instead, there are some very large tents, almost cabin size. Also some large tents of the kind you see shading artisans at art fairs. The Mexicans camp as extended families. The family next to me involves two grown brothers and their families of many kids, plus the grandparents. I counted 12 chairs. Some of these large family groups bring a trailer with a huge water tank on it.
It’s a long beach and more people are arriving all the time. Many are getting stuck in the sand. One family arrives in a very low-slung, hot-rod type car, pulling a small trailer. They’ve picked out a spot down the beach, but the sand is too soft for the low-slung car, so after they get it back on the hard sand, he revs it up, and takes off for the soft sand at about 25 mph. There are lots of children and people around. He goes fishtailing on down the beach, making a huge racket, but the ploy works. There are several all-terrain vehicles running up and down the beach.
Several vehicles on the beach have slipping fan belts, making loud screeches. Someone’s auto security alarm goes off. Several cars have all the doors open, with music blaring. But you never hear American hits. It’s always Mexican music. Someone has even arrived to camp with, believe it or not, the tractor part of a semi tractor-trailer.
The people next to me are primary school teachers, both the husband and the wife. They live in Cabo San Lucas. They drove all this way, a full day’s drive, because they say the water here is calmer for kids, and in addition, their parents who are joining them live 2-3 hours away. The other brother in this family does maintenance for a living
I’m pretty tired, so after supper, I listen to music and then go to bed.
Thursday, 4/1
More people are still arriving. . I help my neighbors get their car unstuck, and they help me put my kayak on my car. The army drives down the beach in a big truck, complete with assault rifles. The park ranger (for the National Marine Park where we’re located) shows up in his white truck and drives down the beach, but doesn’t attempt to arrest the jet-skiers or ATV riders. How could he catch them? What difference would it make? It would just ruin everyone’s holiday. The police show up, and are all chatting in a group of about five where the dirt road joins the beach. As I said before, Mexicans camp as they live—disordered, boisterous, and happy. Everyone’s there: the army, the police, the ranger, and the beer tent.
In the morning, parents wander off into the dunes, holding the hands of their children, to go potty. With no toilets and now hundreds of people on the beach, it must be hard to find a private bush.
I’m feeling pretty tired this morning, and not very enthusiastic. I feel like I need a day’s rest, soaking in a tub, and in the dark. There’s dusty grit everywhere, and my skin is over-baked. So rather than more outdoor activities, I pull camp and drive on to the north.
I head up the coast, stopping at the “Hidden Port” marina for photos.
He asks me about my car and the trailer. I show him the trailer. He says that everything is expensive here because it’s imported from the US. All the basics--building materials gasoline, etc. Cars are much more expensive than in the US. He says a while back he bought a used pickup truck, 8 years old. It cost him about $50,000 dollars. That explains why I’ve seen so many wrecked-looking cars. These wrecks cost what a good-looking used car would cost in the US.
The marina is large and new. Some huge yachts are at the pier. One mega-yacht is named “Bad Company.” Humm. I talk to someone at the yacht club, who says it’s the safest port during hurricanes in all of Baja. Usually they get one a year in September. But last year, they got two, and his boat broke loose during one.
I continue up the coast of Loreto Bay. There aren’t many points of beach access, but where ever I can look down onto a camping beach, it’s packed to the gills. I stop in Loreto for a little sight-seeing, and to buy a few supplies. I stop for lunch in a thatched-roof place—ordering fish tacos.
They bring a deep-fried fish stick laying naked on a tortilla. I’m crushed--it's nothing like the rich stew of fish and sauce at Gordo Lele’s. But then I notice the little tray of add-ons they brought with the fish. There’s pico de gallo salsa, limes, sliced cucumbers, pickled onions, shredded cabbage, and guacamole salsa. After I put them all on and roll up the taco, I discover that it’s delicious. So I order another.
For good fish sticks, it's all in the extras.
They bring a deep-fried fish stick laying naked on a tortilla. I’m crushed--it's nothing like the rich stew of fish and sauce at Gordo Lele’s. But then I notice the little tray of add-ons they brought with the fish. There’s pico de gallo salsa, limes, sliced cucumbers, pickled onions, shredded cabbage, and guacamole salsa. After I put them all on and roll up the taco, I discover that it’s delicious. So I order another.
Meanwhile, a well-dressed young woman (in green, on left) at the next table is watching me. She is finding something about me amusing--I suspect that my hair is standing up. With the wind, the salt, the sweat, and the constant hats, every day is a bad hair day in Baja. Later, when I take a photo of my taco, she really cracks up. Her behavior is an exception, for usually Mexicans are polite and considerate.
I continue up to Conception Bay, about an hour later. It’s calmer than when I was there on my way south, and beautiful blue. One great beach, where I was planning to camp on my return, had one tent on it before. Now, it has about a hundred, so I pass it by.
The harbor at Santa Rosalita. A ferry from the mainland docks here.
Just north of town, the road turns inland to cross the peninsula. Here the desert is eroded, almost a badland. The highway heads steeply up the winding road, past the wrecked tanker truck, where I take some photos—taking care to park the car first.
This tanker didn't make it down the steep curves to Santa Rosalita.
On towards the Three Virgins Volcano as the sun sinks low. This is wonderful, empty desert. Gaunt cactus catch the last rays of the sun against the purple volcano. Now I’m content—this is a wonderful road trip. So many interesting things. Such an empty place. My mood is much improved. There’s a cool wind—the first in weeks-- blowing down from the mountains.
At the town square in San Ignacio, mass has just ended at the church, and the policeman is directing traffic (which probably only happens a few times a year). So I can’t park on the square, but I find a field for overflow parking a block away. As I step out of the car, I see towering over me a dramatic cluster of tall date palms, lit eerily by street lights, and stark against the black sky and stars. The temperature is so cool I have to put on long sleeves and a down vest.
Date palms against the stars at San Ignacio.
I take one turn abound the town square, looking for a restaurant. There are about a hundred children and teenagers out in the square, standing around, playing, or walking, all unsupervised by adults. No one is misbehaving. Perhaps this is what small-town America was once like. I remember in Cape Cod, when I was a kid, that it was something like this on band concert nights.
A block from the square, I find a small restaurant, a cut above a taco stand, and find they’re still open. The dining area is a round room, with whitewashed stone walls, stone floor, and palm-thatched roof. A tree trunk holds the roof up in the center. There are two French couples already dining, so I know this is a good place.
While I wait, I start to smell this incredibly delicious smell about the time the food arrives for the French. I’m thinking, “I should have ordered that, whatever it is.”
But then my order of “Carne Asada” (roast meat) arrives, and it turns out, I was smelling my own order being prepared. It’s fabulous!
When I returned to my trailer about 9:30, town was quiet, except for a drunk parked near the trailer. He was calling out in my direction—the first time I’ve been hassled in any way in Mexico. I wasn’t worried, since I’m only a block from the police station, and he soon left. Then it was quiet—just the date palms, the stars, and a few tree frogs singing.
Friday, 4/2
I went back to the same restaurant for breakfast, then worked on photos till noon.
An ideal free camping spot in San Ignacio--the church parking lot.
Then I headed to Guererro Negro for gas, cash and internet. I stopped numerous times in the Vizcaino Desert, which has lots of interesting plants.
Where the desert is the most harsh, nothing but a tiny kind of succulent plant with a thin, reddish leaf grows. But when you turn this leaf over, it’s glistening with big moisture droplets. If you brush your hand over the leaf bottom, no moisture shows on your finger. But if you squeeze it a little, then there’s lots of moisture. I think the water is stored in huge, balloon-like cells that look like drops of moisture. They burst only when you handle it roughly.
Now I’m in Mario’s bar, trying to get the internet to work. Mario's is a huge palapa--that's a sort of semi-open structure made of native materials, such as logs, cactus wood, and a very high and magnificent thatched roof. It has a raked gravel floor. But with the bad economy, Mario's isn't seeing much business, and there's just a skeleton crew on hand. An old woman for a cook, and her fat, tired husband, who's watching "The Life of Christ" docudrama on TV. The food his pretty mediocre here, and very high-priced. You do far better at a Taco Stand for about 1/4 the price, or less.
Even the internet, the reason why I stopped here, doesn't work. After some frustration, a pretty young woman comes out, and verifies the wireless internet is turned on. She says, "I don't know anything about technology." Finally, I give up on the wireless, and get the internet by plugging their phone line directly into my computer. I work on-line for about three hours--the old couple have left, and only the young woman is left, watching the life of Christ on TV. It sounds like an old-time "western," with Romans riding horses around in a frenzy, and Christians in the place of the customary "Indians." I think you're supposed to root for the Christians.
I leave and drive north in the dark for a while, since the road is flat and I want to get north of the ugly Guererro Negro area. It's not long before I find a good spot off the highway, perhaps a mile or less from the Pacific.
Where the desert is the most harsh, nothing but a tiny kind of succulent plant with a thin, reddish leaf grows. But when you turn this leaf over, it’s glistening with big moisture droplets. If you brush your hand over the leaf bottom, no moisture shows on your finger. But if you squeeze it a little, then there’s lots of moisture. I think the water is stored in huge, balloon-like cells that look like drops of moisture. They burst only when you handle it roughly.
Now I’m in Mario’s bar, trying to get the internet to work. Mario's is a huge palapa--that's a sort of semi-open structure made of native materials, such as logs, cactus wood, and a very high and magnificent thatched roof. It has a raked gravel floor. But with the bad economy, Mario's isn't seeing much business, and there's just a skeleton crew on hand. An old woman for a cook, and her fat, tired husband, who's watching "The Life of Christ" docudrama on TV. The food his pretty mediocre here, and very high-priced. You do far better at a Taco Stand for about 1/4 the price, or less.
Even the internet, the reason why I stopped here, doesn't work. After some frustration, a pretty young woman comes out, and verifies the wireless internet is turned on. She says, "I don't know anything about technology." Finally, I give up on the wireless, and get the internet by plugging their phone line directly into my computer. I work on-line for about three hours--the old couple have left, and only the young woman is left, watching the life of Christ on TV. It sounds like an old-time "western," with Romans riding horses around in a frenzy, and Christians in the place of the customary "Indians." I think you're supposed to root for the Christians.
I leave and drive north in the dark for a while, since the road is flat and I want to get north of the ugly Guererro Negro area. It's not long before I find a good spot off the highway, perhaps a mile or less from the Pacific.
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