As the sun rose over Bahia Gonzaga I
knew that this was going to be how most of my days in Baja would
start. You simply couldn't resist stepping out onto the sand to take
in the brilliant red sky and its mirror image rippling across the
water. As I brewed some coffee and packed up my gear I decided to
take a quick tour of Pueblo Gonzaga. Quick being the operative word.
16 houses, RV shelters, shacks, and lean-to's lead up to the bar
which sits next to the harbor... and that's pretty much it. Walking
through the bar on my way to the beach my plans were changed by the
smell of breakfast wafting out from the kitchen. I placed my order,
grabbed my coffee and headed out to the beach to explore for a bit
while the old woman in the kitchen started on the eggs. Isla Santa
Rosalia de Gonzaga sits off the end of the beach and the tide was low
enough to allow me to wander out there to poke around a bit. A
couple of rays were swimming along in the shallows, and I saw my
first Frigate Bird of the trip drifting along on the thermals that
were already starting to rise up off the top of the island.
I wandered back to find my breakfast
set up on a table practically at the water's edge. I feasted on
Huevos Rancheros with fresh tortillas and a bottomless cup of coffee.
The family running the place couldn't have been nicer, and I was
completely content to start off my day fully fueled up and
decompressing by the minute.
Heading West from Gonzaga I had been
told that the road improves dramatically. It soon became obvious
that nobody who I had spoken to had driven this road because I was
soon staring down 40 miles of the 2nd worst road I had
ever driven. After about 6 miles I heard a crunching sound from my
front left tire that just made my heart sink and stomach drop. It
sounded like at least $400 of buckling and I expected to look out and
see my wheel outpacing me down the hill. But there it was, rolling
along exactly where it was supposed to be. I figured that given my
level of mechanical skill the best thing to do would be to push on
and see what happened. Heck, I was only going 12 mph at this point
anyway.
Dirt paths began winding off into the
desert as soon as I dropped out of the coastal mountains. The Baja
1000 had run through here a few months ago, and I assumed that these
were the passing lanes and alternative routes that had developed
along the way. The sand looked a little soft, but the washboarding
was much gentler over there. I made the executive decision to ditch
the road and head off into the desert using my compass as a guide and
keeping an eye out for the road from the high spots along the way.
As long as I kept going West I had to run into Hwy 1.
When the mountains jumped back up the
dirt tracks returned to the “road” and after a couple of
kilometers I was desperately searching for another dirt track. At
the top of a particularly nasty climb I was surprised to look down
and see an '82 Corolla sitting in the bottom of the ravine with 2 old
Mexicans tinkering with it amongst a dozen of so gallon jugs of water
and gasoline. I pulled over to see if they needed a hand and after a
little confusion ended up pulling a climbing rope off the back of the
Jeep and tying the little Corolla to the back for the ride out of the
desert. We were a solid 30 miles from the highway, and these guys
had basically ripped the transmission off the bottom of their little
car. The Jeep stood up to the extra cruelty, and those guys rattled
around behind me happily enough. There were a couple of spots that I
felt bad dragging them through, but I wasn't confident that they
could make it on the dirt tracks that I wanted so badly to turn onto.
After about 10 miles we got to Coco's
Corner. This ramshackle tienda in the middle of the desert has been
a landmark for years since Coco moved out here from Ensenada after
losing a leg in some sort of accident. The stories vary on the
details, but Coco is famously gregarious and practically fell over
laughing when I explained why I was towing a loaded down Corolla
across one of the worst roads in the world. I was in no particular
hurry, and I figured the Mexicans I was towing couldn't really
complain about much so I took advantage of the opportunity to sit and
have a cold beer with Coco and poke around his place for a while.
Most of the décor is strings of beer cans and there are
hundreds of pairs of panties nailed to the ceiling. All he needed
was a couple of big Greek letters out front and he could have started
rushing up the freshman class at San Diego State.
We bid Coco a fond fair-well, and after
a couple more hours we finally reached the highway. I swear the Jeep
sighed as the asphalt rolled beneath my wheels for the first time in
2 days. I pulled the Mexican guys to the first mechanic we could
find where they untied the rope and send me on my way with a quick
“gracias” and a nod. It was almost as if they weren't certain
that they were happier to be here than they were stuck on the side of
the road. I did sort out that they'd bottomed the car out the night
before and had slept on top of their car, so I figured they were good
to go.
Bahia Los Angeles was calling me and I
charged southward with new determination and open eyes. Highway 1
crosses virtual oceans of massive Saguaro Cactus and there were Red
Tailed Hawks everywhere. At the turn off for Bahia L.A. I started
seeing these funky plants that looked Dr Seuss's version of Charlie
Brown's Christmas tree. Tall, thin, cone shaped trunks reached up
from the desert covered with spiny, frilly leaves topped by a shaggy
orange tuft. Totally bizarre, but very cool.
As the road wound its way toward the
coast I could occassionally see the the Sea of Cortez peak out from
in between a couple of mountains. Then, all of a sudden, there it
was reaching out in front of me. A dozen blues wrapped around a half
dozen rocky islands out toward the horizon. These views are
literally breathtaking. I had to stop on the side of the road for a
few minutes just to take it all in.
Pulling into Bahia Los Angeles I
quickly found a grocery store and a taquerria to take care of my
immediate needs. With a belly full of Tacos Pescados and a cooler
full of icy beverages I was off to find a place to camp. I had read
about a spot called Campo Archelon with rock walled palapas. The
wind the night before has reached about 35 kts coming out of the
mountains, so I thought a rock wall sounded like a great idea. A
couple of RV folks tried to convince me to check out a place called
Dagget's, but once I found Archelon I was home. The proprietor,
Antonio, had build 6 or 7 nice sized palapas right on the beach with
sturdy rock walls on the landward side. A few simple folding cots
had been cobbled together by previous guests, and my palapa even had
a little shelf constructed out of flotsam and driftwood. There were
only 2 other folks in the camp, and I set up in the Southernmost
palapa away from the rest of the world. In a word, this place was
perfect.
By the time I had set up my new little
home I realized that I needed a shower in a bad way. This was the
point at which I discovered the one draw back to Campo Archelon. I
probably could have gotten wet quicker by spitting on myself than
from the dribble of cold water that struggled to escape the faucet,
but I was in no mood to complain about anything. I got as clean as I
could, built a fire, cooked some more fish, and settled down to read
my book. I immediately felt any weight that was left on my shoulders
lift off as I realized that for the first time in a while I literally
had nothing to do tomorrow. I wasn't going anywhere. I didn't have
to meet anybody. I had food. Perfect. I slept like a dead person
that night.
