Baja California 6/27
Sunday June 15 I drove South on the 15 to the 52E to the 125S to the 94E, turned right on 188S to cross at Tecate around nine thirty this morning to catch the new Mex 2D toll road east, which dumps you south of Mexicali onto Mex 5 to San Felipe. I pay for everything in pesos while down here, the toll in dollars worked out to be $11.30. From the top of the grade looking east the views of the desert below were spectacular.
Along Mex 5 during the heat of noon my truck’s temperature gauge was going past center, which it hardly ever does. I even had new Prestone installed. I settled behind a caravan of three motor homes and cruised 55, which relieved that issue. I pulled into San Felipe around one.
First night was to be spent at Hotel Riviera, travel partner Baja Tim was in the parking lot waiting for me, as he’d arrived a few days earlier. I hit the lobby to score a room then went shopping for Cokes, tortillas and cerveza. I took my six cases of empties from last year to the Corona agency near the traffic circle on the main road into town. A man came out to tell me they are closed on Sunday and that I ought to try the agency behind Club Miramar, it’s the same price.
I drove over, I thought oh yeah I remember these guys, this is the place where we got our beer lots of times back in the 80’s and 90’s and today they had just what I wanted, one cold case and five warm. It’s good to find warm cases before you travel into the desert. If cold bottles heat up, the cap seals warp and cause the brew to go flat. I visited a grocery store up on the old road where I found my sodas and locally-made tortillas. I’m good to go for beer and fish tacos at camp tomorrow. I already purchased ice last night, including eight blocks in a 100 quart cooler topped with 30lbs of dry to keep them frozen for maybe five days.
Back at the hotel we relaxed on the lawn with brew, a can of almonds and a bag of commercial beef jerky. I pulled out the bottle of Cabo Wabo tequila I picked up at the liquor store on the Malecon earlier and we had a few sips, which were very good. We reviewed the freshness dates on the Corona bottles, I ended up with HI, meaning they were brewed this past April and tasting fresh.
Corona uses a four-character bottling code. The first letter is the year; A for 2001 through H for 2008, the second letter is the month in reverse alphabetical order; L=Jan – A=Dec, and the last two digits are the day.
Monday morning I got up whenever, feeling slightly hung over but not sickly enough to avoid the Malecon to have three fish and three shrimp tacos with cucumber slices for breakfast. Satisfied, I went back to the hotel to pack up for our drive south to Isla Huefanito, our first campsite of the trip.
The fifty miles to Puertecitos is smoothly paved but the blacktop ends there. The rest of Mex 5 is a new road carved out of the desert mountains back in the 80’s and never maintained. If you love your vehicle you drive 10 miles an hour or less. We did see some progress a little south of town. Several earthmovers were stationed there as if they are finally going to do something about the thoroughfare. Tim pulled over for an ice drill, preparing his coolers to buy ice in town but the sole store was closed.
Once on the bumpy road my breakfast was still sitting in my gut like a rock, being shaken violently, creating clouds of cucumber belch stench. It’s still better than the old road, parts of which you can see here and there. A few hours into the jolt zone I smelled tequila in my cab and found the oscillations had popped the cork off my now sideways jug, leaving me with the disguised blessing of only three remaining swigs.
At the top of the last grade before descending down to the island, The Militaria drove up in a Humvee and checked us out to make sure we’re not drug runners. I’m sure everyone’s heard about the troubles Mexico is having in Tijuana and other border towns. It’s no big deal for us as they are always friendly and make us feel safe.
The area we chose to camp, called Punta Santa Isabel, is one we have driven past but never stopped. There are several points of land with small inlets between that at high tide look like good places to fish or swim or just hang out. We pulled off the road to one main point overlooking a cove and the first thing to come out of the truck was my new steel-framed shade canopy. While setting it up, the frame was tangled in itself and as I eased the stuck part out of the mess it bent and cracked. Jeez, brand new and Baja-tized first trick!
Shade was available within a half hour, out came the chairs and boom box, which I usually plug into my truck’s cigarette lighter, but for whatever reason the socket stopped working. I checked the fuses, they were all fine. I had my CB radio running off it just five miles before.
Last year I made copies of all my CDs but the player skipped, annoying the heck out of us. This year I recopied them with different software and tested a random few with the player in my living room. I didn’t have any skips but here the thing started doing it again anyway. I had a few factory CDs handy, they played fine.
For dinner I pulled out the trusty Weber portable charcoal grill and sizzled up a pair of skirt steaks along with baked potatoes.
I looked over and saw my left rear tire was flat. Dang, the first day it happens and I only brought two spares. I usually bring three but I ran out of cargo space last year. I normally reduce the air in the tires from 50 to 32 pounds before hitting dirt but I forgot to do that this morning.
After sunset I set up the surprise I brought, a Dell 17” laptop to play concert DVDs. I just took delivery of it a week before we left; I didn’t have time to shop around for powered speakers. I hooked it up to the amp of the boom box by using one of those old fake cassette goodies with a cord so that the sound is picked up from the laptop headphone jack to the tape head. As Keith Moon rose over Huerfanito, I put in The Who, Live at the Isle of Wight. The picture was fantastic and it sounded great for being a Mickey Mouse rig.
After watching Hendrix at Woodstock the time was midnight. The thing about June around here is sunrise over The Sea Of Cortez comes way early. I slept on the ground atop a Coleman pad with a pillow, fully clothed. Tim had his folding aluminum cot. It was rather chilly at 3am, I had to put my socks back on. However by six in the morning the air heated back up. The temperature might have reached 100 during mid day but it felt comfortable.
Tuesday morning the first thing is to take care of was an “emergencia” by jaunting over to the nearest bush – shovel in hand – to “spray foam” as we like to call it. Of course, legend has it that Montezuma’s revenge is caused by drinking the water in Mexico. Tim and I can dispel that myth by saying it happens every time we come here, it will last the whole trip and it won’t go away until for me at least seven days after I return home. We only drink bottled water we bring with us. It’s the food. It tastes great, goes down well but turns your digestive system into a sudsy gravy factory.
With that out of the way for now, the second thing to do was to suck up a few ice cold Coronas for motivation to change my tire. I knocked that out in short order then reduced the air in all tires to the 32 pounds. You get better traction in the soft stuff and a smoother ride in rough terrain with less chance of punctures.
Next activity was to drink more beer while readying a fish pole for the 13:30 high tide. I set up one rod with a Braid Slammer iron jig and another with a bobber and a plastic worm hook, to which will be pinned a three-inch Berkeley Gulp! Squid. As soon as I finished tying up and setting my gear aside, a local materializes out of nowhere and asks for, “anzuelos, por favor”. I asked what kind of bait he had, thinking I could match a hook to what he was going to pin to it. He said, whatever bait I can find. I gave him three #1/0 live bait hooks, he disappeared as fast as he appeared. We don't know where he came from, the nearest structure is miles away.
As the tide came in I walked the short distance to the shore to start fan casing the aforementioned iron as far out as I could from a prominent rock at the end of a point. For an hour I tried different speeds, jerky motion, deep and shallow and whatever other kind retrieve I could dream up but I could tell nothing was going to touch it.
Next I tried the Gulp! Squid on the bubble rig. I set the depth for six feet and let it sink with two #2 splitshots. It was only moments before the bobber went under and I was on to a spunky finescale triggerfish worth three tacos. I had to retie the hook as the rocks are sharp around here. The next cast soaked for only a few minutes before I was on to a barred sand bass at two tacos. These are the two most common species one would expect to catch from the shore all the way south to Bahia Concepcion, where from there on down the catch would consist of a varietal myriad.
The ensuing hour produced many bites but most broke the line, as triggers have teeth resembling that of a horse, not to mention the monofilament being yanked down and shredded by rocks. I kept two of the five triggers I landed and the one sand bass for dinner.
Standing there in 98 degrees casting for a couple hours took its toll on my body. I laid on a rock in the shade of a large boulder and fell asleep to the cadence of the small waves washing ashore. The sea slaters crawling on me didn’t even phase me.
Back at camp I filleted the fish, put’em on ice, fired up the barbeque and laid down a halved whole chicken on the grill under low heat. As we relaxed listening to music and watching the moon rise over Huerfanito, I conked out in my chair. By the time I awoke the coals were out and the chicken was ready. We bellied up to my Coleman folding table and took a few bites. Parts of the bird were cooked to perfection but the thicker chunks were rather raw. I fired up some more coals to take care of the situation. In the end, satisfaction was had.
Wednesday morning we broke camp to find a remote wilderness beach near Campo Delfines. As I was picking up all my scattered gear to stuff into the back of the truck, the two of us couldn’t help noticing how huffing and puffing out of breath I was while tackling the simplest of tasks. Also my Cabo Wabo stomach weakness bumped up a notch after last night’s raw chicken ordeal. I would put one thing in the shell then have to take a break. It seemed after three days in Baja I had yet to become acclimated.
Sixteen miles south, the road we chose to access the beach was the same trail we used last year, where we encountered those pesky fish camp guys. The first stop was atop a stretch of bluffs high above the water that were formed out of compressed sand. The access to the beach would have been difficult but at least we had a view either way to make sure there were no other humans around. We motored north to the vaquita house where we stopped to investigate. Vaquita in Spanish means ‘little cow’ and is the name of the indigenous and rare small porpoise that exists only in the northern Sea of Cortez. This particular house has a palo verde tree out front with a vaquita skeleton tied to it.
Peering through the windows we saw the house had fifteen cots stacked up, as if some day there would be a party of sorts. For these parts it was quite the nice place, the construction was pretty good, and less than fifty yards over white sand from the front porch lied the high tide mark.
We stopped in the first dry wash past the house. I grabbed a couple beers and hiked further along the main path. I found the next wash over was wide and you cannot see another structure looking either way along the coast. The next dry wash over was narrow and had a shell dump and rotting fish carcasses strewn about. Even though the drive from the last camp didn’t have the distance, the rough road at five miles per hour makes you beer tired and in need of rest. I suggested we drive 200 more feet to the wide dry wash, and upon arrival Tim was overjoyed with the sand and Isla San Luis in the near distance.
The immediate task on the to-do list was to pull out the shade canopy along with our sleep pads. I was out as soon as my head hit the pillow.
As I came to, my stomach and general lethargy subsided not. I cracked open a beer and spaced out in my chair for a while. Tim whipped out a can of roast beef chunks and loaf of bread, offering up a sandwich. All I had since last night was a few handfuls out of the Chex Mix bag I keep handy on the passenger side floorboard. I knew I had to eat no matter how nauseous my stomach felt, so I pulled out lettuce, tomato and mayonnaise from my ice box. Tim worked fervently on the sandwich; the pleasing concoction went down well.
After a few more sips of brew I realized I had not brushed my teeth is a couple days, as my own breath offended me greatly here in the fresh desert sea air. As I brushed my tongue I ended up gagging myself and hurled up red liquid that at first looked like blood but was only beer with tomato. Luckily the bread and beef stayed put.
The rest of the evening we listened to some tunes before hitting the sack around eleven.
Thursday morning around three an episode of pounding arrhythmia woke me up, another health issue having me question if at age 51 I am too old for this desert camping business. I have had arrhythmia before but only for a few minutes a couple times a year, no biggie. However today it lasted for hours.
During the day the condition didn’t hinder my activities, such as beer curls, spraying foam and swimming in the clear, warm waters. It just felt weird. I put on my dive mask and took some underwater pics of mullets and seargent majors.
At this spot there were thousands of bees buzzing around, likely due to the blooming smoke trees. They congregate where there is water; you had to clear them off the ice chests before opening. I missed one, she stung me on the inside of my right pinkie finger as I lifted the cooler lid. My finger swelled up and was itchy and stiff for two days, nothing serious as I have been stung many times.
Tim somehow attracted most of the attention of the bees all day. Also during the night he was bitten by jejenes as evidenced by the many small red dots on his ankles. For whatever reason some people's DNA attracts insects more than others.
Around two in the afternoon I laid down for a nap and upon awakening 90 minutes later the arrhythmia was over, along with the stomach distress and the heavy breathing. I felt great! Go figure.
At dinner time my body was functioning perfectly. I lighted two burners of the stove, heated up some olive oil in my cast iron skillet and poached some fish fillets for tacos. As that was cooking I put the top to my backpacking mess kit on the other burner to serve as a comal (Mexican tortilla cooker). I chopped up lettuce, shredded some cheddar and opened a can of Herdez salsa casera.
I laid a heated corn tortilla atop a warm flour tortilla, deposited a fish fillet cartridge in the middle, toped that with the cheese so it would melt against the hot flesh, covered the whole thing with lettuce and salsa and handed it to my partner. Hearing the orgasmic oohs and ahs I knew I’d done good. We each had three, and upon judging my own work, yes, the fish tacos were fantastic.
Later in the evening I played with my new camping toy, a 350 watt DC-to-AC power inverter. With this you can run household appliances off your car battery. Radio Shack was smart as they had two ways to hook it up, either by the cig lighter or by positive and negative clips directly to the batter terminals. I went with the latter since my lighter socket was dead. It powered up and charged the laptop fine, along with the boom box, and never drained the battery for using it all night. The only problem was when we tried to play cassette tapes in the boom box, a loud AC hum was heard. This was particularly a bummer since I had the laptop sound amplified via the boom box cassette player. It was too difficult to look at the Led Zeppelin 1970 concert at Royal Albert Hall DVD with all the background buzz. There is no other input to the boom box amp besides the microphone-in jack but that hookup is mono and only amplifies one side of the stereo sound through both speakers.
I am tending toward junking the boom box and going with the laptop as our main CD/DVD campground unit, as the player is sturdier. I’d like to someday add a bookshelf amp that has a stereo auxiliary input, which could be hooked up to the DC-to-AC inverter.
Friday I felt great. I was finally acclimatized, for there was neither huffing and puffing nor heart palpitations as I broke camp and loaded the truck for Campo Bufeo, which we could see less than three miles down the beach, where we hoped to find the restaurant open for lunch.
We at this point stayed off the main road, instead driving trails south past a dirt air strip and then left onto the Bufeo road. As we passed the sand dunes entering town we could see not much was going on. The restaurant and hotel were closed and the only souls in sight were two laborers building a home near the beach. We were going to poke around a bit but the sand quickly turned soupy, causing us to have to turn around and gas it before we sank up to the truck frames. This was a rather disappointing situation, as Tim says some of the best home-cooked Mexican dishes he’s had in Baja came from Restaurante Bufeo.
Back on the main road (Mex. 5) south we cruised into Campo Papa Fernandez, where we found positive news in an abierto sign hanging in their restaurant’s window. As we kicked back on the outside picnic tables, a boy and a girl jogged over from the main house to take our order, smiles abounding. We asked if they can serve camarones rancheros, they said, sí, dos? We said, sí, dos.
Our servers brought out the condiment tray as who appeared to be the mom entered the back door to fire up the grill. We munched chips and salsa for twenty minutes before the main course was delivered, lots of shrimp chunks soaking in ranchero sauce, including sides of flour tortillas, beans and pan fried potatoes. They must have been out of fresh chilies because to apply the spicy heat they used black pepper. Didn’t matter much, we were in heaven.
Back on the main road south we stopped by the only store since San Felipe 120 miles ago, Rancho Grande Market at Bahia San Luis Gonzaga, to top-off the ice chests. With that chore complete, we were at Alfonsina’s Resort looking for a pair of rooms.
Walking through the front door we saw besides the usual staff what at first appeared to be a man, his son and the son’s girliefriend all speaking Spanish while they wolfed down fresh ceviche with tortilla chips. A good sign indeed, only three people here – there should be no trouble obtaining rooms – and there’s a chance at a large personal pile of ceviche later. After being shown our quarters, we went back out to the trucks for our luggage. Quickly we set up our rooms, took a shower, put on clean clothes and relaxed for a while.
At some point I approached our other three guests to find out about the ceviche. The son speaking in perfect San Diego English said in the morning they went fishing on the boat right out there moored off the beach. They caught a lot of triggerfish and three kabi-kucho, the latter of which they released. I wondered what the heck’s a kabi-kucho, I never heard of that one. He said it is the secret fish from the northern Sea Of Cortez, the one of which nobody can utter the real name. Ah yes, I am familiar. No official names in this write-up.
For an early dinner we turned to the resort’s small restaurant. We asked for camarones rancheros but the cook just gave us dirty looks and said, pescado pescado pescado. In other words, all we’re getting is fish. The large slabs of filleted flesh were served mojo de ajo style with tomato and lettuce slices along with salsa, flour tortillas and refried beans. Really fresh, really good.
After nap time the son invited me over to their table for some evening wine and tequila tasting. Soon I am informed this isn’t dad, kid and girlfriend; I am in the company of a big shot Baja developer, his right hand real estate man and their beautiful bikini-clad lawyer, all from Tijuana. This never happens. What a rare opportunity to find out what really goes on down here in Baja Norte. I will change their names to protect the innocent.
Hey Mike, offered Son, have a sip of this $500 tequila Dad brought. Then Dad chimes in saying he has a bottle of the finest wine from the Guadalupe Valley, which is inland along Mex 3 north of Ensenada. The wine was fruity, not too dry, with an apricot finish. The tequila was perfection, a lot better than the Cabo Wabo, which I thought was damn good.
Ok, look, I am no wine guy, the aforementioned description was what Dad said, I just drank it, it was good.
Next Son pulls out a bag of custom beef jerky from a shop in Chula Vista. The maker had his own savory spice blend, it was a gooey, chewy burst of flavor. Every time someone would walk by I would tell them, this is a $600 bottle of tequila, then $700. I had it up to $1,300 by the time Son and I started hollering for Timoteo to join us.
Dad was saying his crew was down here to check on some property he bought near Campo Encantadas, where he is going to build a new resort. I said hey, that’s where we camped the past two nights, about a mile or two north of Encantadas in the second dry wash. I pulled out my laptop and inserted my camera’s SD card into the side slot. He enjoyed seeing the pics, but his property is a little south of Encantadas, along the cliffs. Ah yes we passed by there but why would you build along the cliffs with such tough beach access. The easy answer was water. He says if you walk along the beach below the cliffs you will see green algae growing on the rocks. That means there is fresh water flowing near the surface.
I’ll be darn, that’s how I find my opaleye algae bait; check the mud banks where fresh water comes into the salt. Thinking about it, the water flowing into salt where I live ain’t that fresh, but you know what I mean.
Dad says he has plans for a small hotel, rental cabanas and cabins, and a marina. But who will come, I wondered. You really don’t see any traffic on the main road, nor many Gringos or locals coming down this far to make a new resort economically viable. He claims Mex 5, the world’s most brutal highway, will be paved within three years from Puertecitos to all the way to the Mex 1 junction near Laguna Chapala. I expressed my skepticism, as the road was graded in the early 1980’s and ever since has been awaiting blacktop. But Dad insists from what he has heard in his development circles, within three years Mex 5 will have been completed.
This is good news for me. I like to go way south, let’s say to Punta Concepcion for 4 days, then drive north on Mex 1, stopping at various remote beaches to sleep for the night. It would be a relative luxury to be able to have a one-day Mex 5 paved drive to San Felipe for the final rest ‘n’ feast before returning home. At present the drive from Mex 1 to Felipe is almost 3 days and vicious. I can’t wait!
Dad also claims they are going to blaze a new road south from Bahia Gonzaga along the coast – skirting the Sierra La Asamblea – all the way to Bahia De Los Angeles. I have mixed emotions about that one. Spectacular wilderness coastline reachable now only by boat will be accessible to adventurous motorists, but that will bring about more hodgepodge beachfront developments that will fail due to lack of tourism.
A few sips later, I inquired what the deal is at Campo Bufeo and why the killer restaurant is closed. Dad was saying the family matriarchs who own and operate the restaurant and resort there are getting old and by Mexican tradition the whole thing goes to their sons, starting at the eldest. The tragedy is the kids are into other activities and want nothing to do with remote Baja. Meanwhile, the hotel, which has had recent room additions, is sadly crumbling into a state of disrepair.
Another curiosity is why when we ask for camarones rancheros, the Alfonsina’s staff displays stink-eye. Those guys are lazy, he says. It’s more work for them, pescado mojo de ajo is easier. That confirms our earlier suspicions. Dad said he would talk to the staff in the morning about serving us The Dish. We never had this problem when Antonio was running the place. We never been here without him greeting us and making sure we got what we want. Dad says Antonio drove off and disappeared one day last year, never to be heard from again.
Tim joins us at the table, carrying a plastic gallon jug of bottled water, which he offers to all. I was saying Dad knows everything down here and if he has any questions about anything Baja, he should indulge. Tim whipped out a map, inquired about certain campos endeared to his heart, Dad had the answers. Suddenly years worth of mysteries were solved.
Son was born in Tijuana and is American educated. Sorry about that, kid. He went to San Diego State and Santa Cruz, majoring in business… party business at best. Yeah, no, but seriously folks, these guys are smart and nice and sweet and generous, the best people to accidentally bump into anywhere.
Son was saying when they try to register place names as developers with the Mexican government, the cost can be overwhelming due to corruption. That’s where the foxy lawyer comes in. They send Girl out on dates with the government registrars, miraculously the filing goes from five digit dollars to the low fours.
As dark was upon us, Jupiter rose above the bay and shone brightly over the water. The night before, the moon was up first but as it speeds east around the Earth, tonight it would be next. I was bragging how my Casio fishing timer watch can predict within a few minutes when the moon will rise. Moonrise and sunrise are when the bottom of each is tangent to the ocean horizon. I said, I programmed my watch to have the coordinates of 30N and 114W for this section of Baja, and -7 hours from Greenwich Mean Time to cover daylight savings time. Damn watch said the moon would rise a few minutes after eight. I knew that was wrong, but in my tequila cloud I couldn’t figure out why the thing was over an hour off.
As I sat at another table with my flashlight and map trying to program my watch, my buddies over there were yelling, hey, where’s the moon, I thought you said it would be up by now. Just like Miles from the movie Sideways, I hollered back, shut up shut up shut up! It will be up at 9:30! Then Dad admires that ‘star’ rising over the water. I bitched, it’s not a star, it, Jupiter. It’s a planet damn it.
Getting over my trusty watch failure, I was back at the fiesta table as calm and friendly as ever. Dad ordered a small burrito and upon consumption was up the stairs to his room for the night. Moments later I saw moonshine on the horizon and said wait ten minutes and you will see the big cheese rise. As soon as the moon was in full view, Son grabbed Girl’s hand for a wade into the bay.
As they all departed they said anything left on the table is ours. I was thinking in the morning they might have second thoughts of giving the wine, jerky and expensive to-kill-ya to such crazy Americans, so Tim and I departed to chairs outside our rooms, leaving the bounty behind.
Sitting in those chairs, gazing upon the moonlit bay, I wondered what it’s be like to be young, educated, successful, beautiful, and especially out in the water as one with a foxy lawyer muchacha. Another Corona and two more shots of Tim’s El Capricho, I was in a dream state back at the breakwall with my green shit rig merrily casting for opaleye.
Saturday morning I was up earlier than usual, around 7:30 and I saw the fiesta table was cleared out. I waited while for Dad and Son to walk by, they said they didn’t take anything, they gave it all to us. I looked around the restaurant and bar and peeked into the kitchen but no sign of the big buck tequila. I didn’t care much about the wine or jerky, as that would have been our gift to the locals. I asked one of the caretakers in Spanish if she knew where the tequila bottle from the table was, she went into the kitchen and rescued it from behind a pot. Muchas gracias, I smiled.
Son backed up his full-size pickup to the front door, he and Dad loaded up the bed with their luggage and such. The four of us chatted and exchanged email IDs while they waited for Girl to show up, alas they were on their way back to Tijuana. Instead of heading the same way they came, that is north on the bumpy road to Felipe, they are going the smoother route by taking the bumpy road the remaining 35 miles south to Mex 1 to drive the 340 miles of pavement north back to their city.
Next to go was the fishing guide with the nice boat. He was telling the locals that business wasn’t good enough to remain here, so back to TJ he went.
Now Tim and I had the small resort to ourselves. Tim went to check on lunch and came back to our party zone to giddily announce that they are going to serve us camarones rancheros today. We said, thanks Dad for putting in the good word.
The resort staff called us to the restaurant, where we found our bowls filled with all fresh ranchero vegetable ingredients to go along with large chunks of shrimp. All the flavors were right, the chili heat factor was perfect, there was no black pepper, this has to be one of the finest rancheros I ever had.
While we were savoring our meal, a group of Americans show up asking the resort crew to take them fishing in a boat. The fish guide bro just missed on some more dough as the man was telling them it is $150 for a half a day and that it wouldn’t be until tomorrow because the guide went home an hour ago. Alfonsina's would have to call up to Campo Bufeo for a panga to be sent down. In true gringo fashion, they said, well how about we give you $140. The man held fast saying the $150 is not negotiable. For me either price would be rather steep just to catch triggerfish like I did from the rocks, but I didn’t want to say anything that might halt a deal to be made. Dad and crew were telling us yesterday September is the best fishing month at Gonzaga.
After lunch we took quick naps then it was down the road to the store at Rancho Grande for more ice. There were several tourists waiting in the shade for the shopkeeper to return from his break. One dude was asking me where I was staying, I said Alfonsina’s, he inquired if there are rooms available. I said, come on down, only two are occupied at the moment. I filled my coolers with pounds of cubes and drove the couple miles back to the joint.
Happy Saturday, a whole bunch of people showed up, a nice couple in a minivan, the four people in the SUV I saw at the store and a man with his setter dog in another van, who brought his stand-up paddle board. He promptly paddled around the point and back, at least five miles. The two of us befriended him and we swapped Baja stories with Preston into the night as we shared the big buck tequila, which now was priced at $1,500.
Sunday morning I went out to my truck for a beer drill and refueling. The drill is, you put some hot beers in the remaining cool ice melt water left in the chest to bring the bottle temperature down before you top them off with ice. What I found in one box were three bottles sticking out the top. What happened was they exploded overnight by just sitting there and shot through the lid. Also Tim had major problems with bottles opening themselves while sloshing in his ice chests during the drive. These new 355ml bottles are going to be a pain in the future. We never had this much trouble with the thicker 325ml units.
I got out two five-gallon jugs of gasoline and the one two-gallon can for the lantern and stove and poured all 12 into my tank, which topped it off. The Pemex station across from Rancho Grande looked open but most of the time they are out. You don’t want to chance coming down here without at least ten gallons in cans unless your vehicle has a huge gas tank. Mine is only 18 gallons..
I packed a couple beers and hiked across the beach to the sand spit that hooks up to Isla San Luis Gonzaga at low tide to snap some underwater tide pool photos (tidepool2, tidepool3, tidepool4, tidepool5) with my Pentax Optio W10. The main pool is chock full of blennies and baby Cortez opaleye, a different specie than what we have here along the Pacific shores of Southern California. The Cortez opaleye has a different mouth and has several white spots on each side of the dorsal fins, while the ones around P.V. have one white spot – rarely two – on each side.
By the time I walked back to the resort, Preston returned from his panga fishing trip. Inside the catch crate were several large triggerfish covering a twenty-pound something-or-other. The panguero held it up, lo and behold it was the mythical kabi-kucho, the first one I have seen in person. Preston was saying he went spear fishing for the first time, caught the triggers on rod and reel, and that the kabi-kucho was netted by someone on another boat who gave it to him. It in turn was donated to the resort’s kitchen.
I asked if he saw any big opaleye while he was skin diving, as back in 1994 I saw hoards of them while diving at Calamajue, a little south of Gonzaga. He said oh yes, he saw a bunch. The panguero had him taking spear target practice on them as if they are considered to be a junk fish around here. I said back home boneless opaleye filets are sweet meat. He was telling us that last year he stopped by Coco’s Corner, where the proprietor said Calamajue is now a dangerous place to visit because a drug cartel is using the beach for their dealings. That news was disheartening as I looked forward to going back there someday.
Preston is one tireless mofo. I no sooner grab a beer and park my butt in a chair than he sticks a sail on his paddleboard. He said he hasn’t sail boarded in a while but in no time he was up and speeding off, with his dog in pursuit. Later he was saying the dog only swims after him. If anybody else goes kayaking or sail boarding, doggie stays ashore but will paddle out if he sees his master in the water supposedly needing a rescue.
By the afternoon the SUV guys along with the minivan folks departed. The minivan couple had a flat before they even got to Gonzaga and were running on the donut tire with no other spare. Sounded dangerous to me.
This left Preston, Tim and I to enjoy a major lunch of huge chunks of kabi-kucho served in the usual style of mojo de ajo, with lettuce, tomato, onion, beans and flour tortillas on the side. Killed only a few hours before being cooked, the fish had a perfect texture and flavor, I couldn’t get enough. The three of us must have powered through at least five pounds of boneless filets.
After naps Tim and I went for a refreshing dip into the warm waters of the lagoon after the sun set behind the mountains. Looking south we saw a large plume of black smoke coming from the mountains, about the distance of where the Mex 1 highway connects with the Bahia De Los Angeles junction. We’ll never know what that was about, as there really isn’t any news coverage around here.
That evening the three of us sipped the rest of the big buck tequila and swapped more Baja stories as we watched meteorites and satellites streak across a moonless star-soaked sky.
Monday I slept in until 9 o’clock, as it was our last night before today’s marathon drive north to Puertecitos. Preston was long gone, taking the bumpy road south to Mex 1 then north to the border. We walked out to the lobby with only our last pieces of luggage. The way this outfit works the bill is that you pay for the rooms and meals at the end of your stay. Our combined tally was 4,020 pesos for the three nights, or around $200 each. We each threw in a $50 tip.
We were expecting a two-day drive back to Hotel Riviera in Felipe. Our first stop was for ice at the Rancho Grande market. By now I was down to less than 20 bottles of beer and in order to be able to make the drive north I picked up a 24-oz Corona Familiar booster bottle for the trip.
For breakfast we stopped by Papa Fernandez’s restaurant to order more camarones rancheros. It was the same scenario as we had the previous Friday, with the smiling children serving up pretty good stuff, albeit not as good as Alfonsina’s on Saturday.
Dad, who we met at Alfonsina’s on Friday, wanted me to take some zoom-in panoramic pictures of his property from the mountains. I said I would oblige, however it wouldn’t be from the mountains, as there are no roads leading back in there. The second best was from a small hill next to the main road. I snapped several pictures of the property – different pixel sizes – to be emailed to him once I arrive home.
We took a rest at the abandoned Cow Patty 2 before we once again motohead. Plodding along at 10 mph made plenty of time for beer drinking. We were checked at a roadside military post somewhere south of the grade leading up past Huerfanito but at the time we weren’t buzzed enough to attract attention.
If you are into such things, the desert scenery was spectacular along the way; click this link, then on the photo page click next to scroll through desert pics until you come back to this spot.
We surprised ourselves by making it to the earthmover zone a mile south of Puertecitos by six. We pulled over for a piss break as we hit the first pavement, but our stay was cut short by a group of three construction workers walking our way. Not feeling too much like socializing with any locals at this time, we jumped back in our trucks and sped off.
Well, we didn’t exactly speed off. I was following Tim, and with all the beers and 10 mph earlier in the day, going any faster on the pavement felt rather odd. I was thinking we need to pull off the road and park for the night if we can’t get going the regular posted speed limit of 35 mph; we’re red flags for the cops to find.
Just north of town the road met the beach, we turned right onto what looked like someone’s private property semi-developed waterfront campsite. A quarter mile to the north were several occupied houses, to the south was a gate saying keep out. We got out our chairs to sit down, just then a police black and white truck speeds by on the highway. If he had passed ten minutes earlier, he for sure would have pulled us over to find out why we were driving so slowly. Whew!
As sunset was upon us we figured nobody would bug us for money to stay here. We opened up cans of Dinty Moore stew, smoked herring and a peas. The scent of these rather delectable morsels attracted a pair of mutts from one of the houses. We threw rocks at them to keep them at bay.
That night I set up my bedding atop my shell. For the most part the past eight days and nights were all the same. Warm days, cool nights and just a few minutes per day of breeze. We encountered nothing that could be classified as wind.
Tonight started out normal with cool air surrounding us. Around midnight it all changed. A scorching hot air mass came through, not really super windy, that felt like what is left of my hair would singe. I thought, damn, our luck of good weather just ran out. After a while it really felt uncomfortable, and on the radio I heard on KNX that the Los Angeles area was under a record heat wave for June.
Just stick around for a few hours. At three a cold air mass came through. I mean, the air temperature didn’t gradually drop, it went from 115F to 75F in a split second. By this time the moon was up but disappeared behind a fast moving marine layer, like you would see blow in at night in Southern California. The top of my shell, clothes and crash pad went from bone dry to soaking wet within minutes. Even by Baja standards, this weather was quite bizarre.
Tuesday morning first light I rolled up everything and stuffed all but my chair into my truck before the anticipated local came to visit us for camp fees. Tim was pretty much on the same schedule but before he could fold up his cot, here came someone right for us. I threw my chair into the back, jumped in the cab and drove off, saying I will meet you two miles north at the next dirt road to the left.
My whole windshield was soaked inside and out, I couldn’t see anything. I turned on the defroster and while that was working I had to stick my head out the window to be able to drive down the road. As the sun rose I pulled over so Tim could find me while I took care of the usual morning business. It was amazing how wet my truck was, completely dripping as if we had an inch of rain.
A few minutes later Tim pulls up saying, thanks for sticking around to make sure that guy didn’t murder me. Hombre approached him saying something in Spanish, but Tim told him I don’t understand. Bro could see Tim was in a hurry and didn’t press any issues. As Tim got on the highway, a third killer dog chased him down as he sped away. That could have been ugly if mean doggie found us while we were sitting in chairs.
At sunrise the drive north to Felipe was spectacular. The marine layer moved out over the water, making way for blue skies with vast acres of ironwood trees aglow bright red. Off into the distance was 10,000-foot Picacho Del Diablo affronted by a cardon cactus.
We pulled off the highway at the road leading to the white sand beach, the last undeveloped spot between Felipe and Puertecitos. While Tim was in the bushes taking care of his morning business, a military caravan drove by, a Humvee towing a large patrol boat stopped to check us out. Several soldiers took positions to secure the area and go through our things while the lieutenant questioned me in Spanish. I attempted to respond in kind but one of the soldiers could hear I was struggling and helped in the translation. Where is your buddy? He is in the bushes taking care of personal business. Where did you come from today? Puertecitos. Then he ran is finger along the accumulated ¼ inch of dust covering my rear bumper saying, where did all the dust come from, there isn’t that much on the road from Puertecitos. I said we drove up from Gonzaga yesterday and are headed to San Felipe to rest and eat for a few days. Right now we are going to look at the beach for a while.
The lieutenant shook our hands, saying sorry but we are legally required to check everyone we see pulled over on the road. I said no problem, we feel save with the military around. I was hoping they were going to launch their boat at Puertecitos and zoom down to Calamajue to dethrone the drug kings.
We cruised onto the beach, enjoyed the sights for a couple of beers, trying to kill some time before we hit up Hotel Riviera. On the way back to the main road I jumped out to take a few pics of the cardons, noticing all the sidewinder tracks crisscrossing the dunes. This would be a spot you wouldn’t want to sleep on the ground, as the venomous snakes here are nocturnal.
An hour later we were checking in for a three-night stay at The Riv. After clean-up I drove to the Corona agency for four more cases, as I wanted to bring at least one full box home. I met Tim at Gamelos, where I had a shrimp cocktail and fish machaca. We discussed three important lessons learned in the past 24 hours: 1. If you are too beered to drive 35mph on pavement, pull over into a dry wash or side road to crash before the pavement starts. That way you can avoid overzealous policemen. 2. If you pull onto someone’s semi-developed beach camp at sunset, get up before sunrise and drive off before a local accompanied by a nasty dog comes over asking for campsite fees. 3. If you pull over on a side road for a bathroom break, go far enough in so you are not visible from the highway. You might save yourself another military check.
After naptime we hit up the main road for street vendor hotdogs and hamburgers. The burger guy from last year was gone but the hotdog man was at the same spot serving the bacon wrapped with all the fresh fixin’s. As last time, we noticed that a lot of cutie pies hang out at this stand after dark. For whatever reason, the señoritas are prettier in Felipe.
Wednesday and Thursday we were in lazy mode. In the morning get up by nine, sit outside in the shade and have some brews until one, go into town for lunch, come back to the hotel for a nap, go back out after sunset for dinner.
I wanted another mixed seafood cocktail from one particular place, the name of which slips my mind, that last year was fantastic. Tim went there a day before I got to Felipe two weeks ago and said the cocktail he had was nasty dead flesh. Oh well. The second place I craved was Bajamar. I ordered the squid steak and steamed clams, however when it was served up I got deep fried squid strips. Still pretty good but the clams were the best. I could sit there and eat clams all day.
We hit up a Chinese place for dinner and got one of the combos. The BBQ pork was dry and tasteless, the shark fin soup reminded me of Campbell’s bean and weenie soup but a couple of the other items were ok. Next time we’re sticking with the shrimp chow mein.
The next day found us back to Gamelos for a breakfast of huevos rancheros, then for lunch I sat at the bar at Bajamar and had four plates of clams and that many cervezas, plus chips and salsa. I love that place. For a snack later on I popped by Betos for a chorizo torta to go. I sucked that down just before bedtime.
Friday morning we were up at 5, checked out and on the highway north a half-hour later. As we neared Mexicali you wouldn’t believe how dark and smoky the skies were. As kids we remember how the air in L.A. was in the 60’s and early 70’s. A layer of white smog would move in and cause soreness in our lungs as we played foursquare on the playground. Sometimes we weren’t allowed to go outside of the classroom at all.
In Mexicali I am talking black air worse than you see in recent pictures of Beijing. We knew the air is bad here with all the manufacturing going on but we have never seen it so caustic. It was as if the population has grown significantly and everyone is burning mesquite and other desert scrub for cooking and water heating to go along with the un-scrubbed coal-fired power plant utilities.
I was surviving on my bag of Chex Mix and Coke until we reached Tecate, where we rested at a funky birria joint for lunch. Two little ol’ ladies whipped up the killer homemade stew.
Crossing the border, my agent was nice. I handed him my passport, he asked if I had anything to declare. I said I have some Coronas in one of my coolers, then I got out, walked around, lifted the back door of my shell but before I opened the ice box, he said, no problem, returned my document, and to go ahead.
On the U.S. side I stopped at the curb and waited for Tim. What seemed like an hour later he emerged saying he was pulled into secondary check, they made him unload his whole truck then turned loose the sniff dogs. Of course they offer no assistance on the reload.
We timed the traffic just right, I made it home via the 15 by 2pm with one refueling, Tim took the 5 north, reporting no delays.
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Historic Mount Whitney fish hatchery destroyed by flash flood 7/23.
Eastern Sierra trout hatchery report 7/12.
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From Mr. and Mrs Razz:
hi mike;
I was pretty frustrated fishing this lake i'm on, they keep dropping the level then up it comes for a while and back again, it gets hard to fish, i bought the lure u may have seen on t v, the Banjominnow, right now the level is way down but i went out to try the new lures. we were out about 10 min and caught 2 2pounders and the one in the pic, 3 pounds, not bad, i well send more if i get them. take care man.
tim
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Wook went to Lake Amador in April:
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Comedy submitted by Cousin Rick:
