Six Days of Dogs, Dirt, and Poor Judgement

Day 1

The trip began around noon on Saturday. We loaded the bikes on the trailer and headed to Yuma. After parking the car at the airport around 6 PM, we  headed out on the bikes. It was now dark, and after a quick last burger at Burger King, we made our way to the Algodones border crossing, which closes at 8 PM. We were waived through the little border crossing and after a quick picture, entered the small community where everything changed instantly.

We were in Mexico. Our plan according to the map was to continue directly south to Mex Hwy 2. The problem was, the road didn't continue anywhere. It just branched off in several directions as dirt passages through the village. We picked the one that headed in the most Southerly direction, but it just fizzled off in the village, so we back-tracked and headed west on what seamed to be the most traveled road. The Idea was to turn South whenever possible, hoping that we would end up on Mex 2, which would carry us to our turn at El Condor. After some time wandering on unmarked roads we ended up on a very soft, sandy road, which only became softer and sandier. There came a point where the sand was so deep and soft I had to ride with the throttle pinned to keep moving at good, yet uncontrollable, pace just to keep from bogging to a stop. To make matters worse, the lingering clouds of dust and sand made by Dan up ahead left me in a thick tan cloud, which illuminated by my 80 watt lowbeam, caused a complete lack of vision for what would be a half hour struggle. We were in the dunes. We were supposed to be on Mex 2 heading west.

The road finally dumped us out on pavement, which eventually took us into Mexicali, where we decided to see if we could find a currency exchange still open.  We made our way to the Calexico crossing soon to discover that the one-way road only crosses the border and we were on our way back to California. We quickly turned into a high fenced parking area behind some business to decide what to do. Dan decided to ride his bike on the sidewalk back to the first street. I watched as I waited my turn, only to see a police truck light up as Dan turned onto the street. I quickly backed my bike off of the sidewalk and hid behind the tall fence. After a short wait I watched the truck pass me by, and made my dash down the sidewalk. I found Dan waiting one street over. I asked about his run-in and he said that after he explained his action the officer let him go. Things were already interesting, and we still haven't found Mex 2!

After more wandering, nothing appeared to be open, but we found a sign to Tijuana, which is ultimately where Mex 2 ends. Thinking that this would get us to the highway, we set out, realizing after a while, that this wasn't right. The fields to either side of the road were burning, (Mexicans seem to like to burn things) which made for a surreal effect. We pulled over, and as I began to pull out the maps and the phrase book, Dan disappeared into the adjoining field. I began to ponder over the maps to see if I recognized our location. A young guy on a bicycle made his way over to me, introduced himself as "George" and the frustration of our language barrier began. At first I thought he needed help, but later I realized that he just wanted to help me. After some laughter and through some creative signing, rough translations, and map pointing, we arrived at "that way, left, then right". Dan appeared just in time and we were on our way.

We found the highway, got gas, and began our journey west to El Condor. Even in the Dark it was an incredible drive, as we wound and climbed to an unexpected tollbooth at La Rumerosa. This presented a new language challenge, as they wanted us to pass between two bars in the road, or something, and once we figured this out, we were on our way. When we reached El Condor we somehow found the dirt road heading south, and followed it until we found a descent place to set up camp. It was 11 PM and we were at a high elevation, so it was a bit cool, and the clouds were growing thick and covering the stars. Using my bike's bright 100 watt highbeam, we pitched the tents and turned in. It rained off and on all night, and I couldn't seem to keep my feet warm.

Day 2

Morning came, and we packed our gear in the light rain, which turned out to be a difficult task. We headed back to El Condor to get gas at the Pemex station on the corner, only to discover in the daylight to be closed down. The next Chance for gas would be Ojos Negros, which shouldn't be a problem.

The roads passed through beautiful wine country-like settings and pine forests. Some of the roads had SCORE arrows marking a previous Baja race course. So far the ride was a blast. Later that morning we lost our location on the map and decided that we had taken a wrong turn. As we were pouring over the map at an intersection, we were met by a military platoon hiking down the crossroad. These machine gun toting soldiers were loaded to the hilt, and probably not just with gear, as they each had beer in hand. I eventually picked one to ask for directions as my very rough Spanish returned to me. "Hola, donde esta el camino a Ojos Negros?" I asked. He pointed up the road in the direction they were headed. He then pointed to the rancho "El Coyote" on the map. "El Coyote aqui", he said. "Aqui" he repeated as he pointed at the ground. Assuming that meant we were in El Coyote we took off down the road that we understood to lead to Ojos Negros. This road quickly and seemingly ended at another road, otherwise continuing as a worn trail. This made no sense, as it wasn't on the map, so we decided to turn south, figuring that if we could hit Mex 3, we could follow it into Ojos Negros. After traveling for a while on this high road, we passed a trail that generally went west, as far as we could tell, from our vantagepoint. This is the direction we wanted to go, so blindly, off we went. The trail began to swing back north and east, and after a few trail changes, we found ourselves on another SCORE course. We figured we couldn't go wrong there, as eventually the trail had to pop out somewhere important. This trail was a hoot! As we blasted along this gem of a trail, we came to an intersection. To our surprise, this was the intersection that we had originally turned south on; we just popped out on the trail mentioned earlier. This time we turned north for a while to see where that took us. We came to a fork with some crude signs on the trees. One said "Rancho San Juan de Dios", the other "San Faustino". I couldn't find either of these near El Coyote, so I scanned the rest of the area within 15 miles (more or less), and there they were. We were a good 15 miles north of El Coyote. If we had just continued south earlier  we would have reached the road to Ojos Negros at El Coyote. It was after noon now, so we made haste south to our target intersection, then to Ojos Negros.

The Pemex station in Ojos Negros  was dry, so we decided to stretch our tanks to Ensenada via Mex 3. The 30 mile route to Ensenada is a beautiful ride, and the pavement quality is surprisingly excellent. As we descended into town we stopped to gas-up. I filled my tank, and having not changed currency, paid in dollars. The attendant gave me the "more or less" hand twist and said "ten dollars". I new I was getting ripped off, but I had cars behind me, so I paid. From here on I would have my calculator out for every dollar transaction. We continued into town, which is big and busy. Being Sunday, the banks were closed, so we rested for a little while, went down to the beach, then decided to check out La Bufadora for dinner.

La Bufadora, meaning "The Blowhole" is a bluff on a peninsula west of Maneadero where the shape of the land causes water to shoot up to 100 feet into the air. There are a few restaurants and a nice little shopping area. I explored the shopping strip on the bike, and was attacked by two bloodthirsty dogs who obviously don't like motorcycles (we later concluded that no dogs in Baja like motorcycles, and there are MANY dogs). I started popping wheelies and revving, and they eventually left me alone. Why was everyone staring at me? We ate at a clean little restaurant named "Celia's", and I had lobster burritos. WOW.

It was getting dark and we didn't have time to head south looking for a place to camp on the beach (this area is too rocky). The waiter/owner suggested that we go down the hill to a small, private campground. It's $5 per night, on the water and convenient, so we checked it out. when we arrived, we were greeted by a sign that said "no motorcycles". We couldn't find the owner, so we stood around until a kid showed up in a white VW. He asked if he could help us, we told him we wanted to camp, and he said "sure, the bathrooms are over there, the water should be on" and drove off. Okay... We set up camp and sat up around the fire for a while. I tried to call my wife on the cell phone, but even though I had a full signal, it wouldn't let me through (I thought AT&T was international), then went to bed. It rained a little that night, and my feet got cold...

Day 3

I awoke the next morning to hear some little kid fussing at Dan about private property, but when I came out, he was gone. It didn't really matter because we were leaving anyway. It was cool, overcast and humid, with a little drizzle here and there. We checked out a bluff, then headed out.

In Maneadero we got pesos at a bank, got gas, and I called my wife while Dan got breakfast at a little hole in the wall (literally!). Once Dan finished his dog taco, we were on our way. At Santo Tomas we turned southwest on this year's Baja 1000 course, followed it to the coast, and along the coast (more incredible scenery) to Erendira, where we were attacked by hordes of obnoxious children begging for stickers. Dan gave them each a piece of candy, each of them take one and put out their other hand. They were grabbing at and climbing on the bikes; I saw one grab Dan's header pipe, I cringed but it didn't seem to phase him. The longer we sat there the more kids appeared, so we straddled our steeds and headed for the hills. There was a little confusion on where the trail picked up, but we found it again, passing a fenced schoolyard with about 20 little bodies plastered against the chain link fence. We popped wheelies as we roared on.

Back on the Baja 1000 course, we continued to follow the coast on some fun roads, I had a good wipe out, then we headed inland to Punta Colonet for gas. Colonet was out of gas, so we hit another dirt road that we thought was the road to the inside of Bahia Colonet. It wasn't, and we wandered everywhere looking for a way to get there. This was the day of dead ends. We finally ended up back on the road we started on, backtracked a little, then turned south on a trail that got us to the bay. The sun was begining to set, and I wanted to photograph the beached ship at Punta San Jacinto. These roads/trails were smooth and offered great traction; we made good time. We reach the ship, which is deteriorating quickly, and I shot what I could, although the light was poor.

We re-entered the highway at Camalu and as the sun fell, we continue on the highway for San Quintin. My bike started missing and jerking, so I switch to reserve, eventhough I shouldn't have to. It continued to do so. We stopped at a Pemex in Vicente Guerrero, filled-up, and my bike began dying when I put it in gear. The culprit was the kickstand switch, which I have intended to bypass since I got the bike, so I did. These switches are such a nuisance.

We arrived in San Quintin, where we had decided to get a hotel, which would probably be on the bay for the good ones. So we took off into the dark back roads looking for it. Dan asked a local where the hotels are, and he said to go down to first stop, and take a right (loosely translated). We never found the stop, but we found signs to a couple of hotels. When we reached the hotels, we consulted a book to see if either was in it. "The Old Mill" was, and was a "must stop". So we did.

We parked the bikes at the office and were greeted by a friendly American female voice; "you're late!" she said. She handed us each a cold cervesa, we chatted a while, then her white-bearded husband (or Santa Clause), came around and was just as friendly. They are the owners, Jim and Nancy, and are from San Diego. They are great natured people with loads of character, retired at 50, moved down in '95 to buy the old grain mill and cannery and turned the workers quarters into a hotel. The quarters were built in the 1930's, and aren't fancy, but they are clean and unique. The place has a wonderful atmosphere, with landscaping, a covered sitting area with a fireplace, and a restaurant (closed when we arrived). Jim told us to go get cleaned up, and he'll give us the truck to take into town to get a bite to eat! We couldn't believe it, so we did, and he made some suggestions on restaurants. We came back and hit the sack. No cold feet tonight.

Day 4

We got up Tuesday morning, took some pictures, talked to some visitors, tipped generously, and hit the road. Seeing how so many of the Pemex stations don't have gas, we decided to stick to the pavement for this leg of the trip, other than a few off-road side trips, as the deeper into the peninsula you go, the villages get fewer and farther between.

We stopped for gas and breakfast in El Rosario, then continued on to what was expected to be an easy trip to Chapala and a short journey up to the Sea of Cortes. We planned two "short" side trips, one to "El Marmol", an abandoned onyx mine and camp roughly 15 miles east of the highway at Sonora. The attraction there is a schoolhouse made of onyx, the only one of it's kind in the world, a graveyard, as well as the typical abandoned mine setting. The other side trip would be to Mision Santa Maria.

It was a nice, scenic, mountain ride on Mex 1 to the El Marmol road, a lackluster ride to the mine, where we rested and took pictures, back to the highway, then an incredibly scenic ride to Catavina. These last 20 miles wound through Sonoran desert that rivaled that in Arizona 10 fold, covered with huge white boulders, and very dense with Cardon cacti and "boojum" plants. Boojums can't be described, one just needs to see them to understand; peculiar and amusing are all that come to mind.

Catavina is a couple of tiny stores, a huge hotel, and a once grand, but now abandoned Pemex station with a man selling gas from 5 gallon cans out of his pick-up in the parking lot. This would be the last chance for gas until at least Puertocitos, back up the gulf side. As we were filling up I asked the man if there was a way to pass from the road to the Mision Santa Maria to the gulf coast road, he said he didn't think so.

We found the trail to the mission, which was long and treacherous, but quite a hoot at times, to a high point where we could see the gulf (Sea of Cortes). The trail seemed as though it would continue to the gulf. Even though the trail was getting progressively worse, it all seemed to be down hill, and in our excitement for our newfound pass, we pressed on. It had been over 10 miles, and no sign of the mission, but at this point we didn't care, because we had found our "short cut". Ah, ignorance. The trail turned south after a couple of miles, and got worse and worse. But it was downhill, and the map showed that it looped back to the highway at worst, if our "pass" did not work out. We came to a long, very steep, winding descent made up of 12"+ boulders, but hey, it wasn't like we would have to return this way, so we slowly made our way down. At the bottom we reveled in our accomplishment, and moved on. We then arrived at a sandy swamp, full of tall grass and palm trees, which the trail continued through for about 100 feet. The water was dark; depth unknown, but we couldn't go back up the way we came, so Dan tried to ride around the obstacle. The sand was deep, and difficult to cross, but the place where he crossed through the water was only about 18" deep. The bottom seemed firm, so we decided that it would be easier for me to negotiate the water. I hiked back to my bike, and attempted to ride it up the short hill for a running start. I found myself stuck in a rut; the rear wheel dug in too deep for me to rock it out, so I had to lift it. Once out of the rut and up the hill, I made my way down and plunged into the dark water. I instantly found myself up to the gas tank in water, so I immediately grabbed a hand-full of throttle and held on tight as the big single sang it's way through the sandy bog. As I popped out at the end I shut it down, resting in relief that it didn't stall in 3 feet of water.

It was getting late, I was soaked, and the worst was behind us. As the trail continued south along a wash, we both noticed some formations up the hill. We realized it was the mission, and went to check it out. Considering that the structure was built in 1767 out of adobe and abandoned after only 3 years, and has been through countless harsh seasons and hurricanes, quite a bit remains. The main trail seemed to end here, and a faint trail seemed to follow the wash, in the wrong direction. The sun was setting, and we were trapped; no getting to the gulf or the highway tonight. We pitched our tents in the mission and started a campfire off to the side, where we pondered over the topos and explored trail and navigational theories, trying not to realize that we might be in trouble. The Best thing to do was try to get a good night's sleep; we would need it tomorrow. I left my boots on.

Day 5

Wednesday morning Dan and I both got up before dawn, and began packing in the moonlight. As I loaded the gear on my bike, I noticed the fender felt springy. Upon further investigation, I discovered that my subframe had broken on the right side at the fender, just below the seat. The left side was all that was holding on, including the weight of my gear, not a good situation. To top it off, Dan and I discovered that we were both almost out of water.

As day broke, Dan went to explore the wash, and I hiked up the hill to see if I could see where the trail picked up, or an alternate route, or anything else, for that matter. I became very excited as I came out on a trail, which I followed for some distance before I spotted something black in the path; it was a glove, my glove. I had taken them off and tucked them away after coming out of the water, as they were soaked. In disbelief, I returned to the camp to wait for Dan.

He returned and said that the wash ended in impossible terrain. It was approaching 8 AM, and we had no choice but to go back the way we came.

Despite a sandy launch pad, the swamp turned out to be no more of a challenge than the first time through. We arrive at the steep, boulder-strewn descent, which is now a climb. We decided to take my bike up first, as it was a little heavier. After about half an hour of pushing, pulling, lifting, and clutch-work under power, we eventually reached the top with the 300 pound machine and rested for a while. We did the impossible. The air was cool, yet the sun was unforgiving, and we were out of water. After the struggle with my bike, we learned what works and what doesn't, so Dan's went up a bit easier.

The worst obstacle was behind us, but we still had about 15 miles of misery ahead of us. I focused on grace, keeping it as smooth as possible for my frame's sake, and luckily had little struggle. We finally reached the highway and returned to Catavina for gas, water and a well-deserved coke. I read after our return home that this mission is nicknamed "Mission Impossible". Very fitting. When we returned for gas, I told the old man, "el camino a Mision Santa Maria no paso, no-pa-so!" We chuckled and pressed on.

We finally reached the road that would take us to San Felipe, and began our trek north. This was a big, open dirt road, made with the worst rock possible and plagued by the worst washboard I have ever seen. It is over 100 miles of misery. It's pretty bad when a constructed and maintained road is so much worse than the crude off-road trails we had ridden the majority of the last 900 miles on. The road is so bad, that local traffic drives off of the road on either side when possible, making very smooth and entertaining paths. The scenery is incredible and ever changing, and the gulf is deep blue and as smooth as glass, with mountain islands breaking the surface here and there. The washboard seemed to get worse and worse, at times bringing us to a slow crawl. I kept having to pullover and re-attach my front fender bag, which would vibrate loose no matter how hard I pulled the straps. Just about the time we though the road would never end, it didn't. After hours of this hammering, we were teased by short distances of pavement in Puertocitos. The two Pemex stations here were closed. Not far from this point however, we did reach pavement, and as the sun set, we sped toward San Felipe. After filling-up at the first Pemex we came to, I called my wife, and we made our way into town.

We headed for the water where the hotels would be, and stopped at the first neon-signed hotel and restaurant we came to. It had banners advertising "2 adults $24.95, mon.-thurs." After inquiring within, we discovered that this was one bed, so we bumped up to the $35 room. Since the restaurant is very nice, we went with it. We should have asked to see the rooms first. Ours was a total dump. You'd probably pay $10 for something like that in the states. But, we were tired and hungry, so we unloaded our gear in the room and seated ourselves on the patio at the restaurant. Excellent. I had some of the best chicken fajitas I had ever tasted. We returned to the room and showered, I laid out my sleeping bag on the bed, threw a shirt over the pillow, watched some HBO, and passed out.

Day 6

We awoke Thursday morning, packed up and moved out. We decided to have breakfast at a second floor corner coffee shop. It appeared to be American owned, as it advertised deli sandwiches, bagels, smoothies and so on, and there was much more pride in presentation than typical Mexican eateries. We went up and sat on the balcony overlooking the town, and ordered. I had a wonderful omelet, with homemade bread and seasoned fries.

San Felipe is a nice little fishing town that appeared to be much cleaner than the others we visited. We went down to see the fishing boats, and take pictures of the big boats stuck on dry land. Yes, that's right, this area supposedly sees 20 foot tides, some times leaving boats on their sides in the sand.

After amusing ourselves, we made a run for the border, which would be a quick 2 hours of pavement, then hit I-8 back to Yuma. I should know by now that things are never this simple, its Casey's law. About an hour into our ride, I noticed that the back of my bike seemed to be wandering, so I pulled off of the highway, to find my rear tire flatter'n a pancake. I moved under a shade tree, set the bike up on an old igloo cooler that Dan found, and went to work. An old patch apparently couldn't handle the highway heat. I inserted the spare tube, put everything back together, and aired-up. It didn't hold. After pulling the tube back out, I discovered two new pinch marks in the tube at the valve stem. I couldn't believe it, I never pinch tubes! I tried to patch it, but being on the inside and near the stem it didn't hold, so I took Dan's spare. Dad-gum if I didn't pinch it too! In disbelief, I tried to patch his well-used spare, but the glue didn't want to stick. I put it together anyway and took off, having to stop and pump the tire every few miles. At one stop, Dan said that he had seen a motorcycle/ lawnmower repair shop about a mile back. As he went back to see if they had a tube, I pushed the bike into an abandoned Pemex service station, and lifted it up onto a crate I found. Dan returned with a box of patches, as they didn't have any tubes. I figured this was worth a try, so I went to work. This glue didn't seem to want to hold either, but the patches were bigger, so I hoped that this would at least buy me some more riding time.

Well, It got us to the border, in rush hour traffic. I'd never sat in a line this long and slow before. After walking the bikes for half an hour, we decided to take the advice of those around us, and lane split to the front. Several people around us  insisted that it was legal. It worked, and no one opened their doors on us. At the crossing, we answered a bunch of dumb questions, a guy knocked on my gas tank, and we were on our way.

On the freeway, about 45 miles from our destination, my bike started missing and sputtering, so even though the trip meter only read 157 miles, I switched to reserve. This solved the problem, but meant that I was either getting horrible gas mileage, or someone borrowed some gas. Bad mileage wasn't likely, as this tank was mostly highway between 50-60 MPH, and I had gotten 60 miles per gallon earlier in similar circumstances. About 20 miles outside of Yuma, It happened again. I was out of gas. Then I remembered the third-full 1-gallon can that I had carried on my rear fender for the past 1100 miles. Figures, huh? That got us to the next station. We arrived at the car in Yuma at around 6 PM, unpacked the bikes, and loaded them onto the trailer.