From the border to Guerro Negro

Thursday 3/11

By the end of Wednesday, as the sun set, I made it to the American side of of the border at Tecate. I asked about auto insurance, but decided to wait till I crossed the next day, to save a day’s fee. Then I drove 6 miles to Potrero, a small ranching community in a valley among the boulder-strewn mountains.

I turned down a wide but dead-end road, which looked promising because there was a “library” sign pointing this way. Libraries are good places to hang out, with helpful matrons, rest rooms and good Internet. There were lots of cars in front, and when I went in, I found about 10 Spanish speaking youth inside, all on the Internet. The three librarians were very friendly, all individually welcoming me; one came over and showed me the electrical outlet. I worked on email and my Baja blog for about an hour and a half. When they closed, I found I could still get Internet from the trailer, so I decided to spend the night there, rather than driving 40 min. north to the interstate roadside rest. It was very quiet.

The next morning, I noticed it had frosted the night before. Even after having the furnace on for a while, it was only 41 F in the trailer. But when I stepped out, it was glorious. Green fields all around, green mountains, and not a cloud in the sky. The air was crystal clear. In front of the library was a lovely cactus garden, filled with blooming California poppies. Next to the library was a “pet memorial,” with the names a about 15 beloved pets inscribed on little signs fixed to a larger structure. At the top was a model of a crow with the name “Blinky.”

The Potrero, CA, library--with California poppies.

After breakfast, I set out to look for water. I stopped at the general store, and talked to a man who said the store was “in the family.” He was 50 or 60, with deeply tanned Mexican features, a heavy mustache, and longish flowing white hair, combed back in a sort of Zorro haircut. He was very cordial, and we chatted about the cold weather and the snow I had seen along the way. He said I could fill up with water there. So in exchange, I topped off my propane tank.

While I was working with the tank, a man approached me and said “Hi.” He was a genuine hippy, with long, brown, ratted hair tied in a ponytail, and a very dirty parka. He enthusiastically asked me about the trailer, so I showed it to him. He said that he was a mechanic (though obviously not working today, for later I saw him in the library). He lived nearby, and had several trailers he was fixing up, so he and his wife could do some “road trips.” He enthusiastically talked about the “life on the open road”—said he wanted to go to Alaska.

He asked me where I was going, and I said “Cabo.”
“Wow,” he said, expressing some nervousness about such a dangerous trip. I asked him if he had ever been to Baja—and amazingly, he said “no.” Here we were, standing just a few miles from the border, a man of the open road with two RVs, and he had never been to Mexico.

At the edge of town, I passed a small cottage by the road, with a woman of Mexican appearance out front, and in the front yard, fenced in, were about 10-20 tiny lambs, frolicking around.

It’s reassuring to know that rural California still exists. I imagine that most of the Anglo ranchers have gotten old, and their grown-up kids have fled to San Diego and other trendy but congested places, where they are marketing “derivatives of widgets” or “bundled foreclosure instruments.” The legal Hispanics have apparently moved into the vacuum (or else they have always been here), and are enjoying the blue sky, wide open spaces, and quiet. At least that’s the way it looks in springtime. For most of the year, it’s probably rather brown here.

I stopped at the tiny post office to pick up two books that I had ordered a few days before I left. The title of one: “Marooned in Baja with little beer.” Sounds prophetic.

Only one thing didn’t fit with the idyllic atmosphere of Potrero--the border patrol. A helicopter buzzed overhead. A convoy of three border patrol SUVs and pickups sped past me on the highway. One of their pickups had a little cage in the back, where they put the people they apprehend. I understand that now, to deter crossings, the people they pick up are thrown in jail for several months, before they are deported.

Next, I headed to the border. It proved to be a long process, but I took it in stride. Before crossing, I met in the parking lot an Anglo couple who lived in Tecate and ran a day care center there (I think as missionaries). I showed them the trailer. They gave me a bit of advice, and their phone number to call if I had trouble. Their best advice—to leave my car parked on the American side, while I took care of papers, since there was nowhere to park the trailer on the other side.

I had worried about having to pay a bribe for my tourist card, but it’s all very orderly now. You pay the “bribe” at the bank. First you fill out a piece of paper, which they stamp, which says “262 pesos” on it. You take that to the bank, 4 blocks into town. At the bank, I find out that you can’t pay the fee in dollars, so I head to an ATM. Luckily I find one that works nearby, so now, I’m way ahead of last year when I crossed the border here. I get about $450 dollars worth of pesos, so I’m set for a lot of margaritas, with no more worries. Now back to the bank, to wait in line for about 15 minutes. They keep the paper I had and give me a new one, stamped. Back to the immigration office, to wait in line. Now I fill out my tourist visa, and that is stamped, and I’m ready to rock and roll. (Or would be, if I had my car.)

Now I have to go back across the border to get the car, through the fortress-like US entry building, where the guard watches me like I’m a terrorist suspect while a petite little Hispanic woman checks the photo on my passport, and asks me to take my hat off, so she can make sure I’m not Osama. All this in a cavernous space, just the three of us, because there are no other Americans crossing.

Meanwhile, on the streets on the American side, the authorities are busy. A Mexican who has just crossed in his car gets pulled over with a siren, before he’s gone even a block inside the US. At the parking lot of a small shopping center half a block from the border, a very beefy sheriff in a beefy black SUV is handing out one ticket after another to Hispanic people as they come up for gas—for what, I have no idea.

For whatever reason, very few people are crossing the border here in either direction. It probably has a lot to do with the absence of tourist facilities in Tecate, and also to the longer drive from here to Ensenada—over a twisting highway—compared to driving from Tijuana.

Guarding the Mexican immigration office were a few very tough looking Mexican soldiers, in full battle gear.

Once inside Tecate, I was enveloped in Mexican society. Kids going to school, shoppers, little old ladies crossing the street. You get the impression that it’s a very decent society—orderly, friendly, and as safe as Madison. I saw no-one who looked “suspicious” or violent, though at the border on the Mexican side, there were about 10 very large “wanted” posters in Spanish—and the desperados depicted looked extremely desperado—looked like they would eat Poncho Villa’s heart for breakfast. But I didn’t see any of those guys as I went through Tecate.

I decided to gas up—and as I approached the PEMEX station, six guys all beckoned me in—they were each trying to flag me towards their pump.
“This way!
“No, this way, Senor!”
The little boys of the 60s selling “Chiclets” are gone, but in their place, now it’s the “gasolineros.” (Actually, on my last trip, I didn’t see this kind of competition at gas stations, so this may be unique to downtown Tecate.)

The guy pumping gas really tried to top it off to the last drop—waiting for the gas to settle, then putting in a few more thimblefuls, repeating this about 5 times in a row. Finally, I told him it was “enough.” I have a feeling that the phrase I used for “Fill ‘er up,” from the phrase book was a little too literal. Probably I said something like, “Fill the tank up completely,” so that’s exactly what he was doing. Anyway, after driving 2 hours to Ensenada, my gas needle was still on full.

View leaving Tecate.  They make good beer, but not a tourist destination.

It seems I’ve got an instinct for getting through these Mexican cities. You just drive for the hills on a main road, and when you are stopped at a light, you roll the window down, and say: “Is this the highway to Ensenada?” and they give you a gesture—indicating either straight ahead, or turn right. No problem—it worked fine in Ensenada as well, and this time, I managed to avoid the downtown hotel district.

As I was just past the airport in Ensenada, I saw a low-flying, small plane. I almost thought it was a bird at first. I couldn’t believe my eyes—it was a Predator unmanned aerial vehicle, apparently landing at the airport. This is huge! It means that the US forces are operating Predators out of Ensenada, apparently for watching the coast south of the US. Now, what is truly amazing, is that the plane was flying low over a heavily populated area, into a commercial airport. Just after the Predator, a twin engine commercial plane landed. The last I heard, Predators were not “certified” for flying in crowded US airspace. But here they are in crowded Mexican airspace. Either the US has extreme confidence in their robotic planes—that they can avoid other aircraft while flying “blind”—or else they have little regard for the safety of Mexican civilians.

If the predator was not landing, then it was following a car along the highway—but this seems unlikely, since it was right next to the airport. I got two photos—not bad for driving under the influence of photography, and on top of that, pretty good, for a plane going the opposite direction!)

Predator drone landing at Ensenada airport.

Getting across the border was stressful—it always is—but not because I’m afraid for my life. Just trying to navigate the unknown and the unexpected. The driving wasn’t too bad. You have to stay very alert, but it was beautiful. Little traffic on the highway. I get the impression the Mexican economy is sluggish—lots of “for rent” signs on stores.

By late afternoon, I was tired, with a headache. I wondered if I could make it to the desert before dark, to spend the night, but doubted that I could. So I started to look for a place to stay. I found one nice spot, back from the highway, in green grass and small trees by a stream—but I was only 80% sure I could get traction back up to the highway. So reluctantly, I drove on for another hour.

Camping in Baja wine country, NE of Ensenada

Finally, I found the place where I stayed last trip, near vineyards. The last time, I had turned onto a dirt road, but the only place I could pull off the dirt road was so steep, that I lost 1/3 of my water that night. This time, I was going to do better--I found a gate into the vineyard open. Though it was metal and had a lock on it, it looked like it hadn’t been closed for a while, and there were no “no trespassing” signs in Spanish. So I drove in and set up camp a block from the road, by an irrigation pump under some trees. I was going over in my head how you say, if someone approached: “I’m here for the night, OK? I’ll be the night watchman for your equipment—I won’t charge.” There was a dog barking in the distance—I don’t know if he had picked up my scent. For a while, I was nervous, waiting to hear a “clang” as the gate closed, as I was locked in. A few cars did stop, but just for the driver to take a leak, not to lock me in. Finally I relaxed and had a beer and supper.

I am not worried about getting hassled by locals—Mexicans are friendly and hospitable. But I do worry a little about some drunks on the highway, or some gangsters on the highway at night, looking for someone to kidnap. So, I figure if I’m in town, or in the country but not visible from the highway, I’m safe. Once in the desert, I’m pretty safe, because any drunks won’t survive to drive that far, and the drug runners will be in airplanes or back in the city, living it up with their many senoritas. Between Tecate and Ensenada, I passed 2-3 military checkpoints, paid for with US funds.

Now at 8:00 PM, it’s comfortably warm for the first time: 61 F in the trailer; I’m listening to Eric Satie piano music.

It’s good to be in Mexico. Baja is like California must have been about 1900. Wide open, sparsely populated, small roads, rolling mountains, clean air. I hear a rooster crowing.

When I went down Baja in a jeep back in 1961, we came across—way out on the desert on a rutted dirt road, a carnival with “rides” packed up and moving along at a crawl on three beaten up trucks. Today, outside of one of the small towns, I saw three colorfully painted trucks, set up as a mini-carnival. Fifty years later, some things here are still almost the same.

As I go to bed, I’m roughly where the paved road ended, back in 1961.

The time of my first trip to Baja in 1961 was--I think--April. The hills were glorious, so covered with so many orange California poppies that a few of the hills looked molten. Further on, in the desert, daisies in the distance almost looked like snow. Now, about a month earlier, the hills are green, but I’ve seen no poppies so far. Why not? There’s a lot of grazing nowadays—or maybe it’s too early.

I vaguely remember coming down to Baja, maybe in the late 60s, perhaps with Mary. I had purchased a ¾ ton pickup truck with high clearance and a camper, just to do Baja before the highway was built. I think it was a bust—the wrong time of year. Everything was brown or gray—almost like volcanic ash over everything. It was such a bust that I barely remember that trip. I think we just turned around and went home, discouraged. You definitely have to come at the right time of year.

I stepped out before bed. Toads are singing in huge puddles in the vineyard across the highway. The temperature is down in the 50s now.

The stars are brighter than I have seen them in years—brighter than in the US mountains, brighter than in northern Wisconsin. When I was a kid and we arrived at Cape Cod for the start of the summer, always at night after a long drive, I remember seeing the dazzling stars. Recently I have worried that my cataracts are bad enough that I would never see bright stars again. But now I realize the dimming is mostly air pollution plus light pollution in the US. The bright stars are still here—in the desert.

Friday 3/12

A truck and tractor came in the gate before I got up, but no one bothered me.

I stopped in a medium-sized town, San Quintin, to get some groceries, then later stopped near the coast. I walked about half a mile to overlook the ocean. It was low tide, and some people were gathering shellfish.

I reached El Rosario in early afternoon, and stopped for gas. The young woman who pumped my gas said that about six weeks ago, they had a big storm, with winds about 40 mph. They have had more rain this winter. The previous eleven years didn’t have much rain at all. I have been seeing lots of signs of erosion, and the washes have all had flowing water, with signs of much higher water—trees clumps of uprooted trees stranded here and there in the sand of the washes. One of the last bridges across a wide wash had been destroyed, and was being reconstructed. Now, just beyond El Rosario, the long bridge across a wide wash was also destroyed. Many fields that had been in the floodplain also appeared devastated.

Many of the bridges in northern Baja had been washed out in a big storm six weeks ago.

Only a few miles outside El Rosario, the cirio trees began. Cirios are strange trees, not really cactus. They are related to the coachman’s whip (Ocotillo). They look like upside-down carrots. You can see them in the banner photo for this blog. I love cirios because they break all the rules for trees. Cirios are also known as Boojum trees, from Lewis Carol. They have individual personalities, they grow very tall, they are extremely rigid for such a thin, tall tree, and some of them have straight horizontal branches only a foot or two long. They look furry—the trunk covered with leaves after a period of rain. They grow out of solid rock, and filter their water from the air when it’s foggy. It’s hard not to love a cirio, but you wouldn’t want to hug one, because they have horrendous thorns. I’ve become fascinated by cirios—and my obsession started when I looked for a little seedling to bring back. I couldn’t find any! It seems probable that cirios reproduce only in certain favorable years, perhaps decades apart.

Cirio doing an imitation of Groucho Marx.

On top of this, many cirios blew down in the recent storm, and I have seen evidence that they are being collected—perhaps the Chinese think they look like penises, and can cure erectile dysfunction. So I’m trying to find out through observation if cirios might be declining—and anyway it’s a good mystery to keep me occupied.

I reached the pass over the spine of Baja, just beyond El Rosario, in less than half an hour, with distant views--but not as dramatic as when I came here last time, with fog creeping over the crest and the cirios looking mysterious in the evening fog.

About half an hour later, I arrived at the place where I had camped last year. It seemed much the same, although greener. I had a beer, sitting in my chair on top of a large rocky outcrop, looking out over the desert in the later afternoon sun. Then I took a walk up a faint track, away from the main road. A number of cirios had been blown down in the storm.

I was feeling a little restless and out of sorts. Here I was in paradise. I had been driving for six days, pushing, pushing, and now I was here. Suddenly with nothing to do but to enjoy it, I couldn’t make the change-of-pace that fast. But by walking up the trail, I slowly began to get into the mood.

The cactus here are so interesting. It’s my own personal little botanical garden. The giant cordon cactus appear very swollen. They have pleated sides, so they can absorb lots of water when it’s available, and expand. And expand they have—the pleats are stretched, and they look very fat indeed. The cirios also look a bit fatter that last year, but I can’t tell for sure. But they are very heavily leafed out (they grow leaves after it rains).

They are the most variable, individual trees. Some are densely leafed out on only the trunk (with no branches), looking like green pipe cleaners. Others have straight horizontal branches 1-2 feet long, which are also leafed out. Some of these cirios with branches could be mistaken for very skinny conifers.

After the sun set and Venus came out, there was a soft rosy glow on the distant mountains, and various finches were chirping; crickets were humming. It was utterly quiet—almost no wind. The temperature at 7:30 is 61 F.

Dusk in the cactus garden--first night in the wild desert.

After supper, I take my tea outside. There is absolutely no noise—no wind, no crickets, no birds. Just the stars. The big dipper is very prominent, and the North Star appears a few degrees lower. The stars are so bright it’s hard to tell planets from stars. To the NW, the sky is a little brighter and the stars noticeably dimmer—that’s the direction of El Rosario, a small town about 25 miles away. Even that small amount of light is enough to dim the stars—no wonder they are so dim over Wisconsin.

Saturday 3/13

At 9:00, I stepped out for a walk before breakfast. The temperature is already 73 F, not a cloud in the sky, and no wind. Immediately, I saw a man walking up the dirt side road towards me from the highway, with something red in his hand—obviously a gas can. His pickup truck on the highway had the hood open. We shook hands, he said his name was Eduardo, and he needed gas. In fact, having already guessed his problem, I was carrying my spare gas can, and poured it into his can, one just like mine, only his was covered with white bird droppings, like it had been stored in a barn. I started to walk back to my trailer, but then decided it was a good opportunity to socialize, so I followed him to his beat-up pickup truck.

He introduced me to his traveling companion, Guillermo. Eduardo, short and stout with a mustache, was 30 or 40; Guillermo was tall and trim, about 70, with an attractive, deeply lined and tanned face, also with a white mustache. Both were wearing cowboy gear and cowboy hats. Guillermo had beautiful snakeskin cowboy boots. We chatted a bit, about how far it was to El Rosario. They said they didn’t know the area very well. Guillermo was originally from somewhere nearby, but Eduardo was from near Ensenada. They were both working on a ranch up there, raising alfalfa, and they had come south to buy some heifers. They asked me if I had spent the night here in the trailer. They said they had spent the night in the back of their pickup truck. I looked in the back—it was dirty, with nothing but two used tires. I asked them if they had used the tires for pillows, and

They laughed. Eduardo said that their pickup truck was older than Guillermo, and laughed. Eduardo said that Guillermo was part Indian and part Mexican.

I said that I had been here in 1961, before the road. They whistled. Eduardo asked how old I had been then. I said about 20. He did the math, and whistled again.

Guillermo said that he had a daughter living in New York. He said it was very cold there. I said I was born near NYC, in “Nueva Jersey.”

I asked if the economy was bad here. They said it was, but that “people got by.” He said, in contrast, in the US, when the economy was bad, the “sheriff comes with papers.” He said that there was no work for Mexicans in the US now.

They finished pouring the gas and departed, with the appropriate formalities and thanks.

In this desert garden, you have to observe very carefully. I was sitting in the shade of a big cordon cactus, when I noticed on the ground a tiny cactus, round, about the size of a half dollar. I barely protruded from the soil. I noticed several others. Now that my eyes were sharpened, I noticed a tiny, velvety gray-green sphere, about the size of a small button. It was covered with long spines. Apparently it was the seed (or bud) of a the cordon cactus above me. Now I noticed dozens of them, all about. You don’t want to sit on the bare ground, no matter how bare it looks. Unfortunately, a day later, I had forgotten this important lesson….

This area is grazed. I can see nine cattle in the distance. You can see sparse grass and other forbs growing where protected by cactus or shrubs, but not in the open between the clumps of shrubs, so probably there would be a light cover of grass without the cattle. But everywhere, even in the open, is a sort and sparse cover of green forbs. And many of them have tiny flowers, no bigger than the head of a pin. In fact, if I looked, I could probably find 20 or 30 different species in flower—but except for some yellow daisies, the flowers are tiny, and in many cases furled (ready to come out in a week?). The cactus, also, seem ready to bloom. So I may be a little early for a blooming desert. Despite the grazing, the cattle don’t seem to be doing much harm here.

But quite a few cirios blew down in the storm, and there are almost no young ones here.

I packed up a bit after noon, after taking a last walk around my garden, and set a leisurely pace down the highway, often only 45 mph. Many of the roadside lunch establishments that you see about every 20 miles, very rudimentary, seem to have been abandoned. Even one tiny town, complete with gas station and some kind of compound (possibly a school), is abandoned.

I stopped several times, looking for cirios under a foot tall, but didn’t find any.

Late in the afternoon, I came to my second campsite from last year, out of sight of the highway on a side track—an access rutted road that leads to the old trans-baja dirt road. After backing the trailer into a good spot, I grabbed my flashlight and camera, and set out to hike along the old highway—just a dirt track.

This was a route I hiked last year—when I hiked to find a fantastic eroded boulder and strangely twisted cirio. This was the same identical cirio, it turned out, that another photographer (who has a program on National Public TV) had spent some time photographing. To get to this cirio, I had to hike 3-4 miles on the old road, then take a side road from the old road.

You probably think I’m fooling myself—to think it’s the same cirio. How can I tell them apart—to be sure? Well, you don’t know cirios. These are plants with a personality. No two are the same, and it’s easy to see the differences between them. This particular cirio is contorted into a kind of spiral. It was already getting dark when I found my special cirio; I photographed the eroded boulder against the stars, then started back, using the light of my camera display to find the road again. Luckily, I didn’t run into any cactus in the dark.

A 25 mph wind had come up, but the temperature, in the 60s, was comfortable, if cool. I watched the silhouettes of the cirios and cactus against the orange sky near where the sun had set, with Venus shining low behind them. Gradually, the stars came out brighter and brighter. There was no moon, but the starlight was enough to navigate in the desert.

As night fell, I saw several bats against the rosy strip of horizon, and several large moths. Along the road, were tracks of a coyote following the road, jack rabbits, and small critters, possibly rodents and lizards. There were many holes of various sizes in the ground, possibly rodents, lizards, and large spiders. But here I never saw a single animal other than the bats and moths. Even ants aren’t especially common.

At my last campsite, there were more birds—woodpeckers, mockingbirds, and some small finches. Crickets sang. But again, no mammals or insects visible. I had seen tracks in the stream bed. I think there is life here, but active at night, and keeping well clear of humans, who probably hunt most anything. The book I am reading says that most life in Baja is supported by the sea, which is very productive here. Coyotes are 5-10 times more common near the shore, compared to the interior. Many animals eat what is washed up on the shore.

This is a fantastic area—with jumbles of huge boulders, distant views of mesas, and very luxuriant growth of strange plants.

The genus Fouquiera has three large representatives here: the cirio, ocotillo (coachman’s whip), and the elephant tree. All are large and strange. Often cirio and elephant trees grow out of small cracks in solid rock. In the dark, the cordons look immense. In fact, they are the largest cactus in the world, similar to the organ pipe

As I approached the trailer, three huge semis, all lit up with colored lights, cruised by, making an immense amount of noise. But out here, occasional noise like that—it’s part of the wild atmosphere. It’s like being on an asteroid, near a spacelane—and you watch the giant starships blasting by—their portholes lit bright against the starry space.

Sunday 3/14

Last night temperatures went probably into the fifties. When I arise, the sun is blazing through my window, it’s 63 F, and a raven is pacing on the ground around the trailer, checking it out. There’s still a strong wind. The large shrubs are waving back and forth in the wind, but the cirios and cordons are almost completely steady, their tops waving maybe 6”.

After breakfast, I went for a bike ride north on the highway. Traffic was light, and only seemed dangerous when a vehicle approached when I was on a hill, so we couldn’t see if another vehicle was approaching. There wouldn’t be room for two cars passing plus a bike.

I stopped at a number of places looking for cirio seedlings, but found none. I even climbed a granite ridge, reasoning that cattle couldn’t get up there, in case they are eating the cirio seedlings and eliminating them. But no cirios seedlings up there.

By mid afternoon, I had returned, eaten lunch, and packed. I headed south, not intending to go more than, say, 25 miles. But I only got about a mile before I saw a lot of cirios, including some smaller ones. So I stopped and went for a hike. It was a lovely spot—a grassy swale between two very low ridges of granite. A virtual park, a botanical garden. There were all kinds of cactus, including some new ones, lots of small elephant trees on the ridges, and some very large cordons.

Cordon cactus on the left--world's largest cactus.  Cirios are the skinny ones on the right.

I was seeing a number of small (around 6’ high) cirios on the ridges, so I reasoned this might be the place to find a seedling. Working my way N along the ridge, I eventually found one only about 8” tall (photo). But even this one was apparently a number of years old, with a trunk already 2-3” thick, and wedged firmly in a crack by its roots.

The smallest cirio I could find--it already has a trunk the size of an egg.  "Saplings" are extremely rare.  There is some evidence they are being collected.

The sun set as I wandered among the giant cordons—they made wonderful silhouettes—along with the cirios—against the orange strip of sky in the west, with Venus as a vocal point. Returning to the trailer after dark, I moved it back to the place I had spent the previous night, because it was level and I could get away from the highway with ease. Temperature in the trailer at 7:20—67 F.

Last year, and so far this year, I have been lucky with the cactus. I keep an eye out, and step carefully between them. But I’m often off trail, and of course, looking for cirio seedlings. So today, I ran into one with my lower leg. Not much damage done, and apparently it didn’t break off in my skin.

Sunset in the cactus garden.

But towards sundown, walking in the grassy swale, there were some large cholla cactus. These are the most deadly of all the cactus. They have segmented arms, about the size of a small apple, which break off. They gather on the ground, at some distance from the mother plant. You step on them, and you are in trouble. They have very long, extremely sharp spines. They could go through a shoe, so you need thick soles. Fortunately, mine had thick soles, but as it began to get dark, I did step on some cholla segments. Now I was walking around on clumps of cactus—the chollas stuck to my shoes. Not a good idea, since a spine could come through. So I tried to pull them off. It’s hard to do, since the spines apparently have barbs, and are very difficult to remove from the sole. On top of that, they also have smaller spines, so no matter how carefully you grab the cactus piece, you get some of the smaller spines in your hand. Working to remove some chollas from my shoe, I sat down. Of course, I was careful to look closely at the ground, to make sure I wasn’t going to sit on one. But despite that, I did sit on some spines. When I got back to the trailer, I felt something nip me in the behind, so I took off my pants. There were about three lumps on my behind, like large mosquito bites. One still had a spine in it, which I removed with my fingers. Lucky all the spines were out, because back there, it would have been very difficult to use tweezers effectively. No more sitting on the ground!!

Monday 3/15

I had a busy day—go up at 7:00 am, and decided to go for a hike where I was last night, in the amazing cactus garden. I was going to look for more cirio saplings, since I had finally found one last night.

I took two liters of water, some snacks, warm clothes (in case I got lost and had to spend the night), and my personal locator beacon (PLB). I was gone till noon, but I didn’t need all that stuff, since I went less than a mile. But I did learn something very important. I found a 2’ cirio, dead, lying on its side. At first, I didn’t think much about it, until I noticed that the taproot had been cut with a knife. And, the cirio was in a spot that they don’t usually grow. So, someone was collecting cirio saplings, and apparent dropped it. The only saplings I did find alive were completely, inextricably wedged into the rock, explaining why they hadn’t been collected. And, a rocky ridge where cirios grow had boulders moved, possibly to get cirios out with their roots intact. The elephant tree grows here also, and it’s saplings make perfect bonsais, since they have extremely small leaves. Likewise, I saw no very small elephant trees, except for ones wedged into cracks in the rock. So, the plot thickens.

After noon, I headed down the road with the trailer, but after only 5-10 miles, I came upon a little canyon, with a flowing stream. So I decided to explore and take a bath, if I could find a pool. I headed upstream, past some palm trees. There was only enough water to fill a small creek, but the canyon showed sighs of recent flooding to 15-20 feet higher. So sometime this winter, it had been a raging river.

Swimming hole in canyon just north of Catavina.

I did find a perfect pool for a bath, with shade from boulders. I was all ready to take a bath, when I heard some young Mexicans approaching, slowly climbing down from the canyon rim. One guy was bounding up the stream past me, and when he saw me, he said: “You can bathe with confidence,” without hardly a glance to me—meaning, “I won’t disturb the privacy of your bath.” He went on out of sight. Several more followed, but only a few saw me in my little crevice in the rock. One woman who did see me made a remark about “my little secret spot.” So, with all those people in the area, I never did get my bath. I was content to dip my head in the water, and wash my arms. But it was a wonderful spot in the shade—cool, surrounded by polished white granite, and with the blue, blue sky. There were several tiny frogs, and lots of tadpoles in the pools.

After a while, I headed downstream to where the road crossed, then decided to descend the canyon below the road, where I was sure there would be more privacy. It was really scenic there, with several large palm trees, but no bathe able pools. I saw the tracks of a coyote. I was standing on a boulder, surrounded by damp sand, and a few trickles of water—taking a photo.

I was going to head back up-canyon to the trailer, so I jumped down from the boulder onto the wet sand. To my surprise, I instantly sank into the sand nearly up to my crotch! It was quicksand! But at that depth, I hit bottom, and climbed out as fast as I could. The sand around that spot was firm! But where I had landed, the sand was nearly as liquid as water. It’s possible that the shock of my landing liquefied it—something that can happen to expanses of wet land when an earthquake strikes.

The quicksand spot--left foreground.

On reaching the trailer, I cleaned off my shoes in the stream, then started driving again. Shortly I passed the small, junk-strewn frontier town of Catavina, with its boarded up restaurants. Hard times in Baja.

I was driving only about 40 mph, so I could look at the scenery safely. After an hour, the scenery changed from one of giant granite boulders to something more volcanic—barren mesas and valleys. I passed a large seasonal lake, now with an expanse of muddy water whipped by the wind. A bit later, I stopped at a low pass, because I saw a lot of small cirios. I got out and climbed the hill beside the highway.

Cirios on the windswept hill.  They are extremely stiff, and do not bend with the wind.  This shows their permanent shapes.

When I got on top, a wind of 50-60 mph hit me full-force. I was struggling to stand, and getting cold. On top of those difficulties, I was now wearing my sandals. The wind was blowing me around, making it hard to place my feet carefully—but my luck held and I didn’t kick any cactus. This windswept ridge was fascinating. It was covered with short green grass between the larger plants. There were a lot of cirios and ocotillos and yucca, but it was missing a lot of the other cactus, which I guess couldn’t stand that much wind. The cirios were all shorter and fatter than I had seen them before, and there were a lot of small ones. I eventually found the smallest one so far—only about 8” tall, but it already had a fat trunk, and was set as if in concrete in the ground.

I was pretty tired from struggling with the wind, and glad to get back in the car. The sun was low and brilliant in the clear air, without a cloud.

I started to look for a camping spot, but couldn’t find any place where I could get away from the highway. I stopped several times investigating spots, and had a lot of difficulty getting on and off the road. Finally, just after the sun set, I found a large pullout area. I couldn’t get away from the highway entirely, but I could get back some distance, so I decided to stay here. The problem was, it was steep; I managed to get the trailer pretty level, though I had to put a lot of rocks and wood blocks under the low wheel. Once inside, the wind was rocking the trailer like a ship at sea. I had some Trader Joe’s Biryani stirfry; this stuff is fantastic. Plus some Mexican yogurt—with 2.5% milkfat, it’s better than ice cream! My favorite is the yogurt with coconut.