Baja
INTRODUCTION
Like many travelers before me Baja Mexico holds a place in my heart. It is where I met my wife, the destination for my first multi-week motorcycle adventure, and the site of more than one kickass surf trip. Culturally laid back, friendly, and full of natural beauty - the peninsula just south of California is a road-tripper’s dream.
Given how much time I’ve spent south of the border this post will be particularly lengthy, so bear with me. It is always more difficult to blog about adventures deep in the past, but for me this story is so formative that it needs to be given a timeline. Many of the details on exact routes, locations, and restaurants have been long forgotten (and are omitted), but the key stories, characters, and feelings are still fresh.
I’ll start towards the beginning. I was twenty-two and a recent transplant to Los Angeles County. I lived three blocks from the ocean in Manhattan Beach with two close friends. I had recently sold my car because I never used it, and walked to the beach or rode my motorcycle everywhere else. Life was good to me, and although I didn’t have much to my name I had a job I loved, plenty of sunshine, and a city purpose-built for an active lifestyle.
Working for SpaceX has it’s pros and cons, but at this point in my life it was near-perfect. The work is intense, but the office is filled with bright people and the personal rewards of the mission are hard to match. The company had just landed it’s first orbital-class rocket, and the exec staff rewarded everyone with a week off around July 4th. Naturally the young crowd started talking about 2-3 week vacations, from backpacking Patagonia to rock climbing tours to south-east Asia excursions.
The opportunity couldn’t have been better timed. I had recently fallen in love with the idea of adventure motorcycling, and had been looking for any excuse to trade my hard-earned money for a new bike and hit the road. With international motorcycle diaries like Ewan McGregor’s “Long Way Round” fresh in my mind, I settled on the BMW F800GS and started scouring Craigslist. Used adventure bikes are a dime a dozen in LA, and many can be found with every bell and whistle without a spec of dust on them. Purchased for long trips that never came to be.
The first bike I looked at was the one. Owned by a white-haired divorce named Steve in his 50s - he had spec’d it out straight from the TouraTech manual. Auxillary power and lighting, steering damper, aftermarket exhaust, hand guards, hard luggage - the works. With 600 miles and one adventure on the clock, he was alarmingly attached. Oddly enough the one trip sounded pretty intense for a beginner - a motorcycle spelunking trip (what?) through an underground cave network somewhere in the American southwest. He cried when he handed me the keys, and took an extra $500 off for a commitment to send him photos of the bike in use. I did, and we’ve exchanged a handful of emails since.
With the first hurdle down, I needed a travel companion and a destination. I knew a colleague at SpaceX who owned an adventure bike. Andy Gifft was a mid-level engineering manager who had joined the company in the early days. Andy and I worked closely together for a few years, and he was an avid surfer/Baja lover. I don’t remember who approached who first, but he jumped at the idea of a multi-week trip and proposed the loop from LA through Cabo San Lucas. Being allergic to planning and with this being my first multi-week trip, I was more than happy to let Andy comb through Baja travel guides and create the route.
Three weeks later we had loosely formed GPS tracks and an itinerary that took us over 4,000 miles from LA through both coasts of the peninsula, down to the point at Cabo San Lucas, and back. I would normally go on in detail about key route decisions, but frankly I don’t remember. For the purposes of this post it isn’t particularly relevant - I came here to tell a story, not write a travel guide. All I’ll say about it is that we wanted to camp off of the bikes about 50% of the time and spend about 25% of the route off of paved roads. Both of those numbers were revised on the fly, but were useful guidelines for packing gear.
We set off from LA on a Friday afternoon and were predictably hit with weekend traffic. We’d discussed cartels, corrupt cops, and remote riding but this is the point across the 16 days where I felt the most danger. Four straight hours of lane splitting through packed traffic is mind-numbing and stressful, even without 100 pounds of gear on board. We made it to the border at San Isidro, collapsed into a hotel room, and crossed the next day.
THE LOST SURF BREAK
We had just left the pacific coast to follow Baja’s only highway South through the central part of the peninsula. Being the middle of July - the instant we left the coast it was hundreds of miles of cacti, sand, and 100+ degree weather. The Cardon (Elephant Cactus) stretched 40 feet high and 10 feet wide, and were the only significant signs of life for the day. The desert seemed to stretch on forever, and more than once we needed to refuel via questionable canisters sold roadside.
As the sun was about to set we came over a hill in disbelief. After six hours of heat it felt and looked like a mirage - a shimmering blue lake surrounded by thousands of palm trees and dense green foliage. The scene was an affront to the desert, and was home to San Ignacio - the “oasis in the desert.” We pulled over, wrung out our sweat-drenched gear, found a cheap hotel, and looked forward to heading back towards the coast.
For breakfast we stopped at a local restaurant. Owned and operated by one 65-year-old woman, she had two items on the menu. We both went for Huevos Rancheros, and watched as she meticulously started making flour tortillas from scratch. I don’t think she had seen travelers as decked out in technical gear, and asked where we were from. As is typical this deep into Baja she didn’t speak English and our broken Spanish only got us so far. Google translate couldn’t really close the gap, but we made out that there was another group of Americans that ate there frequently.
Our fellow Americans arrived soon after. Four men in their late twenties - they looked like they had long overstayed their Baja surf vacation. Driving a late-80s station wagon covered in surfboards and sporting leather-brown tans, they pulled up like locals. “Morning Rose!” … “Oh - hey dudes.” We briefly exchanged trip details, and found that they had no plan for returning stateside. Questions like “how long have you been here?” were met with “what month is it?” They had clearly quit their day jobs to bum through Baja, and I suspected they were out of return money.
A few huevos later we got to talking about surfing. They told us about their favorite spot - a point break about 70 miles away only accessible by dirt road. The point itself ran into a cove, and with a longboard you could ride the right-hander for a few minutes before running out of steam into the sand. At the beach there was an industrious local kid who would pedal you back up to the start of the break for 20 pesos ($1) so you could ride again, and rented boards on the cheap. Having just come out of the desert this was attractive proposition, so we took down the GPS coordinates and loose directions.
In this part of the world most roads were un-paved and un-named, so directions weren’t always the easiest. “Take the dirt road south out of town and then it is the second or third left to go west towards the water.” They had made it in an old station wagon, so we were relatively confident we could get there on our adventure rigs. We paid the bill, Andy plugged the coordinates into his GPS, and off we went.
This was our first major deviation from the route plan, and both of us were eager to wade into uncharted waters. We stopped to air down tires and took the second left - a truck trail that seemed well-trafficked and shot West. Our GPS was quick to tell us that the road isn’t on any downloaded map, so we were on our own. We tapped “Ok” on the screen and plowed forward. As the crow flies we were only 70 miles from the ocean, and we had a good 4 hours before we hit high noon temperatures.
I watched the scenery become more and more remote. The first five miles of our truck trail ran past a handful of rundown ranches and didn’t feel out of place. As the miles rolled by it turned into more of a suggestion than a road. Hard packed dirt gave way to sandy washes, rocky hill climbs, and river crossings. We passed five or six forks in the road - each time electing the path that seemed aligned with the W on our compass.
Temperatures started to rise and we were both getting fatigued. Andy dropped his bike and snapped the right pannier off. We mended it with bungee cords and zip ties, laughed nervously, and moved forward. I dropped my bike. Andy dropped his bike. Our pace slowed to a crawl, and we struggled for 3 hours to get another five miles before taking stock of our situation.
“Hey Chris - I think we took a wrong turn” - Andy was the first to admit this wasn’t the route as advertised.
“How much water do we have?” Less than a liter.
“Do we have any food?” No.
“How hot is it going to get?” 114 degrees.
“How far have we gone?” 50 miles.
We both did the math and came to the same conclusion - pretty dire. We’d broken every rule of adventure motorcycling to get here. No supplies. Didn’t know the route. No one knows where we are. Let ourselves get too far to go back. We both played through a few scenarios. What if we broke a bike? Or a person? 50 miles of riding two-up or a 50-mile walk through the heat. Both didn’t seem feasible. We looked at the GPS again, which still showed charted routes. We saw what looked like a fire road - wide, clear of foliage, and stretching the last 20 miles to the ocean.
“Do you think that’s the road they meant?” This was much more attractive than doubling back, so we decided to struggle two more miles to check it out. We came over a ridge to a dry river bed. Without thinking we tried to cross it, sunk deep into the sand, and ground to a halt. Andy looked at his GPS - “bad news man. Looks like this is the road.” We’d mistaken a river for a road. I took shelter under a tree to contemplate my own stupidity and form a plan.
We were in no physical condition to drag the 600 pounds of metal and gear through the sand, but tried a few classic solutions. We removed all the gear - still too heavy. We dug out the wheels and shoved tree branches under - not enough traction. We tipped a bike on its side, dragged it, and tried righting it again - back into the sand. Finally we dumped out every tool we had to let inspiration present itself. Nothing going there either. I was exhausted, wearing only boxers to combat the heat, and beginning to become genuinely fearful. We discussed last-ditch options like walking the 50 miles, but that meant debilitating heat during the day or coyotes at night.
Our biggest asset was two working motorcycles, so we tried again. I powered the bike while Andy lifted the rear wheel upward as hard as he could. We inched forward. Ten or so rinse and repeat cycles and the BMW crawled out of the river bed onto firmer ground. With one bike free we could tow the other, and as the sun faded we were pointed back the way we came.
We were still 45 miles from any known civilization, out of water, barely able to hold the bikes up, and rapidly losing daylight. We encouraged each other to slow down - I couldn’t tolerate another hiccup. I mentally prepared for a long and grueling night back the way we came.
About ten miles along I spotted a young bull down a side road with a yellow tag on its ear. He seemed to be walking with purpose, and I figured he was headed back to a nearby ranch. We positioned ourselves 50 feet or so back and crawled along. After a few hundred yards he joined a larger herd, and they formed a line walking down the road.
We followed them over a hill to see the first human structure for 8 hours, and at this point had real hope it was our salvation. Andy asked me what we would do if the ranch was vacant or had an unfriendly tenant. Vacant - take resources, leave money, and stay the night. Unfriendly - TBD. I didn’t have the capacity to think about fighting someone for a liter of water, and my worldview convinced me that we wouldn’t have to.
Andy rode into the ranch first and kicked down his side stand. I looked around - chickens, half a dozen cows, a rusted old pickup, and a straw hut with a few 50-gallon drums. As we pulled to a stop an old woman emerged.
“Somos Americanas. Necesito Agua,” Andy blurted out. “Por favor” - he remembered his manners. She silently turned around, walked to a blue 50-gallon drum, and began pumping brownish water out of the drum into an old bucket. We weren’t in a position to care about quality, and passed the bucket back and forth, saying “gracias” between gulps. Ten minutes passed without any conversation. We sat on the ground recovering and she went about the ranch, tying up the returned cows and starting a fire.
Andy’s Spanish was much better than mine, so he took a crack at communication. A few hand signals and mixed English/Spanish sentences later, she understood that we were also looking for food and shelter. We offered payment - she denied, smiled, and brought out tortillas and tossed fresh chicken over a grill. The meat sizzled as her husband returned in a pickup.
Over the next two hours we attempted to learn about each other. They lived there alone, and had a son who had left the ranch to live and work in the nearby town. They ran the ranch together at 76 and 78 years old. I showed them a few photos of Los Angeles, and Andy retrieved a fifth of Johnnie Walker Black we were carrying to give away. They more than deserved the award, and to our surprise the 78 year old Mexican ranchero took a huge swig. Smiling, laughing, and becoming increasingly drunk - he pushed more food towards us and showed us where we could setup camp. Every muscle on my frame was screaming, so as the fire died I popped the tent and immediately fell asleep.
I woke up to the loud and distinctive cocka-doodle-doos of multiple roosters. My body dictated I stretch in the tent for twenty minutes before stumbling out, but my legs still felt like rubber. Our new friends were already into their morning routine, and shouted “Buenos Dias!” from across the property. The display of kindness was incredible. I offered to help - she sat me down and started making breakfast with fresh eggs. Andy joined, and we all ate breakfast as the sun rose.
Around 8 am we were fed, packed up, and ready to be on our way. Armed with fresh directions to town, we again approached the couple and offered to pay them for their troubles. They again denied, but I’d left 4,000 pesos (~$200) on the table in secret. We took their names down on a piece of paper (since lost), and rode off knowing we’d never see them again. Within an hour we made it back to a main road, passing the real turnoff along the way.
Hoping to conquer our goal, we agreed to head down the correct road for 30 minutes and re-assess whether we wanted to continue to the ocean. The fire road was washboarded from regular travel, and shook the bikes and our bodies to the core for the full 30 minute duration. Although we never made it to the break, we did pass a series of salt-water pools that had been dyed a deep red, presumably from algae. For us this was good enough and the end of the excursion. We’d had our fair share of adventure, and turned back to the safety of paved roads and our regularly scheduled route. The next stop - the Sea of Cortez.
THE SEA OF CORTEZ
The route from our mirage town to the Sea of Cortez wasn’t particularly eventful. The long stretch of highway was hot, paved, and packed with slow transport trucks. We twisted the throttle for the 400+ mile stretch, looking to reconnect with the water on the east side of the peninsula. A few other groups of adventure and Harley motorcycle riders crossed our path, with one group committed to go the full length to Panama. We were back on the beaten path.
After a full day’s ride desert broke over to an ocean view. We pulled over to take our first dip into the sea. A handful of lonely fisherman dotted the shore, none of whom took issue with us stripping down to boxers and diving in. Unemcumbered by the surge of the Pacific Ocean, the inlet was warm, calm, and shallow. Andy waded out nearly 100 feet from shore before losing touch with the sand, and we snapped a few glamour shots before getting back on the road.
By this point in the trip we were winging accommodations. The plan was to find a hotel or campsite and settle in one more night before making it to La Paz, one of Baja’s larger cities. As always plans are subject to change, and by chance we found ourselves on one of the best roads in the region. Winding along the sea, we were presented with curve after curve, panoramic views, and salty ocean breeze. The scene felt oddly similar to the Pacific Coast Highway along Big Sur - a route I’d taken and admired a half a dozen times. During route planning we’d never given much thought to this area, but it turned out to be a real hidden gem.
We rode up over a hill and spotted our campsite for the night. Nestled into a cove was a line of a dozen straw huts. A cheap sign was stuck in the “entryway” - 200 pesos ($10) for the night. We rode in and up to one of the open huts, parking the bikes right on the sand and just a few feet off from the waves.
The scenery was incredible. Contrary to the deep blue water and rocky beaches we’d seen so far, the cove featured light turquoise water with white sand. Rock outcroppings protected the campsite - no real tide, waves, or wind to speak of. It was paradise, and we made a decision within 10 minutes of arriving that we were going to stick around for a couple days, delaying our arrival in La Paz and Cabo San Lucas by 24 hours.
This was the most relaxing portion of the trip. We spent two days swimming, drinking, and taking in sun. The kid running the campsite was, by my guess, around 15 years old. He swung by every once in a while to check in, and lent us snorkeling gear to explore the wildlife. Schools of yellow, blue, and reflective silver fish covered the inlets in the cove. The area felt natural and hidden from the tourist world. Two huts down a Mexican family was our only real company, and the father spearfished to feed them for lunch and dinner.
Reluctantly we packed up on the third day, leaving our remote paradise in the mirror. By now we were only about 200 miles from Cabo San Lucas, and had a few days planned in the more densely populated centers of La Paz and Todos Santos before hitting the southern tip.
CREATURE COMFORTS
If there is anything I was struck by on this trip - it was how quickly things can change. Climate. Culture. Food. Demographics. It can all flash by within just a hundred miles (or a few feet at borders), and from the time we got within 50 miles of La Paz our experience changed dramatically. Poor roads, run down trucks, and stray dogs were replaced by tarmac, Mercedes-Benz, and designer clothes. Lively urban centers popped up. Cell service and Wifi access returned. Technology like Uber, OpenTable, and PostMates became available. The influence of wealthy tourism was everywhere.
With how we’d been living these were welcome comforts, and we decided to splurge on a four star hotel in La Paz. A hot spot for wealthy Mexican vacation-goers, the city was vibrant and filled with more culture than the typical American tourist spots I’d been to (eg. Cancun). I was dead tired, but we pulled the bikes into the underground garage, rallied some energy, and went out to a local club seeking an experience.
About eight drinks, four dances, and 1 telephone number later we stumbled back into the hotel. My inability to speak Spanish made socializing difficult, but a few women took mercy on me and used the encounter to practice their English. I had a lengthy conversation with Maria about how Mexican clubs are more fun - mostly because they have fewer rules. Thankfully the American legal liability culture hasn’t migrated South yet, so binge drinking in the street or climbing on the sound equipment were accepted as regular behavior.
Hungover and less rested than we’d hoped, we departed La Paz the next morning heading South towards Todos Santos. Touted as a laid-back and surfer-friendly haven, there was a particular surf beach recommended to me by my local BMW dealership’s adventure group. We decided to stop in as our final excursion before hitting Cabo.
The tarmac gave way to sand about five miles from the water. The surface became increasingly loose, so we waddled the bikes as close to the waves as our skill would allow before hopping off and changing to shorts. The beach was crowded with an even mix of families and surfers, which I took as a good sign. At this point I was a novice surfer, and welcomed a beginner’s atmosphere. We spotted an ex-pat American selling two things - weed and surf boards. I picked up two (boards) and made our way out to the break.
Compared to Los Angeles the Baja surf breaks were much more beginner-friendly. An effortless paddle out was met with soft and predictable waves. After a few years of getting tossed in Manhattan Beach I felt like I finally understood surfing, and easily caught a dozen waves in the first hour. Almost everyone had a long board and almost no one had a wet suit - the water was perfect. A palacial estate with it's own private beach sat at the point, and we were told it belonged to a Mexican movie star.
Todos Santos was the last stop before Cabo, and 8 days into the trip I was excited to reach the end of the peninsula and take a more extended break.
CHANCE ENCOUNTER
Cabo is not a sincere cultural experience. The city is a heavily Americanized playground for the wealthy, akin to Las Vegas but with fewer rules, beautiful beaches, and wilder nightlife. The water’s edge is populated by mega resort after mega resort, with hotel prices shooting up from $20-$100 in the rest of the peninsula to $300-$2000++. We chose to stay at a modest hotel downtown with a swim-up bar, only walking distance to the marina and nightlife. Young and single - we wanted to lean in to the party life for a few days and get out into the city.
Our first full day in Cabo was planned to be jam-packed. We spent the morning at the public beach next to the Marina, half-heartedly participated in a local “wet t-shirt contest,” and were signed up for a sunset party boat later in the afternoon. I put on my finest Fireball T-shirt and we climbed aboard a catamaran, eager to get some ocean breeze and cheap margaritas.
The clientele was mostly Americans and mainland Mexicans looking to party. We linked up with a six person friend group from San Francisco, sharing tequila shots and stories. They were rowdy, and the group became increasingly drunk as we passed by the famous Cabo San Lucas arch. As the sun set the boat turned back towards the marina, and the group asked if we wanted to meet them out at the clubs that night. We agreed, and they recommended “El Squid Roe,” the most popular spot in the area.
This part of the story is really about a girl, so it is important to understand the context. Way back in 2012 I met Karen Wolcott at a fraternity party in Ithaca, New York. We both went to Cornell University, and she attended a wine tour with a mutual friend of ours. Our “first meet” wasn’t eventful. She was blackout drunk. I was single and thought she was pretty. We didn’t know anything about each other, and parted ways without developing any meaningful conversation.
Fast forward a few years and we were both living in Los Angeles. I’d run into her a few times. She was dating a SpaceX employee that was two degrees separated from my own friend group. Eventually that relationship ended, but we never sparked anything in Cali. Being a natural over-achiever, she was tutoring a 16-year-old girl on top of her full-time job and had become a de-facto family member. They invited her to their Cabo family vacation, and we can pick the story back up from here.
Andy and I walked from the Marina to downtown and were instantly bombarded by local promoters. The main drag was packed with clubs, and this being pre-COVID people were spilling out from the indoor/outdoor spaces into the streets in droves. Outside of any club you were guaranteed two things:
Someone could be paid $20 to help you jump the line
Someone could be paid $20 for “weed”
We took option one and skipped option two. The promoter pushed us past the bouncer into El Squid Roe, and we were immediately directed to the closest bar. The three story mega-club was loud, adorned with dancing cages and cheesy party signs, and standing room only. Like all clubs in the area the music was last year’s American hits, but the atmosphere was seriously energetic. A huge mix of people were there to let loose. Locals. Bachelor parties. Ex-pat retirees. Teenagers getting wasted on family vacation. The people watching alone was worth the $20. A young girl approached me,
“Can you buy shots for me and my friend?”
She was bold but clearly underage. I declined, and she went back to dancing on a table.
I did a lap around the dance floor. As I crossed past the DJ booth I bumped into a woman, and turned to find a familiar face staring at me.
“Karen?”
“Chris?”
“…what are you doing here?”
It was far too loud to talk, so we moved back towards the bar. She waved at the girl who had asked for drinks - Karen was her tutor. The coincidences kept piling up, and after a long night of drinking and dancing she invited Andy and I out with them on a party boat the next day. We were scheduled to continue North, but something told me I had to see this one through. Thankfully Andy was an easy-going character, and said “you don’t have to twist my arm” when I suggested staying an extra day. We made plans to meet up and went home for the evening.
The next day was more of the same. I was definitely interested in her, and after the party boat it became clear she was interested in me. I’m not sure if it was the nerves of a potential relationship, but both of us were heavily lubricating. Within the first hour Karen drunkenly slipped in El Squid Roe and fell two stories, badly bruising two ribs on the way down. Holding her belly, she assured me she was fine and we should stay out, but I could tell she was in pain. I altered my dancing style and we continued on.
We tried hanging out in a tower at one of the clubs, but were kicked out by security. Karen was staying in a much nicer hotel, and invited me back to continue the evening. The cab stopped at the entrance to the property, and as is customary the security guard asked for her room and last name. She obliged, and he noted that outside guests weren’t allowed after hours. It I wasn’t on the list - I wasn’t getting in. She started trying every trick she could think of, wildly changing stories:
“He’s staying in my room, but we forget to put him on the list” - “He’s not on the list. I can’t let him in.”
“He has a separate room, but forgot his key card” - “Ok….last name?”
“He’s my brother.” - “You kiss your brother?”
I laughed at that one. We tried another loophole and got dropped off at a hotel nearby to try to trek back onto her property. Ultimately we didn’t make it, and ended up laying on a beach chair together until sunrise. I still remember this as one of our most meaningful experiences - we talked for hours, bonded, and she fell asleep in my arms. Two weeks after making it back to Los Angeles I asked her out to dinner, and the rest fell into place.