Riding down the Baja Divide Mtb Route
February 4, 2026 to March 17, 2026
By Charlie Farrow
“Lo siento no hablo espanol, puedo comprar aqua, so de cerca de Canada? Thank you. ”
[aka: “Sorry, I don't speak Spanish, can I buy water? I am from near Canada! Thank you.” As written on a note card that I would present to the locals,when desperate for aqua. The effect was minimal.]
Disjointed musings, fragmented reflections, along with silly political commentary regarding my recent forty-day trip down the Baja California Peninsula, where I followed the Baja Divide Bikepacking Route to La Ventana and then back up to La Paz, BCS (as conceived by Nicholas Carman and Lael Wilcox circa 2016. Note: I specifically followed the most excellent guide authored by Sarah Swallow). I committed to following the prescribed route (as presented on Ride with GPS) religiously (including the unrelenting, soul-destroying ten+ mile deep-sand hike-a-bike session between El Arco and Vizcaino), except for the short section that called for a boat ride across Bahia Concepcion to Los Hornitos. I could not find a local boat-owner to provide transport, so I had to follow an alternate route to El Rosarito.
As well as meeting many interesting characters, the route was beautiful, remote, and impressively rugged. I loved it! In total, the trip ended up covering ~1645 miles of mostly unpaved track, the vast majority of which involved pedaling along dirt and sandy trails coupled with rough, rarely used backroads (95%+ unpaved). Again, it was great and I highly recommend it.
Getting started, where to begin? Should I just start from the beginning and work through the consecutive days, picking out interesting or novel details to include? You know, I did this, then I did that, I saw this and it was ______. That symmetrical, linear approach works for a journal, and can be interesting, even captivating if the story builds to an exciting climax. I am thinking of some of the classic mountaineering and/or polar expedition stories I have read, like Mawson’s Will and Into Thin Air. But for most trip reports authored by normal travelers, such an ordered narrative usually ends up being kind of boring and redundant for the reader. Even though I thoroughly enjoyed the trip, and think of it as a worthwhile, compelling, and interesting challenge (both physically and logistically), to be honest nothing really exciting happens. Plus it’s not like I was pedaling down an unknown route, into terra incognita. In fact, I knew that there were at least two riders not far ahead of me for most of the trip because I followed their tire tracks. I kept a pretty detailed journal during this trip, committing to writing up a little entry everyday. So I have lots of material, but how to begin?
Okay after some thought, here’s the format (with context): I’m not supposed to do anything for at least ten days from my hernia repair, so I think what I will do is just write this up during a series of Writing Sessions at some of my favorite coffee shops up here in the Northland (and in Rochester and St.Paul). At the beginning of each session I will randomly open my journal (or maybe I will have someone else pick the page). I’ll just open up to a page and see what stands out or what detail(s) may be worth expanding on. I will beat the detail to death and then be done until the next writing session, when I will start from another randomized page. Once I pretty much exhaust all the potentially interesting, alluring, and/ or unusual details, I'll be done.
Writing Session #1: Saturday, March 28, 2026 @ The Dove Tail Cafe in Duluth, Minnesota.The author struggles with the cacophony of sensory overloads at the Tecate border crossing and so he crashes his bicycle. Disclaimer: As I put fingers to keyboard, I’m a little bit sore and my mind’s a bit cloudy because on Friday (yesterday) using a piece of expensive mesh (and I assume a pretty sharp knife of some sort), they knocked me out and patched up a hole in my stomach that had mysteriously appeared above my belly button towards the end of my failed effort to complete the Arizona Trail Race in early November. The fancy pants medical term is an epigastric hernia repair. It’s going to cost me a ton of money, but when ya” spring a leak,” ya need to get it mended! If I’d had it done in Mexico, it would have cost a fraction of what Essentia Health is gonna charge me and if I was a Mexican citizen, the whole thing would be free, just sayin.’
To a sheltered, old Minnesotan used to bikepacking along unpopulated, expansive tracts of wilderness, the border town of Tecate, Mexico, had a kinda frenzied, gritty, chaotic, rough&tumble feel to it. Sunny and bright, it was midmorning and very busy when I crossed over. Suddenly there was a mass of humanity. I was immediately presented with cramped quarters, streets and sidewalks choked with pedestrians, along with bustling street vendors hustling everything from hot dogs, fish tacos, to used car batteries, to broken down washers and dryers. Dusty narrow streets, filled with honking cars, scooters, motorcycles everywhere, old trucks full of every imaginable cargo blocking the thoroughfares, countless feral dogs barking orders, patrolling their territories, sending a clear message that foreign two wheeled interlopers are not welcome. In a word(s), I was disheveled or unnerved by all the activity. Remember, Dear Reader, it was my first introduction to Mexico on a bicycle. It also was the biggest town, apart from La Paz (1600 miles down the trail, heading mostly south) that I would cycle through. I was definitely out of my comfort zone, a bit overwhelmed. To gather myself, I stopped at the crowded town’s La Plaza (La Plaza: a descriptive term for central park areas that are common in Mexican towns and villages; they are shaded, inviting communal places). Near the Tecate La Plaza was the huge Tecate brewery, the main building and employer in the town of 100,000. Immediately, I was approached and hit up for money by several younger men. One of them, dressed up like your typical gangsta-wannabe, was pretty aggressive. Note: thinking back on it, this young guy was not really threatening, just annoying, but I was brand new to the area and so I was hyper-sensitive, having been indoctrinated into the American myth that all of Mexico is just a giant dysfunctional war zone controlled solely by infamous drug cartels and corrupt politicians. Later in the trip, under a similar situation, I’d have just made it very clear that he was not going to get any money from me (“No dinero, para ti Soy un pobre Canadian”). After my initial refusal, the others left, wandering off, but this guy would not leave me alone, kept at me for some money. I mean the same has happened to me many times in Duluth’s Central Hillside. I tried to ignore him but to no avail. Worried that the situation could escalate, I quickly pushed my bike to the edge of the plaza and started cycling up a steep incline. Distracted, as a pack of belligerent dogs barked disapproval, I began working my way up a busy side street, a dirt track that was lined with garbage, but few pedestrians. Just as I turned to see if the guy was following me, I rammed straight into an old wooden bench that inexplicably had been placed into the street. I didn’t fall over, but jammed my right hand into the bench sustaining an impressive bloody gash. I remember thinking, “What are you doing? Whatz going on? Calm down! No more unforced errors” In fact, “No unforced errors” became my motto on this trip. I pulled over onto the grass, leaned the bike up against a tree, pulled the bench onto the grass (using it as a table), found my little first aid kit, and patched up my hand. As I type, I can still see the results of my first crash on the Baja in the form of a three inch scar across my right hand. Thinking back on it, it was probably just what I needed. I needed to calm down. I pulled up the bench, sat down on it, and made a conscious effort to relax and it worked! Resolved to stay calm and stay focused, I headed out of town and before long I was immersed into the vast highland desert, I had begun the Baja Divide proper. For after Tecate, it would be thirty days before I had to deal with any problems associated with cycling within the hustle and bustle of an urban environment. Of course there were plenty of challenges awaiting using the refrain, “No unforced errors”often when seeking solutions…One can only wish that our fearless President would do the same.
Leaving the Border Town of Tecate, heading south down the Baja Divide bikepacking route. From here on out it was very rugged and very remote.
Writing Session #2: Monday, March 30, 2026 @ Bearboo Coffee Shop, Cloquet, Minnesota. Dogs rule in Mexico. Disclaimer: Still sore in the abdominal area and brain still cloudy, but more likely from the beers I drank last night watching March Madness than any lingering effects from Friday’s anesthesia. It’s been a busy few days. Got home from Mexico early last week, after committing a major “unforced error,” involving a major screw-up in getting back to the United States (see below), then got my daughter back to the Minneapolis airport the next morning so she could fly to Grenada, then went to Rochester to visit my 90 year old mom. Then had my hernia fixed up. By the way, as I write, my daughter is just getting back from Grenada. She was there for a short stint volunteering at the island’s veterinary clinic. She was so impressed with how kind and generous the people of Grenada were to her. On hearing her glowing remarks on the way she was welcomed by the people of this poor, albeit lovely Caribbean Island, I couldn’t help but reflect on the recent edict issued by our Great Orange Messiah involving a new rule in which the U.S. State Department requires citizens from over 38 designated countries (including Grenada) to pay a refundable bond $15,000 as a condition for receiving B1/B2 visitor visas. If feels weird to accept the undeniable fact that the US has gone from being the "tall, proud city built on rocks stronger than oceans, windswept, God-blessed, and teeming with people of all kinds living in harmony and peace” to a smallish, petty, greedy, corrupt, authoritarian regime run by a doddering megalomaniac and his dull toadies.
On Baja California Peninsula dogs: At first encounters, as soon as I came close to human population zones, near ranches and small villages, I felt unappreciated, even harassed by seemingly wayward, disgruntled, unloved dogs. In other words, at the beginning, I saw them as enemies, but as the trip progressed and I was able to interact with them on a more personal basis, most of the time I really came to enjoy my encounters with them, especially regarding the ranch dogs. As time progressed, I no longer thought of their barking as harassing threats, but as boisterous, welcoming salutations! For example, on one particular occasion, as I was leaving a small mission town, working my way up a long steep incline (which involved a lot of bike pushing), I enjoyed the company of a very nice dog for a couple hours. In both appearance and gait, he was clearly being taken care of and yet also enjoyed a kind of freedom to roam that would be unheard of in most places in the U.S. This amicable canine clearly was just out for a little walkabout. We quietly worked our way up a steep ridge line that overlooked a beautiful valley. I remember this time well. It was really nice, I remember quietly speaking to the dog, saying things like, “This is beautiful and I like having you along, but don’t you think you should head back before it gets dark?” Just as I topped out and was ready to start pedaling again, the dog sat down and watched me go. It's moments like that when it feels so great to be alive, to be part of this living planet. Note: I did see lots of homeless, unloved dogs in the larger towns, but they seemed to be surviving, not thriving, but making it in a tough world, figuring it out. I think it’s fair to distinguish between ranch dogs that seemed to be valued and well cared for and the village dogs that were feral, roaming freely (and usually hungry and stressed).
As alluded to above, my initial response to the ranch dogs barking and chasing me was to choose between instinctual flight or fight with an emphasis on flight. Of course, that didn’t work as there was no way an old man on a fully loaded bike, riding on a sandy track, could out pedal a pack of dogs. So eventually, after several had bitten holes in my rear panniers (an especially bold one took a serious chunk out of my rear pannier that required a patch), I’d had enough! Thereafter, as I approached a ranch and the chase began, I decided to stop and confront them. As soon as I stopped, quickly dismounted, and stood tall, they made a hasty retreat! This stand-your-ground approach worked every time with the ranch dogs! I’d see the dogs coming after me, I’d slam on the brakes, start yelling or barking back at them. Surprised, they would slam on their brakes and after a short period of indecision, most would wander off, while some would actually tentatively approach as if to offer an apology, of which I was always ready to accept by offering an affectionate pet or more often a positive affirmation such as,"That's a good dog,” “Adios,” or the like.
So my problems with chasing ranch dogs were solved, but I was never able to get them from selling me out to their rancher masters. In other words, these ranch dogs are great at “ratting you out” when you are trying to covertly or stealthily camp near a ranch house. Essentially, don’t try and pull a fast one on these guys, ranch dogs know what's going on. Afterall, that's their job. These dogs know and they are not going to be quiet about what they know.
Wait, before I get too involved with explaining my new fondness for Baja ranch dogs, here is some context on why I try to always camp for free. I like to take pride in my ability to “be discrete” when camping in areas that do not afford official or legal campgrounds. Or in other words, I am not good at many things, but I am good at camping comfortably in hide-away places. Years ago, I met this fascinating young woman, a seasoned cyclist, who was following both the spring and fall migration paths of the Monarch Butterfly from eastern Canada down to the tip of Mexico and back again. She was something like six months into her adventure. I asked her where she was going to camp as I had caught up to her late one afternoon as we were both cycling along a well traveled paved road up near Toronto. A segment of road that did not seem to offer any kind of camping accommodations. She guided me to a well hidden spot just off the highway explaining that she made a concerted effort to resist the urge to pay for a campsite. I remember she detailed the savings one can enjoy if they resist paying to camp. Nowadays, the average camp fee in Minnesota is above $20, it's more in lots of states and a lot more in Canada. Do the math, camp fees quickly accumulate into serious expenditures for the long distance cyclist. I have taken this to heart and thus try to pay to camp only as a last resort, I also try to refrain from using motels. But I digress…
Happily finding a place to camp along the Baja Divide route was only an issue a couple of times. Most of the time, I could just pull over and camp. I saw very few fenced-in areas and even fewer “Prohibido el paso” signs. Yet on two particular evenings, I was forced to camp very near to a ranch or village and in both instances, dogs betrayed my location to their masters. Case-in-point, after ascertaining that a nearby hot spring was charging a significant fee to camp, coupled with the fact that nightfall was only a half hour away, I headed out of the small mission town of Ejido Uruapan on the look out for a stealthy place to set up my tent. After just a couple miles of pedaling and with the sun quickly heading down, not far from what had to be a deserted ranch house (in total disrepair-only later would I learned that incredibly, it was not uncommon for people to live in these seemingly uninhabitable, dilapidated structures), I found a perfect spot, totally hidden from a jeep trail and the nearby highway. Plus it included a flat grassy knoll with a flat spot on top. I quickly set up my tent and was in no time cozy in my sleeping bag atop my luxurious sleeping pad. Life was good. I remember laying there in my tent, quite satisfied with my sleeping arrangement, dozing on and off, too tired and relaxed to read a few chapters from the bizarre Faulker novel (As I Lay Dying) that I was working through during the early days of the trip. Then, I suppose around 8:00 or 9:00 p.m. the barking started. Dogs were sounding the alarm? It sounded close, I thought, “I’m just being paranoid. They are just barking at the moon.” But the barking continued and as it went on and on, I couldn’t sleep and instead began to believe that they knew. They know where I am and they are talking to each other as well as sending me a message, “Hey Intruder, we know you are nearby and we are not going to stop.” It seemed that the barking was coming from what I believed was the deserted ranch. It was clear that there were several dogs involved. The endless barking continued, on and on. It was like they were trying to out bark each other! Then I heard a man’s voice yelling and the dogs immediately quieted down. Of course, it was not long before the dogs started up again. I heard more yelling, by this time I had dressed, and was seriously thinking about heading out even though it was only 11:45 p.m. More yelling, then quiet, then more barking, repeat…and then before I knew it four dogs were at my tent’s door! Apparently the guy had had enough of the barking and had simply freed the vocal canines. I flashed my light onto them and was greeted by four sweet, little dogs wagging their tails, very happy to make my acquaintance! One of them looked exactly like Marley, my daughter’s little dog. They were happy to see me, it was so amazing. They hung around for a few minutes, their wagging tails hitting the wall of my tent. We exchanged pleasantries and then it was not too long before they just wandered off, I suppose back up to the ranch.
On the topic of dogs, finally, there was one instance where my adopted dog-bite preventive strategy of “stand your ground,” did not go as planned. I was slowly pedalling through an agricultural village named Ley Federal #1 ( a state-funded village co-op of about 500 people). It was a small dog with a grudge, and looked like a miniature pitbull (I’d guess it weighed less than 20lbs). It was all alone and did not bark a warning, a solo stealth warrior. Charging, it was very close to me when I saw it. I slammed on the brakes, but before I could dismount, it went straight for my right leg. I instinctively pulled up to kick it and the little malcontent bit down hard on my foot (the top of my instep). It was an impressive puncture wound that had the disconcerting effect of turning my shoe blood red as the wound instantly seeped through my sock and shoe materials. Following the age-old insurgency strategy of “hit and run” used by asymmetric fighters everywhere throughout history, it did the damage and quickly vanished into an alley. I had to stop and patch up the hole in my foot. It was sore and angry looking for the remainder of the trip, so it goes. My daughter insisted that I get a post-bite vaccine series of shots upon my return. Luckily Medicare paid for it.
I don’t want to be guilty of stereotyping but based on my own anecdotal evidence, Yet, I submit to you, Dear Reader, that the village dogs of the Baja Peninsula seem like they are just trying to do the best they can in a pretty tough, survival of the fittest environment. For some that means trying to find a pack that will accept one’s presence with the idea that there is safety in numbers, while others have to go it alone. Either way it ain’t no picnic for a dog living on the streets within the towns and villages of the Baja.
One more story, as I was heading out of San Javier (a beautiful little mission town), the cutest little Marley-type dog, limping on three legs, the fourth looked injured, but not severely injured (maybe a cactus thorn?), started following me. These mission towns are usually located in deep valleys, so one enjoys a long descent into the town and then is forced to battle up a long ascent as one leaves. I was pushing up a long climb. The little guy just kept following me. I got the distinct feeling that she was hoping that this gringo would be her savior. It broke my heart. She stayed around while I set up my tent. We watched the beautiful sunset together. In the morning she was gone.
Note: It would seem that Ejido Uruapan, the mission town with the hot spring, was unusually busy due to it being a Saturday night coupled with its proximity to Mex 1. Mex 1 is the main paved highway that runs down the length of the Baja California Peninsula. It is very busy and very dangerous for bikers as it is narrow with no shoulder. Note the Baja Divide Route only uses Mex 1 for a few miles to connect various backroads and trails.
Don’t try to pull a fast one on Ranch dogs.
Comment on theWriting Session #3: Monday, March 30, 2026 @ Wussow’s Concert Cafe. It sucks not being able to communicate with folks. How dare these people not speak English! I know it looks pretty pathetic in that I am embarking on another writing session later in the same day, but you have to remember that the doctor told me to stay put for at least a week to give her suture work time to heal. Apparently, she made an incision over the hole in my abdominal wall and then pushed through a round patch made of some kind of very expensive synthetic mesh. Over the course of a couple weeks, the mesh will grow into and reinforce the abdominal wall, sealing up the hole. If I didn’t have to sit around and let this thing heal up, I’d head up to the BWCA and enjoy a few days camping out. Camping in the BWCA in early spring (late March/early April) is in my estimation the best time to go, no one else is around, the ice is still thick, but the temps are mild, and one can fly on the hardpack. If conditions are optimal, using a kicksled, it is easy to make 20+ miles a day.
Back to the Baja Divide. One thing I really noticed and was a source of excessive frustration was my inability to speak with the locals. I am planning on biking the Peru Great Divide in the near future and in preparation for the trip I resolve to commit to arriving in Peru with a basic or elemental ability to communicate with the locals. I have two examples to share that demonstrate my profound inability to get my point across while moving down the Baja California peninsula.
As stated earlier, following the Baja Divide route, one enters Mexico through the bustling town of Tecate. I got there early, probably around 7:00 a.m. Even at that early hour, there was a fairly long line of pedestrians lined up to get in. At first I lined up with the cars, but a guy in a uniform waved me over, indicating clearly, through hand gestures, that I was supposed to enter with the folks on foot. I immediately complied and got in line, pushing my bike. A line that was moving very fast. Basically, everyone was just being waved through. As soon as my turn approached (my passport card at the ready), the guy just kept waving everyone through, I hesitated and he quickly indicated for me to keep moving. He never looked at my passport card, “Date prisa, date prisa!” I took that to mean, “get going, gringo.” So, I kept moving, but once I got through and was on the Mexico side. I stopped because I knew that I was required to buy a $35 tourist permit. I got the attention of another uniformed guy that was standing off to the side of the pedestrian path. His job seemed to be to just sorta watch everyone. He looked like an amicable fellow with an easy smile. We made eye contact and I said, “Hey, I think I need to buy a tourist permit?” In a nonthreatening voice, I think he replied with, “Traducir?” (aka “Translate?”). I responded in a slightly louder voice with slower articulation , “No speaky espanol. I need to buy a tourist permit!” He looked at me as if I were an idiot. Note: over the course of this trip I encountered this kind of look a lot. I did indeed feel like an idiot, but then, I suddenly knew what to do. I would increase my volume even more, slow down my delivery, and also try adding an “oe” to the key term, “permit,” like in those ubiquitous Mexican words like, taco, burrito, chorizo, and carro. So, in a slightly louder, “outside” voice I slowly proclaimed with confidence, “I need to buy a permit-TOE? He benignly smiled at me as if I was a complete fool, unable to be helped, but also to be mercifully pitied. Unfazed, I tried adding an “ae” to permit, like in permit-TAE. His eyes indicated a reservoir of sympathy, yet resolute finality and without further ado, with grace, he indicated, through nonverbals, that I was beyond help and that I needed to keep moving. So that is how I was able to get by without showing any identification or paying any fee to enter Mexico.
I really came to appreciate the medicinal and hydrating qualities associated with Tecate beer. Yes, Tecate beer is named after the busy border town in which it is brewed and in which I was harassed by a gangsta wannabe. It’s a refreshing, crisp, flavorful lager that became my go-to beer when I was passing through the towns and villages. I would liken it to the classic, original Leinenkugel's Lager. In fact, in a couple of the smallest fishing villages, Tecate Original was easier to find than water (aka aqua). Note the city folk tended to go for the new Tecate Light in the blue can, but the rural folks seem to prefer the original in the red can.
In the tiny coastal village of El Datil, where I could find just one single-car garage sized store that was open for business, a shopper had but one choice, it was all original Tecate or nothing. The store had a dirt floor, chickens running around, in and out, dusty shelves that housed a few staples such as eggs, tortillas, cans of beans, some snacks, and the like. You get the picture. I had enough food, but was almost out of water, so I was rather desperate to purchase a few liters of water. No one was around as I entered the shack, so I went over to the refrigerator and opened it, expecting to find it stocked full of plastic water bottles and cans of coke, which was the norm. This was common practice, in that these buildings are usually also where the store owner and his family live. The fridge was for both consumers and family members. From my experience usually one would enter the store, start looking around, and eventually a smiling old guy or old lady would slowly saunter out from a back room. This time, instead of being full of water bottles and cans of cokes, the fridge was stocked full of cans of Tecate. By this time, the old guy had appeared. What transpired next could be material for a comedy sketch. Smiling, trying to nonverbally convey grace and humidity, I gestured towards the refrigerator and exclaimed, “Aqua, si?” The old man smiled back and hesitated. The whole time, it was like we were in some kind of smiling competition. I mean it was obvious that this was a nice old guy that spoke no english. I held up an empty water bottle that I had brought along as a prop and repeated, “Aqua?” He says, “No aqua, Tecate, si!” I smiled and said a little bit louder, “I need to buy some aqua!” emphasizing the empty water bottle. This had no effect other than to broaden the man’s smile. I tried to equal his smile. The old man then sauntered over to the far wall that was curtained off by what looked like an old, albeit colorful Mexican blanket. He pulled the blanket away and proudly pointed to a wall of stacked red Tecate beer cans! Exclaiming with gusto and pride, “Tecate!” In an effort to signal to him that I was impressed, I proclaimed with enthusiasm,“Tecate!” He repeated with more gusto, “Tecate!” An awkward silence followed, but we both kept smiling.* By this time a rather rough looking younger guy strolled into the store. He’s smoking a hand-rolled cigarette and for lack of a better term, presented like the town drunk. He starts up a conversation with the store owner. It became obvious that they were discussing me and my request for aqua for I distinctly heard the words the “gringo,”and “aqua" being used as well as the word “Tecate” being thrown around. What followed was a series of loud meaningless proclamations by the three of us, coupled with what must have looked like a rudimentary game of charades. Finally, it became apparent that a deal was in the works. Ultimately, here is how it played out: I would buy two cans of original Tecate (the 16 fl oz model in the red can) and give them to the town drunk. In return the town drunk would take me to his shack, which was located just a few feet from the store, and provide me with as much water as I could carry. I bought the beers with my pesos and then tentatively followed the town drunk out of the store. Next to the dilapidated dirt floor shack, where the town drunk resided, located inside of a near totally destroyed Winnebago camper from the 1970s and contained within a blue plastic, 55 gallon barrel, was the aqua that I had bargained for. The water looked clear enough and by adding some purifying tablets, I figured it was a fair deal. Interestingly, I will say that the act of adding the Aquatabs tablets to my water bottles seemed to hurt the guy’s feelings. Maybe he thought that by adding the tablets I was questioning his sincerity? I don’t know, but he seemed offended and so I kinda felt bad about it. So, in an effort to set things right, to ease his mind, I kept saying a heartfelt, "Gracias, gracias.” By this time, being bored I assume (no one else was around-the village seemed deserted except for these two guys), the old guy appeared, having walked over from the store. If you know me, you know that I love to engage in conversation. Thus, I felt compelled to say something, anything. I started up again with the “Gracias, gracias,” and then I remembered learning somewhere that “Benito” meant beautiful and since we were situated on a beautiful coastal beachfront, and in an effort at small talk, I gestured towards the vast Pacific Ocean and started exclaiming, “Benito, benito.” But it had no effect other than for the two of them to look at me as if they thought I was a buffoon. I quickly assumed that I was mispronouncing, so I tried, “Besito, besito!” again gesturing toward the vast, beautiful Pacific. Again they could only look at me as if I were a dull simpleton and shake their heads. Finally, defeated and humiliated (but loaded up with plentiful aqua), I mounted my bike and exclaimed, with confidence, “Adios!” I was to later learn that Benito means nothing other than the first name of the despised fascist dictator that nearly destroyed Italy in the 1930s and 40s and that “besito” means to kiss.
Endnotes:
*During the whole trip I made a conscientious effort to convey through the act of smiling and humility that I was not the stereotypical, proto-type, ugly, hubristic American. To be honest, right now I am embarrassed to be an American, yet I am proud to be a Minnesotan.
“No aqua, Tecate si.”
Writing Session #4: April 1, 2026 @ The Duluth Coffee Company. The Author is not a Sawyer Products fan. The author stabs his wimpy Sawyer water bottles to death in a fit of uncontrollable rage and subsequently relegates the Sawyer filter, the MSR four liter “Dromedary bag,” and the Sea to Summit four liter watercell to the bottom of his rear pannier, where unused, dishonored gear items were unceremoniously stored.
From Sarah Swallow’s most excellent Baja Divide guide: “Water management is an important consideration while working down the Baja Divide route.” Water management is a fancy pants term for making sure you carry enough water on your bike, because finding water along the Baja Divide is tricky. The most I ever carried was twelve liters (that’s something like 27 pounds!), but I usually started a longer segment with six or seven liters. My standard rule of thumb came to be, one liter of water (or coke or gatorade) for every ten miles. I know this seems like a crazy amount, but that is how slow I was moving on most days. Note: temps were mostly mild, had it been hot, it would have been really hard to carry enough fluids. That is why no one attempts this route after about mid March. Usually, on most trips, I figure one liter per hour of riding, but I was only averaging about 5 or 6 miles per hour on the Baja, so I changed it to one liter per ten miles. So if I had to go fifty miles to get to my next water source, I’d bring six liters (one extra to be safe). Never did I wish I had carried less water, but there were a couple times, actually three times, when I cursed myself for not carrying enough! I went into it knowing this and yet I did end up suffering from lack of water doing a long stretch between the little town of Vizcaino (Situated in the center of the Baja California Peninsula, between the Pacific Ocean and the Sea of Cortez) and San Ignacio (a charming mission town-one of my favorite places). Crossing the El Vizcanio Biosphere Reserve (the largest wildlife refuge in Mexico was amazing), I kept stopping to take pictures. I felt like I was traveling through a Dr. Seuss kid’s book with all the strange plants, a seemingly otherworldly landscape. But I digress.
Almost from the start of the trip, I was able to detect that one or more of my plastic vessels was leaking. At first I let myself think that the wetness I was seeing at the bottom of my rear panniers was just condensation. Kinda like the same logic used when one thinks a slow tire leak is going to heal itself. But as the leaking inevitably increased, I had to face the fact that one or more of the containers was leaking, slow leaks, but leaking. I immediately suspected the MSR Dromedary four liter container (this was my second leaking MSR water container, never again!), so I put it out of commission and the leaking in the pannier in which it was stored ceased, but the other rear pannier still showed undeniable evidence of leakage, not a lot, but enough to really bug me. So then I put the other four liter bag out of commission (namely the Sea to Summit four liter bag- never again will this bag be invited on a bikepacking trip with me). I would literally grit my teeth in anger when I would have to pack up these two “freeloading” worthless pieces of gear. These “leakers" also reminded me of my motto, “no unforced errors” in that I was forced to admit that I should have tested these containers before embarking on this adventure. I had had trouble with a similar MSR container leaking during my Tour Divide effort. Combined these water containers had cost me well over $100, plus they were heavy, and took up space. I hate hauling useless gear, but there was no other option on this particular route. Under normal conditions I would have mailed them home or even given them away to someone. I didn’t want to just throw them out and be a litter bug.
When I started the longest “no supply” section of the route (126 miles) and because I had taken out of use eight liters of carrying potential, I had to rely on two, 1 liter plastic coke bottles (which worked just fine) and also bring into use two of the plastic pouches that came along with the Sawyer filter. These pouches looked flimsy. I remember thinking how cheap of Mr. Sawyer to include such sketchy water containers with his overpriced, overhyped filter. I figured it would take me at least three days to make the next water source (San Ignacio), so I loaded up with 12 liters before leaving Vizcaino. From the get-go, the riding was rough, very slow, lots of hike-a-bike, and it was relatively hot out. At the end of the first day, I was knackered, very thirsty (as I had been trying to ration my fluid intake), and thus ready to just set up camp and crawl in the tent. So I go to unload my gear. I keep my book(s), journal, wallet, clothing, tent, sleeping pad in the front panniers and most of the water, food, and first aid/hygiene kit in the rear panniers. The chair and tent poles&stakes are affixed to the top of the rear rack. I always set up my little chair first, then pitch the tent and put everything I will need for the night into the tent. Food is never allowed in the tent. Then I empty the rear panniers of the food and water I’ll need overnight. Normally, by about Day #20 on any backcountry journey, the whole affair begins to play out like clockwork, I don’t really even think about it as it becomes second nature. I really like that feeling. After everything is in its place, there is nothing better than relaxing next to one's fully prepared campsite after a long day in the saddle. Most evenings, while waiting for the sunset, I’ll make a journal entry, then watch a beautiful sunset, maybe take a few photographs as the sun sets. Then crawl into the tent, read a good book for an hour and then fall asleep. Repeat. Sorry about the digression.
Back to the story: The tent is up and everything is in its place. I open up the rear pannier closest to me and discover that the Sawyer pouch is less than half full and clearly leaking, everything is wet including a bag of flour tortillas. My heart beat intensifies, anxiety goes through the roof, without water there will be major problems. I quickly open the other pannier, same thing, the other Sawyer pouch is mostly empty and everything is wet! The loss of water! Water, giver of life! I momentarily lose my mind. Inexplicably and violently I grab my pocket knife, which I keep in a small “tank” toptube pack and start stabbing one of the Sawyer pouches. Two times I stabbed it and then I realized what I was doing and immediately tried to drink up the freed water. I gulped down the remaining water, then savagely threw the bladder to the ground, and grabbed the other bladder and guzzled down what remained of the life giving elixir. I couldn’t believe it. A barrage of F-bombs cursing Sawyer followed! Once I calmed down I was actually embarrassed by all the drama. Is it human nature to feel the need to blame someone else for bad things that happen to us? Was the Sawyer Products company really out to get me? It was such a surreal moment, a moment of true insanity. In my defense, I don’t want you to think that I am some kind of psycho-killer, a guy that often flies off the handle. Actually I pride myself for being pretty calm most of the time. In fact, before I grabbed my knife, I went for my Pilot G-2 pen that I usually keep housed in my front shirt pocket, but it was AWOL, not being able to find it just added to my angst. My initial impulse was to clearly mark the leaking container with the Pilot G0-2, so I would know to not use it again. But when I could not find it, I grabbed the knife. The stabs were a caveman’s way of marking them as useless.
In any event, no more water that night. I went to bed thirsty. I had burned through half of my water on the first day. I quickly calculated that I had just six liters to make it through the next two full days. What followed was a concerted effort at conservation involving two days of pushing forward with consuming the least amount of drinking water. I set a rule, only one gulp per 30 minutes. Take the gulp and hold it for a long time, then slowly let it head down the gullet. Then reset the timer on my watch and wait for 30 minutes. Repeat. By the third day, in the early afternoon, with about 15 miles to go, I was miserable. I decided to drink up what remained of my water, about half a liter. Yet, by that point, I knew I’d make it. In fact I never thought that I was in serious trouble, but I did suffer. Being really thirsty is a rough bargain. My throat was so dry, my tongue was thick, and I felt really slow and uncoordinated. Finally about a mile from where I was sure San Ignacio had to be, I came upon a lady about my age walking her little dog. It was so weird, but there she was, walking along the two track jeep trail heading towards me. In little more than a whisper, I inquired, using my best Spanish, “Aqua si?” holding up an empty coke bottle. She said, “Sorry I don’t speak Spanish, I am from Canada.” With unbridled joy, I exclaimed, “Hey that’s my line!” After that we totally hit it off. From Alberta, she was traveling through the Baja in a really tricked-out Toyota Landcruiser with a tent built into the top. She informed me that a really nice campground was just up the road, less than a half a mile, where I could get water and pop and even beer, and that San Ignacio was just up the road as well. I was saved! Never has a Tecate tasted so good. On a side note: I met her again several days later on the coast near the famous Seven Sister surfing area. She stopped and provided me with another Tecate. I love Canadians!
Correction and clarification 4/02/2026: “...the Strait of Hormuz will open up naturally," DJT. Last night (4/1) while I was waiting for Dear Orange Leader to address the nation on how great we are at bullying the rest of the world and that everything is going to be “so great” in just a few more weeks, once we have had a chance to send Iran back to the “Stone Age,” I took a few minutes to make sure I was accurate in detailing my journey of thirst. As you may recall, if you are a careful reader, I stated above that on three occasions I had to deal with water shortages. In the narrative above I contend that I ran out of water while traveling from Vizcaino to San Ignacio. It’s true I did run out of water while traveling between these two places, I did suffer, and I did meet the friendly Canadian as I approached the beautiful mission town of San Ignacio, etc., but in actuality the stabbing of the Sawyer water pouch occurred when I was trying to get from Catavina to Santa Rosalillita (a distance of 126 miles and no supply. The longest section of no supply on the route). Also I mentioned crossing the El Vizcanio Biosphere Reserve. This magical place lies between Nueva Odisea and Catavina. Essentially in an effort to get it right, I perused both the Swallow Guide and my journal. In doing so, I was reminded of another occurrence that might be of interest…see next entry.
Writing Session #5, Wussow’s Concert Cafe in Duluth, April 2nd, 2026. The author meets the Ghost of Raul (and Mario). From my journal, verbatim (although, I cleaned up the spelling, changed the tense, maybe embellished a bit, etc. ): “Monday 2/6 6:06 p.m. I’m camped in an abandoned two-room stone shack. The roof looks fairly intact and that’s why I am here as it is raining, actually it’s more like misting, than raining. As I look out onto the barrens, away from the ocean, I see three coyotes jogging across the sands. Based on Sarah’s guide, I am pretty sure this place belonged to old Raul, who died several years ago. He was known to be a friendly soul that encouraged dirtbag surfers to stay in his compound so as to be near the Seven Sisters surfing areas. The compound is totally abandoned and in complete disrepair except for a little cinder-block, out-building located closer to a broken down gate and the dirt road. It looks like some kind of storage building. When I entered it, I saw three blue plastic 55 gallon barrels (these barrels are seemingly everywhere in the local fishing villages). When I lifted the lid on one of the barrels I saw that it contained live oysters. Stacked up high. I think they were alive, because I could see little white feely-looking protrusions, like the edges of a living membrane. So I know the place is being used, but it’s getting dark and it’s raining now. I should be fine, plus I’ll be up and out of here early enough...”
As stated above in my journal entry, I made the decision to set up my tent inside the old stone shack. I had not seen anyone for two full days, since I had left Catavina, except for a brief encounter with a couple that passed me a few hours before I got to the shack. They were friendly, like all Canadians. They were driving mostly along the coast, heading north on their way back to British Columbia after a six month, mostly backroads, tour of the Pacific coast including all the way down the Baja. They were set-up in a really tricked-out 2014 Jeep complete with massive clearance, plus huge winches both front and rear (and even a 4X4 Sherpa Winch Anchor that is apparently used if you can’t tie into a tree or the like). We had a nice chat which included them sharing stories of how wild their trip had been including getting stuck for over three days and finally being saved by two other Jeep-type vehicles that had driven hundreds of miles to find them and to get them unstuck. Using their Starlink device that had sent out some kind of MAYDAY or SOS call for assistance to all jeepsters in the Baja region and two had responded, independently, unbeknownst to each other. That’s why they had the winch anchor (they had bought it La Paz, after they had been recused). It was a great story, they were so interesting, but I digress. On a final note: they also provided a disconcerting weather report that forecasted heavy rains for the overnight. I remember it well, the gal said,”It’s gonna rain buckets, I hope you had a good tent!” Upon hearing of the likelihood of serious rain combined with the fact that my worn-out tent leaks (and it's near impossible to ride in some areas of the Baja when the ground is wet, although this was not one of them), I was hoping that I could find some kind of shelter before it got dark. On my GPS, Raul’s shack was marked as being less than ten miles away and so I knew I could make it there before or just after sunset. Upon arrival, just as it was getting dark, I didn’t really want to stay at Raul place as it was kinda creepy, ghosts about, and it was just off the main track. I’m serious, I felt a spectral force, a sense that I was encroaching, disturbing, or even trespassing into unsettled terrain, perhaps inhabited by trapped spirits. Okay, maybe I am embellishing a bit, but clearly written in my journal are the words, “Get up early and get out of this place.” When solo, especially when “discrete” camping, I always try to camp in a spot where I know I won’t have to worry about vehicles or people showing up while I am in my tent. I hate that vulnerable feeling associated with car/truck lights shining through my tent walls when I am camping where I may not be totally legit. I have experienced several instances of being “found out" under such circumstances, none of them end well. So I was really hesitant to camp there.
While there were no obvious signs indicating that I was not allowed to camp in Raul abode, there was an old gate that I had to semi-open to pass through and a low stone wall surrounding the whole compound. And most significantly, given the existence of fresh tire tracks and the stored oysters, there were obvious indications that the outbuilding was being used. I remember saying to myself, “Okay, Sherlock, these fresh tire tracks clearly indicate that this place is being visited on a regular basis. Plus those barrels of live oysters didn’t just appear!” Yet, it was raining, my tent leaked, and it was getting dark and I had seen no one other than the Canadians, no sign of any locals for two days and nights. So I decided to go for it. Set-up my tent, wrote a short entry into my journal (see above), had a little something to eat, and then crawled into my tent. By then it was raining at a steady rate, but I was dry and content. I started to fall asleep, then at 8:30 a loud truck pulled up. I thought, “Oh Boy, here we go!” I immediately got dressed, but was still in the tent, planning my next move, when I heard the truck door open and then close. At that point I figured it would be best to let the owner of the truck know that someone was in the shack rather than having him or her figure it out on their own, like in, "Surprise!” So I crawled out of the tent, put the high beam on my headlight, walked out of the shack, calling out (with as much tonal neutrality or passivity as I could muster), one of the only Spanish words I know, “Hola!” Having parked his truck so that the headlights were aimed at the outbuilding’s opening (there was no door on the building), the guy was in the outbuilding, but he came out immediately upon hearing my greeting. Clearly he was surprised and a little bit blinded by my headlight, as he put his hand up to shield the bright light. I turned down the light. As he walked towards me, not knowing what to do, I offered him my hand and he shook it. I thought, “That’s a good start.” Not knowing what to do next, I blurted out, “I’m from Canada, on a bike! No speak espanol.” Thank God, he responded with, “Hola, I am Mario, I speak a little English.” Mario turned out to be a swell guy, probably around my age, originally from the Catalonia region of northeastern Spain, he had moved to Columbia as a child and then as an adult moved to Mexico City. He was now retired, seemed well-off, in that he was well dressed, had a nice Toyota truck, and lived in La Paz with his wife, his kids were all grown. His son owned a restaurant in the coastal town of Bahia de Los Angeles, which was about 100+ miles south of Raul’s place. After spending time with a daughter that lived in Ensenada and now on his way to visit his son, he was picking up a load of oysters to take to his son’s restaurant. He also had a daughter that lived in San Diego. Apparently the fisherman from the small fish camp of San Jose del Faro routinely deposit fresh oysters in the barrels housed in the outbuilding and locals, in the know, stop by and take what they want and leave payment in a box, located inside the building. I never saw the box. I helped Mario load up his coolers with oysters and then he was on his way to Bahia de Los Angeles. I went back to my tent, the rain had stopped, clouds were dissipating, and stars were emerging. I was pumped to get on with my slumber, feeling stupid for being such a worrywart. Then at 2:00 a.m. in the morning, another truck, an even bigger, louder truck, like the size of a garbage truck pulled up. I got up, but this time, did not give away my presence. Instead, sans headlight, I left the tent, but not the shack, and instead secretly peered out from the empty window sill. I was able to ascertain that there were two guys unloading those ubiquitous, big blue barrels into the storage building. I assume they were full of oysters? They were smoking, I knew this because I could see the hot red tips increase in magnitude as they took their respective pulls. It was spooky, me watching them do their work in the dead of night. Also, I could tell that the truck was in tough shape, from the ungodly rattling noise it made. It looked like something out of an old WWII war movie. Like an old military truck, the kind they used to haul troops into battle along the western front. Same as before, in that the headlights from the truck were pointed at the opening of the out-building. My heart was beating fast, I mean I am sure they were harmless, probably nice guys, but I was unnerved. I made the decision to just stay put and hope that they would finish up and leave, never having known that I was in the shack. My plan quickly evolved into pretending to be in my tent asleep, should they discover my whereabouts. I know, not an airtight strategy, but what were my other options? At 2:00 a.m. in the middle of nowhere, and unable to speak their language, the idea of just ambling over to make small talk with local fishermen seemed a bit presumptuous. In any event, I crawled back into the tent, but stayed fully dressed, and laid there, pathetic, listening and waiting, not freaking out, but close. Finally, at 2:47 a.m. they drove off. It had only been forty-seven minutes from their arrival until their departure but it had felt like hours and I had had enough of Raul’s shack. I immediately started packing up and was pedaling down the route by 3:30 a.m. It never occurred to me to peek into the storage building to see what they had been unloading (or loading?), but it would only make sense that it was oysters. Lesson: Pay attention to your instincts- If things don’t feel right, go with Plan B, (Make sure and have a Plan B).
Some three or four hours later, the sun had been up for a while and it was a sunny, but cool morning. The riding was tough with lots of hills and lots of hike-a-bike sections, plus I had not slept, so I was creeping along. The plan was to have an easy day and quit early. The next day, I’d arrive in Bahia de Los Angeles and get resupplied, treat myself to a good meal and maybe even a hotel room. First I saw the black smoke from a long way off. Could it be the smoke from a campfire? I rode up and over a big hill and then I clearly saw the smoke up ahead of me, seemingly on the route and then I smelled the acrid smoke. Then I spied what I initially thought was a forest green army tent…
Raul’s haunted compound.
Writing Session #6, April 4th @ Novios Cafe in Rochester, Minnesota. I am in Rochester, visiting my mom for the Easter weekend. This is my favorite coffee shop in Rochester. I grew up in Rochester, enjoyed a great childhood because of the unconditional love and support of my mom and dad. A continuation of my story of escape from Raul’s ghostly shack.
….Then I spied what I initially thought was a forest green army tent coupled with a smaller white canvas tent. I remember thinking that I would soon be riding past a contingent of surfers, complete with a morning campfire. I envisioned being invited to share a cup of coffee with them. Yet as I gained ground, I realized that the green tent was actually the canvas covering the cargo-bed of the same truck that I had seen earlier at Raul’s place and that the white tent was indeed another smaller truck. As I grew near, it became obvious that the green truck was broken down and the white truck was there to aid in trying to get the green truck running. There were six guys working on the truck and a young woman tending the campfire (the fire being fueled by both wooden pallets, old tires, and various other cast-off items). I stopped and asked the guy that was in the driver seat of the green truck if I could help. He didn’t respond but instead jumped out and walked down to the young woman. She climbed up from the fire and exclaimed, “I speak some english.” I said. “Can I help?” Smiling, she explained, “Gracias, but we are fixing the truck, there is nothing more you can do.” I remember thinking, these are some tough people. Side note: Incredibly I ran into Mario when I was pedaling through Bahia de Los Angeles a couple days later. He drove by, recognized me, and pulled over. We had a nice conversation.
Endpoint: From Wikipedia- The Seven Sisters are a series of seven, and often more, premier right-point surf breaks in Northern Baja California, Mexico, roughly 400 miles south of the border near Punta Santa Rosalillita. Best in winter (Nov–Mar), they offer high-performance, long right-handers on big NW/W swells. A 4WD vehicle is highly recommended due to remote, sandy, and sometimes washed-out access roads
Writing Session #7: Caribou Coffee, Rochester, Minnesota, early on Easter Sunday, April 5. Novios is closed on Easter Sunday. Note: I feel like Job from the Bible as I am enduring a very itchy, “loathsome” rash that has appeared all around my surgical area. Like Job, I think the rash is a manifestation of impure thoughts coupled with the application of dish soap that I foolishly used to scrub the wound site in an effort to kill all the germs. Sanitation is overrated in the United States, there is a point at which one can become too clean. To be honest, on my first shower post-op, I discovered that I was out of any kind of body-wash, so I went with the dish soap. The use of the dish soap is yet another example of an “unforced error!” Apart from the impure thoughts, after doing a quick A.I. search on the internet, it seems likely that the harsh dish soap has caused the rash (contact dermatitis?).
Topic explored- After solving an unanticipated transport logistical problem and thus finally at the La Paz airport, the author is politely informed, albeit in no uncertain terms, that he cannot board the plane to San Diego without a passport book. Leading to an epic and expensive change of plans. Constituting a huge unforced error!
Before I go on, some context is warranted. Keeping unforced errors to a minimum, I feel like I did a good job of planning and executing this trip down the Baja, but I really screwed up on the back end of this trip. In other words, I did not spend enough time and effort researching my exodus plan. An exit plan that was incomplete and not well thought out. It went like this; On around Day #20, once I had pedaled ~1000 miles or so down the route (the full route is about 1700 miles), I would have a fairly accurate estimate of when I’d finish. At that point, I just sorta figured I’d have my daughter, Sophie, buy me (online) a return plane ticket in early to mid March from either La Paz or Cabo San Lucas, depending on which location offered the cheapest plane ticket. Essentially my sole criteria was the price of the ticket. I did not consider any other factors. Now, looking back, I would have been better off flying out from Cabo. In any event,on February 27, I contacted my daughter informing her that I’d be close to the airports as early as March 10th (if La Paz) and March 14th (if Cabo). Sophie found that it would be significantly cheaper for me to leave from the airport near La Paz instead of the one near Cabo San Lucas. Specifically she found me a “good deal” leaving from La Paz on Monday, March 16 (with Alaskan Airlines, $390 and only an extra $35 for the bike box). Yet, leaving from La Paz did pose a bit of a logistical problem. If I maintained my daily average mileage of about forty-eight miles, I would arrive in La Paz seven or even eight days early. Given the expense of hotels and restaurant food, I did not want to hang around in a big city for that long, so I decided that I’d stay in La Paz for a day or two and then continue to follow the route down to the smaller, albeit touristy town of La Ventana. I would camp out there on the beach for three or four nights and then ride back to La Paz, stay in a cheap motel and then fly out the next day. Indeed, it all worked out. Although La Ventana was a bit too fancy-pants for me, filled with rich American and Canadian expatriates and/or tourists, plus relatively expensive cafes. I was able to camp for free in the city campground (I think they felt sorry for me) and because of a case of misidentification I was able to go sailing for a full day in the Sea of Cortez. Upon my return to La Paz on March 14, I was able to pick up a bike box that I had secured upon my initial stay in La Paz from a local bike shop. Things seemed to be coming together, but then I came up against an unanticipated problem in the form of finding a transport to the airport from the cheap motel I was staying at in downtown La Paz. From my journal, “Who would have guessed that the final ten miles, consisting of a modern highway, on my trip down the rugged Baja would cause me the biggest headache! Sick! I can’t find a ride to the airport! Apparently, according to a couple from Iowa that now live here, Uber is greatly limited in this town so as to protect the long established taxi companies, so that’s not an option. Essentially, Uber is only allowed to operate within the city of La Paz. All transports to and from the airport, which is about ten miles away from downtown, are the sole domain of the taxi oligopoly. There are three taxi companies in La Paz and the rumor is, according to Jaclyn from Iowa, that they are controlled by a powerful drug cartel. The problem is that none of these taxis have room for a bicycle box!” Finally, at my wits end in trying to secure a ride to the airport for me and my bike box, I finally put together a plan. The plan would involve me riding my bike to the airport on the day before I boarded the plane home. At the airport I would rent a car and drive the rental back to my hotel with the bike in the back. At the hotel, I would then box up the bike and then the next morning, drive the rental back to the airport. The good news was that renting cars in Mexico is significantly cheaper than in the United States. The bad news was that when I went to board the plane, I was informed that I could not do so because I had the wrong passport…
I found the Baja California Peninsula to be a beautiful place, but a little bit tricky to “fly away” from…
Writing Session #8: Karol’s Coffee Shop, St. Paul, MN, April 6, 2026. Named after Karol Wojtyla from Poland, aka Pope Paul II. This is a great little coffee shop near my daughter's apartment in St. Paul, not far from the MN State Fairgrounds and the University of Minnesota Veterinary School and CFAN facilities. The rash has not gotten worse, but it is still making me miserable. Job 7:5, ESV: "My body is clothed with sores and scabs, my skin is broken and festering."
Heading home after a memorable bike ride. Everything was going according to plan. I had dropped off the rental, had the bike box checked and was waiting to board. Flying with Alaskan Airlines on Flight #3369 from La Paz to Los Angeles departing at 11:30 a.m. When I went to board the plane, I was asked to display my passport. I handed over my passport card. Inexplicitly, the official would not let me pass and instead said something to the effect of “Documento equivocado,” [aka “wrong document”]. After initial confusion, I realized they were communicating to me that I would need a passport book to board, that my passport card was not acceptable. From my journal: Being the idiot that I am, I did not realize that I needed my passport book to leave (or enter) Mexico (or Canada) by airplane. The airport officials pointed out to me that the card I had was good for entering our neighbors’ countries by land and sea, but not by air. They pointed to the back of my passport card which reads as follows, “Valid only for International land and sea travel between the United States, Canada, Mexico, the Caribbean and Bermuda.” Huge unforced error! They were polite (by then I was surrounded by three uniformed officials), but steadfast in their refusal to allow me to board the plane. I was shocked and initially tried to beg, “Please let me board.” I ain’t gonna lie, it was a pretty pathetic scene. Then I was embarrassed as I was holding up the line. The situation was confounded by the language barrier. Finally, I suppose to get rid of me, they ushered me away from the line, asked me to wait in the corner, while they called up a lady that spoke English and asked her to come into the lobby area to assist me. She was a local, but worked for Alaskan Airlines as an accountant. Her name was Carla and she was so nice and very helpful. In fact, I’d still be in Mexico had it not been for her patient assistance. To make a long story short, I ended up having to run out onto the runway (with the help of a couple employees), pull my bike box off the plane. Carrying the seventy pound box, plus two full panniers, I then hustled back to the lobby where, with the help of Carla, started to put together an exit plan. The plan would involve buying a plane ticket on a local airline and flying to the border town of Tijuana. Luckily there was such a flight that was scheduled to depart at 7:00 p.m. that evening. Thankfully, it was not full and they agreed to take my bike. Carla put the whole thing together via phone calls and online communiques, as everything was being planned out in Spanish. The plan was that I’d fly to the Tijuana airport and then carry (or push, if I could find a cart), my bike the half mile or so across the border following the CBX (stands for Central Border Xpress), then once in California, I’d hire a some kind of transport to drive me the thirty miles to the San Diego airport, where I’d fly onto Seattle, then onto Minneapolis. Carla, heaven sent, helped me coordinate the whole complex affair. As mentioned above, it was a major screw up costing me at least $1000 by the time I figured all the extra costs. Just the thirty minute ride from the border to the San Diego airport cost me $110. Yet, I don’t want to harp on it or to use it as a distraction from the overall amazing experience I enjoyed riding the Baja Divide. I have decided to simply learn from it and move on.
I was surprised by the heavy dew that coated my tent on many mornings. I have learned to appreciate to desert.
Writing Session #9: April 8, 2026. Bearaboo Coffee Co. located in Cloquet, Minnesota. This cozy meeting place was started several years ago by the Swanson family. I knew the original owners and I’ve made it one of my most visited local coffee shops. They sold it last year to a younger family that has continued to make it a very inviting place. Bearaboo makes delicious (and very affordable) egg sandwiches. The rash is still bugging me. I wonder if I am being punished for my various sins. Yet, unlike our Secretary of War, I don’t believe in an America-first, mean-spirited, scornful, and vindictive God, so it’s probably just the dish soap still doing a number on my sensitive skin.
Fear and loathing in the San Diego airport. From my journal, while sitting in the San Diego airport: “I made it to the United States! It’s 3:00 a.m. sitting in the San Diego airport playing the waiting game…” Thirteen hours later, still sitting in the San Diego airport: Again from my journal: “It’s 4:52 p.m. and I am still sitting here, the plane loads in about an hour. They are going to charge me $135 (on top of $700) for the bike box, after they quoted me $35 this morning. I own this mistake. Stupid! The passage of time here is nonlinear in that at times, time moves quickly and at other times, time moves at a glacial pace, I do think that I may have slept some last night/morning. A strange thing happened that may be of interest and worth writing about. My involuntary sharing of the couch. Although in short supply, with most of them already occupied, I found a kind of couch down by the baggage claim areas. It was maybe six feet long, but in the middle was a divider, no doubt, designed so as to dissuade an adult from laying on it in a comfortable manner. God forbid someone would become too comfortable while languishing in an airport. Looking around I saw how folks worked it out. What people do is they sorta build a bridge over the divider using backpacks or the like. So, I took my front pannier and laid it against one side of the divider and then put my green camp pillow on the other side, which allowed me to get in a decent reposed position. Then I used a stuff stack and some clothing to fashion a pillow. It was not an uncomfortable position. Eventually, I must have dozed off, entering into a kind of semi-slumber state, more like a kind of fog. Whilst in this nether state, I heard soft breathing, very close to me, but I didn’t think anything of it because I thought I was asleep. At some point, at first I thought I myself was snoring, but I remember thinking it is sorta of unusual for a sleeping person to hear his or her own snoring. I remember thinking that what I was hearing wasn’t really snoring, just breathing, I convinced myself that what I was hearing was my own breathing. I just laid there, sorta zombie-like, eyes closed, so tired, exhausted from all the travel set-backs, emotional angst, etc. I was in this semi-conscious state for what felt like a long time. Finally as I started to revive my senses, it dawned on me that someone was sleeping right next to me, very close, sharing the same couch! Back to back, like as close as if we were sharing a twin bed! I slowly sat up, turned to look, and saw the backside of a smallish person, essentially cuddling with me like your kid used to do, when he/she used to crawl into bed with you, like as close as if we were sharing a twin bed! At first I thought that the person was a child, but once I got up and started to stroll over to the bathroom, I realized that she was an older Asian woman, like a grandma!. She was dead to the world. I returned from the bathroom and quietly removed my gear and moved on. When I returned later, she was gone.
I saw lots of birds including Vultures (pictured above), Brown Pelicans, White-winged Doves, Ravens, the super cool Baja Pygmy owls, and lots of Quails. Note apparently lots of rich, brave U.S. Great White hunters come down here to murder the quails.
Writing Session #10, April 9, 2026, Subbing for a French teacher at my old school. Some final thoughts stemming from looking at the last couple pages of my Baja Journal as I page through the last few entries. Okay, I’m not in the right frame to be writing this as I am sitting at the teacher’s front desk in a class full of crazed, hormonal adolescents (22 boys and 7 girls. I feel sorry for the girls). They are 8th graders taking a quarter course titled, “Introduction to World Languages.” New this year is a requirement that they have to place their phones in a “hanging phone storage pocket” located at the entrance of the classroom. The vague sub-instructions from the teacher (who is probably gone because she is taking a “mental-health day”), reads in part, “have them work in groups on a group project. They can be kind of rambunctious. Please record the names of any student that is being overly disruptive.” Of course this will be difficult for me as I have no idea what the project entails and who these people are. Even though I taught at the school for over thirty years, I was in the highschool, so I don’t know these kids and more importantly they don’t know me, so they are going to try and destroy my will to live, but I shall survive! If it gets too out of control, maybe I will tell them that today’s assignment is for them to retrieve their phones and use them to look up interesting Spanish or French phrases. If I did, things would get very quiet in short order. But I digress.
From the last few pages of my Baja journal- March 17 @ 9:48 p.m., 35,000 feet above planet Earth. We are all packed in like sardines, also like dead sardines no one is talking with each other, all is quiet. Observations: No personal or wider social interactions up here, everyone is just hoping that their seat mates don’t talk to them, so as to interfere with their screen time. Seemingly no one wants to get to know anyone else, especially if it means cutting into their screen time. I tried to start up a conversation with my seat-mates, but they are clearly not interested. In fact, the couple next to me are like antique mannequins. I am in the row seat, the older mannequins are in the other two seats. They have not said a word to me and/or to each other for that matter. The old man is tied into his iPad watching an old baseball movie and the old lady is tethered to her phone scrolling mindlessly through what looks like various clothing ensembles. In fact, no one wants to engage in conversation. Everybody, I mean, I am looking around, and everybody within my scope of vision has their earplugs in, tuned out. Even though they are all crammed together, they are all living in their own little fantasy worlds, except me. Okay, I am probably not in the best frame of mind right now, but still. There is no sense of wonder, no self-reflection, no reading of books, and clearly absolutely no interest in meeting their plane neighbors. Okay, I admit that I am not in a bubbly mood as I write this, but my eyes are not deceiving me. All I see is very busy, very, very, busy thumbs on the young ones (they are playing games on their phones, whilst the old ones watch the same movies over and over again. There are three teenagers in the seats directly ahead of me. They have not said a word, they are totally absorbed with whatever is going on within their tiny screens. From this vantage point it looks like they are watching infinite Tiktok videos. To my immediate left, next to the window, the old man is still watching a baseball movie starring Robert Redford, the guy across the row from me is watching some kind of kill or be killed movie with that Liam Neesom guy? What a mess! It was the same in La Paz, at the bars and cafes, most people were unaware of the outside world, most of the time. Maybe they would look up from their phones to take a quick gulp of air, but then they were back staring at the phone. It is a prevalent disease and addiction of epic proportions, a world wide epidemic. I guess I wasn’t in the rural villages long enough to speculate, but I didn’t see any kids out running around, but I did notice that nearly every shack, even the ones with dirt floors, had one of those radar thingies. I’d imagine that in the villages there is a lot of TV screen time. So weird, so unhealthy, so dangerous…of course, A.I. will save us…
Writing session#11. April 13, back in Duluth @ The Dove Tail Cafe. Good news, I survived the subbing session with the 8th graders, my punitive, biblical rash is pretty much gone, the hernia cut is healing, and I am back riding my bike. Note: from A.I.: A primary form of biblical punishment is allowing people to face the natural consequences of their choices (Galatians 6:7).
The last writing session was basically a rant. For that I apologize. Well I certainly don’t want to end on such a bleak note, especially because biking down the Baja Divide was an amazing, wonderful experience for me. Let's review a couple quantifiable factors or considerations that arguably can be used to compare that “quality” of a given bikepacking experience. In my case, such factors could include the number of photographs taken during a particular trip as well as the number of post trip pages written. The notion being that the number of photos taken and pages written represent a direct correlation to the level of enjoyment for the cyclist. In other words, there exists a direct relationship between the number of photos and pages penned with the perceived quality of and/or personal enjoyment of the endeavor. Below are comparisons with recent bikepacking trips using the number of photos taken and number of pages written. Last summer I participated in the Tour Divide Race (mid June to early August). During that 2700+ mile effort I took about one hundred photographs, wrote about ten pages in my journal during the trip, and typed up a fifteen page narrative that I shared with my Dear Readers. In mid October I participated in the incredibly challenging Arizona Trail Race (~800 miles) and made about 450 miles along the route before I was too wasted to continue. Using the AZT as a backdrop, I did write up a fairly long dissertation on how pathetic I am. The AZT800 is really a tough endeavor requiring more than simple determination and mental toughness, to finish one has to be a skilled technical mountain bike rider. My total lack of photos and zero journal entries speak volumes as it took everything I had just to stay moving on that trail. Note to self: If I want to finish that event next fall, and I very much do, I have to practice, practice, practice this summer. The AZT is turning into my quest for the Holy Grail! In any event, during the AZT effort (which very much humbled me), incredibly I took only two photographs and never opened my journal! In contrast, on this trip I took over 500 photos and wrote 47 pages.
During the thirty-four days it took me to ride the 1649 miles along the Baja Divide route, I took over 500 photos and religiously put pen to paper to record what I consider to be one of the most interesting and challenging routes I have completed.
Of course, I don’t need to justify the merits of this trip. If you have the urge and the time, I highly recommend this route. No encounters with blood thirsty cartels or corrupt army troops. Zero run-ins with drunk, gun toting rednecks crammed into monster trucks flying down the trail. To be completely honest, I never felt like my life was in danger, except as an afterthought, when I realized that I’d almost gotten bitten by an impressive rattle snake. It was my fault. As I lumbered up a steep incline, the discontented ophidian tried warning me, but I failed to understand that the loud rattling noise I started hearing was not from my rear hub (or the like), but instead a clear warning from a disturbed serpent (that was just minding its own business, enjoying the rays of the sun on the side of the trail). Crotalus horridus was not happy, after all, I was the interloper nearly pushing my bike over it. After providing ample warnings, the snake actually struck my right rear pannier, leaving two tiny, but unmistakable, penetrative fang marks complete with a few drops of venom, it then returned to a coiled defensive stance. Luckily, as implied above, it was a hike-a-bike moment, head down, probably feeling sorry for myself. I was on the left side of the bike, on foot, pushing up a sandy hill. Even though I clearly heard a rattling noise, sounding like an older DTSwiss rear hub engaging, being a fool from Northern Minnesota with little experience with snake protocol, I didn’t realize what was happening until an adult member of the Crotalus enyo enyo tribe hit the pannier with full force, which sounded like a good slap in the face. Finally, cognizant that I’d just dodged a bullet, I quickly put some distance between me and the rattler and then took a picture as I wanted to remember the encounter. It could have ended up being a lethal “unforced error.” The few times I did have to ride on the busy main highway, the motorists seemingly made an effort to not run me over, although my advice is stay off the main road as much as possible. The local people were never threatening, mostly very nice, and even the feral village and town dogs were not overly menacing. I guess if I had to pick the one thing that was the most spectacular, it would be the varied and unworldly plantlike that had the greatest impression on me. Thank you for getting this far and be wary of focusing too much on “being safe” because it's overrated. Instead take calculated risks.
The Baja Divide. “I went to the desert on a horse with no name. It felt good to get out of the rain…There were plants and birds and rocks and things…”
No comments:
Post a Comment