Baja Reprise: Seeking Cetaceans on Three Wheels and Two Wings

A tale from The Back Burner (March 2013)

March is a time of year when I have to schedule in my showers, and decide which I have time for on any given day, brushing either my hair or teeth. Days off are few and far between (if any) for weeks at a time, so making a trip to a remote lagoon in Baja to pet whales is really not something that comes up.  Except sometimes.

A group of riders, including Phil, from my recent Baja Unadventure, are heading down to the San Ignacio lagoon at the end of the month, and – what? is it possible?- due to some freak alignment of the planets (and jobs), my days off from my four different positions actually coincide this month! Wumph! I sit down hard in my chair in disbelief.  It must be too good to be true.  Of course, it is. Too good to be true. I look at my calendar again, check the map... Arghhh! I don’t have quiiiite enough time to ride the miles, pet the whales (requiring at least one, possibly two, overnight stays), and get back to Tucson before the clock strikes midnight.  But I was so close!!

Sometimes, good things just need a little adjusting to make them true.  Pilot Guy, who has been courting me these past two months*, says coolly, slyly, “Yanno, we could fly down to pet the whales.”  I raise an eyebrow.  It might be a bit early to be hopping in his Bellanca Super Viking for an overnight, but I don’t care. I’m in!  I was so in, I even agreed to get up at 4am** to begin our adventure.

Our wheels are up before the sun,  and we watch it rise as our little aeroplane crosses over the international border.  Immigration and customs laws designate that we must first land in an international port of entry.  Guaymas is beautiful from the air!  Can you believe this? I’m flying in a private plane to Baja to pet whales. I really can’t wrap my brain around it.  I may be wearing sensible adventure appropriate footwear, but I check my feet for glass slippers, just in case.  Nope. I'm good.

Negotiating customs and immigration in Guaymas is a bit of a trick. I speak (some) Spanish, but don’t speak Pilot. Pilot Guy, although obviously well versed in Pilot, is less capable in Spanish. We dance round and round, from window to window, each no more than ten paces from the other, seeking this stamp and that document before we can proceed. I’m not entirely sure, but it sounds like the official at one window is telling us we aren't allowed to fly from Guaymas to the San Ignacio Lagoon.  Huh?  It's something about flight plans, and towered vs. non-towered airports, but I can't discuss the topic intelligently in any language.  We're stumped.  Pilot Guy plays his ace - a call to a pilot friend, who flies to Mexico regularly.  Aha! The the wink and nudge system that, in the US, might have a curious military jet alongside us in no time, wasn't published in the airport directory. Wink and nudge we can, and soon, we’re on our way!

"What do you mean the landing gear won’t go up???"  I suppose this is better than the alternative, but mechanical failure in the air is not the sort of adventure I had in mind when I signed up for this trip.  Pilot Guy starts to circle, and checks in with the folks on the ground.  But before we’ve landed to investigate the problem….Oopsy!   Pilot Guy was right when he said you don’t so much get in a Bellanca as wear it.  During my clumsy entry when departing Guaymas, I’d inadvertently deployed the emergency landing gear switch.  It’s always good to test your equipment, I suppose.

Traveling by private aircraft is part glam rock star…

Feeling glamorous in Sedona, AZ

… and part grubby safari.

Today was definitely the latter.  This is an airport?  It’s simply a little dirt landing strip and a shack of sorts. But it works for us!

Our boat is also more safari than rock star.  Our captain pulls it to shore.

We set sail…

… and before long the whales show themselves. A flipper here…

… part of a tail fluke there.

Ahoy!  Friend or foe?  Dolphins, too, are leaping about, twice as high as I’ve ever seen them do at Sea World.  I’m spellbound and nearly mute with emotion.  Still, I have no idea what I’m about to experience.

They are so friendly and curious, that they mob our little boat. There are 3, 4, 5… all within reach, nearly too close to photograph. Who’s watching who?, I wonder.

Indeed, I am petting whales - whales far bigger than our little boat. They roll beneath my fingertips, we look each other curiously in the eye, and breathe the same air.  Mothers push their calves towards us, as if for our inspection.  “They feel just like olives!” observes Pilot Guy. He’s absolutely right!

Whoosh! I catch a direct blast from a blowhole and sputter.

They roll out of the water and look us. I try in vain to catch their eyes with the camera lens.

Look carefully - you can see an eye near the center of this photo, if you use your imagination!

Our captain’s wife prepares lunch for us. Eight hours bottle to throttle, says the law.  We’re not flying again until tomorrow, so a beer is perfectly okay, too.

No whales were harmed in the preparation of our seafood lunch, I hope.  It's a bit salty, but we're simply too elated to care. Our meal disappears quickly.

A reconnaissance flyover before landing at the lagoon revealed that the airstrip closer to the town of San Ignacio was obscured with shrubbery. We would be okay to land there, but the Bellanca wouldn't!  Perhaps it's best we hire an SUV to take us across the strange landscape and into town.  There are things to see there, too…

...like palm trees…

… and banana blossoms.

And the cathedral.

We try to hunt down the riders at Ignacio Springs, but communication is too difficult here. We savor an amazing date shake near the oasis, instead.

The next morning, we're pretty sure we can spot whales from the air.  The watery loops below us are mesmerizing, like misty contrails melting into the sea.

Bye, bye, lagoon!

Hello moon!

Wheels touch down back in Tucson

This is as good as it gets, I think to myself.  Without a motorcycle, anyway.
________________________________________
A fascinating article in the New York Times describes the behavior exhibited by these mysterious creatures, specifically when nursing their young in the San Ignacio Lagoon.   I encourage you to read it. When I came across this poignant story back in 2006, eyes nearly brimming over, I had no idea one day I would experience it all myself.

*Pilot Guy was quite the patient man when we met. Dating during the busy season? Hah! I literally said things like “I can meet you for coffee for 20 minutes a week from Wednesday, if that works for you.”  Not to mention the fact I was ready to ditch him for a motorcycle ride to Baja on my first days off since meeting him.  Lucky for me, he stuck with it.
**No small feat for the work weary sleep deprived musician who was working mornings and nights.

Burros in the Sand

Today I had just enough time for a quick jaunt to Ironwood Forest National Monument, which, incidentally, not being staffed in the first place, isn’t affected by the government shutdown.  This time, Li’l Burro, ever curious, chose a new point of access - Manville Road.  It was a test ride of sorts, I with new pants*, he with new shoes.

Li'l Burro contemplates his cousins.

Yes, they even sang their sprightly, squeaky song for us.

Around here, grass is a photographable event.  Grainy, artsy style no extra charge.

Funny how the very moment you find yourself wallowing about in sand deep enough to make walking difficult, much less riding, or dragging your motorcycle out of it, is the same moment you realize you should be headed back home getting ready for your gig.

When I have a successful fall, I like to spring up, hands in air**, legs together, back arched, like a 15 year old gymnast – front!, left!, right! – just to emphasize the cleverness of my little trick.  Ten!

*I’d been putting off buying a pair of riding pants better suited for Li’l Burro, because I’d been hoping Olympia Moto Sports would make their X Moto suit for women.  “Are ya gonna make it for 2013?  Huh? Huh?  How ‘bout 2014?”  The answer remains a steadfast, “No.”  But since I seem to be putting my street leathers at risk in the dirt and mud, I broke down and bought a pair of Firstgear TPG Escape Pants (what a name!) on clearance.  Not quite what I wanted, but they work, and fit perfectly.  I’m pretty sure I got the last pair of size 6 in the universe.
** I totally stole Pilot Guy's moves here.  And I'm keepin' 'em.

The Baja Unadventure

Flying in the face of convention, I'm posting "Baja Unadventure" before I've completed my "Sort of Sabbatical" series. It only seems polite to be prompt, since there were other riders involved, one of whom so graciously provided me with exceptional writing material.


I make my final departure preparations – swig some coffee, close up my house, pile on my gear, pack the remaining few items, drag my motorcycle out from the back yard – with my customary pre-tour blend of excitement and jumpiness.    I am glad the expected rain arrived and departed 12 hours early, and that I won’t be riding today’s 300 miles in the wet. It’s chilly but pretty out, and before I’ve even rolled off the sidewalk, jumpiness gives way to joy and grin so big it's barely contained by my helmet.  It’s real. I am riding to Baja!

My original plan was to spend my entire Christmas break riding to Cabo San Lucas and back, simply because the weather would be warmest if I headed south.  During the course of my research, a group contacted me and asked if I’d like to join them.  Normally I prefer to ride by myself, but with the combination of getting my feet wet riding in a foreign country, and my inexperience on substrates other than asphalt, it seemed a good compromise to travel in a pack, even if it meant starting my tour a week later and having the more modest turn around point of Bahia de Los Angeles, rather than riding the entire Baja peninsula.

December had been beyond hectic. The number of concerts I had to prepare for and perform was astounding, and there were Christmas presents and an important thank you gift to make or buy, wrap and ship.  I had two years worth of veterinary continuing education to complete and submit*, and the audacity to throw a Mayan End of the World dinner party at the same time. I had to research Mexican immigration requirements, vehicle requirements, international driving permits, Mexican auto insurance, and health coverage while riding in Mexico, and had pored over maps and ride reports in the wee hours many nights after work.  I had to figure out and test a way to carry extra fuel, decide how to best set up my SPOT GPS Messenger/emergency transponder for an international venture, weigh options for having safe drinking water, consider whether or not I wanted phone service while in Baja, make counterfeit copies of my documents for the suggested “dummy wallet,” type out volumes of information for my emergency contacts,  and prepare batches of granola, granola bars and beef jerky for the trip.  And, somewhere along the line, I decided it was imperative I make a teeny tiny gingerbread house.

After all that, the dull, mindless, straight line 300 mile leg today seems like just the thing.  I’m headed to Yuma, albeit the “long way” via Ajo, to ring in the New Year with two other riders I’ve never met. I hope we all like each other or this could be a very long week. And I truly hope they believe me when I say I can not, will not ride at night.  Even though we’ve decided to stay in hotels for the trip, my tent and sleeping bag are coming with me, just in case.

I’ve not even reached Ajo yet, and both my phone and bike run out of gas.  I hit reserve about 25 miles before I expect to, and my phone battery is dead.  There is no real issue, since I can flip a switch and be on my way, and charge my phone on the bike if need be, but the less than expected gas mileage concerns me because of the long stretches between gas stations we’ll experience when we make our way further south down the Baja peninsula. I’m glad I bought the Rotopax fuel container, but wonder if it will be enough.

I’m the first to arrive in Yuma, and already, I’m taking apart my bike. There seems to be an oil leak, and I can’t tell where it’s coming from.  The bash plate is an icky, dirty, greasy mess, most of which I tell myself is chain fling and dirt, but I know this is not the only explanation. Still, the engine oil level seems unchanged, so I hope for the best, thank myself for carrying extra, and resolve to check the level more often than not.  I refit the bash plate, after digging out some rocks that have lodged here and there (and may very well be the culprit for the leak), and heave the heavy tool kit back into my luggage. I’m glad I brought them along, too.

When my two riding companions arrive, I quickly see that they are traveling in style.  Adrian is riding a 2009 Versys 650 that I quickly take an eye to.  It’s fitted with rugged locking Pelican cases and roomy top box, GPS, a mount for his SPOT tracker, and who knows what else.  It’s a beautiful metallic green and silver, and in showroom condition, as far as I can tell . Phil has an enormous, spotless touring BMW – the K1200RT - again with locking BMW luggage, GPS, blue tooth, and satellite radio, among, no doubt, many other things.  My XT (“Li’l Burro”) looks, by comparison, dull, small, and tired, with its worn down tires, taped up seat, oil leak, inexpensive canvas luggage, small orange top box with cheap plastic locks, and its tiny, 225 cc sized engine.  Even so, I don’t care one bit. It’s my motorcycle, it’s got two wheels, and I adore it. Plus, of the three vehicles, it’s probably the most appropriate for parts of our trip.  The other riders accept my little XT - indeed it has its own strong points - and we get to know each other a bit over drinks and dinner.  I'm grateful and relieved that it seems I'll be in good and competent company on this trip.  I can tell it's going to be a good fit.

Our plan is to cross the border in the morning and then get away from it. All reports say three things: don’t ride at night (fine with me), look out for unexpected and vicious “topes” (speedbumps), and cross the border early and immediately proceed south, since much of the crime tourists are concerned about involves illegal smuggling, and happens in the border zones.  So launching from the Lettuce Capital of the World is a good plan.  We ride by fields and fields of cauliflowers and lettuces -  "Yuma Grown Romaine Hearts," "Yuma Grown Iceberg," the signs declare - before we reach the border community of San Luis.  Our crossing is uneventful, as is the necessary immigration paperwork, and I am surprised that my Spanish is coming back to me as easily as it is.  It’s been a few years since I left the US, and I am instantly reminded how much I love to do so.  Everything is different here! I love the unusual-to-my-eye look of things, the colorful pesos, deciphering the hand painted signs everywhere, the hustle-bustle of unusual vehicles and traffic, and communicating in a language that seems to bring out a new aspect of my own personality.  How fitting to begin the New Year by crossing into a new country!

We clumsily manage our first international gas stop (I am worried I might inadvertently put diesel in the tank, since the PeMex regular unleaded pump handle is colored US Diesel Green), fumble a toll booth or two (I need to find a more convenient way to get at my cash),  and head south on Mex 5 toward San Felipe, our planned stopping point for the day.  The road has the feel of a highway – it’s straight, flat, and, I have to admit, aside from the military check point, where our bags are cursorily searched by bored young men wielding machine guns, a little dull. So far this trip is feeling very tame and I find myself hoping the road gets more interesting than what I’ve seen so far.

San Felipe arrival.

Taco Trimmings

The ceviche at The Taco Factory was a hit, as was the Shrimp and Chipotle Taco (not shown).

Our little trio is still getting to know each other, so we’re awkward about agreeing upon a hotel. We are all simply too polite to be effective decision makers. “This one is fine with me, but I’m happy to look at the other if you like,” is about as far as we get for a bit, but finally settle upon “El Capitán” for the night.  It’s quite humble and inexpensive, my portion would cost me less than what I paid to camp in CA this past summer, but perfectly serviceable, with wireless internet and hair dryer, even!  It’s also a short walk to the Malecón (boardwalk), restaurants, and “La Taza Express,” the only real coffee shop I will see our entire trip.  We enjoy a stroll around town, but we are not here at the time of year to see what I think would probably be the most interesting aspects, the San Felipe 250, and the San Felipe Shrimp Festival.












 

Our room has two beds, and we are three, but I happily volunteer to nest up in my cozy, familiar, and warm camping gear.  It’s comforting to me in some way, perhaps because this is how I always sleep when touring.  As I snuggle down for the night, I again find myself thinking that while I am enjoying myself, so far this trip is feeling decidedly unadventurous.**  Maybe the month of December has sapped me of energy and creativity, but I have no real words to write in my little spiral bound notebook.  We’ve only just started our journey, of course, but so far I am referring to this trip as “The Baja Unadventure.”  We shall see what tomorrow brings.

As I sleep, I am haunted by dreams of someone I have not seen for over 20 years, and when dawn breaks, I struggle to remain in the warm and loving space gifted to me by those visions.

Curiosities...

... and more curiosities.

After packing up, we continue down Mex 5, setting Bahia de los Angeles as our goal for the day, and in the following days, we will cross to the Pacific side and explore this way and that, as we zig zag lazily back north.  I am looking ahead to this New Year with more optimism and hope than I have in over a decade, but, for whatever reason, there is some emotional hairball I need to cough up first, and suddenly I am crying and riding, not just a few tears, but great, heaving, sobs.  I don't try to figure it out - it’s inexplicable -  instead just letting them take their course, and as suddenly as they came, they are gone.   Finally words come to me. Words, words, and words. I will have things to write in my little notebook tonight.


Just a few miles south of the populated area, things take a decidedly different feel.  The road is narrow, with gentle dips and turns, and an Irish mist of sand blows across the asphalt, not at all unlike the dry-ice mist that floats into the orchestra pit during certain opera scenes.  There are crumpled mountains to my right – cocoa colored, cinnamon, bricky red, some striated with yellows and browns. The sand flats bristle with ocotillo, creosote and the world's largest cacti, cousin to my familiar saguaro, the Cardón.  The landscape is a cross between Death Valley and the Sonoran Desert, but with the surreal juxtaposition of, on my right - oh my!- the glimmering aqua of the Sea of Cortez. For 50 miles we ride, and I quietly consider the remarkable and strange world around me.  I simply do not know how I will capture the beauty, the desolation, the stark contrast of desert next to sparkling sea with my camera.

We stop for gas in the tiny area of Puertecitos, and the attendant tells us that the next station (in Gonzaga Bay) is closed on Wednesdays.  Yes, he’s closed on Tuesdays, and he’s pretty sure she’s closed on Wednesdays.  Hm.  Even with my Rotopax, I’m not positive I’ll comfortably make the distance from here to Bahia de los Angeles, but Adrian has a few spare liters which he will not need, and the math pans out, even if it is tight, and at our relaxed pace I’m getting better mileage than my first day, so we continue riding south, riding past the blue sea, through small mountain passes, further on into this peculiar and breathtaking land.


It’s not long before I snap out of the landscape induced hypnotic state and realize I need to stop ogling and start photographing.  Adrian is able to grab a few while riding and I am mentally kicking myself for not buying the clever camera harness that would allow me to do the same before this trip.  With surprising timing, there is a small scenic view point and we pull over.  I snap a few preliminary photos, but we are discussing lunch, and it seems to make more sense to concentrate on one thing at a time.  We think there’s a restaurant down the hill on the beach right where we’ve stopped.  Adrian points out that now it’s my turn to shine, since the road down the hill is not paved. I pat Li’l Burro smugly, but am quick to point out that his assessment is likely a generous one. Although the XT is definitely the tool for the job, my off-road skills are still in their infancy. 

But the road is not challenging – it’s well packed, and the rocks are easily avoided or ridden over.  When I’m not busy thinking it’s something even I could handle with a street bike if pressed, I’m distracted by my new Tusk fender pack, kindly donated to me by Adrian that morning, since it doesn’t fit his new Versys.  On the bumpier sections of the road, it’s making a startling commotion and rattle, bouncing the front fender violently, and I wonder if the fender will survive such treatment and if it’s making contact with my front tire.  My remaining thought capacity is on Phil behind me, and I am impressed he’s willing to take his huge touring BMW down this road.  I shouldn’t have been surprised, since we were headed down to the beach, after all, but the hard packed road surface changes abruptly, and before I can stand up on the pegs and say to myself “I can do this,” – baf! – Li’l Burro and I are on our side in the deep, soft Baja sand.

Li’l Burro reclines lazily, enjoying the sun, sand and surf at Playa La Costilla.

I’m quite sure both the motorcycle and I are no worse for the wear, but as I lay there quietly assessing the situation, I do immediately realize I am really rather stuck beneath the XT.  Unless my proprioception has been inadvertently disconnected, my foot does seem to be facing, for the most part, the anatomically correct direction, a point for which I am extraordinarily grateful.  (Everyone is not always so lucky.) I can, after a bit of work, use my arms to drag myself out from under my laden motorcycle and as soon as I do so, I leap up, fists in air, and cry “Vittoria!” in a voice an opera singer would surely envy. For 16 months I’ve been trying to drop this bike. Mission accomplished!

Phil had wisely decided to stop before reaching the sand, not having the appropriate vehicle for such antics, and we learn that the restaurant is closed anyway, so we get ourselves turned around and continue south on the main road, seeking nourishment.  We come across the plywood shack in the Cinco Islas area that is "Imelda's Mexican Food."

One of these friendly dogs would soon prove to be our undoing.

Imelda (I presume) serves up some mean huevos rancheros. I have extremely high tortillas standards, and hers met the test.  We ordered by answering the question, "Well, what would you like?"

Imelda's son (again I presume) peels potatoes after we place our order.  That's fresh.  So is his reading material, which you can see in the corner of the photo.

Lunch has been fun, but we’re burning daylight, and we’re soon to run out of pavement.  It’s time to get moving. Adrian takes the lead, as he has been, but the chase gene in one of those friendly dogs acts up. She’s after Adrian and the Versys, running hard, and won’t let up.  I can read Adrian’s mind as he drifts to the right of his lane. He has no interest in getting bit by a likely unvaccinated dog in the middle of nowhere, Baja.  But by the time he hits the throttle to escape, he’s nearly on the shoulder of the road, which happens to be covered in full layer gravel.  Before I can finish rolling my eyes and thinking that I’ll be the next target for this stupid dog, Adrian goes down.  Hard.

This, my friends, is Not A Drill.

Phil and I act quickly, but rationally, assessing and securing the scene.  While the Versys, except for one torn off Pelican case, is nearly untouched, Adrian, even though conscious and moving, is clearly hurt.   The first order of business is to get everyone and everything off the road.

Adrian, despite his severe pain, wants to get moving.  Phil appeases him by putting a new lock on the Pelican case and reattaching it to the Versys, which gives me time to watch Adrian closely.  I have a stethoscope at home – why, oh why didn't I toss it in my topbox?  It seems so obvious, now, when it becomes clear that the main area in question is his chest.  I’m no doctor, and I can’t think nearly as quickly or completely as a paramedic, nor do I presume to be qualified in any way***, but abnormal lung sounds are the same in a dog or a human, and if there’s any fluid accumulating in his thoracic cavity, I want to know about it.

Adrian is hurting significantly, but he doesn’t look shocky, his color is good, he’s speaking and moving under his own power, his pupils are normal, his pulse and breathing are normal, if painful.  We have, if nothing else, the freedom of a moment or two decide on what our next actions should be.  He’s reluctant to use his SPOT device, for fear of alarming his family, and we are not able to use it to send a message to any of my  own contacts. Phone service is out, not surprisingly.  He wants to ride north before he starts hurting more.  While there is a certain logic to this – injuries always seem to hurt more the next day – I don’t like it. Making judgments under the influence of adrenalin probably won’t serve him right now, and I point out that there are other ways to get both him and his motorcycle to safety, aside from having him ride. He has purchased insurance policies for just this very sort of event, and even without the limited assistance we may or may not gain from either of our SPOT devices****, we have options, but he will have none of it.  He wants to get up and go, and get both himself and his bike to the border, STAT.  I don’t know him well enough to judge his reactions to all of this, and I can't say I blame him, but I really want to put my foot down and call a veto on the whole idea.  But somehow he’s on his bike, and the best I can do is to convince him to try to push the grips before he starts rolling, rather than find out he can’t after he’s moving. He’s going to give it a try, and before I can attempt talk him out of it, he’s off and not stopping.  Phil and I have got to follow.

This is no longer the Baja Unadventure.

I am glad, at least, to take note that Adrian is riding normally. He’s obviously uncomfortable, sporting a funny posture, but he’s cornering as he was before, and making all the right moment by moment riding “decisions.”  And although he’s riding at a reasonable pace given the situation, it’s a challenging one for my little XT225. What’s more, there’s a brisk headwind and Li’l Burro is carrying more weight in luggage than ever before.  It doesn’t matter, we’ve got to keep up, and there’s no time to run out of gas, figure out how to operate the eco-friendly spout on my as of yet unused Rotopax fuel container, or even stop to fumble with my reserve switch.  We’ve simply got to make it.

I’m trying to give Li’l Burro every advantage I can think of.  Every single part of my body, but for my forehead and right elbow is glued to the surface of this little motorbike, and I’ve got the throttle jammed as far as it will go.  With this headwind and heavy load, we’re probably barely cracking 65mph, but it feels like 150. Without my usual headphones or earplugs, and with my head on the tank, I can hear the lone cylinder thumping, bumping, braying loudly, every horse hoof pounding and clattering.  We ride and ride, right on past the little gas station in Puertecitos,  and ride some more  – nearly 100 miles in all - and in what feels like a fishes and loaves miracle, the Li’l Burro takes me, at a dead run, all the way back to San Felipe without asking me for fuel. We stop at the first gas station we see, and Adrian declares he is done with being on the bike.  I am grateful he doesn’t want to continue on to the border today.  Medical attention in town is in order, and I’m not sure we’d make Mexicali by nightfall.

There is a small clinic in San Felipe, and Doctor Abasolo examines Adrian.  While all he has at his disposal is simple palpation and auscultation, he thinks that Adrian’s ribs and lungs are intact.  He gives him one injection of dexamethasone, (a strong anti-inflammatory) and another of some sort of NSAID, (a Mexican brand name that I don’t recognize), and emphasizes that rest is of utmost importance.  If his severe pain continues tomorrow, he should seek radiographs.  Unfortunately, it turns out that the doctor who performs them in San Felipe is currently out of the area.

In the morning, again we discuss the multiple ways that we can get both the Versys and Adrian to the US border, but again he wants to get up and go under his own power.  I understand his instinctive desire to make progress, to get back the US as soon as possible, but I still don’t like the idea of him riding in this condition.  Like yesterday, all we can do is follow.

For every cc it lacks in engine displacement, Li’l Burro makes up for tenfold in heart and toughness and again we are racing -  sides lathered, neck stretched out, nostrils flared - racing across the Baja desert, past great expanses of sand unpunctuated by even the slightest trace of plant life, around mountains, past the salty Colorado River Delta and towards the US.  For 100 miles we go, and I am reminded that for motorcyclists, our bikes are not simply machines, but beloved pets, the most trusted of companions and confidantes, and perhaps even, at times, extensions of our very selves.  It’s crazy, I know, but right now I feel toward this machine the same gratitude an owner might feel towards his dog, after it pulls him out of a house fire. We stop for gas – Adrian stays on his bike, Phil pumps, and I pay – and we go again, nearly 100 miles more to the border.  We punch through immigration and – pow! – we are in the Land of the Free, Adrian’s family is there, and Adrian is admitted to the hospital in Yuma, sporting 5 ribs with multiple fractures and one punctured lung.

Li’l Burro***** and I rest.  300 miles to go tomorrow, and we’ll be home.

*It’s been years since I’ve practiced as a Certified Veterinary Technician, but I do the leg work to keep my credentials. And yes, I left it all to the last minute.
**Not that there’s anything wrong with that.
***I keep toying with the idea of getting my EMT.  This may push the thought into reality.
****It's not magic, folks.  Don't delude yourself into thinking otherwise.
*****He deserves a Kentucky Derby Garland of Roses, if you ask me.  And Adrian should at least get an ADV sticker, don't you think? 

Final View of the Pacific: Bigfoot, Whales, Baby Dinosaurs, and Breaking the Comfort Zone.

“Sort-of-Sabbatical” Day Seventeen, Tuesday June 19

When I first starting cooking up a “some-day” tour of California, a few little grey lines at the tippy top of the state map caught my eye.  There’s nothing overtly special looking about the loop comprised of CA 92, CA 299 and CA 3, no can’t-miss (relatively speaking) destinations along the way, and although grey squiggly lines on any map call out “For a Good Time, Ride Here”, when you’re sitting at your kitchen table in Tucson, AZ, those particular routes just seem so… far away. Exotic, even.

It must have been a good instinct, because an 89 mile stretch of CA 92 is also known as the Bigfoot Scenic Byway. How could you not ride the road that “takes you through the region boasting the most sightings of Bigfoot of anywhere in the country?”

So, after coffee, scones, conversation with yet more generous camp neighbors, and a little canine playtime with their German Shorthair Pointer, I leave Joseph Stewart State Recreation Area in Oregon, and head that direction.  If I told you CA 92 was a fearsome test of cornering skills, I’d be lying.  But even the humble corner is made to be enjoyed, and I’m having a party on the asphalt, with a pirouette here and high kick there, ho ho**... I’m on my way!  No wind or fog, no rain nor bitter cold, no black-as-night redwood shade,  distracting world class views (although the Klamath River is simply lovely) or must stop destinations keep me from my appointed rounds.  I’m riding in that perfect place, brushing the very outer edge of my comfort zone and life is simply grand.

The day brings me another gift!  The Salmon River Outpost in Somes Bar stocks not just the usual ice cream sandwiches, but fresh organic fruit and espresso as well.




I haven’t really decided where I’ll be staying tonight, which is unusual for me.  Evidently there are whales to be seen at the mouth of the Klamath River, but I missed that opportunity a few days ago. Plus, in a desperate search for fuel, I skipped the Newton B. Drury Scenic Parkway through the Redwoods on that same day.  Although I’ll be taking a chance at finding a camping spot if I head back in that direction now, It Makes Sense At The Time to do so anyway.  Besides, after my last few short days of riding, I’m in the mood to put some miles behind me today.

So after my snack I take a 140 mile detour to the Klamath River Overlook, back at Del Norte Coast Redwoods State Park. The viewpoint turn off doesn’t feel like an official park road, and I’m starting to wonder exactly where I’m going. The road is becoming alarmingly narrower and steeper the further I go, and I’m having very clear visions of having to stop to turn around, finding myself in a situation where I can’t reach the ground, and consequently having to pick up my loaded bike on a blind hill.  Yep. I do indeed miss the parking area.  Instead of continuing on, hoping to find a place to safely if not comfortably turn around, I chicken out  and gingerly balance and tippy toe my heavy-to-me bike backwards down the steep hill. I am, admittedly, rather terrified if not in a life-threatening sort of way, then definitely in a don’t-want-to-drop-much-less-have-to-pick-up-my-pretty-motorcycle sort of way. But I manage my awkward, wimpy maneuver, and, even better, no one sees me do it. Hah!

Although you can’t see them, there are, indeed, whales down there.  In fact, I could hardly see them.  "They look like ants!"  - errr, minnows, maybe, I'm so high over the sea.   I stare at a rock for a long time before deciding it’s not a whale.  But I do see a few and they delight me to no end.




I’m having another bone chilling moment in a very windy place, so I eventually need to move on. Plus, there is the pesky matter of still not having a place to stake my tent.  It’s getting late, and for the third time today, I’m stretching my comfort zone, although this time it’s not in the fun way.

I head south, towards CA 299, my starting line for tomorrow, and begin the hunt for a campsite.  They are full, full, and fuller.  It’s getting late, late, and later.  Seemed Like A Good Idea at the Time, eh?  By the time I pull into Big Lagoon County Park, I know I’ll be camping there whether there’s a space for me or not, and I’m already working out a pathetic “but I can’t ride at night” plea, should I need to deliver it to a stony faced camp host. I’ve simply run out of daylight, and I really can’t safely ride even another mile.

It’s not comforting to spend the night in a place that has the distinct menacing vibe of a suspense psychothriller.  But if you’ve got night vision problems like mine,  and Door Number One offers possibly getting slashed and murdered, while Door Number Two offers definitely crashing, definitely wrecking your pretty Ducati, and possibly sustaining serious injury and/or dying, you will stride steadfastly and confidently through the former portal, without so much as even knocking. The campground is threatening in the creepiest of can’t-quite-figure-out-why ways.  The usual signage is absent, and I’m having trouble determining if the space I’ve claimed is actually an official site or not. The host seems to have abandoned his post, and other campers are walking around looking a bit dazed and confused. The washrooms are locked and campers are expected to make use of a couple of soiled and overflowing porto-lets instead.  There’s not much to do, and it’s getting dark fast.  If I build my tent quickly enough and hide within, perhaps the axe-murderer (or - eep! - Sasquatch!) will pick on someone else.  I turn on my little emergency GPS transponder thingy.  You know.  Just in case.  A few moments later another motorcyclist rolls by and stops to chat.  I don’t bother to hide my relief, and, honestly, neither does he.  We are Motorcyclists, and We Are In This Together.  He can’t quite figure out the sketchy scene either, and invites me to share his spot.  Since I’m already set up, I decline (gasp!  maybe he’s the axe-murderer?), but I do take him up on his offer to share his campfire for a stretch.  (Campfire?  Axe-murderer or not, I’m IN!)  Turns out he’s not an escaped criminal (as far as I can tell, but who can really know these things?), but “NolaNomad,” a Super Duke riding chef, on his very last day of a five week motorcycle tour of Colorado.  We have an enjoyable evening discussing the finer points of the culinary uses for fennel pollen (Gah!  Why did I not collect some on the Channel Islands earlier??), camping hammocks (he has one hanging up – very cool, but I would freeze), and, of course, motorcycles.

It’s early morning and I’m awake, happy to discover that I have not been slashed by an axe murderer or carried away by BigFoot overnight.   But I realize the sound that brought me to premature consciousness is a loud chorus of what can only be baby dinosaurs.***  With this level of noise, there must be an awful lot of them and they’re right next to my tent.  And although I went to bed thinking anything could happen in this creepy place, assault by baby dinosaurs is not one of the potential hazards that came to mind.

I blow a hasty kiss goodbye to the Pacific, as it shall be the last time I see her on this trip, and flee to the mountains.

*I can’t help myself. Thanks again, Sausage Creature.
** Turns out, I'd see the same grey whales, at a different point in their migration a few years later in Baja.
*** Not really.  Turns out I was sleeping right next to a cormorant rookery.  I poked around a bit out of curiosity, but wasn’t going to disturb the demarcated area.  I couldn’t see them, but for a few early risers flying overhead, but – wow! - what a sound!  Fascinating.

Pacific Coast Highway (Ventura to Big Sur: Elephant Seals and Redwoods)

“Sort-of-Sabbatical” Day Eight, Sunday June 10

Joshua Tree – check!  Santa Monica Market – check!  Angeles Crest Highway – check!  Channel Islands  – check!  I make a big swoosh with my imaginary pen, smugly cross off my successes, and point the Ducati’s front wheel northwards.

I knew it would be beautiful.  The Pacific Coast Highway, that is.  I really did know.  In fact, I’d traveled it before, from Santa Barbara to Santa Cruz, albeit in a car, and many years ago.  Even so, I am simply not prepared for this kind of scenery.  For over 200 miles, as I round every bend (and there are many, much to my delight), I’m slapping my palm on my helmeted forehead, while making unintelligible sounds of disbelief.  I’m torn between the view and the twists of the road, and the view wins. Yes, the view wins, and I wind my way slowly, slowly, taking it all in.  My inner speed demon is quiet - some might say good has (temporarily) triumphed over evil.  Somehow I can’t even manage to stop and get off the bike to photograph anything, because I’m far too star struck to choose one spot over another.*  Every shade of brilliant blue is represented by the ocean waves – here a deep royal, there an eye popping turquoise, and most often, all the variations in a single psychedelic eyeful.  Lest one tire of the spectacular monochromatic display, enormous jagged boulders, strewn about artfully as if by some larger than life supernatural hand, catch the eye and give the ocean waves a reason to splash and froth joyously.  Wild flowers spring up here and there, and if I can tear my eyes away from the west, grassy, gentle, peaceful mountains greet me on the east.

Early on in my journey, there is one moment, one sole moment,  perhaps only because I am not yet fully under this road’s spell, when I am shaken loose from my transfixed state.  I see the sign, and hit the brakes hard.

I can not leave without photographing this spot, not because Point Piedras Blancas is the most beautiful view on the PCH (it isn’t, although it’s lovely, no question)…




….but because I see, lounging up and down the beach, like cats napping in the sun, these:




Yeah, that’s right.  An entire colony of elephant seals.  This photo shows perhaps half of them, the other half being behind me.   Not everyone is fast asleep however.  Some of the males are vocalizing and sparring…




…and others peep comically over the flowers…




…but most of them are content to simply sunbathe.




Once the animal encounter is complete and I’m rolling again, my last remaining bit of free will is quickly consumed by great waves of intoxication.  For the rest of the ride, I am powerless to do anything other than gawk and gasp.

It’s probably a blessing that Pfeiffer Big Sur State Park isn’t actually on the Big Sur coastline.  I think I need some time to clear my head after such an intense blast of nature’s glamour.  Even so, just as soon as I touch down and set up camp, I’m racing up two miles of switchbacks to catch the only water view to be had – a too far away glimpse of blue at the top of the Buzzard’s Roost trail.

Mostly, though, I’m finding the steadying hand of solid and silent redwood trees.  They bring a welcome softness to the end of a day filled with almost blinding sparkle.

 

Actually, it was a sunny bright day in the redwood forest, too.  But it didn't FEEL that way.  It felt cool, shady, and mysterious. So  I spent about a zillion hours adding fog to this photo.  I'd feel guilty not telling you as much, but this really does capture my feeling better, and that's the point, really.

*Photos next post!

Southern California Must-See Number Three (Channel Islands National Park)

“Sort-of-Sabbatical” Day Seven, Saturday June 9

Today’s travel involves not a motorcycle so much as a boat.  Because that’s the only way to get to Channel Islands National Park.  The gray misty morning sea departure brings back childhood memories of ocean fishing, and, although I’m not sure why I didn’t see it coming, standing at the bow of the boat, feeling the wind and the spray, smelling the clean brisk salty air, and hearing all the sounds of the sea is turning out to be an unexpectedly powerful experience.  How happy I am!  And now – look! - here’s something new to add to my experience, even before we land.  A pod of dolphins, perhaps 50 or more,  has decided to accompany us on our way, leaping about, playing in the wake, and doing all those things I’ve only read about. I look down and there is one, practically at my feet.  It’s barely a foot under water, and at most, a foot away from the starboard side at the bow. I watch him rolling and flying along at high speed, keeping in perfect formation with the boat, not for a fleeting second, but for minutes upon minutes.  I can imagine the turbulence he must feel as I see him roll this way and that, pointed snout piercing through the transparent forces of streaming water, and it recalls my feeling of riding in a strong headwind.  But somehow this seems a joyous and playful battle, and I can do nothing other than hold my breath and watch in wonder at the strength, grace and spirit of the spectacular animals surrounding me.

So, no.  No dolphin photographs for you.  But here’s one of the ocean spray.




Channel Islands National Park is comprised of five of the eight California Channel Islands, and I’m headed to Santa Cruz Island for a few reasons.  Boat trips to each island do not happen every day, and this one fits my schedule.  And as intriguing as kayaking around Anacapa Island sounds (already added it to the never ending “to do” list), I’m not equipped or skilled in this department.  I really want to hike, and all research tells me the hike to do is on Santa Cruz Island.  This particular island is interesting since part of it is owned by the National Park Service and the other, larger part by The Nature Conservancy.   The islands were decimated by sheep – by that I mean grazed completely bald right down to the dirt - and The Nature Conservancy portion of the island is considered the most beautiful, since it has had 10 more years to recover from the ovine assault than any other part of the park.

The fog graciously lifts as we approach the island.




Access to The Nature Conservancy portion of the island is highly restricted, and those of us hiking to Pelican Bay must be accompanied by a guide.  I much prefer to hike on my own, but Joel is friendly and informative and doesn’t keep our leash too short.  Right off the bat, he points out that the bird that has landed in a small tree just out of our reach is an Island Scrub Jay, found nowhere in the world but on this very island. In fact, some in our guided group have made the trip solely to see this bird. He points out “roadside produce,” as I call it:  wild fennel (not native to the island) and Lemonade Berries (yes, the sticky coating around them tastes just like it) and has a stash of hidden artifacts of the Chumash people who inhabited the islands long ago.  And the hike is definitely, definitely worth it.

We hike down and up several small canyons, and under twisty gnarled trees that only partially conceal the marine paradise below…




…and over grassy hills where where we catch our first glimpse of our destination…

 

…along with a sparkling view of where we began.
 



We have some time to explore Pelican Bay on our own.  The water really is this tropical aquamarine color!




And the childhood memories resurface as I poke about the tide pools.




As I return to the mainland, and later, my campground, I think that the bar has been set very, very high indeed.  And despite there being very few miles added to the Ducati's odometer, nor anything decent at all to eat, I wonder, can the rest of my trip possibly live up to this day?