Feature > Events/Trail Rides
Got Baja? - Part 2
Ten Daze in Baja
story and photos by Chris Collard
Baja Sunrise, Fish Camps and Mañana Mode?
A warm Baja sunrise laid shadows across our tracks, and sand sprayed off our tires in crescent shaped arcs as we blasted south on a trackless beach towards Punta Final. We had survived the 24 hour drive to Bahia De Gonzaga and were heading south for the Baja 1000. Four hundred miles and two-daze travel lay between us and our destination, the San Juanico checkpoint at mile marker 652. Of course, we could have taken the paved road like everyone else, but where is the adventure in that? What is the point? I was there to cover the race, taste the dust, feel the adrenalin, and to experience the adventure of Baja. And the only way to be at one with the Baja 1000 is to run the racecourse.
Cell phones, watches, PDAs and hassles of everyday life had been stowed in the glove box when we crossed the border, and we were slowly slipping into the mañana mode. Mañana is frame of mind and body in which one forgets all the trivial crap we typically deem important. The thought of bills, deadlines, email, stock portfolios, traffic and braindead tv programs vanish into the recesses of one’s mind. In the mañana mode, life’s focus is based on the important things: when the sun rises and sets, do we have enough fuel, which endless dirt two-track should we explore today, and, at the end of the day, is the cerveza cold? And least I remember why I’m here, the only link to northern responsibility I must remember is the assignment, and the money shot.
Exploring isolated coves, abandoned fishing camps, several dozen vultures were giving last rights to a beached dolphin as we pulled into the tranquil pueblo of Punta Final (final point), which rests at the south end of Bahia De Gonzaga. Punta Final consists of a small gathering of palapas, small stone and brick houses, and fishing boats. Nary a sound could be heard as we turned off our motors and walked its sandy streets. The majority of its residences are expatriate, sun-baked Americans in a quest for the endless manana.
Mile 225: Squadrons of brown pelicans, in search of the catch-of-the-day, carved graceful sweeping arcs above as we headed west from Punta Final. From a faint track we veered south into an arroyo (canyon) on a rocky two-track left over from Baja’s fleeting gold mining era. Rising from the valley floor, the tranquil blue waters of the Sea of Cortez flanked us. Cardon and cholla cacti lined the arroyo and the cirio trees loomed over the trail as the track twisted through parched interior mountains. Seldom traveled since the days of yesteryear, we took time to explore several old hard-rock mines. Predominately of the Catholic faith, and in a time when the elements were harsh and medical services nonexistent, small crosses, identifying old bone yards, can be found near most mining camps in Baja’s remote regions.
A seldom used two-track near Gonzaga Bay allowed us to put it in low range and do some rock crawling.
Calamejue Canyon, Race Wannabesand Dodging Federalies
Veering east towards the isolated fish camp Calamejue, we were back on the racecourse again. Back in the day, Calamejue is rumored to have once been a pick-up point for contraband heading north. Today, although long forgotten by schedules and deadlines, a residual air of suspicion lingers from its contra days. Although I’ve bartered for langosta y pescado (lobster and fish) in the past, I’ve never departed with a strong sense of the warm fuzzies. At a course marker, we veered right on a non-descript turnout towards Calamejue Canyon. Pushing the threshold of maximum allowable velocity, the frame, cab and suspension of my old 1982 Toyota truck groaned in protest as we bounced south across several miles of whoop-de-doos. Dropping into the Calamejue arroyo, the cacti covered hills converged to the east and west, and the canyon walls rose to near vertical. Green shrubs began to appear and in the distance of a half-mile, the gray desertscape turned to a tropical marsh and lush vegetation covered the canyon floor.
Fuel in Baja’s remote villages like San Juanico often comes out of a 55-gallon drum. It is usually a good idea to filter it with a cotton towel to avoid clogging your fuel filter.
It was 48 hours prior to post time and we were sharing the course with straggling pre-runners. Several came up in the rearview like a shot through a gun, passing with similar velocity and leaving us in their dust. With visions of Baja 1000 grandeur, we raced fairlead-to-taillight for the better part of 20 miles, emerging into the cacti forests of the Desengano valley and the next pit stop. Cardon cacti, which reach up to 60 feet in height cast long shadows across the valley. As the sun headed for the western horizon, we hightailed it for our next fuel stop in Guerrero Negro.
For visits to southern Baja of more than three days, you are required to obtain a tourist visa (which we didn’t have). To avoid a stiff penalty and/or delay at the military immigration checkpoint, we pulled off the highway several miles north. Greeting our headlights was an endless sea of sand dunes. Created of soft blow-sand from the coastal waveslope, the dunes were unstable and difficult to navigate in the dark. Locating a level spot for the tents, we set up camp under crystal clear skies and the light of a billion stars, unmolested by the light of any urban sprawl.
Mile 370: In the morning, we skirted the edge of the dunes to Guerrero Negro for fuel. While at the pump, Ned noticed that one of my rear springs had given up the ghost, the main leaf breaking just forward of the spring plate. Fortunately, Toyota uses a military-wrap style second leaf and it was still semi-functional. If you break down in Baja, you’d best be driving an old Toyota, Ford pickup, or a old VW bug. There is usually a pile of them lying outside every town.
The blue water of the Sea of Cortez provided a beautiful backdrop for our accent into the Sierra La Asamblea Mountains.
We pulled into an auto parts store that had located a rebuilt head for me on a trip in 2003 and queried the owner, Manuel. He didn’t have a phone, nor did the junk guy outside town. We waited while he left to check on the spring. The junk guy had one but wanted $68 bucks for it. We either looked seriously stupid, really hard up, or like rich gringos — maybe all three. Luckily, I’m really weird and carry a lot of spare parts, including an extra leaf spring. It wasn’t an exact replacement but I knew we could cannibalize it for the pieces needed, laminate it with the broken set, and clamp it back together. A couple of chain clamps on each end and voila, we were on the road again. Being self-sufficient can be an invaluable attribute at times. Baja tip: carry lots of spare parts and the tools to install them. We thanked Manuel for the use of his parking lot and headed out of Dodge. The racecourse jumped on the highway near El Arco to the south, so we were obliged to follow the blacktop to San Ignacio.
Missions, Fish Tacos And Midnight Wipeouts
With visions of Baja 1000 grandeur, we raced fairlead-to-taillight through Calamejue Canyon for the better part of 20 miles, emerging into the cacti forests of the Desengano valley and the next pit stop.
Originally called Kadakaaman or “Creek of Reeds” by the indigenous Cochimi Indians, the sleepy village of San Ignacio is an oasis in the desert. Bordered on three sides by large mesas, a natural aquifer supplies year-round water to the reed-lined lagoon. Planted by the Jesuits in the 1700s, stands of date palms blanket the valley. Stucco abodes dawning colorful pastel exteriors, buildings of stone and rock, and the timeworn Mission of the patron saint San Ignacio Loyola, have been resistant to change since the highway came to town in 1973. With each visit south of the border, we bring several bags of used clothes that would otherwise go to Goodwill (it’s mostly brand new stuff: Christmas and birthday gifts that don’t match my wardrobe of Tevas and shorts). We dropped the bags with a woman at the mission and headed to Restaurante Rene for a few rounds of tacos de pescado and langosta.
The Pro Truck Class driver Mike Voyles got our adrenalin going when he literally flew past us at eighty miles an hour. Voyles went on to take a forth in class and 58th overall.
Mile 450: In the moonless night, we headed west on a dirt road that skirted the southern edge of Bahia San Ignacio. Ghostly shadows of towering cardons flashed by on either side as we bounced in and out of arroyos and washes. Running at about 45 mph and picking up the back door, I slowed to about 30 as we approached one of the more precipitous arroyos. Exiting the depression, the suspension recoiled and all went silent as the tires levitated from terra firma. Upon touching down, the suspension fully compressed, bottoming out the shocks, simultaneously snapping the steering tie-rod at both ends. This rendered my steering about as useful as the steering on that slot car ride at Disneyland.
With every visit south of the border, we make it a point to bring bags of used clothes. After searching town for the Padre, we dropped two bags with a woman at the mission.
My first mistake was stabbing the brakes. The right front caliper pulled hard, and off the road into the darkness we went. Through the brush and cactus, the truck shaking like the frame was being torn out from under it, and shards of shredded cactus flying everywhere. Coming to rest, a quick assessment revealed that we were not hanging upside down from our seatbelts, our personal effects were not strewn out across the desert, and, the windshield was still intact. Other than listing heavily to the passenger side and a few branches protruding through the window, all was fine. We figured the guys would soon realize we weren’t behind them and turn around. Right? We crawled out the driver’s side door to appraise the situation. One mirror and antenna snapped off at their mounts, a slightly dented fender, tires still on the ground and holding air. This was all good.
There was no way to make a repair without turning my back into a pincushion. We pulled 90 feet of cable from my Warn winch and secured it with a tree-saver to a cactus on the opposite side of the road. An hour later we were back on level ground, the old tie-rod lying somewhere in the darkness. Es Problema? Like good Boy Scouts, we dug into the parts box for a spare. Another hour later we were ready to go. That’s when Randy showed up (good timing on his part). We found the camp late that night, deep in the coastal desert near Arroyo de San Benito.
Mile 529: The first racers had left Ensenada, 600 miles to the north, before we broke camp. With 290 teams entered, a simultaneous start would look like the final scene in a Mad Max movie. SCORE avoids this deadly scramble by releasing only one vehicle every 30 to 60 seconds. The motorcycles are first out of the gates, followed by the rest of the classes. In the pole position was three-time Baja 1000 champ Steve Hengeveld, who launched his Honda 650 off the line at 6:30AM. In order to cover 1,000 miles between Ensenada and finish line in La Paz, in the 40 hour maximum time limit, teams needed to maintain an average speed of no less than 25 miles an hour: To win, over 60. While 40 mph seems like a leisurely pace, drivers would be faced with mud bogs, whoop-de-doos, choking alkali flats, coastal tidal zones and thousands of tire-shredding cacti. Such an arduous endeavor was this, that 94 of the 290 vehicles would never make it to the finish line in La Paz.
During the winter months, Calamejue Canyon receives much precipitation. Two days prior to the race, we traversed the canyon, fording marshes and water crossings.
Big Surf, Adrenalin and the Money Shot
San Juanico sits at the north end of Scorpion Bay, a sweeping 10 mile crescent beach and an internationally known surf destination for several decades. Its remote location and tranquil environment and killer swells have attracted dozens expatriate gringos seeking a surfer’s Margaritaville. It is also a major hangout for race teams and the Wide Open Baja (WOB) crew. Amidst airwave chatter on race progress, we joined the WOB clan at Juan y Juan’s place, where the drinks were flowing and a smorgasbord of fish tacos were steaming. Good company, hot food and cold cerveza, we were all over it.
Breaking a leaf spring, we were fortunate to have a spare and had it back together in good speed.
The sun was setting on the Pacific when a small dust trail appeared on the horizon. The whine of a Honda four-stroke engine pierced the coastal haze and a single headlamp appeared in the distance. It was that of motorcycle legend and seven-time Baja 1000 overall winner Johnny Campbell, riding for the Honda team with the aforementioned Steve Hengeveld. Campbell rides like a bat out of hell with its hair on fire: Fear nothing, stay on the throttle, and stay alive. Let up on the gas and you’ll have a 750 hp Trophy Truck shredding tire tracks up your backside. Hengeveld rolled out of Ensenada at 06:30 and handed the bike over to Campbell mid-race. Screaming past our position towards La Paz, Campbell was on a no-holds barred scramble to defend their 2003 title.
Sand dunes, which extend for miles along the Pacific Coast, lay in an estuarial tidal zone and can be tricky to navigate. We used a Garmin 12 GPS to track our route to the town of Guerrero Negro.
At dusk, we set up the chairs and coolers near the BFGoodrich pits north of town to catch the action. An intoxicating concoction of dust, adrenalin and the smell of fuel swirled through the pits as the leading rigs stood heavily on the brakes and came skidding to a halt. The pit crews had rehearsed protocol for everything from refueling vehicles and changing tires to checking vital vehicle fluids and welding broken parts. Before the last drop of fuel hit the tank, drivers were standing on the skinny pedal, (which their feet are usually strapped to) engines screaming and tires spinning as they sped back onto the course, disappearing into a cloud of dust. Reports were heard over the satellite radio of breakdowns, crashes and several injuries. Several rigs, after surviving end-over-end rollovers, limped into the pits with no more than a few shards of fiberglass remaining from their original body panels.
Camp on our third night was in an endless sea of dunes near Estero De San Jose on the Pacific Ocean.
Exiting an arroyo near San Ignacio at about 30 mph, we lost our steering and plowed off the road, clearing a swath through the brush and sending shards of shredded ocotillo everywhere.
In search of the money shot, I hiked up the course to the leeward side of the crest of a hill. As the night progressed, the lights of vehicle after vehicle illuminated the distant skyline, becoming near blinding as they accelerated up the hill to my position. Clearing the rise at 60 to 70 miles per hour, four tires off the ground, they launched past like an F-16 off an aircraft carrier, dispersing a violent blast of dust and gravel in their wake. Set up just inches off the side of the track, the first rig scared the be-Jesus out of me, sending an adrenalin rush down my spine that I hadn’t experienced since. I crashed off the road on the previous night. For the next 20 hours, the BFGoodrich pit stop was a hub of activity as racers arrived in various states of disarray.
About 2 am, rumors on the radio were that Johnny Campbell and Steve Hengeveld were still in the lead, followed by Troy Herbst and Larry Roessler in a Class 1 truck. At 06:00, we would be heading back up the course (not the most prudent thing to do) to catch the stragglers, wrecks and morning after havoc. Crawling into the back of our rigs, we went to sleep to the piercing sound of high-octane trophy trucks and buggies heading south to La Paz.
(Next month we wrap up ten daze in Baja exploring remote rancheros, a lost desert oasis and Conception Bay).
Local cantinas are the best place to experience authentic Baja cuisine. The author (second from left) and his traveling mates stopped for fish tacos and lobster at Resturante René’s in San Ignacio.
