It's amazing. I actually feel like the holidays are near. Ironic since as a transplanted east coaster here in southern california riding around the beaches of Newport & Laguna with my top down on the convertible I used to drive many moons prior in Connecticut in the snow and freezing rains. But today it's over 80 degrees. Basketball and tennis courts are hopping with people and the balls of the sport. Young mothers strolling newborns through the neighborhood. And bicyclists clad in colorful uniforms swarming the bike lanes like months to light on a warm summer night.
And I hear from friends and family looking dreamily out the windows of their homes in Minnesota, South Dakota, Colorado, New Jersey. Some see snow. Some sense the brisk air and signs of a harsh winter unfolding.
And me. I wonder. Yet it feels like the holidays. Yet far removed from the familiar weather that creates the sensation of the season.
It's 80 degrees. It's hot.
It's nice.
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Wednesday, November 26, 2003
Day before Thanksgiving. Two days before the busiest shopping day of the year. Retailers shelves stocked, sales promotions filling the papers and mailbox and harbingers of economic doom or recovery anxiously await sales figure reports from leading retailers.
Does this day and holiday shopping activity have to be an economic indicator? What else could we measure? Anxiety and stress related to finding parking places or fear of not getting an allocation of this years hottest thang?
What about the smiles gained and lost? Forget the question are you better off than you were say a year ago. Are you happier? Smiling more? Ahhhh. Trying questions.
But smiles, open hearts, soothing souls and peaceful serenity. And family time.
Peace wouldn't be bad either. Is this a sign of things to come?
Happy Thanksgiving.
Sorry for the philosophical or soft message today. Just time to think, reflect and of course, smile.
Look for more activity here at The Digital Tavern this weekend! I've missed you.
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Thursday, November 13, 2003
Digital Tavern E-Mail Notices. Did You Miss This?
For some reason email notifications didn't go out for the tail end of my Mexico adventure trip. So if you've got a minute and want to be entertained from trails on the two-wheeled road check out the recent posts from Friday, Saturday, Sunday and Monday. Fun.
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Good to be back. Though I miss the overall romance of life on the road as a free-spirited wayfaring traveler. Ah. But reality sets in. Stacks of mail. Bills to pay. Voice mail. Unfinished business. New business.
Settling in.
Back in March I wrote about cell phone number portability which now is approaching reality. And it's about time. Even better this week the FCC expanded the portability rule by mandating land line (POTS) phone companies to let customers switch household or business phones to wireless, or cell phones.
If you live in one of the top 100 cell phone markets you can make the switch and keep your phone number beginning November 24. So expect price wars and a massive multimedia marketing assault to hit you in every way any day.
I'm excited. I've got Verizon Wireless. I pay too much compared to others I know. The service is mediocre and doesn't work in my home. In fact, most residential areas are far from the ubiquity of cell tower sites. They tend to be a bit of an eye sore and folks with kids tend to worry about minor things like radiation.
Speaking of parental radiation worries did you hear about the Illinois school district slap in the face lawsuit from parents concerned about their kids' exposure to Wi-Fi (802.11x) wireless computer networks.
I think Illinois is the state hearing a lawsuit from moviegoers who are a bit peaved about movie showtimes published my the large movie chains. Seems that movies never start on time. But the previews and commercial announcements do. Though if this changed I'd lose my buffer time when trying to make a movie before opening credits disappear.
I've missed keeping up with my blogging peers. And much else. So I hope to catch up with Doc, Joi (who has radically changed and simplified his weblog, kudos to you Joi!), Liz, Mollusk, Stuart, Dina (still sorry I missed seeing her when she visited the states last month), Grumpy Girl and everyone else on my blogroll. My travelling has also put my writing on hold for Blogcritics. More to come on that soon.
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The morning pack bike ritual was interrupted momentaily when the owner of a huge red pickup outfitted with the ubiquitous spare tire in the bed and string of Hella spotlights on the roll bar. When I asked if he'd pre-fun the Baja course he climbed in the cab and sneered , "Yeah three times. Now I gotta take this bad boy home and fix what's broke."
I decided to avoid the toll road and border crossing in Tijuana for a more interesting road that winds through Baja's precious wine growing region in the Guadalupe Valley. At a military check point a machine gun wielding soldier tried my leather gloves on while his cohort poured through the contents of my tank bag.
Even the Policia have issues with the gnarly rocks on Baja roads. And the cops change their own tires - no Llantera or it must be in the job description.
Crossing the border in Tecate was painless. I decided not to "check out" of Mexico by validating my 180 day temporary vehicle import permit. I just might journey south again before March 2004.
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It was barely 7 am when Chuck from Chatsworth started up his portable compressor and air gun as he torqued the tire bolts of his off-road monster. Ok. Maybe his name wasn't Chuck nor from Chatsworth, but he was a passionately committed man playing with his tools and toys at 7am. A bit early? Perhaps. But what a picture. I wish I could framed it and let him look at how silly the whole scene was, especially as he yelled "Jerry, come here!" with brute authority. Soon engines were firing up and John, one of the Orange County bikers asked to borrow some tools. Ha! Good thing I bought the essential tools in Guaymas after discovering them missing -- an absent minded move by my dealer's service department.
No breakfast but refreshed and ready to tackle the 4 miles of sandy road to Mex Route 1. I was doing great and increased speed when I one point my whole bike front and rear tires when into an opposing fish tail and dangerously scarry wobble. I thought for sure the bike would lose traction and send my face planted into the sand. Heart beating and now focused, I leaned forward and slowly rolled back on the throttle. Phew. Close one.
From San Quintin to Ensenanda I rode the dusty towns bustling with activity. It's the Day of the Lord. Just outside of Maneadero I took the 15 mile diversion to La Bufadora, perhaps Baja's only true tourist destination. Essentially a blow hole that when the tide comes crashing into a tall crevice or rock water shoots 25-50 feet high in the air raining excitingly close to those clutching the guard rails anxiously waiting for the next "big one".
Photographers toting vintage 1970 bellowed Polaroid cameras hustled and positioned large Hispanic families together for captured Bufadora memories. The madness of it and the nearly 1/4 mile of vendors hawking blankets, hammocks, jewelry, churros and cuban cigars made me nauseous. I escaped and found a hotel just north of Ensenada in Sauzal. As the sun set, I gazed across and captured the beauty of Bahia Todos Santos in my mind and for my camera. As I gazed to the far end of the bay where the silhouette of the rocky and mountainous edge of the bay and thought to myself how much more pretty and peaceful the scene seemed. A striking contrast to being there earlier amongst the maddening Bufadora hungry crowds.
Opened my second bottle of wine while in Mexico, Mount Xanic. Big, bold, dry with softer tannins than I'd expect. Shared it with an Orange County couple, John and Gerlie who were celebrating their sixth anniversary and finally getting time away from their 1 and 3 year old girls.
Photos: (1) Madenning crowds flock for a Sunday chance to get spit on by La Bufadora. (2) The view near Bufadora free from crowds. (3) Classic Pacific sunset from the patio at my hotel in Sauzal.
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Rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I absorbed the sunrise over the Sea of Cortez this morning. Radiant orange and brilliant red framing a tranquil silhouette of both Isla Angel de la Guarda and Isla Coronado and several others that provide the intrigue and wonder of Bahia de los Angeles. I shuffled my feet and got back under the covers.
Later packing my bike a group of Mexicans were chattering under the umbrellas outside my room and the motel's restaurant. I thought why not. So before getting on the road I decided to have breakfast. When I didn't finish my entire Huevos Machaca both Victoria and her husband, a stocky man with wiry grey hair framing a weathered face with a warm smile and rotting teeth. "No te gusta?" I had already filled three tortillas and my plate still looked fill. Concerned and showing strained emotion on their faces the best I could do in my broken Espanglish was to convince them that by downing three tortillas full I had enjoyed my comida immensely.
I continued my journey North through the Baja desert. Passing through Catavina then rolling toward El Rosario the landscape again changed and I felt a slight chill to the air, quite a contrast from the desert heat. The desert transformed into a fertile valley. My first clue to the vast agricultural efforts here was rounding a corner and seeing what looked like a Red River. As I descended and slowed to see this amazing site I discovered a farm worker, his wife and son scattering red chiles on the side of rhe road to dry. Soon after the road dumped downward and my heart was thrilled to gaze once again onto the grand Pacific Ocean. Cruising along the beach headed for San Quintin (pronounced kin teen) I had to refrain from pulling down dozens of dirt roads that headed directly to the ocean over grass strewn bluffs.
The road to The Old Mill Motel and Restaurant stretches nearly 4 miles from the dusty settlement of San Quintin. Rock, dirt and sand blown from the bluffs made for a simple, fun and at times taxing ride to the Bahia Santo Maria. Anytime a two wheeled machine comes into contact with sand more than a couple inches deep it can throw the bike and your senses into a squirrely and trying state. The key is to maintain speed, yet not go to fast. The rear wheel spins and gains and loses traction as it zigs and zags behind the front wheel which provides the traction and maintains the bike's direction. Soon I was in my zen mode of the end of day riding ritual and unpacking my bike sipping a Pacifico provided free of charge at check-in.
I watched the Mexican fisherman perched and sitting comfortably on their boat watch the two Gringo boats lined up to use the boat loading ramp. They smiled and giggled as it took one man three attempts and getting on his trailer. Later this group of fisherman played loud blues music and exchanged fish stories right next to my room. Still later three guys from Orange County pulled up on Cagiva Ducati motorcycles.
People come to San Quintin for one thing. Fish. Or, like the mixed race couple slumbering on the second floor balcony reading, you might come for peace and quiet. At least when the fisherman are at sea. But this weekend was different. In about two weeks Baja California will be invaded by thousands of fossil fuel burning endurance and off-road vehicles for what is perhaps one of the most grueling motorsport races in the world: The Baja 1,000. The race is held every couple years. On off years it is simply the Baja 500. Hundreds of wannabees take over the small dusty towns of Northern Baja in the weeks prior to the official race to test and pre-run the actual race course. Once the course is laid out and made public off-road enthusiasts tear up the dunes, dig out the silt beds and fly across rocks and cacti. By the time sun fell the parking lot of the hotel was filled with macho pick-up trucks toting trailers with dune fearing vehicles. Or the even braver with their dual-sport pickups cradling a spare tire in the bed of the truck.
In fitting contrast I met Sara and Karen in the restaurant during dinner. From Outside Toronto they are at the tail end of a three week odyssey combing the coastal dunes of the Pacific from Oregon to Baja. Why? They are trying to understand why two plants that make these dunes their home only grow as far south and the bluffs and dunes of San Quintin. The Sand Verbena is a purple plant with white center while the Beach Evening Primrose features a soft yellow flower. The restaurant noise level increased as tables filled with Baja 1,000 pre-runners.
Photos: (1) Desert roads take you through the real Baja. (2) Desert transforms to fertile agricultral region. (3) On the Pacific side, sunset lighting makes for a tranquil scene, save the noisy fisherman and Baja 1,000 pre-runners.
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I forgot to mention San Ignacio, where I had lunch before continuing to Bahia de Los Angeles. It's a quaint small village a few miles off the crazy Mex Route 1. Though smack in the middle of Baja I felt the tropic vibe as I rode through nearly 2,000 date palms and by a lagoon. The town's square is punctuate by a late 1700,s church made of huge volcanic rock slabs that sits on a town square where wheeled vendors cell tacos, mariscos and goods. There's a peacefulness to this town that would rarely be seen through the rest of Northern Baja.
Photos: (1) Lost among the huge date palm plantation on the road to San Ignacio (2) Chilling at sunset as full moon hangs above Bahia del los Angeles.
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Woke up tangled in my sleeping bag under a palapa just south of Mulagé with the rising sun painting fire in the sky. The mosquitoes flanked our palapa and hopping little insects annoyed my travel companions so much that in the middle of the night they erected their tents and fell for shelter from the heat and the biting bugs by cocooning themselves in -0 degree rated sleeping bags. I braved the bugs and slept under the stars.
Perhaps one of the biggest joys of traveling to me is meeting new friends on the road. And when your travel is fluid and fluid enough to alter your plans, there's nothing better than spending several days or longer with these new friends. So many stories to share. Many more to hear. Different backgrounds, different attitudes, different ideas. Yet so much in common. It's the road. And it does go on forever. But the sad yet inevitable times come when you realize it's time. Time to depart. Go your separate ways. Sean and Michael were headed for Loreto and then to Todos Los Santos, a Pacific coast magnet for surfers. Me? It was time to make the ascent up the Baja Peninsula toward home. And tonight I gaze out at the full moon glimmering in the waters of Bahia de Los Angeles. Following the moon's reflection I rest my eyes on what is the Island of the Guardian Angel. Now alone for the rest of my journey, I find some solace in spending this night under the moon and the gaze of the guardian angel.
I ventured through the Vizcaino Desert. A vast wasteland of sand, cactus and turkey vultures. The road is phenomenal. I'm cruising at 75 mph and faster when I realize, hey this is Mexico. Slow down. After about 100 miles into the desert, somewhere around Villa Jesus Maria, it begins to get interesting. The terrain pops up out of the sand yielding orange and brown mesas, exquisitely sculpted buttes, mountains and volcanoes on the horizon. The sage and juniper fly by my periphery and as the sun sets I gaze to my shadow whipping along in unison. Who is that guy following me? What is he thinking?
There are a number of checkpoints in Mexico. Sometimes there are military checkpoints complete with sandbagged blockades and green uniformed 18-year-old soldiers wielding automatic weapons. Other times there are sanitation check points. I'm not sure exactly of the translation. But at one today that I pulled into I noticed a wandering man with what appeared to be a pressurized tank on his back while carrying a wand or nozzle connected by a hose to the tank on his bank. Hmmm. Must be the exterminator. The gentlemen in the white shirt spoke. About thirty five with a round face slightly pocked from the trauma of adolescence. I said "Buenos tardes." He mumbled a bit more. I couldn't hear him. Pulling off my helmet and earplugs, I learned he wanted to see my immigration papers. Now the hour I spent in Tecate would finally prove worthwhile.
Problem was during my little fall in Chihuahua where I did a number on my ankle, the poorly designed and bogus BMW panniers (saddle bags) broke on the right side. And since then I've had to strap this pannier to the bike every morning before venturing on my journey. A royal pain. The other pannier is sitting nicely on the bike and opening this one is relatively easy. A turn of a key and push the button. So I did just that. Shit. The immigration papers were in the other pannier. Ok. Imagine two twenty-foot belts tied around a box that needs no more than 3 feet. And you've got a rat's nest that requires unwinding the remaining 17 feet before I can open the box. So as the cars piled up behind me, I did the best I could in proving that the hour and fancy paperwork from Tecate were worthwhile. Meanwhile, a tall young woman appeared by the bike. Smiling and holding a clipboard she seemed to be checking on my pock-faced official. I shared the papers and everybody patiently watched me wrap 20 feet of tie down back on my bags. Whew.
About an hour later I ran into a military checkpoint. This was perhaps the 6th or 7th I'd passed since entering Mexico in October. The young guard wielded his rifle confidently, the visor of his green cap positioned perfectly to hide his eyes. I watched his mouth and teeth move as he pointed to one of my panniers. Yes. The one without the tie downs! Abierto. He wanted to look inside. I opened it As the door fell open there were my immigration papers shining and looking damn official. You see I moved the official papers to the more righteous pannier. Just in case. He waved his finger toward the setting sun and I was off.
Typically my conversations at checkpoints were about my origin, my Spanish and the officials' desire to learn some new English words. I guess I'm getting closer to Gringo territory...
My timing was real close. My number one rule when riding a motorcycle in Mexico is never ride at night. By my best calculations, I could get to Bahia de Los Angeles by 5pm. I didn't get to the turn off to the 40-mile road that heads to the coast until 5pm. The shadow that had been following me for the last couple hours was now right in front of me. The road was awash in light that the yellow line glowed and the white sidelines radiated intensely. The road started to get rough. Potholes, washboard and other deformation that made my front tire dance a tango in double time. It was freaking me out, but the sun was setting. I zoomed past a pick up carrying a couple 55 gallon tanks. A dumb truck was next. Then the smashed up Nissan. I looked up. The moon was glowing as bright as the lines on the road. It was full. I rounded an arroyo and as the road began to descend I saw the Sea of Cortez in its full cobalt blue glory appear in front of me. Wow. I'm sleeping here tonight.
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The ferry finally pulled out of Guaymas yesterday about 10:30am. My
original travel companion, Mark, decided to make his journey back to San
Francisco the day before. So then there are five: Sean and Michael from
Colorado and the young bicyclists, Megan and Nick, from New Mexico. Our
bikes shared the auto cargo area with a large panel truck loaded with
something. An elderly man dressed in a sharp white straw hat used the time
waiting for the ferry to dry chiles on the deck of the boat. Later he gave
the hat to Nick, worried that he´d be riding his bike without protection
from the sun.
The ferry boat is completely computerized. I spent time with the captain
and first mate and checked out all the GPS and radar gear in the cockpit.
Watching the pelicans with their massive wingspan glide just inches above
the water then souring captivated my attention for what seemed an hour.
Several gulls seemed to follow the ferry as it journeyed like secret
servicemen cruising alongside a presidential motorcade.
We all shared a room in Santa Rosalia last night. Big room with three
double beds and a mattress we threw on the floor. Cost us $9 each. Climbing
the stairs of the boat yesterday, I was feeling pretty good that my ankle
was on the road to recovery. You see I got to see Dr. Ceyas a radiologist
in Guaymas while I was killing time. No fractures. He assured me. But
waking up this morning. Ouch. More ice, tylenol and the cane that I had a
young boy carve for me in Creel. Been on the back of my motorcycle ever
since.
Limping along the streets of Santa Rosalia this morning I popped my head
into the Santa Barbara church. A steel structure designed by Gustave Eiffel
(yes of the Eiffel Tower fame). It was featured at the World´s Fair in
Paris in 1896 then shipped to Baja where the French were mining minerals.
Most of the minds closed in the late 50´s, but there still some remnants of
French culture here including a bakery. Still can´t find a decent cup of
coffee in Mexico, though. Shopkeeper were up early, too. Throwing pales of
water on the sidewalk and dusty street hoping to control the dirt and dust
that acculuates as cars cruise town.
Today I´ll motor south to Mulaje and find that Palapa on the beach. If you
are in the area look for the one with a motorcycle perched underneath. The
cerveza is on me.
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After making my way from the cascada grande at Baseachi on Monday morning to the port town of Guaymas, we rolled into this fishing town about 4pm Monday. The ferry to Santa Rosalia was to depart at 8pm. Apparantly the captain was a bit freaked out about the winds and word from Baja was nasty weather. The ferry is wacky. Holds perhaps 8 or 10 cars and these are above the waterline. The agent tells us they got the boat from Norway and it has been refurbished. I can see the hundreds of life jackets on the deck where the cars get strapped. And last night a water trucked pumped a few thousand liters of water into the boat. Everything is fresh water, the agent assured us. The only assurance I was hoping for is a firm departure time.
Met two other motorcyclists on KTM adventure bikes. They´ve been mapping out a few tour routes for Pancho Villa tours. Also, a young couple from New Mexico have been traveling 4 months on bicycles and are joining us on the ferry. We all decided to roll out the sleeping bags on the upper deck. While the locals slept in the salon below the deck. Complete with screaming kids, snoring grampas and Mexican television. Even though the boats generator ran all night, I got a great sleep. Thank god for Therma Rest.
Discovered that my exhasut (a new one at that) was dangling close to my luggage. Turns out the dirt roads shook a bolt loose. So had to take the exhaust off last night and rig it better. When I took off my seat I found that the BMW toolkit was missing. I guess my dealer must have forgot to put it back during my last service. No worries. My travel partner mark is carrying a bevy of tools that would make a small town hardware store jealous. All is good.
Except that today when the ferry was supposed to take off again (we were told 9:30am) the agent informed us the waves were a bit big. And they will not even try tonight. So it is another night on the deck in the sleeping bags. Hey, it´s not the Westin, but it´s free and the moon and stars are glorious. Mark decided to make a high speed return to San Francisco. I have to stay. Not interested in leaving before leaving tire tracks in the Baja desert.
Found a bottle of wine from Baja. A cabernet. It´s the girl from New Mexico´s 21st birthday. I´ll pull a cork for her and her boyfriend. Ah. But then, maybe I´ll just have a cold Bohemia.
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Sitting in an internet cafe in Creel, entry to the canyon system that spans 6 times larger than the Grand Canyon. A great motorcycle ride from Newport to Sonoito in Sonora on my first day. About 400 miles. Crossed the border at Tecate. Painless once you figure out how to obtain a tourist pass, temporary vehicle permit and have several photo copies of appropriate documents. Its simple to get to Baja with a vehicle. Mainland Mexico is a different story.
Hooked up with friends on day 2 in Hermosillo and stayed the night. The smell of the coffee roasting plant rolling into town was tickling to the olfactor senses. The roads have not been bad. After a night in Hermosillo 5 of us headed to the mountains. The most beautiful ride winding from desert to forest. Windy and twisty. At one point after riding nearly 4 hours we realized we barely rode 90 miles.
At the turn off from the major road to Creel, I was watching the group of bikes ahead of me and not paying attention as I turned. Before I knew it I was flat on the ground next to my bike and wondering what happened to my ankle as I felt it twist every which way by the weight of the bike and a little helping push by the saddlebags. Adrenaline rushing I was up and hopping around in lightning speed. Asking anyone who would listen, "if I am walking on it then it´s not broken, right?" I swore it was broken. And bad. It was nearly dark and we were in the middle of nowhere. Still 100km to ride to Creel. And no one should drive a car yet a motorcycle in the dark in a rurral third world country. One of the saddlebag brackets broke. So my friends helped strap it back to the bike while I wondered the condition of my ankle. And if it was bad and swelled up, wondered if I would ever get my boot back on so I could continue my journey.
Turns out a bad sprain. And the community of motorcyclists so nice and helpful. I´ve had every painkiller known offered. Extra hands and lots of consoling. Today I´m a gimp. Yet making the ride to Guaymas in two days. Then catching the ferry to Santa Rosalia on Baja. I think a few days under a palapa on the Sea of Cortex with ankle in sand and margarita in hand. Coulda been worse. Huh? Now off on a 160km of dirt roads to see a waterfall gently wash the canyon walls. Then...
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