Re-entry

 

I'm not going to tell you how many pics of pelicans I've taken while trying to get *this* shot...

 I heard there's a Walmart in Guaymas. And a McDonalds, and a hardware store, and high speed Internet. And I can probably buy green vegetables again. And real chocolate. And wine. Both kinds: red and white. And I can catch up on 2 months of world news, and talk to family and friends on Skype.
I could be there now.

But we're not. We're still anchored in a pretty cove on Isla Tiburon. The desert is green here. I've missed seeing green. And the sunset was so pretty last night that I sat out and watched the horizon change colour as the pelicans fished. Today I kept a vigilant eye out for turtles and sharks. And I felt the difference in the breeze--from when it blew warm over the desert versus when it blew moist across the sea.
We spent weeks thinking about what we'd need for a summer away from civilization. We made lists. We talked with friends. We scoured stores shelves and stocked up the boat. We set up communication plans, and back-up plans. We imagined being away from it all--and how we would cope.
But we almost rushed headlong back into civilization without giving it a second thought.
And honestly, it's way easier to leave than it is to return.
Last time, when we hit the US after two years in Central America and the Caribbean we hadn't expected re-entry to be such a shock. It was the pickles in the grocery store that got us. Do you know how hard it is to choose a jar of pickles when you have dozens to select between, after not seeing a single pickle for more than two years?

So we're not rushing. We still have food. My deadlines don't hit until the end of the week. I need a day or two to imagine the sounds of traffic and visualize the rush. I need to remind myself that staring out at the ocean, watching it change, isn't really a pastime and that sunsets are not events.
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Snakes!

A month or so ago our friend Meri from Hotspur mentioned she had bought spare snake bite kits, just in case she encountered cruisers who didn’t have them. Evan and I were slightly surprised by the offer because, unlike Meri, we haven’t really run into many snakes here, actually any snakes... But as Meri shared tale, after tale of snake encounters and near misses, I listened and then bought one of her spare kits.

There’s something vaguely disconcerting about hiking in a region that has 15 different species of rattlesnakes, plus another 30, or so, other types of snakes of varying levels of deadliness (although some have cheerfully alliterative names like the Espiritu Santo Sandsnake or the Partida Norte Nightsnake so as not to worry you.) But if, like me, you come from a place that doesn’t have much in the way of poisonous snakes, it’s hard to know how afraid to be.

When I think of rattlesnakes, I think of old John Wayne movies: The lovely damsel riding through a peaceful arroyo, only to be struck down by a rattler the size of an anaconda. Not even their name helps dispell the image of death. The Baja California Rattlesnake (the most common species around here) is Crotalus enyo in Latin. Crotalus comes from the Greek crotalon, meaning a rattle or little bell. The name enyo refers to the Greek mother of war. So basically the snake is showing up for war, with bells on. And the Crotalus atrox, or Western Diamondback Rattlesnake, which is what our snake sort of looks like, ranks as one of the most dangerous snakes in the world (uhg)...

Like every scary animal that can kill us, rattlers have an image problem. They are easy to wipe out and several species are verging on extinction. But there are very few people who are interested in saving a snake.
I knew all of this, vaguely, when Meri, Lori (Third Day) and I went for a hike this morning. We decided to beat the sun and headed into a San Marcos arroyo for a pre-coffee hike.

There was no trail. But we made our way into the island's interior, marveling at the changing geology and and the stunning vistas. On the return trip we saw it all in reverse, but were as fascinated as we were on the way in. We saw humming bird nests and more lizards than we could count. We admired the rugged, gnarled trees and watched the light play on the rich red rock. We were making a plan to bring our kids back to see it all, when I just missed stepping on a rattlesnake.

Lori saw it though, and screamed. Then she made her way past it. Then we all looked at the snake, which looked back at us and Meri tried to sort out how to get past it.
“Will it chase us?” I asked, as it began to uncoil itself. The answer, it turns out, is no. Rattlers are shy and non-aggressive (except for maybe good old C. atrox...). And it seemed our rattler had finished sunning himself and simply wanted to move to a shady spot. “You should be taking pictures!” Meri told me as I backed away. Her suggestion snapped me out of my moment of fear and I became fascinated by the beautiful creature.

We watched him, for a while and discussed that this would have been a good time to be carrying our snake bite kits, and then we carried on.
Enriched.

Where We Are Now—Santa Rosalia

The sun is getting lower in the sky and we’re rocking and rolling. It’s not a late afternoon breeze—instead panga after panga is speeding out of the habour and into the Sea for an evening of squid fishing.

It’s a nightly event here.

The old mine looms over the town

This old square harbour, with its sheer stone walls that the waves bounce and refract off of, was built by a French company called El Boleo in 1884 when they opened a copper mine. The harbour was once filled with steamers and schooners—but now its crumbling walls are lined with fishing pangas and sailboats, like us.

Government building

Santa Rosalia is nestled in an arroyo. Its three main streets head inland from the water and contain an odd assortment of shops—most of them selling kids backpacks and costume jewellery. It’s a town that the term ‘faded glory’ was created for. A town of regal wooden buildings that are half-empty and have peeling paint, and a church that is thought to have been designed by Gustave Eiffel himself.

a detail from Eiffel's church

 

It’s also an industrial town; old locomotives, mining equipment and machinery line the streets or are cast aside. Steinbeck said that unlike most Baja towns which seem to grow in place, Santa Rosalia is the only town which feels built.

Strangely, or maybe not so unexpectedly, Santa Rosalia tends to be a town that cruisers love. It’s beyond hot. And there is no tourist infrastructure here. It is a local’s town. It’s basic and friendly. People notice when you arrive and greet you when they see you. There isn’t much to see or do, but sometimes you get lucky and the veggie truck comes while you’re here.
And then you get broccoli and maybe even asparagus.

Life at Baja Speed

Maia demonstrating how to get through the Baja summer

When the water is 32 C (that's 90F for those who speak American…) and the air temp is hovering around 39 C (102F), and the humidity is high, and there is no wind, it's best to take life at a languid pace. This means, at most, you should only ever try to accomplish one task a day.
We know this. Mostly we embrace it. But today seemed like a good day to get stuff done. There was a boat to clean, garbage to burn, our stinky clothes were piling up and we're virtually out of beer and fresh food.
So after a beach run to burn stuff (Maia never even asked for a marshmallow to roast, oddly enough), we upped anchor and headed deeper into Bahia Conception. We had a vague plan of hitching a ride into Mulege, where there are stores. But after toiling over our mound of laundry (although the darks can wait, who wants to wear dark right now anyway…) we revised our plan. Standing beside a hot highway in the vain hope someone might take pity on us and drive us to Mulege, then reversing the trip, just so we could have food, seemed foolish.

Evan demonstrates the wrong way to spend a Baja day...

 We decided to see if the local tienda had much in stock. And after dropping $10 we are now reprovisioned to the tune of a dozen eggs, three onions, two tomatoes, a long life milk and beer. The rest of our shopping list was probably superfluous anyhow.
After shopping, we stopped in at Bertha's restaurant--the only one in the area and the first restaurant we've been in since our visit to Vancouver. We decided after all our hard work (basically laundry, garbage and shopping) that we best take the rest of the day off and eat our meals there. Especially because we only have a dozen eggs, three onions and two tomatoes to keep us going until we give in and go to town.
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Tears, Shrines and Stories...

Before we came back into the Sea this summer I shared my old memories with Behan from Totem. Her family spent last summer in the Sea and as we compared highlights—her's from last year and ours' from 14 years ago—I was surprised by how many things were the same. She had stories of the same hikes, told of the same experiences in the same dusty towns, and caught the same fish on the same reefs.
I have to admit I was surprised—when you're living something that seems so rich and new, you want to think it's a unique experience. And it's not like we're in Disneyland; where we all get tickets for the same ride. We're in a diverse landscape with endless options.

San Jaunico (and us!!) 14 years ago

 But something happens in places where people go year after year. Experiences get passed along at the dock, and at potlucks, and gradually a story develops. Even without guidebooks we learn where the best hikes are, which bakeries make French-style bread, which islands we shouldn't miss, and where to dive to find clams (to see only—they are illegal to take if you are not Mexican...)

The cruisers' shrine in San Jaunico. I need to find the picture of our contribution...

Sailing through the Sea is like following a plot line. Today's story took us back to the same cruiser's shrine in San Juanico where we left our boat name on a wooden plaque in 1996 (this time we left it on a unique piece of bone.) We gathered more obsidian from along the same trail—but now we know they are called Apache tears and even come with a legend. Last time they were just nice rocks... And we showed Maia how to dive for chocolate clams and then pointed out to our neighbours how to read a potentially Chubasco laden sky (something we were shown on a similar evening when we were last here.)

Just a few of the Apache tears (aka obsidian) we found on the trail.

I'm no longer disappointed in knowing that someone came before me, and that I'm simply following the threads of a well-known story. Instead it motivates me. I want to find new things, or rediscover old moments that are no longer part of the tale. And maybe, if I'm lucky, I'll get to add to the collective narrative and make it richer for whoever comes next.

At anchor in La Ramada

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One of Those (Perfect) Days

They should all be like this. And in the imaginings of people who dream of going cruising, but haven't quite made it out yet, they probably are. I don't normally write this blog in diary format. I'll give the rough details of where we are and what we are up to—but I find the moment by moment, blow by blow account that some bloggers give at best boastful and at worst boring. But because yesterday was one of those days, so rare in its goodness and the fact that nothing broke, well...
7:00am (or there abouts) I woke to a sound. Sharp and close to the boat, it pulled me out of a dream and startled me awake. In the half-light of the rising sun I heard it again, then again—an echoing bang. I slid past Ev and headed out on deck where I watched the big manta rays leap free from the sea.
Their sun salutations reminded me of my long neglected goal for regular morning yoga. So I rolled out my mat and with the manta rays leaping and the sun rising, I woke up my body. My view was of blue-green water ahead and the red volcano and white sand beaches of Isla Coronados behind. Once it was too warm to keep going (do I need to admit only 20 minutes had passed?) I jumped in the water and swam until I cooled off.
By now Evan and Maia were up. It was 8am and the day had started. We had breakfast and tidied the boat—then did a Spanish podcast together. Then Maia went to play over on Hotspur and Evan and I organized our dive gear. We have a compressor and all our gear aboard, but we're still novice divers. So we went through each step carefully, checking each other's gear, then weheaded by dingy to an easy dive spot.
Once in the water we descended to a magic world. Diving seems different than snorkeling in that when you snorkel you're clearly foreign and often spook the fish. But when you're under the water it doesn't take long for the fish to accept you as one of their own (although a bit ugly and clumsy, perhaps...). And within a few minutes we had a school of curious fish around us—escorting us as we checked out crevices and boulders, looking for the beautiful and strange.
A perfect day on a sailboat also needs a good sail. And we had one of those too. An 18 mile beam reach to our next anchorage of La Ramada. Our lousy La Paz bottom paint job couldn't even take the fun out of the sail—despite the fact that a heavy crop of barnacles is currently costing us boat speed. We even caught a couple of fish—one Skipjack which we threw back, and the another (a pretty little mystery fish) which became part of an excellent curry.
Tucked into the cozy anchorage we knew the best way to end the day would be dinner with friends. So we convened on Hotspur and were joined by two singlehanders who were also in the anchorage. We watched the moonrise, while swamping stories and enjoying the potluck fare and then headed back to Ceilydh—where we spent a quiet night.
It's funny to think of how hard we worked to get yesterday—years of planning, saving and scheming just to experience a simple day on the water where nothing at all went wrong. The payout for the simple days is so much more than most people ever expect—hours of work and frustration and loads of money mostly.
But when the days do come, we savour.
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The Log from the Sea of Cortez

Explaining the Sea of Cortez to people who don’t know it and love it is almost impossible. Pictures from the area come across as either bland and washed out from the high light, or somewhat fantastical. There is none of the alluring abundance of a South Pacific or Caribbean Island. 

This place is harsh—the cactus and thorny bushes that look so sparse from shore (especially when you’re picking a likely looking morning hike) are pretty much impenetrable up close. The water contains so many things that sting that we need to swim in jellyfish suits and still end up comparing jellyfish stings. And the wind is always too strong, too weak, or from the wrong direction.

But when we get together with other boaters we can’t help but compare our favourite places and be drawn to the spots we haven’t seen yet. It’s not a romantic or sentimental love though—it’s something that seems more elemental.

I’ve been struggling to find the words to describe this place—beyond snippets of stories and moments out of our life. Fortunately I don’t have to. John Steinbeck did. He was here 70-years-ago on a research vessel. His book is a must have for every visitor to the Sea of Cortez:

   “We wondered why so much of the Sea of Cortez was familiar to us…coming to it was like returning rather than visiting. Some quality there is in the whole Sea that trips a trigger of recognition so that in fantastic and exotic scenery one finds oneself nodding and saying inwardly, “Yes, I know.”

    "If it were lush and rich, one could understand the pull, but it is fierce and hostile and sullen. The stone mountains pile up to the sky and there is little fresh water. But we know we must go back, and we don’t know why.” --John Steinbeck, The Log from the Sea of Cortez

A Mission

Between 1683 and 1834 some 28 Catholic missions were founded on the Baja peninsula. Spain’s goal was to gain control of the frontier—by establishing settlements that provided agriculture and livestock (and Christian indoctrination) to the 50,000 or so natives who lived in the region. The result was that European contact (and the diseases it brought) all but wiped out the first people.

These days most of the missions are abandoned. They were built in some seriously out of the way places and were difficult to manage. Despite the fact they were built near water sources, this is still a desert, and many of the communities were never able to become self-supporting, let alone flourish.

Even though the missions are mostly gone, I’m intrigued by them. Somehow, despite the upheaval and damage the system wrought, there is still something almost mystical about the buildings themselves. I’m not as fascinated by the easy to reach ones though, I like the ones that are tucked away and nearly forgotten. I like a bit of effort with my religion.

Misión San Francisco Javier de Viggé-Biaundó fit the profile. Founded in 1699 it was one of the earliest Baja missions to be established—although when I looked at where it is on a map I couldn’t for the life of me figure out why.

 the first 15km of the road is paved--and then it's not...

Even today it is hard to reach. With Meri and Caroline from Hotspur along for the trip, we followed what seemed to be a modified goat trail up an arroyo into the mountains. Along the way, almost fittingly, we passed the site of ancient cave paintings, which were left by the very people the mission eventually wiped out.

 We were pleased with these cave paintings--simply because they weren't hand prints

The road to San Javier is under a constant state of construction. Maybe Tourism Mexico thinks I’m not the only person who’d like to drive off into the mountains in search of god. But whatever the reason, it appeared as though the road was being built for us, as we traveled along it. Bulldozers moved boulders and cleared a rough pass for us at several points as we rattled over ruts and smaller rocks in our tiny (and abused) rental car.

 Our rental car made it up okay but it started to die on the way down. We barely got it back to the rental agency. Of course we never mentioned where we took it.

In San Javier we weren’t disappointed—the mission had a serene weightiness to it. A constant and permanent atmosphere that made it feel as old as the mountains around it. There was an old man inside when we went in. He sat silently in a pew and we moved around him quietly—respectful of his deep devotion. After the girls lit candles and we got our fill of the flamboyant art, he began speaking to us—giving us the history of the place and answering our many questions.

 Every December 2, pilgrims make the trek to San Javier to pray for miracles. We hoped for one of our own as Maia lit a candle for her Grandma Ann.

He was still there after we went for lunch, still sitting in the same pew. And we guessed then that he works there.

 stone detail

He must wait each day for someone to make the long drive to the old silent mission.

So he can tell its almost forgotten story.

Cave Art - Agua Verde

While scrambling up the trail we speculated; why would someone climb a raggedy cliff up to a cave? The view, across the channel past Isla Santa Catalina, was one clue--it seemed to stretch endlessly—making the vantage perfect for sighting schools of migrating fish and whales, or approaching enemies. But when we entered the cave—with a low entry and high-roofed interior that was cool and spacious—we decided it seemed like the perfect place to sit out a hurricane, or summer heat wave.
The Cochimi Indians (the Baja's extinct first people) used caves such as the one we hiked up to, all over the Baja. They left behind stone tools and middens, but the artifact they are most famous for are the murals they painted on the cave walls. Some of the cave art is abstract in design, while some walls are decorated with intricate human and animal figures.
Ours, though, was red hand prints.

 I have to admit to feeling slightly ripped off by the pre-school type art. I knew it was handprints going in, but still, when I go to see art that's been preserved for a thousand or more years, I sort of expect a wow-factor. With stick figures and swirly designs you can at least contemplate what meaning the artist had in mind. With hand prints I visualized a reckless kid getting into her dad's paint, messing up the newly whitewashed wall, and then getting punished by being sent to the back of the cave, with the bats...

 The handprints were the clearest pictures. But when we examined other faded sections of wall we saw more painting—just a stroke here and a series of lines or a faded shape there, but it was enough to make our imaginations soar a bit.

If you want to follow in our footsteps take your dinghy around Punta San Pasquel (heading West) from the Agua Verde anchorage and land at the far end of the beach: N 25° 31.515' W 111° 05.709'
Walk inland (there's a rough path over some dunes and past a few cows) until you hit a dirt road. Follow it 2-3 minutes until you hit the trailhead at N25° 31.401' W 111° 05.716'. Take a right turn off the road and climb upward to the cave along a rough trail. About 15 minutes total walking time. It's not a trail for Tevas.
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Stolen Salt

 Los Gatos

I woke to the sunrise over the red rocks of Los Gatos and the promise of lobster. Everyday is like this. Well not red rocks and lobster specifically, but the promise of something new is always there.
In San Evaristo it was salt.

 San Evaristo at Sunset

I have clear memories of San Evaristo from last time: of walking along a dusty road, along side a dusty burro, heading nowhere specific, at a heat-induced leisurely pace. Together we crested a sun-baked hill and discovered a field of salt.
This time, when we walked the same dusty road, we only caught a glimpse of a baby burro hidden under a cactus, but there were dozens of cows to escort us. And when we crested the hill, we looked down at a much larger field of salt, as well as a half-dozen homes, which were tucked into the shade of towering date palms.
Salt is harvested in San Evaristo. Sea water is pumped across a stone breakwater into a flat field, where there are dozens of shallow evaporation pits. As the water evaporates it leaves ponds of blue-white crystal—from a distance they appear as dozens of back-yard skating rinks lined up side by side. When all the water is gone, the top layer of salt is shovelled into piles—and it was these heaps that caught my eye.

I wanted some of that salt.
We're not low on salt. We don't even use much salt. But the way the crystals glittered in the sun; the idea of going back to the boat without some was unbearable. It was like seeing a beautiful shell on the beach and not picking it up. You have to work really hard to come up with a reason to own a shell. They have absolutely no purpose other than they fill an ancient want. But they are almost impossible not to collect.
But, Evan pointed out, stealing from someone's personal pile of salt is not the same as picking up a shell. He also pointed out I had no way to carry salt. I considered emptying a water bottle for it, or filling my pockets, or just carrying it by the handful, or maybe finding a big shell to hold it.

Evan and Maia asked if I was suffering from sunstroke.
The phrase 'worth his salt' dates back to a time when men in the Roman army were paid their wages in salt. The substance had such value that enough could make you wealthy. The salt I held—course crystals, of the purist white—I had to imagine would have been most valuable of all. I tried to press it into a cake—similar to what the soldiers may have received. It crumbled and slipped through my fingers.
Salt melts in your hand, mixes with sweat and grows sticky. As I let my wealth go I decided to make a final hunt for something to carry it in. Not the camera case, not my hat, not the first aid kit, but this, the Ziploc bag that holds our toilet paper, would work. I filled it, surreptitiously—faintly aware that stealing salt is not normal. Maia joked about my possible prison sentence and the headlines, "Salt Thief Sentenced to Six Years Service in a Salt Mine". I wondered if I should take enough to give as gifts…
I only season my food with my Sea of Cortez salt now. Evan claims he can't taste the difference.
But I do.
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El Pardito

Of all the desolate places to live in the Sea of Cortez: Isla Pardito--which rises to about 40', is less than an acre in space, has no vegetation, and is one of the Sea's few inhabited islands—most begs the question why. We were told about fifteen people share the island—which has no water, no power and is quite terrible to be on during a storm.
When we anchored off the island the local pangerous came by to wave and point the way in. As we closed on the shore a fisherman waded out and helped us pull in the dinghy. We wandered through the tiny village—checking out the whale bone museum, stepping into the tiny church and buying shell necklaces from Senora Clara.

When we asked why people lived on the islet Clara explained in rapid fire Spanish how her husband's family had, had fish camps in other locations but then ended up permanently on Pardito. She may have told us the reason they ended up on the strange little rock—when all around are comparatively lush islands—but our Spanish wasn't up to the task of sorting that one out.

We learned from Clara that water and food come from San Evaristo—about 6 miles away. Or La Paz, 50 miles away. And that the children (there are currently five living on the islet) are schooled and boarded in La Paz and only return home for holidays. Life on Pardito is hand-to-mouth subsistence and we bought a half dozen pieces of Clara's pretty shell and bead jewelry—knowing the money makes every bit of difference.
It's hard not to feel like a tourist in a strange land in a place like Pardito; and wonder what life would be like there. Maia speculated we could walk around the entire island, including zigzagging across every dusty trail, in less than ten minutes. And as we wandered down to the shore, where the fishermen were preparing their day's catch to take to market, we tried to imagine ourselves living in such a place.

There were five other boaters down at the fish shacks—charter guests from Mexico city. They invited us to have freshly made (as in in front of our eyes) clam ceviche with them. As we chewed through Chocolate clam after clam doused with lime and chillies, one of the Mexican men told me he had been visiting the island for 30-years and that it hadn't changed in all that time. He told me that it was a special place that he loved bringing people too. I looked around at the weather-tired shacks and barren rock, and glanced at the jagged reef, washed with currents and bubbling with fish—and saw a hint of what he seemed to feel.
I asked if he knew why the first fishermen had settled on Pardito. "I never thought to ask them," he told me as he passed me another clam and with that simple gesture teaching me: it's enough that they are here.
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