Notes from the Road: Baja California Sur
We have been on the road in Baja California for a month. Halfway in. This Roadtrip is the perfect combination of my deepest loves: exploring the world and sleeping under the stars.
At night, perched in the rooftop tent the breeze is blowing, the gentle lapping sound of water rises on the shore, coming closer with the tide. We watch the moon grow bright orange over the water. Low on the dark horizon. Slowly it rises. Then stars emerge. At first a few. And then they are infinite. I see Orion, Ursa Major, Ursa Minor, Pleiades (the seven sisters). I have a night sky app to learn more constellations. But I keep forgetting to use it. In this era of information overload, a bit of mystery feels like good medicine. Maybe everything doesn’t always need a name.
It is impossible not to feel small here. And yet It is possible to feel complete.
When the sun peeks up over the water and pink morning sky starts to warm the sand I light the stove. The moon still hangs in the brightening sky—now high over the Sierra de La Laguna range to the west. Hot coffee and cocoa in ceramic mugs. Maybe a slice of fresh date bread we bought from a woman at her stand along the cobbled square in San Ignacio.
We are moving slowly south through Baja California Sur. Long stretches of inland desert and down the scrubby coastline. Cows graze here and there. Sometimes crossing the road. Vaqueros on horseback kick up the dust. A Cactus wren darts about in the shade of a mesquite where we stop to make sandwiches. It’s not easy to find a place to pull off. Road edges drop sharply. A raptor circles above. Her gliding appears lazy. Her lightning dive is laser focused. The landscape here feels thirsty but nothing is wilted.
Many things seem familiar here. There is comfort in that. And everything is very different. We pay attention and try not to make assumptions.
The driver ahead signals left. But he is not turning. He is telling us it’s clear to pass. We make our move and continue south.
The highways are in good shape. just wide enough for two cars. No shoulder. No room for error. The infrastructure here is just enough. Main roads paved. Side roads dirt. Under the hot sun, the dearth of pavement makes a difference. The lense we choose to look at the world with matters.
Our travel days are short. And we don’t drive at night. From the small-town, palm-grove river oases of San Ignacio and Mulegé to the calm aqualine waters of Bahia Concepcion. We camp for days at playa coyote, making our home next to a waterside palapa and a family from Oregon. They have four kids under five. We have followed many of the same geographical paths, though a decade apart. Moving between Santa Cruz, Colorado, Oregon, Washington. They work remotely now and live in their van. Juneau befriends their puppy, Tom. The kids are barefoot and busy all day. It’s a perfect beach to launch the paddle board and kayak and explore the bay. Our camp shares a pit toilet and there is one small tienda we can walk to for ice. Every morning locals pull up in their trucks. Fresh fish, shrimp, scallops, bread, tortillas, tamales, fruit. It feels like we might never have to leave. But we do.
A few days here. A few days there. Sometimes we backtrack. A meandering pace subject to the weather and our whims. A freedom so hard to come by at home where busy-ness binds us to calendars and schedules.
We head South to Loreto and regroup in La Paz. In Los Barriles we connect with a whidbey friend who shares his home with us for a few days. Heavenly. 2 for one taco night, snorkeling, frisbee and card games. We rent an Atv, cruise down the beach and up a dry wash into the hills. Soon the wash is running with shallow water. Long horned cattle glower at us as we pass. Up a side arroyo is a secret waterfall and freshwater swimming hole. Fresh. Water. A treasure in these dry hills…
Wild camping on the beach sounds romantic. It is beautiful. It is moonrises, sunrises, sunsets, campfires, birds and whales and undersea life. It is also wind and dust. Biting sand fleas. It is too many campers and late night locals with music and beer. It is salty and sandy and stinky. It is picking up trash, rationing water and days on end without a shower.
There was a time in my life when I practically lived out of my backpack. A simple, nomadic lifestyle still feels like home to me. It’s a little less simple now. Traveling with a family and a dog in a van is not always easy. Opinions clash. moods collide. The space is small. Sand is everywhere.
And we are still tethered to responsibilities that need attention even from afar.
But at some point the grittiness is hardly noticeable. We sweep what we can. Camping clean is clean enough. We have simplified and streamlined and we lean in to new routines. We move through discomfort and grow together. At least we try to. Every day is new.
The rewards of any journey may not always be immediate or obvious. But they are are lifelong. Knowledge of ourselves, of others, and our place in the world are distilled and clarified when we step away from the familiar. This is why we travel.
A long lonely road takes us to Bahia de Los Muertos. The Bay of the Dead. On the beach we follow thousands of baby sea turtle tracks heading from the sandy bluffs to the sea. We wonder how many made it.
Birds of prey circle overhead during the day. Coyotes howl at night.
Rounding the rocky headland we step over piles of white coral. Bleached out skeletons piled up like old bones.
It’s incredibly beautiful here. Despite the name, life is abundant. The snorkeling is amazing. The camping is free. In the evening we sit under palm leaves at the solitary open-air restaurant for a pile nachos and fajitas camarones. A luxury to eat out. Jon sips a Margarita. Dylan and I drink limonada mineral. Maybe one of the best views in Baja. Maybe all of the views here are the best.
The pre-dawn hours are bustling at our camp by the boat launch. Fishermen arrive by 5am. One after another after another. After another. Diesel engines. Clanking trailers. The smell of fuel and sound of music as they load up and set off. Frigate birds circling. Pelicans bobbing. 50 boats and trailers in the lot by sunup.
In between wild camping we seek out rv parks to regroup. The rv parks here are good. Most are busy. Many are beachfront. Less than $20 a night. We don’t stay long but we make good use of the amenities. laundry, proper showers and wifi. Some even have a pool and pickleball. Hielo y agua purification are our most frequent needs. Ice and purified water. We find them first in every town.
In years of travel, camping across 50 states and across continents I have never felt as safe as I do in Baja California. Sure, there are moments of vulnerability. And there are moments of irritation (like when group of young locals pulls up to the beach at midnight with music and beer. again). But those moments happen everywhere. We have never once here actually felt real concern. Quite the contrary. The lifestyle here is relaxed. The Mexican people are warm and kind and helpful. We make an effort to communicate first in Spanish. But English is common especially in bigger towns. Locals are patient with my shaky Spanish and shy in turn with rusty English. Conversations become a patchwork that somehow works itself into understanding. Learning from each other happens along the way.
Fellow travelers in Baja look out for one another. It’s an unspoken camaraderie. We share tips and fruit and favorite places on the map. Jane from Quebec loans me quarters for laundry; Jon and Dylan push a couple out of the sand. We hopscotch between campsites, overlaping with familiar faces. Recognizing fellow travelers first by their rigs. Euro vans, sprinters, airstreams, trucks with campers, fifth wheels, 4x4 vans, house-size rvs. There are a surprising number of converted military type trucks with European plates. They are huge. Some with bikes on the back and some with maps of the world stenciled on their sides. We have met young campers from British Columbia, retired couples from Quebec. Europeans. Pacific northwesterners escaping the grey. Surfers from California. Fishermen from Alaska. So many families with young kids. Digital nomads with star link satellites. It really is a thing. Some are here for weeks. Most are here for months.
Seeking sunsets over the water we cross the Laguna Sierra, winding up and over the mountains to the Pacific. Todos Santos and Pescadero. We camp at Cerritos beach. Dylan learns to surf with Diego. At San Pedrito we have a soft stretch of sand nearly to ourselves. We light a fire but little flies still eat us alive. In the morning we head south toward Lands End. We are curious about Cabo. A swim, a plate of ceviche, 2 burgers and cold drinks at a cafe on the beach. It’s all we need. The crowds are a little much.
We head back up the East Cape for free camping and quiet coves. Cabo Pulmo National Park protects a reef that supports a diverse and beautiful undersea ecosystem. Dive shops and tour boats have replaced fishing as the cornerstone of the economy. An inspiring communal effort to protect the reef and life in the sea.
The village is cute. Small and predictably dusty. Low key and off grid. Ice is kept frozen by the power of the sun. There are a couple cafes, tiny shops and casitas for rent. It’s an eclectic mix of divers, locals and seekers of solitude. Donkeys and dogs loiter in the shade. The winds pick up and the boats come in. Water too rough for snorkling. We hit the long washboard road out of town, hoping to return.
I am barefoot most of the time. Not yet tired of this journey. Home is on the horizon but we have only scratched the surface.
