"Welp, we decided to punch it up north and hopefully find one last good Mexican wave before crossing the border.
Along the way we stopped at a gringo-oriented greasy spoon with this turtle just chillin in the middle of the restaurant. The aquarium it was sitting in looked kinda gnarly with cloudy water and dirty glass. We were relieved 'tortuga' wasn't on the menu.
There were a bit of nerves on our way out of Valle de Santo Tomas. The guidebook mentions a federal checkpoint coming from there back into Ensanada, where you might get hassled without your 'papers.' We had no papers, but our understanding was that the federal officers are mostly interested in large trucks containing produce. Like most of our experiences in Baja, things turned out alright as the federal officers carelessly waved us through.
We peeled through Ensanada at a sluggish clip, weaving through crosstown traffic and soaking in the city's energy at each red light. It seems like a cool spot to post up for a while, and after passing by many, many busy food stands, I wish we didn't have to drive through so quickly. What's more, we passed some oceanside boulders with chalk on the overhangs. To be a surfer and climber in such a place...
Our potential options for spots in Ensanada were some sharky coves at the mouth of the main harbor and San Miguel. We decided to scope San Miguel, which according to Surfline, is the most consistent right-point break in Baja Norte, popular with both locals and southern Californians. We scoped it right off the side of the highway, and there it was: breaking magnificently and consistently, running leftward along the rocky point.
The wave looked good, but the beach scene not so much. It's more or less a large dirt parking lot, guarded by a toll booth. But with cheap camping and a decent looking wave (the only one we saw all day), we paid the fee and called it home for the night—even if that home was spitting distance off the busy highway. I could see why some irreverently refer to this zone as San Diego's most affordable suburb.
I was a bit intimidated by the wave. Not because of its size, but because of its speed and its crowd factor. There were 15x more people on this wave during poor conditions than I had seen the entire week. It is also somewhat of a more complex wave than the beach breaks we had been surfing. You only have a couple body lengths of flat water before it shallows up over sharp cobbles.
I sat out on the evening sesh and decided to film the boys from the shore instead. They both got a pair of clean-looking waves, and the session ended soon after.
The wind hammered away at the dirt lot all night, and it was probably our most spartan night of camping yet. It was kind of funny that our last night in Baja was in a beachside lot below the highway, surrounded by plenty of partying Californians and even some New Yorkers.
At 6 AM I opened my eyes and saw Travis getting into his suit for what would be our final Baja session. I didn't need coffee or anything that morning; I just got right into my suit and embraced the cold dawn paddle-out. It felt good. I think if I lived near the ocean I'd go early morning surfing often.
There were a handful of people in the lineup already, and I wasn't used to aggressively getting into position. So I didn't really catch anything that morning, paddling back in after an hour. But I've come to understand that sometimes merely getting wet and wet alone is quite okay.
What San Miguel's parking lot lacked in aesthetics it made up for in cheap coffee and pastries, and we soaked in the morning vibe before taking on the madness that is re-entering the United States.
The drive from San Miguel to Tijuana is short, and soon enough the stressful city driving began. We passed lots of shanty homes, and one of the first things we saw when entering Tijuana proper was a homeless man peeing on the flames of a grease fire, right on the sidewalk.
The city center didn't seem so bad though. There were lots of pleasant parks with people playing soccer, and some sophisticated-looking buildings getting cleaned by men without harnesses, ropes, or anything like that.
Due to James' ace directions for the "ready lane," the whole border situation only took us an hour. As you near the border proper, the traffic lanes start filling up with vendors, knick-knack peddlers, window washers, and people down on their luck doing what they can to get a buck from the gringos returning to the comforts of industrialized living.
The border crossing itself was easy, too; despite our loaded vehicle, the border agent from Idaho was mostly interested in where where Evan and I like to snowboard in Montana (Evan has a Montana license). She waved us along, and almost too anti-climactically, we were back in the states.
Although we hadn't gone a mile from the Mexico border nor had we stepped out of the car, it felt different being back in the States; open, lighter, stress-free. The adventure was over. Back to comfort, to regular life and certainty.
Before we dropped Evan off in San Diego, he mentioned the leftover pesos in his wallet; he'd have no need for them anymore. I bought them off of him and began making loose plans for the next trip...
...
Before flying back to SLC, I made a stop at Billy's place in Santa Monica and was elated when he told me he was keen on an evening session at Malibu Point. I realized this presented a rare opportunity to surf in two different countries in one day.
I had heard a bit about Malibu Point (mostly for the worst), but the wave's aesthetic quality and position were undeniable. After briefly scoping the spot, I was practically sprinting down the beach with one of Billy's boards in hand.
Despite losing a fin, this session was excellent; mostly because I was sharing it with Billy, a long-time homie and one of the first people I've ever surfed with.
We surfed well past sunset, into the darkness of night."
"The other night it occurred to me how there's few places in the States where one can do something very cool in the open land and not have to deal with other strangers doing that same thing.
So far in Baja we've seen some picnicking Mexican families, gruff fisherman/farmer types, but no other surfers. Despite camping out in Baja's lonely coastal hills—against the advice of the Gringo hostel owner—we haven't been robbed or even bothered by any of the locals. Not saying the stories of crime and robbery are untrue. But the risk of camping out on our own paid off heavily.
Our campsite was nestled between the dunes. You could only see us if you were out in the water or at the very tip of Punta Cabras itself.
It all felt so surreal. Like camping out for the first time, god knows how long ago that was. We hunkered down shoulder-to-shoulder under the tarp, with the surf breaking only 100 or so feet below our heads as we nodded off, to wake up undisturbed and entirely alone, sipping coffee and contemplating the morning session.
Leading up to that dreamy night, though, the day was windy and rather hot. We didn't get the evening surf session that we had hoped for due to the conditions. I tried to nap at camp but it was sweltering, so I took my camp chair and a book ("Into a Desert Place" by Graham MacKintosh) down to the beach and sat there with my legs in the water, being chased further and further up the beach as the tide crept in. The water cooled me off, and it felt wonderful to do nothing.
We decided to go on a walk, south of the camp, to eye the idyllic coves and tidal pools lining the point. We walked around the tip of Punta Cabras over sharp volcanic rock and dusty two-track. There were lots of pelicans and foreign desert fauna unlike anything I've seen in the southwestern desert of the States.
There was also some graffiti on a dilapidated structure. I couldn't quite read the entire thing, but it was this poetic invective against littering the Baja countryside ("Es contra los jovenes de Mexico"). Evidently Baja has a littering problem. But it’s comforting to know there are some people who are trying to do what’s right.
In the cove on the other side of the point, where we surfed the first day, the waves broke in quick, decisive closeouts that spanned the entire beach. They threw sweeping rainbow mist in the evening light. I wanted to take all of my life's possessions and move them right there, in that little mist cloud, to live there forever suspended in water.
We noticed a sedan racing toward the direction of our camp. Paranoid, I ran back to our camp (I forgot to hide my valuables), picking up a small rock just in case I needed to huck it at somebody. I imagine this stressed out both Travis and Evan to an unnecessary extent. Of course it was a false alarm, but my anxiety got the better of me. The sedan disappeared into nowhere.
That evening the wind never died down and we accepted that evening glass up would not be a reality. So we made a giant trash supper: ramen with the seasoning packets, spinach, and eggs—add more salt. It was way too much food and we all scarfed it down.
The sun set, I washed dishes, and we each settled in beneath our tarp, which had been fluttering madly in the wind all day but—perhaps in an act of providence unique only to Baja—ceased right as we tucked in. Fiver's gorgeous album "... with the Atlantic School of Spontaneous Composition" put me right to sleep.
This morning we each had coffee, little or no breakfast, and got right into our wetsuits. It was another beautifully grey, misty Baja Norte morning in the water, with the sun burning away the clouds at the mouth of the valley a few km's inland from shore.
The waves looked fun but a bit smaller than the day before, maintaining a similar flavor and organization: heaving, pocket-y beach breaks. When paddling for a wave, most looked no bigger than hip or chest-high. But once I stood up on them, they rose quickly and increased in size and power. It required some quick maneuvering on the big board to avoid getting closed out.
The tide was going out during the morning. Sets were infrequent. On two occasions Evan, Travis, and I got caught off guard by a sneaky set breaking further outside than we expected. It cleaned each of us up and delivered a battering for upwards of ten to fifteen minutes. I counted ten head-high waves that I either took to the head or swam through. It was really tough with the 9 footer. Apparently the same could be said with the smaller boards too; when I looked over to Trav and Evan, they were also way inside and getting worked too.
After the second cleanup set my ailing shoulder was toast and I headed into shore. That would be enough for the day. I didn't catch many waves that morning, but the few I caught were big (for me); I distinctly remember standing up tall to look back on the outside at the boys with a shit-eating grin and seeing nothing but an emerald wall of water. Yowza. The big board made everything feel little. [I think after a few days of surfing a big board and getting my feet back under me, it just makes sense to downsize and let 'er rip.]
We shared the lineup that morning with a couple of dolphins. Off in the distance—maybe a few hundred yards— we watched a humpback whale breach over and over again. I sat on my board for a while and watched, reeling as sets rolled through, hypnotized by the weight of the whale's presence.
. . .
(Stopped writing at around midnight last night because we treated ourselves to a resort (a rectangular stucco shack with simple amenities and buggy mattresses) and my cushy twin bed beckoned me to a deep sleep, right on top of the blankets.)
Anyhow, spent some time after yesterday's session relaxing in our dreamy little dune camp before breaking it down and leaving—for good. I still couldn't believe the experience we had the night before, hunkered down under the tarp right above the surf. I was sad to leave but I have a feeling I'll be back...
On our way out of the village of Erendira we stopped by Genesis, a top birrieria. A round-faced woman told us to sit wherever and I forced myself to strike up some small talk. She gave me the keys to the bathroom and I ambled around behind the eatery, fiddling with random locked doors that looked like they might lead to a latrine. I went back into the birreria and asked the woman if she could show me where the bathroom was. Her face turned red, she smiled, and pointed me in the right direction, toward a little plywood box painted red, just a few hundred feet down the dirt road. Small dogs snapped at my ankles and chickens bobbed beneath the shade of large oaks. Wandering around the backyards of Erendira made me want to stay longer, to have a different kind of experience immersed in this little Baja village.
I ordered the birria, which was tender, spicy, and perfect. I ate it with fresh, warm corn tortillas. The boys agreed this was the best meal we had yet. While we hung out in Genesis, I took a good look at us and noticed how we all wore four days of surfing and camping on our faces and skin and hair. I felt like four days of surfing and camping, too. Exactly how I wanted to feel.
After a quick refill on ice, water, and spicy Mexican candies, we left Erendira and pointed it back northeast toward the highway.
Our destination of Punta San Jose was only a few km's to the north from where we stayed the night before, but apparently the beach roads are bad enough that the long drive back on the MX-1 is the surer, safer, and saner bet. But the MX-1, with its high speeds, small shoulders, and foreign traffic customs has its perils, too; once again we nearly got T-boned from both directions at a blind and unmarked three-way intersection.
We needed strong drink, and the small valley just south of Ensenada—Santo Tomas—was known for its wine. At Bodega de Santo Tomas, the second oldest winery in Mexico, an English-speaking Mexican who was really into Legend of Zelda (tattoos, necklace, etc.) sold us some bottles of tempranillo and exquisite rose, which we downed later that night over tall tales.
We misread the map. We thought that camping at Bocana Santo Tomas would allow us to surf some of the stuff around that zone, and also the revered Punta San Jose. We were wrong, and didn't realize this until making the long, dusty drive out to Bocana Santo Tomas. Luckily the drive—during golden hour—was pretty enough that we didn't fully regret our decision arriving at the wrong place [and we wouldn't know until the next day how skunked we could get in this particular area].
At the resort, we were greeted by a handful of dogs and the watchman, whose family lived on the premises. Everything's pretty casual out here: you drive up, say you're wanting a place to stay the night, they show you the whole deal, leave you alone, and you pay whenever you want.
That night in the cabin, Evan made a Mexixan dinner of rice, beans, and tortas con queso. We washed it down with wine and talked a bunch of shit in the dim artificial light, with the evening Pacific breeze seeping through the windows. Climbing, surfing, places in the United States that are livable and don't suck. Certainly there is nowhere like Baja.
...
It was nice to wake up the following morning and depart from the camping routine. With a workable stove, countertop, and sink, I prepared a big breakfast of blueberry and banana pancakes. We ate in excess to pretty much sit in the car the entire morning.
As I write this at about 1:00 PM, we've gotten shut down at all spots: Bocana Santo Tomas (no waves), Punta China (waves breaking directly on exposed reef, restricted access due to mining operation), Bahia de Solidad (uncertain and steep mountain roads, a long walk to the water). I guess even Baja presents the ever-present opportunity to get shut down.
Right now the hope is to maybe score some final Baja surf at one of the spots just south of the border, a far cry from the solitude we experienced the days before. If not, we blast through the border today and surf with the rest of the United States in San Diego. Suerte!
"The sun started showing its face yesterday afternoon while we were surfing the rightmost point at 'Long Beach.' Despite the cold air from the Pacific barreling in over the coast, the sun's out in full and beating on our skin and the camp we’ve set up tucked between the dunes. Not a great place to hang out in the heat of the day, but seemingly hidden enough from the supposed watchful eyes of anyone with a capable vehicle and the hope of burning some Gringos.
This is a marked contrast from the past two days, where I thought California's infamous June Gloom would make Baja feel more like how Bilbao felt or how Pichilemu looked in photos. Despite all of this, the water is still very cold. Apparently it stays in the 50s year round due to deep underwater caves.
Yesterday I woke up stiff and achey—the shoulder injury decided to speak up again. A rooster started squawking at around 3:15 AM and wouldn't cease until well past sunrise. Who programmed this thing? Rough. Need to always keep the ear plugs closer at hand.
Made some coffee and we were in the car by 8 AM. We drove north to see about las olas mejores that the hombre told us about the day before.
Our first attempt making it over that way did not go easily. The road was merely an extension of the beach—dunes consisting of soft sand. We didn't wanna charge on through because the sand and the angle of the slopes only got gnarlier. With nowhere to make a K-turn, Travis drove in reverse all the way back to where the road improved. This caused his engine to nearly catch fire. I continuously inhaled engine smoke while I helped Evan push Travis' car backwards out of the dunes. The smell of burning clutch lingered inside the car for the rest of the drive and turned my stomach upside down.
We got in the water hoping for a clean, well-organized right point break, but it was mostly big, sloping beach breaks with no obvious takeoff or organization. The waves felt much more powerful over here than in the cove we surfed yesterday. They would come in—surging and apparently small—and very instantly would plunge to hard-to-predict waist-to-head high pitchy sections. What they lacked in shape they made up for in volume, and they were quite fun on the longboard with the right takeoff direction.
These were certainly the biggest waves I'd surfed since some of the hurricane swells down in the Gulf of Mexico. I was a bit too inside at one point and while paddling back out I took a wave directly on the head. Before I went under I must have forgotten to take my big breath, and the washing machine had its way with me for longer than I was ready. It felt like I came pretty close to surfacing with a belly full of seawater. The ocean can feel so calm in certain positions, but this was a good reminder that it gets very serious if I'm in the wrong spot. It feels even more serious down here at a remote break in Baja, far from any reliable help.
After this shakeup, my confidence tumbled and I passed up a lot of good waves until about the end of the session, where I started to focus harder on relaxing and breathing well. It worked.
For the second time in a row we had the entire break to ourselves.
As we left the spot, the gloom finally burned off and we gawked at some large, hilly ranches overlooking the ocean. Small yellow and bright red flowers carpeted the ground and felt soft under my feet.
At camp we made lunch and more coffee and napped in the sun, causing the tops of my feet to bake like lobsters. Bummer. Luckily the campground had an abundance of aloe plants. I picked fistfuls of the spiny leaves and rubbed their gel on my skin.
We lounged around until evening and then went into Erendira. That night it seemed downright bustling compared to when we drove in the day before. There were a dozen or so people walking or biking on the dusty streets. There were tiendas with their doors open and a small family-owned eatery with its abierto sign flashing and jangling in the evening light.
It was my first opportunity to practice my Spanish in earnest. There was a family dining in there, their son watching a children's show on his iPad. Like most children's shows, the characters spoke very slowly and clearly. I appreciated this. My Spanish was passable enough to give the family our thanks and graces. I got tacos dorados, which can mean many different things. Tonight it meant fried chicken, and the grease dripped down my chin and onto my pants as I scarfed it down. Not the traditional Mexican meal I had hoped for, but we lacked options. We returned to camp and anxiously awaited any gastrointestinal problems that would follow the next day.
We got back at dark. That night a Mexican family was hanging around outside one of the half-finished houses below our camp. They built a small fire and from their stereo bopped reggaeton songs with catchy melodies.
I went to sleep listening to and thinking about this Mexican family who I knew nothing about.
I woke up in the middle of the night drenched in sweat. Apparently my 20deg down quilt and hoodie were way overkill for the fair Pacific nights. With my bum shoulder, I struggled to peel off my hoodie and from outside of the tent it must have sounded like I was wrestling with Travis or something. I went back to sleep, cool and clammy on my plastic sleeping pad.
The next morning I heard Travis and Evan getting stuff ready. I gave myself an extra 15 minutes of sleep. I needed it. Once up and moving I realized Montezuma exacted a small share of revenge, and I did overtime in the campground’s bathroom.
We decided to go back to the same spot as yesterday, only this time we'd surf the southern end of the zone. Similar conditions as the day before except a bit bigger and with better shape. The sun was out in full force and illuminated the wave faces cool green. The first hour or two of the sesh was quiet—sets were infrequent and the waves were harder to predict. They would often double up, or surge, crumble, and then resurge. The water was clear through to the bottom, which was nothing but sand. Such a nice day to be in the water.
3/4 of the way into the session it started pumping chest to head-high, and I caught some of the biggest waves I think I've ever ridden. The 9' let me catch them far on the outside and hang out in the pocket for a while before standing up. I think the move with that 9' is to hang in a prone position in the pocket for a little bit, stand up, and cruise down the face with speed. After getting to the bottom of the face, I distinctly remember that my best waves involved me choking down on the board above the fin, making a hard turn either left or right, and then choking back up and riding the line. It was nice to go face to face with such beautiful, green waves on such a stable, fun board. This was my best session so far.
Tonight we camp above this beautiful break that we surfed today and the day before, tucked inconspicuously within the dunes. I'm apprehensive about camping in such an isolated spot and am hoping for the best. I've heard bad stories about people in Baja camping off in remote zones only to get held up at gunpoint during the middle of the night. Hopefully these are just the exceptions and not the rule.
Tomorrow we hope to surf here again in the morning, head into town for some birria, drive back on the MX-1 into Valle de Santo Tomas for some vino, and eventually surf a different break just north of us. Viva Baja.
There's so much I can say about Baja California, but I think it'd take so long to fully process my experience and put it into words. I keep up this little page for fun, and it certainly ain’t payin the bills.
Let's just say that spending the week surfing in Baja was everything I had hoped for—dreamed of even—and the surfing bug has bit me hard. In fact, I'm finding myself scheming the transition from the dry mountains of Utah to the busy, jam-packed, overpopulated, and polluted Pacific coast.
But those are just some of the qualities you find in southern California. In Baja, on the other hand, you might find lonely breaks (and there are many)* with nary a soul save for some dolphins, pelicans, and a humpback whale. Sure, you'll find pollution and people, but most of them don't surf—at least in the rural coastal villages that harbor beautiful surf. Those people either fish, work in town, or farm. They're kind, and they smiled at us when our Spanish was bad and waved at us whenever we passed by them on one of Baja's many dubious dirt roads.
Luckily so much was happening during my trip that I felt like I needed to write it all down every day in my flimsy little soft-spine journal. I took some photos too. I suppose I'll throw it all up on here to commemorate my first surfing trip to Baja. Surely there will be many more (and hopefully with good homies like Travis and Evan).
*After some consideration I've decided to withhold the names of most of the spots we surfed. They're just too good. But with a little bit of research and map-reading skills, you can probably figure it out.
Days 1 & 2: California, USA and Ejido Erendira, Baja, MX
"Arrived in LA before noon. Travis picked me up all grins and we hit traffic the second we pulled away from the curb.
LA was somehow both grey and sunny, and unexciting. We met up with Billy in a Rite Aid parking lot where he handed me off his 4/3 wetsuit and a beautiful yellow quad-fin fish, maybe about 5'4". We said we'd see him the following weekend, and he warned us that coming back into the states will take a long, long time due to border crossing bullshit. Noted.
We hit San Clemente, which on a Sunday felt appropriately busy, which is to say not really busy at all except for the cars on the main drags and the shops with their doors open wide to the street and the fair Pacific coastal summer air.
I really had to piss. I went into a CVS and of course their bathroom was broken so they told me to use the cafe's across the street. I ran across the street fully expecting the cafe's bathroom to be broken too, but the woman working there sensed desperation in my voice and gracefully gave me the code. I've learned that it's really hard to go to the bathroom in California even when you're buying something.
Quickly we were out of Orange County and in San Diego County, where there's big expensive stucco homes draping over the dry canyons that spill empty below the highways and into the ocean. Apparently there's a lot of dry canyons in San Diego, and some conservation organization is trying to protect them. Knowing how populated California is makes that seem like a tremendous challenge. Affordable housing or conservation lands? Tough call.
Pretty soon we were driving through brushy, empty hillsides that were apparently under military jurisdiction. We passed San Onofre, one of southern California's finest longboarding waves. I couldn't stop thinking about surfing.
This part of southern California felt conservative and quintessentially American. Here we were on the great coast of the greatest ocean in the greatest country in the world, and all we have to show for that is private property and military defense.
We eventually arrived at our destination for the night, Solano Beach, which according to Travis meant that everyone who lives here must be related to Jeff Bezos in some way. It was nice, there were more big stucco ranchettes with manicured front lawns and xeriscaped yards sloping into the dry canyons. The nicest houses were on the canyon rims while the highways and strip malls sat in the wooded, dreamy canyon bottoms.
At one of those nice canyon rim homes we were greeted by Evan and James. James seemed to be an encyclopedia for all things Baja [we later learned that his dad had been surfing in Baja for over 35 years]. He was over the moon to fill our ears with sage advice, and he provided us with so much gear and information that I don't know how we'll ever repay him. Plus, he gave us couches and floors to sleep on.
We hung around for the evening, dug Encinitas, talked Baja, and James gave us some final remarks about dealing with policia municipales and re-entering the country (go to the 'ready lane'!!!). All of this information made trip logistics feel daunting, but none of it seemed real and soon enough I was fast asleep on a pullout couch in a home office, dreaming of nothing and waking up on my back, pleased with how rested I felt.
We had a nice breakfast of eggs, cheese, and spinach and packed the car. Leaving for a trip like this always takes longer than I anticipate. Things don't fit inside the car quite the way you want, and everyone's gotta attend to their pre-trip tasks, errands, etc.
It was cool and foggy outside and the air smelled like hydrangea. We grabbed some solar-res from a surf shop, I grabbed a bean from an industrial-feeling coffeeshop that played jazz music, and we were finally Mexico-bound at 10:15 AM.
The rest of San Diego more or less blended together and reaching the border was quick and almost too easy. You're on the US interstate and suddenly the residential areas disappear, the border wall appears, and there it is, perched up on scrubby, eroded hills, every inch a slum overlooking the turdy Tijuana River: Mexico. Once you cross into Mexico, there's a handful of official-looking people bumbling around, hardly interested in the Gringos speeding gleefully and scared into their poorer, more exciting country.
We were told to avoid driving through Tijuana at all costs so we took the scenic road south instead. We still got a taste of Tijuana as we drove north along the graffitied shanties, watching grave Mexicans—some with mattress frames straddled across their backs—run across the busy highway.
The shift from the states to Mexico was jarring. It was still foggy, gloomy, and there lingered a general feeling of unease. This feeling continued all the way down the coast through Ensenada, punctuated only by the gorgeous viewpoint overlooking Salsipuedes, the greatest wave in Baja Norte [that's supposedly closed off due to privatization].
Ensanada was busy and had a distinctly foreign feel—lots of Mexican chain establishments and American chain establishments with different menu items (extra mayo), holes in the wall, and food carts. The wide, potholed road through Ensanada dragged on and contained barely noticeable 'Alto' signs roughly every mile, presumably signifying pedestrian walkways that were too easy to miss.
Travis nearly missed a stoplight denoting a very busy intersection, and we watched in horror as four lanes of Monday afternoon Mexican traffic came barreling in toward us from either direction. With much skill Travis maneuvered his car just in time, but we nearly got t-boned from both directions (cross-boned?). It was a great reminder to not get too comfortable here in Mexico.
Leaving Ensanada we were slightly worried about the military checkpoint, which the guidebook mentioned required a visa to pass. We had no visas, and thankfully the military paid no attention to us as we passed through the checkpoint.
After the checkpoint the fog and gloom cleared and so did our minds and hearts. The foreign hustle and bustle of Ensanada was behind us and ahead was the golden, steep, brushy hills of Valle de Santo Tomas, with its sleepy tiendas and ranchos and bodegas. This was the Baja for which I came and it was splendid.
We continued to wind through the dry hills, leaving the valley and heading back toward the coast. We reached the fishing village of Ejido Erendira. Most of the tiendas were closed but there were people milling about their houses and bashful children looking out at us from windows.
We turned onto the rugged beach access road which would take us to camp for the night: a gringo outpost called Coyote Cal's. When we arrived Cal was very brief with us as he had to meet in the parking lot with two young officers who worked for the municipality of Ensanada. Listening to him speak Spanish to them was very funny. He had the language mechanics and vocabulary of Dale Gribble, with the laidback delivery of a SoCal surfer. But he seemed nice enough and kept a welcoming hostel.
We threw our shit down at the campsite and were greeted by a thirsty doberman pinscher, its tongue lolling about as it loped around camp. It had massive cojones but was very relaxed. If this was what you'd call a third-world dog, he sure was a friendly one. We named him Chupito and he followed us up our short walk to the top of a dirt hill that overlooked the campsite and some potential surf.
After finding little surf directly north of the hostel, we decided to get in the car and drive and scope.
The road we took ended at an idyllic cove which had surf. Long, frown-shaped crumbly beach break, but glassy and with a sandy beach entrance. It was empty, and the parking lot was guarded by a squatter, who lived in what looked like a converted airplane hangar replete with a watchtower. Later I would speak bad Spanish to the man, who told me he worked on boats and that there were "olas mejores" just further north.
We eventually paddled in, and wow, the water was in fact very cold. I knew it would feel pleasantly coastal, but the chill in the air and the water took me by surprise. We enjoyed surfing the empty cove, scoring chest-high crumble that came in sets of three or four. I surfed Travis' 9 footer and had a blast. Plus, my shoulder was feeling strong and I had plenty good rides—partly because I went for every ripple that put me in a good position. Normally, I'm stressing a bit about managing the crowd and other people. But the only other people out there with me were Travis and Evan, who didn't care how well I surfed and were happy to share waves.
We headed back to camp, ate a big pasta supper, and quietly retired to our respective dens.
Hard saying how wet the morning fog will make our tents/shelters. Hopefully I can sleep under the stars one of these nights with the sound of the ocean in my ears. I haven't done that since the Florida days...
If this Baja trip is anything like this evening, I'm overjoyed.
Law school has ended, and a few months back Vitor and I talked about doing something adventurous during the first week of May. Due to various injuries and logistical complications we had to nix our climbing plans (Yosemite? Black Canyon?) and we started narrowing down alternatives.
We kind of wanted to ski, but we really wanted to bike. After talking through some multi-sport ideas, we finally settled on a bikepacking trip. Vitor sent me a loop published through Bikepacking mag; it covers nearly the entire zone of the San Rafael Swell that lies behind the "Reef." Thus, the route starts on the eponymous Behind the Reef Road, continues on high Sinbad Country, drops down into the wild Mars-scape that is Red's Canyon, climbs back up onto Sinbad Country, and ends behind the Reef.
When I saw the route I was immediately drawn to it because it covered a substantial portion of the 'southern' Swell (the section below Interstate 70), an area that left a huge gap in my San Rafael Swell resume.
For some reason the creators of the loop write about it on the mag as if they have to sell it to unsuspecting bikers. I guess nearby Fruita and Moab are pretty good for mountain biking. It's funny because I would choose exploring the Swell 10x over exploring any of those areas, which I think are crowded with bikers and other motorists on any given day. On the other hand, each time I visit the Swell I only see a handful of other people (save for the popular trailheads/jump off points) and I think it's some of the most wild country in this state.
That's all to say I didn't need much convincing, even if I lacked both a capable bike and bikepacking gear. Oh well. This route seemed too good to pass up, so I rented a hardtail from REI and my neighbor let me borrow some of his bikepacking gear.
The day of setting out, I loaded up the bike and thought "what the fuck, this is never going to go." With the storage capacity I had (~25 liters with my running vest, saddlebag, and handlebar bag), I doubted this would be enough to sustain me for 2-3 days. Vitor consoled me and said that he felt the same way when he packed his bike, and that I could certainly make it work.
After removing several "essential items" and finding a way to rig my 4L bladder to the frame, I felt a bit more comfortable and believed that I could indeed make this work. Still, I was apprehensive. This was the most minimal I had gone on any overnight outing including the ultralight outings Libby and I have done in the desert.
Anyhow, Vitor and I pointed it down to the Swell on Wednesday evening. We staged a car at Tan Seep with a cooler full of beer, cheese, and water, assuming we would spend the second night there. After leaving the car, we arrived at Temple Mtn. Campground at around 11:30 and went to sleep.
The next morning we made an aggressive amount of chorizo chili and scarfed it down burrito-style, ultimately setting off at around 9.
After doing a couple of getting to know you laps on our loaded bikes, we were off.
I was overly caffeinated and breezed through the first miles with a huge shit-eating grin. Here I was on my first bikepack—endless blue sky, nary a cloud, light and nimble as an antelope. My bike didn't feel unnecessarily cumbersome and my padded liner shorts felt downright luxurious. This was going to be a great day.
High pressure and sunshine dominated the sky throughout the morning hours. A slight breeze kept the sweat localized only to the small square of my back on which my runner vest rested. Things went very smoothly and we made the occasional stop to gawk at all of the geologic wonders, including remnants of the area's mining history.
Apparently this history resulted in plenty of dubious jalopies being abandoned on the side of some lonely and improbable road. I'm still processing the fact that these roads, treacherous as they are, were in fact roads on which passenger cars would drive.
These days, leaving the house and all of its domestic comforts to head deep into the Swell seems desirable—downright cool, even. But perhaps a century ago it seemed 100% crazy.
We continued to pedal through the rugged but mostly manageable Behind the Reef Road; the climbs and descents were both a breeze.
The heat of the day caught up to us, and things started to feel pretty dang western by the time we dropped into Cistern Canyon. I had to hike my bike for most of this descent, as my saddlebag prevented me from utilizing my dropper post. It was a steep incline with lots of football-sized cobbles and stones and loose sand. Dropping into the Wash proper was sandy and technical.
We took our first real break of the day, eating lunch in the shade of a massive boulder. Before dropping into Cistern, we had a good look at the ascent back out. It did not look easy nor fun (it can be seen in the middle of the following photo, cutting a diagonal path through the escarpment).
And so after forcing down some trail mix and a Complete Cookie (which I've realized I can barely stomach), we made the climb out of Cistern very slowly, hiking much of the way under the blazing sun. The air was dead still, the sun high. Sweat stung my eyes.
Just as I began to feel slightly demoralized, I came across this massive boulder with delicate ripples, cantilevered on a protrusion of hardened sand. The rock was good and the angle on the rippled face was fierce. This could be one of the coolest lowball boulder problems in the desert. If only I had a penny for every classic boulder miles from anywhere...
After ascending out of Cistern Canyon, we picked up an improved road that climbed at a gradual, easy grade. We looked at the map and confirmed that this would be our big (and final) climb of the day. After the previous rocky, sandy hike-a-bike ascent, I was ecstatic to be on smoother gravel and just steadily grinding up a long hill.
I started to tap into my reserve water about 3/4 of the way through this climb, and it was sort of fun to think through the scenario where we arrive at camp to a completely dry Muddy Creek.
After topping out of the climb, we saw in the distance an obvious strip of bright green Cottonwoods. Camp?! Water?!
With good improved roads and lots of psych for a water refill, the long descent into Red's Canyon was lightning fast.
We made it to a beautiful, dusty camp right above Muddy Creek, which was mostly clear and a little more than ankle deep. Before filtering the following day's water, I took some time to soak in the creek and decompress after a long day.
After filtering for a bit (about one backflush for every 2 liters filtered), I was ready to settle into camp. That typically means sitting down, eating, and getting right into my bag for bed. One of the reasons I love backpacking (and now bikepacking I guess) is because it pares life down to its most basic: you move all day, singularly focused on getting to point B, and then when you're at point B you can just chill the fuck out, eat, and go to sleep. So that's exactly what I did. I popped a melatonin and it had my eyes feeling heavy within minutes.
Oh yeah, this wild horse came by our camp right as we were settling in. It was pretty friendly/unexcitable for a wild animal.
I probably slept for about 10 hours of middling quality. It was all I needed because I woke up feeling rested and surprisingly not sore. Another nice thing about these minimalist adventures is that there's a relatively small amount of overhead—breaking down camp and getting things ready for the day only takes about 15 minutes.
After some decent instant coffee (the key is to triple the recommended amount of coffee per serving) and a Very Scenic Poop, we were off at around 8:30 and fairly confident that we'd make it to Vitor's car at Tan Seep around noon.
Red's Canyon was a trip. We spotted yet another cabin, more abandoned jalopies, and some of the coolest striated sandstone I've ever seen. Super Mario Stone.
It was apparent pretty quickly that the sun would be much stronger today than the day before. The idea was to crank out the big ascent to Tan Seep, refuel and nap at Vitor's car in the shade, and finish the day off in the cooler late-afternoon hours.
The climb out of Red's Canyon was uneventful if not consistent. The towering Wingate/Navajo sandstone walls to our N-NW provided some eye candy and daydreams about being scared and up high.
During this climb, Vitor and I had a very high-frequency conversation about life, motivation in the hills, developing and maintaining relationships, etc. It seemed to me that my motivations have changed pretty considerably over the years. Where I used to be very objective-oriented, I now find myself prioritizing the people with whom I head into the mountains rather than the mountains themselves. Leading up to this trip, I could've told Vitor, "Well, I'm in good climbing shape so I'm going to climb. Sorry bud!" But that would simply miss the point of why I like being in the hills in the first place.
Anyhow, the climbers in us could not resist scrambling up this gorgeous low angle boulder we found along the way.
After riding through much loose sand, Red's Canyon turned into Sinbad Country and the road improved. We even started to see some passenger cars. Goddamn, I love Sinbad Country.
We made it to Vitor's car ahead of schedule and drank some cold beers from the cooler. It was hot and we were rationing sunscreen. We both attempted to nap for a little while. When we awoke, it was only 1:30 and we knew we had a lot of hours to go before riding in the dead sun seemed enjoyable again. But with only 10-15 miles left (most of which were downhill), we made the choice to complete the loop in the heat of the day.
Back on some improved roads for a bit after Tan Seep and then it got real cobbly/loose. I felt bad for Vitor on his fully rigid frame but knew he would survive. He remained in good spirits and continued to be the great partner that he'd been the entire time.
Temple Mountain came into sights and we decided to return on the old mining roads to its west. Big paintbrushed lenticular clouds hung overhead.
The old mining roads were a blast (never thought I'd catch air while backpacking), and we made it back to the trailhead within an hour and a half from leaving Tan Seep.
Rough stats:
- 70 miles
- 8,500 ft of climbing
- Completed over the course of 30 hours
- 3 liters of water carried per day
Bikepacking is mega satisfying, particularly because we covered around 70 miles of wild country in a matter of a day and a half. While we stayed mostly outside of the Swell's rugged canyons, the bike was a great way to get a macro-level view of this zone.
