. Baja California.............

. Un Viaje


"We're going to Baja."

That's what John-Mark said at my birthday dinner on October 28. He said he and Britt were going to do a dirt trip down in Baja. "Want to go?" he asked. Want to go? Silly question.

None of us had ever ridden down in Baja, dirt or street, so this would be a good adventure. In fact, none of us had done overnight trips where we had to pack all our crap on a dirtbike, let alone a trip that was five days in another country with no knowledge of the route or the comfort of a support vehicle. 

To get my bike long-distance ready, I had a list of things to buy or replace:

Clark 3.9 gallon tank
Radiator guards
Case (ignition/clutch) guards
GPS and battery wiring
15 tooth font sprocket
Heavy duty innertube
Tail rack
Chain
Left tail light
View Baja trip photos on Flicker.com


Planning Stages
Using information from a few dualsport forums, our route came together. At first we thought about doing a western route, but some people who had just gotten back from a Baja ride the week before gave us details on a different route to try along the gulf side. Seeing how there were a couple of recent violent robberies against Americans on the west side, we didn't have to be talked into trying the east side.

I've always had good luck with my Ventura Pack so I decided to use that. Instead of sitting upright, it happens to work laying down on the rack I bought. Since it won't require cargo nets or bungy cords, I'm guessing it will survive a lot of shaking and bouncing. I also have an old Chase Harper saddle bag that would work for lighter items I wanted frequent access to. We got our bikes sorted out the best we could and we packed all the tools our "counselors" advised us to. My seat has been cut down to a couple of inches of foam so I dug out my old sheepskin seat cover and could only hope that would help me survive five days of a mostly unpadded seat.        


Day 1: San Diego to Mike's Sky Ranch
We get up at 5:00 am, have some coffee, sort out a last few things, pet the old dog goodbye in case we don�t ever see him again, and head over to Britt and John Mark�s. Because Britt�s bike isn�t street legal, she�s trucking her 250 to the border while the DRZ400 brigade self-propels. We head down 805 and then cut over Otay Lakes Road to the 94. We�re not even out of the US yet and we face our first challenge: the cold. East county in the early morning? Brrr�must be in the 40s. Never mind the fact that it�s late November and we should�ve known better. For much of the trip my teeth are literally chattering and I get to listen to the clonk-clonk-clonk in my head. At some point Mr. Michigan pulls over to put on another layer so I whip out my electric vest. Yes, I know you�re incredulous: I packed my electric vest. Most of you reading this are men and I�d like to let you in on a secret: most everything you say to women about packing and comfort gets thrown out the window. I doubt that�s a surprise to you. I get cold easily and there was no way I was going anywhere in November without my electric vest. Pack light? Easy for you to say with an extra 80 pounds, much of it insulating body hair.

At the border the 250 comes off the truck, we exchange some dollars for pesos, and then cross into Mexico with no issues. As we try to head out of town, we manage to select a street that dead ends and we have to turn around. It�s impressive that we�re maybe a mile from our native soil and we�ve already made a navigational error � holy shades of portentousness, Batman!

We get on Highway 2 and make our way over to La Rumorosa, where we stop for gas. Our first Pemex gas encounter goes well � no one tries to cheat the gringos or sneak diesel into the tanks. After the gas stop we hop next door to a restaurant for our first group meal in Mexico. The hot coffee � thin as it is � is unbelievably refreshing and prepares us for the dirt stretch on this gray day. Outside the restaurant John-Mark notices my radiator shrouds are loose. The bottom bolts on each side have already backed out. There�s a good reason for this: After I put the radiator guards on, the lower bolt holes on the shroud no longer lined up so I had to run a smaller diameter bolt through, using a nut to keep it on. I didn�t Loctite the nut. The error of not packing Loctite (I really meant to pack it) would be an oversight rubbed in our faces again and again on the trip. I dig into the zip tie supply and secure the shrouds.

Although we have GPS waypoints, we still have a hard time identifying exactly which of the many dirt roads to turn down. John-Mark leads the way and after a few turns we find what looks like the right road. We see in the distance an officious-looking truck with the light bar in action. The truck is moving slowly so if the officer/ranger/person-with-a-firearm is actually chasing someone he�s making a very casual job of it. We reach the truck and slowly pass by, waving to express our love and respect of all things official, and to please not pull us poor dirtbikers over.

The ride for the next couple of hours on the dirt roads is enjoyable. The scenery is nice and except for a saddlebag malfunction on Britt�s bike we have no problems. We stop a few times to take pictures and enjoy the gestalt of it all.

When we arrive at pavement we do 40-ish miles southeast to Valle de Trinidad where we gas up again. Ever-sensitive about cheating Pemex attendants � having been cheated before � I look at the change the guy had given me and roll it around in my hand for a while, trying to do the math. It wasn�t enough change for the 200 pesos I gave him so I ask him where the rest of it was. He walks over to the cash box and holds up the two bills I had handed him, which amounts to 120. He did give me the right change and, embarrassed, I shout �Lo siento!� through my helmet while giving him a good ol� gringa �Me bad!� slap on the arm. A dash of octane boost for Mr. Michigan and Britt, and then we�re back to the dirt on the day�s final run up to Mike�s Sky Ranch.

By now it�s 4:00 and the sun is dropping behind the mountains. My GPS indicates 13 miles, which is a quick trip on pavement but could�ve been over an hour in the dirt, depending on conditions. We move along quickly, stopping only for necessary adjustments. The sun is down by the time we reach a wide pool of water that sits at the entrance to the ranch. Mr. Michigan and I stop and turn off our motors to ponder its depth. There is no way I�m going first, and I have visions of watching Mr. Michigan sink up to his helmet by crossing in exactly the wrong spot. Then John-Mark pulls up, stops long enough for his headlight beam to bounce off the water, and motors through. Seeing that the foot of water didn�t do him in, we follow his path.

We find that we�re the only people at Mike�s Sky Ranch. A week before it was probably packed since the Baja 1000 had been in the area. It seems a little weird to have the storied place all to ourselves, but at the same time it doesn�t seem that weird since it�s in the middle of nowhere. We�re served dinner at 6:30 and after that we do our last few tasks before all power is shut down (the generators only run for a few hours each night). What a great day: A long and fun ride, a hot shower*, a tasty steak dinner, and a bed that doesn�t make me itch.

*I will admit to having had packed my hairdryer (a small one!). Short wet hair dries quickly. Long wet hair does not. If you�ve never had the opportunity to wear long wet hair, imagine having a wet sock on your foot and waiting for it to air dry. On a cold day, it sucks a lot.


Day 2: Mike's Sky Ranch to Gonzaga Bay San Felipe
Breakfast is ready for us at 7:30 and after eating we do a few repairs. Britt�s side case gets a �safety wire� sewing job. I repair the broken power cord on my electric vest because for the millionth time I had walked away from my bike while still attached. The bike chains get sprayed. While going through my tools I pull out the hand pump, pop off the cap, and notice that the f#cker is for a presta valve (it�s not shrader adjustable). I�ve got a choice: not say anything to anyone and hope no one gets a flat, or own up to my error now. Rather than pull out some bad acting down the road when there�s a flat � �Oh silly me, it�s the wrong kind of pump!!� � I let everyone know the situation so they can put a little more mustard into the rock dodging if they so desired.

Part way through our trip out, we come upon John-Mark who informs us that a hole has ripped in his gear bag and that he�s lost a fuel bottle, tools, and his cell phone. As he�s adjusting his bag, Mr. Michigan and I slowly retrace the path to see what we can find. We�re eventually back at the ranch, having found everything except one socket and the phone. When John-Mark and Britt reach us we do another slow scan back out. Oddly enough, just as I was giving up hope of finding anything else and thinking to myself, �If they can�t see it with their big round eyes, how am I going to see it with my little slanty ones?� the small socket materialized. I had to laugh.

The rest of the ride out was pleasant and without incident, although when we got to the road Mr. Michigan noticed his left turn signal was gone. The bolt that held the seat, tail rack, and turn signal in place had backed out. The bolt on the other side is loose, but not gone. Cursed again for forgetting the Loctite. (It�s not as good as Loctite, but in a pinch nail polish can help prevent bolts from backing out. Unfortunately, I hadn�t planned to paint my dirty, stumpy nails while travelling so I didn�t pack any.)

It�s back to Highway 3 as we make our way down to San Felipe. There�s a military checkpoint at El Chinero so we pull up and wait for a signal. John-Mark is at the front so the soldier insists he takes off his helmet and it sounds to me like he�s demanding his �cartera� � wallet. Perhaps there�s some colloquial translation for it that I don�t know so I take off my helmet and say �Hola!� The guy turns to me and asks if I speak Spanish. I shrug my shoulders and say �a little� and he asks where we�re from. I tell him San Diego and he points at our bikes and says, �On these?� Sensing his mild incredulity, I answer yes and go into a pitiful story of how its been a long, painful ride and how we�ve lost a bunch of parts from our bikes. Somehow he infers that I�ve crashed and instead of correcting him I let the fictional tale of woe wrap up our �inspection.� Britt wants to take a photo of the checkpoint. I ask the soldier if it�s ok but he says no, although another one seems like he�s about to say yes. Rather than piss anyone off by pressing for one little harmless piccy, I thank them and we head off for San Felipe.

By the time we�re gassing up in San Felipe it�s 3:00. John-Mark suggests that instead of pressing on towards Gonzaga Bay we find a place in town to spend the night. The sun is at a pretty good slant so we�re all for calling it a day. We end up renting a room at George�s Motel near the beach, which costs $80 USD for the four of us. $20/person is budget-friendly, and we have the added bonus of being able to push all the bikes into the room.

We do some pre-dinner boozing in the room and then head over to dinner. Stingray burrito is on the menu and never having had that (and wanting revenge on the old stingray attack) I thought I�d give it a try. It tasted exactly like cuttlefish, which is like a gamier and stringier version of squid.

We�re back at the motel room after dinner and it�s lights out before 9:00. The travellers wrap up this Thanksgiving day buzzed and beat.


Day 3: San Felipe to Bah�a San Luis Gonzaga
After breakfast, John-Mark has an announcement to make to us: He found his phone wadded up in some clothing. Although he didn�t like the phone and was prepared to replace it with something sexier, it meant for now he didn�t have to spend another few hundred dollars when he got home. Margaritas all around!

We head back south on Highway 3. After about an hour the pavement disappears in Puertecitos and we�re staring at a stop sign and �private property� in big handwritten letters. Did we turn somewhere wrong? How could we have when there was absolutely nowhere to turn? There�s a bit of traffic passing through so we decide to continue on. If someone wanted us to stop, they were welcome to chase us down.

The road winds along the mountainside and has a nice view of the ocean. There are only two problems with this scenic road: big jagged rocks and smooth-half hidden rocks. The former want to rip your tires up, while the latter want to catch you out at speed and pretzel your rims. John-Mark disappears immediately as he�s on a search for a little privacy to deal with a little intestinal mayhem. Britt, Mr. Michigan and I motor along, stopping occasionally to attend to one thing or another. Britt sheds her jacket in the heat, I take a picture here and there, and Mr. Michigan tries to recover a few items that have fallen out of his bag. (He doesn�t find his tubes of JB Weld, but he does find the package of Imodium AD, which he lovingly refers to as �Shitstopper 2000.�)

I�m behind Britt and as we�re rounding an uphill curve my bike stumbles. I�m hoping it�s a transient stutter, but it continues to stumble before totally dying. A mild sense of loneliness comes over me as I watch Britt round the corner and disappear. The bike is stalled in the middle of the road, and my consolation is that nobody is likely to come along so I don�t have to move it. Still, I try to push the bike into the shade of the mountain, but the incline is too steep for me to succeed. I could�ve backed it down into the shade but I wasn�t thinking particularly straight. I was pretty much overwhelmed by the thought of being far from a shop with my once-reliable rolling barcalounger.

I�m not much of a mechanic but now seems like a good time to pretend to be one. My grand guess is that I have either an electrical or fuel-delivery problem. I squeeze the one fuel line I replaced to accommodate the larger Clark tank, but other than being longer than it needed to be, it seems ok. I pull off the side panel to access the battery and find that the terminal screws are snug. A wire I had spliced for the GPS power supply is now dangling apart, but it doesn�t seem to me like something that would kill a bike. The lights and instrument panel are working when I turn on the bike, but there is absolutely no cranking when I press the button. As I poke around, Mr. Michigan comes back and I explain to him the situation. He suggests that maybe some of my electrical additions are causing a problem so I remove the GPS wiring from the terminals and re-tighten the screws. Just as he takes off to inform Britt what has happened, I turn the bike over and fire it up. I don�t know enough about electrical paths to understand why that worked, but it doesn�t matter one bit. The bike runs � it feels like my birthdays and Christmases all rolled into one.

While I�m taking inventory of the bike, I check the clearance between the tank and the radiator. John-Mark mentioned a problem where the sharp edge of the radiator could start cutting into the tank. Sure enough, there are signs of shaved plastic so I wad up some cloth and jam it between the two, trying to hold it in place with some electrical tape. Given the road conditions it�s wishful thinking, but sometimes all you can do is try.

We catch up with John-Mark at the abandoned cabana where he�s found the outhouse of his dreams. After a brief break we continue on to Gonzaga Bay. A few miles down the road my bike seems to be cutting in and out again. I am disturbed. I do not like a broken bike in the United States and I extra especially don�t like a broken bike in Mexico. Everyone has taken off on the fast flat stretch, but I fall back as I keep the speed under 40. I don�t know what the bike is going to do, but I do know that if the motor seizes (just a general paranoia gifted to me from previous seizures), I�ll accept anything under 40 as the speed at which I am pitched off the bike.

I catch up again as they take a break around one of Mexico�s many car husks. John-Mark mentions that my latest problem might�ve been caused by the kickstand bouncing up against the kill switch. This seems reasonable, except the bike was acting up on parts that weren�t all that bouncy. Perhaps the kickstand kill switch was momentarily half-stuck. Anyways, the bike ran ok for the past few miles so I keep my fingers crossed.

Just as we�re nearing Gonzaga Bay and are a few hundred yards from the Pemex station, Britt�s bike runs out of gas. She pulls out of one of the Nalgene fuel bottles and pours just enough into her tank to make it over to the station. After that, we buy some booze and ice at the nearby mini-mart before heading over Alfonsina�s motel.

When we get to the motel I ask the person who appears to be the proprietor how much it costs per night. He says �$55?� like it�s a question. I suppose he expects haggling, which seems kind of strange since his is the only place to stay in a billion mile radius. The price is above the normal $40-ish I�ve heard from others, but giving an extra $15 tribute to someone making a place function in the middle of nowhere just doesn�t bother me. The roughly twelve-room place was also busy so getting any room was good enough for me. Gonzaga Bay consists of a landing strip, a row of non-ostentacious vacation homes, and Alfonsina�s. It�s a quiet stretch of beach on a calm bay and it would probably be as popular as San Felipe were it not for the bolt-loosening trip across Mars to reach it. Like Mike�s Sky Ranch, the generator is on for a few hours during the night.

Before I take my hard-earned shower I go over my bike while there�s still light. I pull off the panels and check various bolts to make sure everything�s tight. Several of the men who work at Alfonsina�s have pulled up chairs on the patio and watch. I must be a freakshow on several levels: 1. Not too many Asians make it out their way; 2. Not too many Asian females on motorcycles make it out their way; 3. Not too many Asian females on motorcycles who diddle with their bikes make it out their way. I loosen the tank and pull it back to address the radiator problem. I�m in need of a file so I go to the proprietor and ask if he has one. He says they�re all about to sit down and eat but he�ll check later. Rather than squander the daylight I look for the hardest rock I can find and start rubbing it against the aluminum. It�s actually working so I keep at it until one of the guys, Cuero, shows up with a file.

Cuero hands me the file and continues to stand inches from me, so rather than pretend this guy with large bloodshot, yellow-tinged eyes isn�t there, I explain to him my problem. That was an error. He starts chatting away, asking me all sorts of questions I find hard to understand because although he has teeth, he�s enunciating like the front dozen are missing. I say �What?� over and over and although he slows it down, that doesn�t help remove the slurring and puffing sounds that obscure his words. At some point I have to work so hard to listen that I take over the talking (mostly a bunch of non-sequitors) so he�s forced to listen.

Finally the job is done and I hand Cuero back the file and put the bike back together. With maintenance done, I hit the booze, grab a shower, and then we gather for yet another delicious Mexican dinner. The Polaris-sponsored quad couple are there and we spend the next hour hearing about their epic journey from Canada to not-yet-there Cabo, which includes the unexpected adoption of a young dog that was slated to be put down at a Navajo reservation. Their site is at www.quadtrek.net and my favorite challenge they have listed is: �WE START THE RIDE AS A COUPLE AND WE�D LIKE TO FINISH IT AS A COUPLE.� It�s in all caps � they really must mean it.


Day 4: Bah�a San Luis Gonzaga to San Felipe
We wake up to roaring noises in our room � the wind has seriously kicked up. I look out at the sheltered bay and there are white caps on the water. I actually didn�t mind because it meant the dust from those in front would get cleared out more quickly.

Our original goal was to make it out to Bah�a de Calamaju�, but seeing how I had packed the wrong pump and how we were scattering bolts across Baja, we decide not to add that stretch of (most likely) rocky road to the trip. However, we didn�t want to miss Coco�s Corner while we down there so we agree to go south to check it out and then head back north to San Felipe.

On one open stretch that�s washboarded, I come across a rectangular black object stark against the tan sand. It�s Mr. Michigan�s fender pack. I stuff it into my bag and a little ways down the road I find him and John-Mark parked. Mr. Michigan�s fender is all cock-eyed � three of the four bolts holding it on have fallen off and the one remaining bolt is partially backed out. The combination of the fender pack�s weight (holding two innertubes) and the constant rhythmic shaking of the washboard road reinforced what we already knew: All ye who enter Mexico without Loctite shall despair.

Despite forgetting Loctite, I did pack extra bolts that I knew would be of use on our DRZs. I have just enough bolts of the right length to secure the fender. The god of n00bs has enjoyed alternating slaps and strokes upon our helmets. We accept this and can only hope for more strokes than slaps in the final tally.

The wind is still howling when we reach Coco�s Corner. I�m surprised to see that it�s no more than a tiny structure with a couple of walls to create a shelter from the wind. The walls are plastered with photos of people like us who have made the odd pilgrimage. A variety of women�s underwear hang from the rafters. Amusingly, the one pair that stand out the most are a pair of men�s classic �tighty whiteys.� One has a desire to know the story behind it, but one forces oneself to stop thinking about it just as the image of it getting peeled off over a set of hairy thighs to gloriously reveal � yes, stop. Stop.

Coco, the spot that the place is named after, is in the hospital suffering from complications with diabetes. Someone else is there to watch the place and sell us the beer and water. He�s a large guy who follows our every move quietly. I can�t tell if he hates us gringos with our freedom to leave this place behind, or if we�re just entertaining to watch because he�s an existentialist at heart and we�re another band of kooks who decided to visit nowhere for no good reason. If nothing else, he likes Britt enough to let her hold a calico kitten he�s named Mallorca. When he takes the kitten back he nuzzles it affectionately � he�s a lover and not a fighter after all.

A small sport ute we had passed on the way in eventually arrives. He asks if I�ve seen a bar in the road. I look at his car and the rear Thule rack is gone. I tell him no. Welcome to the club of lost parts, my friend.

We�re back on the dirt road and just north of Alfonsina�s we come upon another military checkpoint. The truck they have stopped is from California and an older couple travelling with a dog is getting their stuff picked over. The woman looks back at us and smiles, almost as if she�s relieved that there�s now someone else to get the invasive attention.

The lead guy asks us where we�re going. I tell him we�re on our way back to San Felipe. He tells me to open my bags and he starts fishing around. The other soldiers disperse and start poking at the rest of the party�s bags. It�s clear they don�t plan to give us trouble � they just want to look somewhat officious and are probably curious what kind of crap people travelling on bikes pack. Rather than take off as soon as they�re finished, John-Mark needs to do some tweaks to Britt�s bike, including letting some air out of the tires. The soldiers watch and to try to be a good foreigner I explain that there�s too much air in the tire. They all nod knowingly, �Yes, too much air.� I make the same comments I did at the other checkpoint about a long journey, lost bike parts, blah blah blah. Minutes later a soldier picks up a plastic part near me and hands it to me like it came from one of our bikes. I know it didn�t but I walk around asking everyone if it came off their bike, holding the piece out like it�s a gold nugget. After I get the last no, I study the piece thoughtfully for the benefit of the soldier and put it in my bag so as to not insult him.

The soldiers take a shine to John-Mark�s jacket. They�ve gathered around him, intrigued by the many zippers and pockets and maybe even by H20 stamped on the chest where the Camelbak hose goes. They probably don�t see a whole lot of motorcycle jackets up close so now was a great opportunity to squeeze his shoulders and evaluate the armor. The black-and-gray jacket could conceiveably pass as the preferred gear of an elite military branch � maybe we didn�t get shaken down because they thought he was an officer in the Green Seals Ranger Delta Beret branch of the US military and any discomfort exacted on us would result in their being �erased� during the night. At the least, I know it isn�t my red or Britt�s bright orange jacket (or the pigtails) that�s intimidating anyone.

We leave the checkpoint and from there it�s an uneventful run back to San Felipe. The wind continues to howl and a few times I am blown into another lattitude. On the paved section of road there are sand drifts in the lane and our faces are getting pelted by large-grain sand. For the pavement stretch I had removed the bandana from around my nose, which at the time didn�t seem like a mistake but would later torment my cilia-destroyed sinuses for days.

Back in San Felipe the 250 runs out of gas again in mocking distance of a Pemex. Out comes the fuel bottle. We finish the gas-up routine and then return to George�s Motel after that � we are tired and it would be way too much work to try something new. We clean up and find a great non-touristy place called Chuy�s to eat. After that it�s back to the motel where we finish up some booze and wind down. We are too tired to even bother rolling the bikes in so I lock Britt�s bike (which doesn�t require a key) to one of the DRZs. John-Mark actually passes out before 8 and the rest of us are done by 9.


Day 5: San Felipe to San Diego
We would�ve headed back up Highway 3 if it hadn�t been for a guy staying at George�s (quad rider) who assured us that the route past the dry lake bed of Laguna Diablo wasn�t evil. This would explain why the soldiers at El Chinero a couple of days back thought our bikes were so strange � non-n00b dualsporters know to go through Laguna Diablo. When it comes to motorcyclists, they probably only see streetbikes.

So on our final Mexican morning we head out of town and take the first left past the arches on the north end of town. For a while we travel under power lines on a wide whooped-out road with deep sand. Then it�s back to hard pack and we roll on until we come upon the option of entering private property or hitting the sand again. We get on the sandy trail which follows alongside a fence but after a while we get the sense we�re not in the right place so we turn around. We�re almost back to the hard pack again � just one more 90 degree bend of deep sand � and the front tucks without notice. I�m on the ground with the bike on my leg. I try moving it but it won�t budge. Having melted that very pant to that very leg with that very exhaust once before, I want the pig off me�NOW. Fortunately, Mr. Michigan is already stopped around the corner because John-Mark also had a lowspeed dump (he�s gone by the time I come along). I beep the horn a few times to let him know I�ve got a problem. He sees me and starts to come over but I don�t sense enough urgency in his movement so I lay on the horn to try to get a jog out of him. I�m not sure it makes him move any faster, but it at least distracts me from the discomfort. Britt has also stopped and is there to help pick up the bike. My leg is instantly refreshed without a 300 lb bike laying on it! I empty my boot of sand and we continue on.

As I�m bringing up the rear, something shocks the shit out of me when it flies past. It�s John-Mark. He flashes some hand signal and I instantly realize the three of us have gone the wrong way and like a mama duck he�s on a mission to get all the baby ducks back in a row. I cruise up to Britt, who�s doing a first-gear idle. Eventually John-Mark comes back by with Mr. Michigan in tow. Britt and I take a few minutes to do our standard 18-point tippy-toe turn and then regroup with the guys.

We stop at the dry lack bed to take a bunch of pictures and then finish off the dirt stretch to Highway 3. We get gas again at the Valle de la Trinidad Pemex and then we�re on the pavement until the turn-off to the dirt road to El Hongo. It seems like the dirt road we want shouldn�t be that hard to find, but we find ourselves in the tiny settlement of La Huerta with no discernible road out. A bunch of kids have been watching us and either Britt or John-Mark says something to them about El Hongo. One kid starts waving for us to follow him. We assume he�s leading us to the road out but instead we end up in someone�s yard, standing by the washing machine that flanks the front door. The kid runs into the house and out comes a woman. I tell her we�re trying to get to El Hongo and show her our map. She starts talking about taking a right here, a left there, and a something or another somewhere. She draws a few lines in the dirt but it�s not really helping. Eventually another guy comes out and he starts talking to us in English. It�s an ex-pat, and one can only wonder about the story that brought him to this place. He does a better job of pointing out the direction we need to go. We thank him and we do find the golden route to El Hongo.

The road north is fairly obvious until we hit a fork. We go left and as we�re bumping along the worsening trail we pass a beat-up green passenger sedan that�s crawling. I�m thinking that if he�s there then we must be going in the right direction, but we soon arrive at a gated house at the end of that road. John-Mark and Britt make a u-turn and go past the now-stopped car. Mr. Michigan makes his turn and as he goes by the driver is just getting out of his car and waves. I figured he was the owner and maybe wanted to tell us something so I stop. He starts rapping away in Spanish just a little too fast for me so I shout �What?� and give him the hand signal to slow the words down. He�s still talking too fast but I do catch �El Hongo,� which initially sound like �Blah blah logo.� In my best Spamish (Spanish spammed with English construction), I tell him something that probably translates into �We are also conducting our ways towards El Hongo. Back there made a Y of the road � we are now try to go to the right side of it. There are none other roads; it is the only option.� I take off, preferring to be lost than to try to conjugate any more verbs. I�m heartened by the fact that even the natives get lost in their world of unmarked trails � it�s not just a gringo thing.

We�ve pretty much stopped taking pictures at this point. It�s late afternoon, we�re a little cold, and we just want to get to Tecate before sundown. When we reach pavement again it�s around 3:00. Knowing that it�s a straight shot to the border crossing and there�s no way for us to get lost now, it pretty much feels like we�re home. There is, however, one last spike of adrenaline to be had. Just as we reach Tecate, a car turns right in front of John-Mark. I see either smoke or dirt rising all around him from the hard braking and I wait for the impact. Miraculously, the car slides by and we�re not pulling out our bi-national emergency medical cards to look for a phone number so he can get him airlifted out. I know drivers don�t see bikers, but a sport ute was to John-Mark�s right � this person either didn�t see him and a 5,000 pound vehicle whose headlights were on, or the driver had no depth perception whatsoever. What a crappy end to this adventure that would�ve made.

The line to get back into the US isn�t epically long. We�re not sure if we can split lanes to the front so we wait in line. Even if we try, we�d have to roll over several peddlers and a handicapped guy in the narrow gap between the cars. While waiting, Britt notices a nail in one of Mr. Michigan�s knobbies. Because all of us spend way more time around tubeless tires, we opt not to pull it out in case it�s also acting as a plug. (You dirt vets can insert your snorting here.)

We reach the border agent in about half an hour. He asks if I�m bringing anything back from Mexico. �No,� I tell him, but then add �just dirt.� He says ok and hands my passport back to me. Welcome home.
 
................................................

 Go to Zina's home page.