A lonely woman, with too much time on her hands. That's me after we move to the end of a dead end, dirt road in a rural area where we don't know a soul. There isn't much chance I'll soon have friends in the neighborhood. There is no neighborhood. The two houses closest to us are usually unoccupied because they're vacation cottages. Gene, my husband, leaves early on weekdays in our only car. He has a long commute to work and doesn't return until 6:00 PM. A little later our children, Rich and Fawn, leave for their long walk to catch the school bus. They have to walk even if it's raining, and it rains a lot. When they reach the series of pot holes and bumps that pass for a paved road, there's no safe sidewalk nor even a shoulder. The way is narrow. Part of it is steep, with a blind curve. I picture them wiping blood rather than water from their little faces. I worry. I feel guilty.
I know they'll tell their children this story some day. Their children will think that's the way it was in the olden days, but this is not the olden days. We are not pioneers. It's 1974 in Sonoma County, California, USA. I'm by myself in the redwoods because we don't have a second car or a first friend, and there's no public transportation. If I had a car, I could take the children to school. I could get a job. Then I wouldn't have too much time on my hands. I wouldn't be lonely. There are people who feel isolated in the midst of friends or family. That is not me. I am lonely when I'm alone. But relatives and friends are far away. Gene and the children aren't so distant, but they're gone most of my waking hours.
Cleaning our tiny home doesn't take long. It's a ten by forty-five foot trailer. One way I entertain myself is planning a driving trip from our Northern California location all the way down the Mexican peninsula of Baja California to land's end at Cabo San Lucas. We've made two short camping trips to the upper end, one on the Pacific side and the other on the side interchangeably called the Sea of Cortez or the Gulf of California. Those trips were the foreplay of travel in Baja - they made me want more.
I read, study maps, make mileage and time calculations. I take this factual material into my day dreams. I picture our camp set up under a small grove of palm trees on a cerulean lagoon. Islands float on the still surface. The sun shines. The water is warm. This isn't a fantasy beach. It's Bahia de la Concepcion. We can get there in our regular passenger car without traveling too far from the main highway. The paved road was only completed a year ago, in 1973. I want to go before the wildlife learns to stay away, before the fast food, motels, and moblitude arrive. If I'd been alive when the railroad to the west had just been completed, I would have made that trip. I'd have worried about Indian attacks, but I'd have been on that train - with a companion. It's not solitude I seek. I'm attracted to a geography in which nature remains dominant, but I live in a place like that now. Why do I want to leave?
Then we start building a house on our property and can't afford a trip. I learn to use a staple gun, hammer, and tape measure. I cut and lay linoleum and ceramic tiles, install insulation, paint, make curtains. Have another baby. Boy, can that put a trip on hold. But though my lonely days at loose ends are past, I save my books and maps and
scraps of notes on the Baja drive. I'm putting down roots in the redwoods and the community, but that doesn't keep me from wanting to travel.
When the baby, Gino, is two and a half, Rich sixteen, and Fawn fourteen, we finally make the Baja drive. When we're almost to Cabo, we make a detour to a friend's family place in the private enclave of Las Barracas. A hand drawn map shows that shortly after we cross an arroyo, we turn off the main road onto dirt and gravel. The map is good. We find Las Barracas. Our friend's house, which we have to ourselves, is as close to the ocean as it can get without falling in. There are no other tourists, no commercial facilities. Luckily, we have provisions. Unluckily, the plastic tube with a picture of a pig on it turns out to be pork lard rather than pork sausage. Gene, Rich, and Fawn paddle out in a small boat and dive for oysters. I dip the shucked oysters in seasoned cornmeal, fry them, and serve with wedges of juicy little limes. They are the best oysters we've ever had. We don't miss the sausage. We decide to skip going to Cabo, so we can stay a little longer in our hidden paradise.
It's raining when we leave, but we don't have any trouble on the dirt and gravel roads. Rich and Fawn cheer when we reach the main highway because, on the smoother surface, they can read and sleep. Gene and I are happy, too, because we've put the potential problems of a muddy road safely behind us.
Soon we come to where the highway crosses the arroyo. The road is flooded. This shouldn't come as such a surprise since arroyo is Spanish for creek, but it was perfectly dry when we came this way a few days earlier. Now a long line of vehicles back up on either side of the water. I wonder how long it'll take for this to drain, I ask aloud. Longer than we have says Gene. Th
is is what can happen when a road follows the lay-of-the-land rather than being engineered. We have a thousand miles of lay-of-the-land before we cross the border to perfectly engineered freeways. I wonder how many flooded arroyos await us along those miles? How many bridges washed out? How many detours?
People are out of their cars, smoking Record cigarettes, talking, watching the water not recede. A ballsy truck driver on the other side pulls out of the line of parked vehicles and drives right into the mess. He makes it across. Gene says, if we try that the floors and part of the seats will get soaked. Rich says, I could duct tape the outside of the doors and climb back in through a window. So he seals us up and into the deep we go. I pray to the travel gods that this isn't a terrible mistake.
We emerge on the other side, dry as toast. The brakes still work. The crowd claps and cheers. We could sell a case of duct tape, but we don't have any more. Let's leave the tape on says Gene. Just in case. We make it to our first camp site without having to ford another body of water and make spectacles of ourselves climbing out the windows. We aren't bothered. Our family faced a challenge together, and we are stronger for it, just as the inadequate food provisions earlier gave us an opportunity to provide for ourselves. When there are problems at home, we aren't always on the same team. There are kids versus adults, males against females, and every man for himself. Everyone has escape routes - an office, a friends house, the forest. Those options don't exist on the road. A family driving trip doesn't just force us to be together, it helps us to be together.
I know they'll tell their children this story some day. Their children will think that's the way it was in the olden days, but this is not the olden days. We are not pioneers. It's 1974 in Sonoma County, California, USA. I'm by myself in the redwoods because we don't have a second car or a first friend, and there's no public transportation. If I had a car, I could take the children to school. I could get a job. Then I wouldn't have too much time on my hands. I wouldn't be lonely. There are people who feel isolated in the midst of friends or family. That is not me. I am lonely when I'm alone. But relatives and friends are far away. Gene and the children aren't so distant, but they're gone most of my waking hours.
Cleaning our tiny home doesn't take long. It's a ten by forty-five foot trailer. One way I entertain myself is planning a driving trip from our Northern California location all the way down the Mexican peninsula of Baja California to land's end at Cabo San Lucas. We've made two short camping trips to the upper end, one on the Pacific side and the other on the side interchangeably called the Sea of Cortez or the Gulf of California. Those trips were the foreplay of travel in Baja - they made me want more.
I read, study maps, make mileage and time calculations. I take this factual material into my day dreams. I picture our camp set up under a small grove of palm trees on a cerulean lagoon. Islands float on the still surface. The sun shines. The water is warm. This isn't a fantasy beach. It's Bahia de la Concepcion. We can get there in our regular passenger car without traveling too far from the main highway. The paved road was only completed a year ago, in 1973. I want to go before the wildlife learns to stay away, before the fast food, motels, and moblitude arrive. If I'd been alive when the railroad to the west had just been completed, I would have made that trip. I'd have worried about Indian attacks, but I'd have been on that train - with a companion. It's not solitude I seek. I'm attracted to a geography in which nature remains dominant, but I live in a place like that now. Why do I want to leave?
Then we start building a house on our property and can't afford a trip. I learn to use a staple gun, hammer, and tape measure. I cut and lay linoleum and ceramic tiles, install insulation, paint, make curtains. Have another baby. Boy, can that put a trip on hold. But though my lonely days at loose ends are past, I save my books and maps and
scraps of notes on the Baja drive. I'm putting down roots in the redwoods and the community, but that doesn't keep me from wanting to travel.
When the baby, Gino, is two and a half, Rich sixteen, and Fawn fourteen, we finally make the Baja drive. When we're almost to Cabo, we make a detour to a friend's family place in the private enclave of Las Barracas. A hand drawn map shows that shortly after we cross an arroyo, we turn off the main road onto dirt and gravel. The map is good. We find Las Barracas. Our friend's house, which we have to ourselves, is as close to the ocean as it can get without falling in. There are no other tourists, no commercial facilities. Luckily, we have provisions. Unluckily, the plastic tube with a picture of a pig on it turns out to be pork lard rather than pork sausage. Gene, Rich, and Fawn paddle out in a small boat and dive for oysters. I dip the shucked oysters in seasoned cornmeal, fry them, and serve with wedges of juicy little limes. They are the best oysters we've ever had. We don't miss the sausage. We decide to skip going to Cabo, so we can stay a little longer in our hidden paradise.
It's raining when we leave, but we don't have any trouble on the dirt and gravel roads. Rich and Fawn cheer when we reach the main highway because, on the smoother surface, they can read and sleep. Gene and I are happy, too, because we've put the potential problems of a muddy road safely behind us.
Soon we come to where the highway crosses the arroyo. The road is flooded. This shouldn't come as such a surprise since arroyo is Spanish for creek, but it was perfectly dry when we came this way a few days earlier. Now a long line of vehicles back up on either side of the water. I wonder how long it'll take for this to drain, I ask aloud. Longer than we have says Gene. Th
is is what can happen when a road follows the lay-of-the-land rather than being engineered. We have a thousand miles of lay-of-the-land before we cross the border to perfectly engineered freeways. I wonder how many flooded arroyos await us along those miles? How many bridges washed out? How many detours?People are out of their cars, smoking Record cigarettes, talking, watching the water not recede. A ballsy truck driver on the other side pulls out of the line of parked vehicles and drives right into the mess. He makes it across. Gene says, if we try that the floors and part of the seats will get soaked. Rich says, I could duct tape the outside of the doors and climb back in through a window. So he seals us up and into the deep we go. I pray to the travel gods that this isn't a terrible mistake.
We emerge on the other side, dry as toast. The brakes still work. The crowd claps and cheers. We could sell a case of duct tape, but we don't have any more. Let's leave the tape on says Gene. Just in case. We make it to our first camp site without having to ford another body of water and make spectacles of ourselves climbing out the windows. We aren't bothered. Our family faced a challenge together, and we are stronger for it, just as the inadequate food provisions earlier gave us an opportunity to provide for ourselves. When there are problems at home, we aren't always on the same team. There are kids versus adults, males against females, and every man for himself. Everyone has escape routes - an office, a friends house, the forest. Those options don't exist on the road. A family driving trip doesn't just force us to be together, it helps us to be together.
Our second camp is at Bahia de la Concepcion. It's even more beautiful than I imagined. Tiny waves slide up and down the beach, barely breaking. The ultramarine water is so clear that we see pink and white murex shells resting on the bottom. At night the bay glows in the dark. In the morning a flock of pelicans fish for breakfast. They fold their wings and fall head first into the water. From the dry hills that rise behind the beach, doves call, coo-coo-roo-coo-coo. Rich and Fawn collect sand dollars and play in the water with their baby brother. I wish we had weeks instead of two days. The whole family agrees. Shared pleasures are as good as shared problems at strengthening bonds in a family, a couple, a group of friends, or between strangers.Crossing the narrow peninsula from the Sea of Cortez to the Pacific side, we drive for an hour without seeing another vehicle. Fawn sleeps. Rich reads a science fiction novel. They aren't concerned with scenery,. but when ever we stop, they're interested and involved. They are destination oriented. Our children aren't wanderers like Gene and I. Gene isn't out here in the middle of nowhere just to please me. He and I are travel soul mates.
We make a short detour to Guerrero Negro, hoping to see whales. Our timing is right - early January - yet it seems unrealistic to think we can simply drive to the end of the town pier and whales will be there, but they are. Two adults and a calf stay on the waters surface. Four local men fish from the side of the pier. Their portable radio is turned way up. Instead of being frightened off by the music, I think the whales are attracted. The love song "Nosotros" must be their favorite because while it plays, they come as close as they can get. If the pier platform weren't so high above the water, I'm sure we could touch them. We'll return, I promise.
That night, our last in Baja, we stay at the Celito Lindo Motel near San Quintin. I know one reason I travel is to feed the craving of my senses for something new - a taste, a smell, a sight, sound, sensation. A budget traveler in the US rarely finds any of these in connection with their accommodations, but I'm always fascinated by the unexpected luxuries found at inexpensive lodgings in Mexico. At the Celito Lindo it's floors, showers, and counter tops of marble-like onyx and an excellent seafood restaurant. Rich and Fawn watch Gino while Gene and I go to dinner. Lobster is cheap, and they squeeze fresh limes for their Margaritas. After we return, Rich and Fawn walk over to the restaurant for their lobster dinner. They feel incredibly grown up. I wouldn't be surprised if they had a Margarita. They are too young to buy drinks at home, but Mexico is another country, with different laws. It's the first time they've gone out to dinner alone together. On this trip, each has seen new aspects of the other that they enjoy or respect. They have shared new experiences and landscapes. They are closer. Baja was worth waiting for, even if we didn't make it to Cabo.
Ten years pass before we return to Baja California. Those years are over more quickly than the first months I spent in the forest at the end of the road. I'm still there, in the woods, but I'm happy now, even when I have itchy feet. I learned during the sad slow time that I can plan a trip, and that will help keep my toes from twitching too terribly. But I'm not allowed to help plan this trip. Gene says to butt out, this is his and Harry's trip. He doesn't usually talk to me like that. I'm hurt. But it does seem fair for him to get a turn planning.
They design a manly camping trip to a remote beach midway down the peninsula. Harry, his wife, Anita, and two year old Gabrielle are in their four wheel drive Trooper, while Gene, Gino, his buddy Bryan, and me are in ours. We are the "Trooperadors."
We look like we're moving to Mexico or preparing to open a camping supply store. We have a tent, air mattresses, sleeping bags, table, chairs, Coleman stove, cooking and eating gear, food, clothes, two ice chests, enough water and packaged drinks for a week, wind surfer, surf board, boogie board, inflatable boat, crab trap, tackle box, fishing poles, pitch fork, collapsible bucket, a paddle ball game, snorkel gear, portable radio and tape deck, fireworks, camera, tripod, binoculars, tool box, books, sun shower, towels, and flashlights of all descriptions. Luckily, customs doesn't make us unpack when we cross the border at Tijuana.
We stay at the Celito Lindo, the same place we stayed before with all our children. The bathroom fixtures have corroded from the damp salt air, but the onyx hasn't deteriorated. This time it's Gino and Bryan baby-sitting while the adults go to dinner and then feeling grown up on their own later. The Margarita's are still dangerous and the food good. There are only three tables of diners and one man at the bar, but two different mariachi bands serenade us, fortunately not at the same time.
Our camping destination on the Sea of Cortez is Gonzaga Bay, at the end of two or three hours of dirt road, depending on the choice between two routes. We cut across, inland, a little south of Catavina on the two hour road. The way isn't frightening, but it's rough. We get a flat tire. Gene changes the flat, and we head down the rocky track again. There are no services until Gonzaga Bay, so I hope we don't have another flat. But we do. Since we had only one spare, now we have none. We're at Harry's mercy. He makes us promise never to vote Republican and lets us use his spare. After that, we
have no spare tires between us. Gene beats himself up for not bringing more than one. I don't know how we could have brought anything more. Both cars are packed like puzzles. I'm not the only one worried now. We aren't exactly on a busy thoroughfare. How long would we wait for someone to come by and help us?
Our short caravan exchanges happy horn toots when the gulf comes into view, and soon we are there, without further mishap. We're able to buy a spare tire for $20.00.
Gonzaga Bay has a classic horseshoe shaped, white sand beach. Out in the blue water lies Willard Island. There's a backdrop of not so distant mountains. It takes thirty minutes to drive from one end to the other on a dirt back road. A small settlement is at either end with nothing in between but deserted beach. The guys decide to set up camp at Alphonsina's end of the cove. There are a few houses and trailers, mostly Americans, some with two seat planes in the driveway instead of cars, and Alphonsina's - four basic rooms for rent and a restaurant that has to be informed an hour ahead that you're coming to dinner and what you want to eat. The main item on their menu is shrimp which they get with their own shrimp boat that never needs to leave the bay.
Setting up is never the most pleasant part of a camping trip, especially if children are involved. They don't help as quickly, willingly, or long as needed, and quite a bit is needed for this unimproved site. There are no tables, barbecues, bathrooms, not even an outhouse.
Gene usually wants things done his way without having to play the tyrant, so he's patient with the boys. He's usually patient with me too, but not today. He snaps orders and criticisms. Ordinarily, I'd say something snappish back to him like, it's not my fault we had a flat tire. Oops, make that two. Or maybe I'd say, travel days are always hard; don't take it out on me. But I don't say anything because I know he doesn't love me right now. I don't want to make matters worse, and I wonder what made them bad to begin with. He hates my new short hair style, but he's not shallow enough to stop loving me over something like that, at least not permanently. If nothing else, my hair will grow out. But not on this trip.
It's unpleasantly windy and cooler than we expected. Gabrielle is fussy. Anita takes care of her, while Harry sets up camp alone. Then Harry tries to entertain Gabrielle while Anita prepares a dinner of garbonzo beans, dried mushrooms, and onions. Gene barbecues chicken for our family. He complains that I shouldn't have brought chicken quarters. He says they take too long to cook. We are all starving. Unfortunately, we're all hungry for barbecued chicken. Nobody is salivating for the garbonzo bean, dried mushrooms, and onion dish. We offer to share. Anita says no. Gabrielle starts to cry again. She begs for "bones." Harry gives her a chicken leg. Anita is hurt and furious that he's ignored her refusal, humiliated that her meal is not well received. At bedtime, the boys argue over the sleeping arrangements. We are not happy campers. A coyote howls in the desert behind us. He's answered by one on Willard Island. They sound as mournful as I feel. I want to howl with them.
The next morning, I wake to the beloved sound of surf, not wind. I climb out of the tent. I smell the warming earth, the salty sea, and the coffee Gene has already made. I pour myself a cup. Gene's down on the shore, setting up his wind surfer, back lit by a pagan purple and pink sunrise. A school of dolphins play in the bay, rising, diving, and rising again out of the water in a scallop design. Cormorants dive for fish, followed closely by a garbage patrol of seagulls. Gene looks up at me. Without thinking, without remembering that he doesn't want my attention, my love, or anything from me, I smile at him and at the wonder of the morning. He smiles back - the smile he's never learned to fake for the camera. His totally sincere, fabulous smile. He loves me again. He tells me he'd love me even if I had no hair, but maybe not on a two flat tire, setting up camp, travel day. I don't remind him that we weren't on the road when the unfriendliness began. I'm just glad it's over.
I like to think love warmed the weather and calmed the wind. Fanciful thoughts and far fetched dreams aren't out of place here. Words of Victor Hugo's come to me:
Anywhere one can dream is good
providing the place is obscure
and the horizon vast.
Gonzaga Bay is such a place in 1992. In the mountains behind us there isn't a single light at night. So far from electricity, the night sky is v
ery black and the stars very white. Although we're less than a fifteen minute walk from Alphonsina's, a vehicle passes our camp only two or three times a day, pedestrians even less. The bay is equally quiet: one sailboat, one shrimp boat, one wind surfer - Gene. Five small fishing boats go out beyond the bay each day. John Steinbeck said in his 1940's Log From The Sea Of Cortez, "Trying to remember the Gulf is like trying to re-create a dream." Is it a place to dream, or is it a dream?
One morning, at low tide, we all pile into one car, with our pitch fork and bucket, and drive to the laguna behind Alphonsina's. We walk out onto the glistening sand to dig for clams, but we don't need the fork. As though we've waded into the Garden of Eden, we scoop up small clams with our hands. Even little Gabrielle can do it. Within twenty minutes we have enough for two meals. The clams taste like tiny miracles.
From our camp, we look across the bay to Willard Island. It's uninhabited, with a minor shipwreck at one end, a suitable reminder of why a beacon is installed at that end. We've never used our inflatable boat, and Harry and Anita haven't used theirs either. Willard Island beckons. We take turns at the foot pump, inflating the boats. Everyone is excited about the maiden voyage of our small fleet. Half way there, one of our plastic paddles snaps in half, and the part that isn't in Gene's hand sinks before we can save it. Harry rescues us again, this time with an extra paddle and earns the honorary title of "Baja Harry." It never occurred to us not to leave shore without an extra paddle, but fifteen minutes later, when the spare breaks, at least I'm swift enough to retrieve the paddle part before it sinks. What is this two time deal? First tires, now paddles. Gene's self respect is somewhat assuaged by the fact that he has not only brought duct tape, something we never travel without, but more important, he has it on the little yellow boat. He tapes the two paddle pieces together, and we complete the voyage in an hour and a half.
We snorkel around the rocky shore of the island, and explore on land too. One of the coyotes that we hear howling and yipping at night shows himself. After a picnic lunch, we launch the boats for "home." A pair of seals come close to check us out. Evidently, we're fairly interesting, because they stay with us for a good part of the return paddle.
Gene and the boys are in charge of fireworks each night but the first. It's hard to say which of them is the most excited. We all look forward to the display. We know we won't start a forest fire, destroy anyone's home, or get in trouble with the law. Our last night, right after our last bottle rocket blooms and sparkles over the bay, someone down the beach reciprocates with their own fireworks. It's a fine good-bye to a beautiful bay.
Our return route is along the Sea of Cortez beneath a sky blue as a flame. Clouds stand erect and proud, as if they feel their home is superior to the sea below. Vegetation is sparse, but the sea is often in sight, sometimes up close and intimate, other times a vista from a hill top. Three hours of dirt road brings us to the tacky little community of Puertocitos. From there to the border the road is paved. Mesquite, ocotillo, smoke trees, cholla and cardon cactus look friendlier than usual now, when they're in bloom.
We spend our last night in Baja in Mexicali, on the California and Mexico border, enjoying the luxuries of the cities best hotel, the Lucerno, as only those who have been camping can. A shower with endless hot water and a bed in the most humble establishment would be cause for celebration, but we also have a swimming pool with a waterfall and a fountain. We have room service. We have a sumptuous breakfast buffet. We have a big bill. We don't care, because we have no bill for our preceding five nights accommodations.
When the opportunity finally comes for me to go all the way to Cabo San Lucas, I hesitate. It has become a true tourist Mecca with the familiar fast-food outlets, hotels for all budgets, many golf courses, night clubs, and condominiums. Everything I hoped to avoid by rushing down the road before the asphalt cooled, has happened at the end of the road. Even Terry, who extends the invitation to stay at her family condo, declares Cabo "ruined." My eyes narrow. And I would want to go there because...? It's a very nice condo, and it's free she says. It's a mother and daughter trip, and it's free. All the mothers are your good friends, and it's free she says. So I go. It isn't free. There's airfare, car rental, meals out, Pina Coladas on the beach, Pacificos at the swim up bar. It all adds up, but it's worth every peso. It's not just the time with my daughter and all the other women. It's weather and water warm enough to make a bedtime dip a sensuous pleasure. It's tuna
so fresh it still shimmers with yellow until it becomes part of a fish t
aco. We don't have this at home. This isn't home. Even the familiar feels fresh in new surroundings. Fawn and I play cribbage at the Hotel Cabo San Lucas beach bar. There are no other commercial establishments in sight. We face the ocean. Even in Cabo, the horizon is endless, when you look out to sea.
I tell Terry that Cabo isn't ruined. It's just changed. I've changed too. I've traveled a zillion miles of unpaved road, been in wild and remote places, but I've discovered I also love some big cities and resorts. I'm a bit wanton in my desires, as those in the throes of lust are wont to be.
That lonely woman with too much time on her hands also had an undiagnosed case of wanderlust. That busy woman with friends and family near at hand has it still. A map. A road. An unseen beach. I turn my back on a place I love to wander the world. But I return to the end of the road less paved where the dream of Cabo first began.
They design a manly camping trip to a remote beach midway down the peninsula. Harry, his wife, Anita, and two year old Gabrielle are in their four wheel drive Trooper, while Gene, Gino, his buddy Bryan, and me are in ours. We are the "Trooperadors."
We look like we're moving to Mexico or preparing to open a camping supply store. We have a tent, air mattresses, sleeping bags, table, chairs, Coleman stove, cooking and eating gear, food, clothes, two ice chests, enough water and packaged drinks for a week, wind surfer, surf board, boogie board, inflatable boat, crab trap, tackle box, fishing poles, pitch fork, collapsible bucket, a paddle ball game, snorkel gear, portable radio and tape deck, fireworks, camera, tripod, binoculars, tool box, books, sun shower, towels, and flashlights of all descriptions. Luckily, customs doesn't make us unpack when we cross the border at Tijuana.
We stay at the Celito Lindo, the same place we stayed before with all our children. The bathroom fixtures have corroded from the damp salt air, but the onyx hasn't deteriorated. This time it's Gino and Bryan baby-sitting while the adults go to dinner and then feeling grown up on their own later. The Margarita's are still dangerous and the food good. There are only three tables of diners and one man at the bar, but two different mariachi bands serenade us, fortunately not at the same time.
Our camping destination on the Sea of Cortez is Gonzaga Bay, at the end of two or three hours of dirt road, depending on the choice between two routes. We cut across, inland, a little south of Catavina on the two hour road. The way isn't frightening, but it's rough. We get a flat tire. Gene changes the flat, and we head down the rocky track again. There are no services until Gonzaga Bay, so I hope we don't have another flat. But we do. Since we had only one spare, now we have none. We're at Harry's mercy. He makes us promise never to vote Republican and lets us use his spare. After that, we
have no spare tires between us. Gene beats himself up for not bringing more than one. I don't know how we could have brought anything more. Both cars are packed like puzzles. I'm not the only one worried now. We aren't exactly on a busy thoroughfare. How long would we wait for someone to come by and help us?Our short caravan exchanges happy horn toots when the gulf comes into view, and soon we are there, without further mishap. We're able to buy a spare tire for $20.00.
Gonzaga Bay has a classic horseshoe shaped, white sand beach. Out in the blue water lies Willard Island. There's a backdrop of not so distant mountains. It takes thirty minutes to drive from one end to the other on a dirt back road. A small settlement is at either end with nothing in between but deserted beach. The guys decide to set up camp at Alphonsina's end of the cove. There are a few houses and trailers, mostly Americans, some with two seat planes in the driveway instead of cars, and Alphonsina's - four basic rooms for rent and a restaurant that has to be informed an hour ahead that you're coming to dinner and what you want to eat. The main item on their menu is shrimp which they get with their own shrimp boat that never needs to leave the bay.
Setting up is never the most pleasant part of a camping trip, especially if children are involved. They don't help as quickly, willingly, or long as needed, and quite a bit is needed for this unimproved site. There are no tables, barbecues, bathrooms, not even an outhouse.
Gene usually wants things done his way without having to play the tyrant, so he's patient with the boys. He's usually patient with me too, but not today. He snaps orders and criticisms. Ordinarily, I'd say something snappish back to him like, it's not my fault we had a flat tire. Oops, make that two. Or maybe I'd say, travel days are always hard; don't take it out on me. But I don't say anything because I know he doesn't love me right now. I don't want to make matters worse, and I wonder what made them bad to begin with. He hates my new short hair style, but he's not shallow enough to stop loving me over something like that, at least not permanently. If nothing else, my hair will grow out. But not on this trip.
It's unpleasantly windy and cooler than we expected. Gabrielle is fussy. Anita takes care of her, while Harry sets up camp alone. Then Harry tries to entertain Gabrielle while Anita prepares a dinner of garbonzo beans, dried mushrooms, and onions. Gene barbecues chicken for our family. He complains that I shouldn't have brought chicken quarters. He says they take too long to cook. We are all starving. Unfortunately, we're all hungry for barbecued chicken. Nobody is salivating for the garbonzo bean, dried mushrooms, and onion dish. We offer to share. Anita says no. Gabrielle starts to cry again. She begs for "bones." Harry gives her a chicken leg. Anita is hurt and furious that he's ignored her refusal, humiliated that her meal is not well received. At bedtime, the boys argue over the sleeping arrangements. We are not happy campers. A coyote howls in the desert behind us. He's answered by one on Willard Island. They sound as mournful as I feel. I want to howl with them.
The next morning, I wake to the beloved sound of surf, not wind. I climb out of the tent. I smell the warming earth, the salty sea, and the coffee Gene has already made. I pour myself a cup. Gene's down on the shore, setting up his wind surfer, back lit by a pagan purple and pink sunrise. A school of dolphins play in the bay, rising, diving, and rising again out of the water in a scallop design. Cormorants dive for fish, followed closely by a garbage patrol of seagulls. Gene looks up at me. Without thinking, without remembering that he doesn't want my attention, my love, or anything from me, I smile at him and at the wonder of the morning. He smiles back - the smile he's never learned to fake for the camera. His totally sincere, fabulous smile. He loves me again. He tells me he'd love me even if I had no hair, but maybe not on a two flat tire, setting up camp, travel day. I don't remind him that we weren't on the road when the unfriendliness began. I'm just glad it's over.
I like to think love warmed the weather and calmed the wind. Fanciful thoughts and far fetched dreams aren't out of place here. Words of Victor Hugo's come to me:
Anywhere one can dream is good
providing the place is obscure
and the horizon vast.
Gonzaga Bay is such a place in 1992. In the mountains behind us there isn't a single light at night. So far from electricity, the night sky is v
ery black and the stars very white. Although we're less than a fifteen minute walk from Alphonsina's, a vehicle passes our camp only two or three times a day, pedestrians even less. The bay is equally quiet: one sailboat, one shrimp boat, one wind surfer - Gene. Five small fishing boats go out beyond the bay each day. John Steinbeck said in his 1940's Log From The Sea Of Cortez, "Trying to remember the Gulf is like trying to re-create a dream." Is it a place to dream, or is it a dream?One morning, at low tide, we all pile into one car, with our pitch fork and bucket, and drive to the laguna behind Alphonsina's. We walk out onto the glistening sand to dig for clams, but we don't need the fork. As though we've waded into the Garden of Eden, we scoop up small clams with our hands. Even little Gabrielle can do it. Within twenty minutes we have enough for two meals. The clams taste like tiny miracles.
From our camp, we look across the bay to Willard Island. It's uninhabited, with a minor shipwreck at one end, a suitable reminder of why a beacon is installed at that end. We've never used our inflatable boat, and Harry and Anita haven't used theirs either. Willard Island beckons. We take turns at the foot pump, inflating the boats. Everyone is excited about the maiden voyage of our small fleet. Half way there, one of our plastic paddles snaps in half, and the part that isn't in Gene's hand sinks before we can save it. Harry rescues us again, this time with an extra paddle and earns the honorary title of "Baja Harry." It never occurred to us not to leave shore without an extra paddle, but fifteen minutes later, when the spare breaks, at least I'm swift enough to retrieve the paddle part before it sinks. What is this two time deal? First tires, now paddles. Gene's self respect is somewhat assuaged by the fact that he has not only brought duct tape, something we never travel without, but more important, he has it on the little yellow boat. He tapes the two paddle pieces together, and we complete the voyage in an hour and a half.
We snorkel around the rocky shore of the island, and explore on land too. One of the coyotes that we hear howling and yipping at night shows himself. After a picnic lunch, we launch the boats for "home." A pair of seals come close to check us out. Evidently, we're fairly interesting, because they stay with us for a good part of the return paddle.
Gene and the boys are in charge of fireworks each night but the first. It's hard to say which of them is the most excited. We all look forward to the display. We know we won't start a forest fire, destroy anyone's home, or get in trouble with the law. Our last night, right after our last bottle rocket blooms and sparkles over the bay, someone down the beach reciprocates with their own fireworks. It's a fine good-bye to a beautiful bay.Our return route is along the Sea of Cortez beneath a sky blue as a flame. Clouds stand erect and proud, as if they feel their home is superior to the sea below. Vegetation is sparse, but the sea is often in sight, sometimes up close and intimate, other times a vista from a hill top. Three hours of dirt road brings us to the tacky little community of Puertocitos. From there to the border the road is paved. Mesquite, ocotillo, smoke trees, cholla and cardon cactus look friendlier than usual now, when they're in bloom.
We spend our last night in Baja in Mexicali, on the California and Mexico border, enjoying the luxuries of the cities best hotel, the Lucerno, as only those who have been camping can. A shower with endless hot water and a bed in the most humble establishment would be cause for celebration, but we also have a swimming pool with a waterfall and a fountain. We have room service. We have a sumptuous breakfast buffet. We have a big bill. We don't care, because we have no bill for our preceding five nights accommodations.
When the opportunity finally comes for me to go all the way to Cabo San Lucas, I hesitate. It has become a true tourist Mecca with the familiar fast-food outlets, hotels for all budgets, many golf courses, night clubs, and condominiums. Everything I hoped to avoid by rushing down the road before the asphalt cooled, has happened at the end of the road. Even Terry, who extends the invitation to stay at her family condo, declares Cabo "ruined." My eyes narrow. And I would want to go there because...? It's a very nice condo, and it's free she says. It's a mother and daughter trip, and it's free. All the mothers are your good friends, and it's free she says. So I go. It isn't free. There's airfare, car rental, meals out, Pina Coladas on the beach, Pacificos at the swim up bar. It all adds up, but it's worth every peso. It's not just the time with my daughter and all the other women. It's weather and water warm enough to make a bedtime dip a sensuous pleasure. It's tuna
so fresh it still shimmers with yellow until it becomes part of a fish t
aco. We don't have this at home. This isn't home. Even the familiar feels fresh in new surroundings. Fawn and I play cribbage at the Hotel Cabo San Lucas beach bar. There are no other commercial establishments in sight. We face the ocean. Even in Cabo, the horizon is endless, when you look out to sea.I tell Terry that Cabo isn't ruined. It's just changed. I've changed too. I've traveled a zillion miles of unpaved road, been in wild and remote places, but I've discovered I also love some big cities and resorts. I'm a bit wanton in my desires, as those in the throes of lust are wont to be.
That lonely woman with too much time on her hands also had an undiagnosed case of wanderlust. That busy woman with friends and family near at hand has it still. A map. A road. An unseen beach. I turn my back on a place I love to wander the world. But I return to the end of the road less paved where the dream of Cabo first began.
This essay first appeared in COLORADO REVIEW, Summer 2002
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