The first time I heard about kayaking trips to Baja during the California Gray Whale calving season, I knew I wanted to go someday. So when Steve emailed, "I'm thinking we should go ahead and reserve vacation time and a spot on one of those baja kayaking trips" last October, I was happy to agree with him!
We had taken a rather aimless and disappointing "vacation" in October that involved a lot of driving and very little FUN. I had returned to work feeling like I'd wasted a week, no less stressed than when I left. I still had a week of vacation time, and we had had some kayaking classes with Blue Waters Kayak, and had gotten our kayaks and equipment from them, so I felt they were a good bet for a TRUE vacation that would encompass our interest in kayaking with semitropical weather and wildlife.
Steve made the reservations, and we got booked on the trip of a lifetime: an 8-day combo tour, an intinary of one night in a hotel to get oriented, three nights camping and whale watching on Magdalena Bay, and finally three nights at an eco-retreat on the Sea of Cortez.
Sunday, February 3, 2008: Santa Rosa to Loreto
We wake early on Sunday morning and head for the nearby Santa Rosa airport—probably the easiest trip to the airport ever! We fly from Santa Rosa to LA, and then from LA to Loreto, Mexico, on small planes.
I've flown in and out of the little Santa Rosa airport a few times now. I love it. It's an easy 30 minute drive for us, vs. Oakland or SFO at about 90 minutes— often with deranged drivers on all sides—and the flights are low-altitude, straight down the Richardson and San Francisco bays. I'm still trying to catch a flight where I can get photos, but it always seems to be dark. Even so, the copper-colored lights of Marin County make it look like some sort of delightful bioluminescent underwater creature, and then the Golden Gate and San Francisco look like small complicated toys.
We have a long stopover at LAX, but this is strangely not irritating. We just take it in stride. Then we're on a jet heading south directly above the "Sea of Cortez," which I prefer to call the "Gulf of California." We're on the west (right) side of the plane, so the Baja California peninsula unreels beside us. It looks unforgivingly dry and jagged, and virtually uninhabited—maybe uninhabitable. Then, we break out over the dark blue water of the Gulf, and circle over a small town on a turquoise bay, and this is Loreto, our destination.
The airport at Loreto is quite small; we exit onto the tarmac, passports and customs forms in hand, and form a line under a thatched-roof area outside of the building to show our passports. Our luggage travels next to us, making its way to the conveyer belt that snakes inside the building... it was a little funny to see both sides of the luggage carousel through the windows. Nothing special happens... a guy just laboriously places each piece of luggage on the cart. Our passports accepted, we go inside and wait for our bags to be unloaded and rotated around to us.
Two planes have landed at almost the same time (and I think they're the only flights from the US to arrive daily... I guess that makes it easy for tour companies to pick up all their folks at once!) The terminal isn't really large enough for two planes full of gringos with bags and gringo fisherman with ice chests, so it's a little chaotic. Still, we manage to get our bags and get them onto the security machine. They go through... it's hard to say if anyone actually looked at them... then we're instructed to press a button that lights up a light. If it's green, we can take our bags and go. If it's red, we've been selected for a random bag check. I hit the button and it lights up red. We haul our bags over to the customs stop and place them on the table. The customs guys wave us through without touching our bags, so we hustle to grab everything and exit. At the exit, we see a woman holding a "Blue Waters Kayak" sign and we get her attention. She motions to someone behind her and suddenly two guys are grabbing all our bags from us...wondering if there's a more formal checkin or if these guys are really with Blue Waters, I decide to stay with our luggage and run out after them. The bags go into a van and everything seems on the up and up; we just have to wait for the rest of the folks on our tour. We're in Mexico!
I barely understand a word that is spoken, though it is almost all English. There should be a name for the helplessness one feels upon arrival in a place where the primary language is unknown—a word, maybe, that combines "linguist," "squeamish," and "anguish" . . . "linguish"?
Our stuff is piled in a white Dodge van, and hovering near it, we meet some of our co-tourists for this vacation: Sue from San Diego and Kathy from San Francisco, and Brenda from Lake Tahoe and Janet from LA. Another person has not appeared—we'll meet her later. Our driver for this short trip and all others is a garrulous fellow named Gerardo(?). He takes us to the bustling seaside town of Loreto and our hotel, the Oasis.
Our hotel room, for an extra $20 or so, includes a patio that looks out on the beach. Even with the barbed wire, it's a great view, one that immediately puts me into relaxed tropical vacation mode. After depositing our five large pieces of luggage and two or three carryons, we venture out along the waterfront, and then turn our attention toward finding a bite to eat. I'm not altogether comfortable on the streets of Loreto with an expensive-looking (but actually pretty cheap) camera around my neck and a large amount of cash in my pockets, but also not altogether UNcomfortable. Nobody gives us the predatory kinds of looks we might get in the worse parts of Santa Rosa.
As it happens, the US National Football League "Super Bowl" is about to start. We find an open-fronted bar/restaurant and immediately set upon a basket of chips and tray of guacamole and varietal salsas, and tall, slim, and handsome bottles of mexican beer con limon (did I say that right?). The Super Bowl is presented and called entirely in Spanish, without any of the high-dollar US commercials (they may be high-dollar Mexican commercials, but I rather suspect not)—PERFECT. After the delicious chips, salsas, and beer, we consume most of a disappointing chili relleno and leave.
I try the TV in the room, and the Super Bowl isn't on any of the nine or ten channels. I had thought I would miss the game on this trip, and honestly hadn't shed any tears over it, but knowing it (and more beer) was available in the hotel bar, I opted to check it out. So I watch the Patriotas take a siesta and the Gigantes play "American" football in chilly Arizona, trying to pace myself with the Coronas and limes. We are to meet our guide here tonight at 7:30.
I opt for a nap instead of football...a common Sunday decision for me, but I'm also getting over the flu which had grounded me on Wednesday and Thursday. So I take a very fine nap, then head for the bar to meet our guide and fellow travelers.
When I get to the bar, it's obvious that we've got a lively group. In addition to Steve and me, there are the four women introduced above, and the fifth, Jan, arrives shortly after we begin introductions. She's come all the way from Connecticut on her second attempt to make this trip; two weeks ago, weather and airport delays forced her to cancel and reschedule. This time she made it...but her luggage didn't. But she seems to be an experienced traveler and is completly unfazed by this.
Eli, our guide, is a young fit-looking fellow. As he starts going through all our orientation information, he has to compete with the football game for everyone's attention, but takes it all in stride. During introductions he asks what we want to get out of the trip; among other things, I want to see a Crested Caracara. He helpfully describes where to look on our drive out tomorrow.
We turn in at a reasonable hour, falling asleep to the din of cars driving around honking their horns. Being stupdily ethnocentric, I express surprise that there's so much reaction to the Super Bowl here. Later I'm chagrined to learn that the honking was due to the election results... on the way into town, we saw polling places. A new city government had been elected... our driver, Gerardo, did not seem impressed. Just different bandits, he explained.
Monday, February 4, 2008: Loreto to Magdelena Bay Whale Camp
It's a beautiful morning in Loreto. I'm happy for our ocean-view room, and watch a beautiful sunrise spread out over water.
Breakfast is at the hotel, along a pretty outdoor area painted in bright colors that shine in the sun. Our waiter is a friendly fellow who offers coffee, calling it "Black Tequila." I order eggs, am delighted by the warm tortillas, and just feel that everything is going swimmingly.
Breakfast in Loreto
It's really truly like a vacation now, sitting on a sundappled deck with low brightly painted buildings behind and the wide spread of beach before us. I should've got the fruit plate—more in keeping with the tropical flavor.
But breakfast unfortunately ends for me with a dash back to the bathroom in our hotel room. I'm happy that I brought Imodium, but now apprehensive about the van ride and kayaking to come later in the day. Thankfully, the Imodium works. I didn't drank the water, so I'm not sure what's causing this.
We pile all our luggage back into Gerardo's van, and soon we're winding our way through the mountains outside of Loreto, on our way over to Magdalena Bay on the Pacific side. The landscape is just beautiful; it's a lush, rugged desert. Free range cattle pose a driving hazard here, and we see them standing near the road, shaggy beasts with sharp horns. There are few houses (other than a couple of horrible condo developments we pass right outside of Loreto).
Gerardo tells us about a seven-year-old boy he once picked up hitchhiking along this road. He lived on a remote rancho here, and would walk to the road and get a ride into a town where he'd attend school during the week. Then he'd hitchhike back, and walk over the mountain to his home. Gerardo asked him about life on the rancho, and asked if he ever saw snakes out there. Oh yes, the boy told him... in fact, one time his brother and he were playing and found a rattlesnake. The snake bit the younger brother, and the older one ran back to the house to get help. By the time he returned with his father, the younger brother was already dead. Gerardo was shocked by this story, but the boy went on that they also had [mountain] lions. In fact, his mom and 2-year-old sister went to tend the goats one day, and the sister and two goats where killed by two lions that were waiting.
Gerardo asked the boy if he liked going to school in town. The boy replied no... he prefered life on the rancho much more than town.
It's one of the best stories I've ever heard!
We continue along, learning about some of the plants, wildlife, and climate from Gerardo. A little over half-way to our destination, we stop in Ciudad Insurgentes for restrooms and any extra supplies we want to buy.
Now, part of the checklist when we paid for the trip concerned whether or not we wanted to have beer or wine. They made it sound like we would not have beer or wine if we didn't pre-reserve it through Blue Waters. We don't drink at home, and haven't drunk much out lately either, so this was not a concern for us at all. However, when the van pulls up to a store at Ciudad Insurgentes, EVERYone piles out, storms the market, and comes out with CASES of beer and large bottles of tequila. Eating my small bag of potato chips, I feel a little pang of... maybe I should buy some beer or something.
Between Ciudad Insurgentes and Magdalena Bay, there's a long stretch of road with power lines and poles. Every few poles, there's an extra platform above the wires, and on every platform, there's a large nest. And most of those nests have osprey sitting on them! We see dozens of osprey nests here, one after another. And soon we start seeing something more exciting... Crested Caracaras! It isn't easy to bird out of the van, but I get good looks at a couple of birds anyhow. Steve gets a good look at a hawk that seems to have white on its tail, and a quick look at Sibley confirms that we might be able to pick up a second life-raptor here... Harris Hawks! But we have to make do with quick looks for now.
Soon we leave the paved highway and are traversing a one-lane dirt road, crossed by countless other dirt roads. If Gerardo wants to rob us, he could certainly leave us out here with good odds of us never finding our way out. But of course he is not interested in our cases of beer and tequila, and in fact provides a nice tour, displaying an impressive knowledge of local flora and fauna as well as local human customs.
We arrive at a meeting place that seems to be an old mining area. It's a strange combination of scenic shoreline, with lots of little wildflowers and osprey nests, and abandoned industrial area, with discarded equipment and bits of trash strewn about.
Yes, I didn't hear the whole story, but there was once some sort of port here, with a significantly large operation where ships would come in and load/unload by way of a large crane that has now fallen off its cement station into the waters of "Mag Bay."
Our luggage is moved from the van into a waiting Panga (pronounced pong-uh), the small fishing boats we'll become more familiar with during our trip. It will be delivered to the camp for us. There's another van with gear, and some other Blue Waters staff waiting for us.
There's empanadas for lunch. But I'm feeling nauseous and weak and cold... not good. I skip it altogether, finally asking if it's ok if I sit in the van. Eli's girlfriend and fellow guide, Erin, is there, and talks to me a bit; I get the impression that she's trying to figure out how sick I am without actually encouraging me to be sick. I'm pretty confident that I can do (and not necessarily enjoy) the paddle to our island, and feel like I'll be fine if I don't have to stand around waiting too much and expend energy on conversation. We get our spray skirts, personal flotation devices (PFDs...what we used to call "life jackets"), and paddles, and Eli starts explaining what we'll be doing next. The clouds move in, a light rain starts.
The weather here is not encouraging, after the sun and warmth of the Gulf side and center of the peninsula. At one point, everyone piles into the van to avoid getting soaked and chilled to the bone.
Fortunately, it soon clears to a light mist; Eli and Erin are familiar with reading the weather and I'm grateful for their expertise. I really can't tell if the blue area of the sky is just a break in the clouds or actual clearing skies. Happily, we're able to dislodge ourselves from the van and get ready to go.
Eli is very good throughout on explaining what to expect next, and giving us choices, and pushing a little but not too much to get us out and doing stuff. He's a really low-key guy, but a superb guide. I much prefer him to that more typical bouncy go-getter type you might expect to see here.
We suit up (for the uninitiated, this involves donning waterproof paddle jackets, spray skirts that you wear like suspenders that stretch over the opening of the kayak to provide a watertight seal, and PFDs (personal flotation devices; i.e. life vests)), install ourselves into our kayaks, and push off into the mangrove-lined waters of Magdalena Bay.
View Larger Map
Magdalena Bay is a maze of waterways around mangrove islands on the Pacific side of the Baja California Sur peninsula. It is protected and separated from the ocean by several long thin islands.
Our group is basically comprised of three pairs—Terrie and me, Sue and Kathy, and Brenda and Janette—and three "singles"—Jan, our Guide Eli, and the love of his life Erin, who is also a guide but is off-duty for this excursion. We acquire tandem and single kayaks accordingly. The paddle to camp is about an hour, but Terrie is deathly ill and sitting behind me such that I can't easily check on her, and we don't really know how close to an hour it will really be and have no idea how close we are until we're actually pulling up onto the beach, so it seems pretty long. But it's pretty cool scenery--relatively calm water, with islands covered end to end with mangroves usually right up to the water.
We've done tandem sit-on-top kayaks before, but not the enclosed kind. These kayaks also have rudders, operated by the person in the rear. Terrie does a great job of keeping us pointed the right direction without a lot of zig-zagging (which I tend to do when I'm steering), AND keeping in time with my erratic paddling without hitting paddles.
We reach camp right around the time I'm starting to get tired and cranky, but just soon enough to avoid that.
Steve is getting tired because he's doing most of the paddling here. I try to pull my weight, but there are times when it's all I can do to just sit and hold the paddle. Erin keeps an eye on us without hovering. When we arrive at camp, Eli begins orientation, and a cup of ginger tea appears in front of me; Erin recommends it for the nausea, and it's a great recommendation. I will never forget the kindness of that cup of tea.
We have a Mexican cook already on the island, "Lala," who will be with us through our four days and three nights. I don't think she speaks a word of English, but she seems shy anyway, like she probably wouldn't talk much even if we were all fluent. Meals will be at 8am, 1pm, and 6pm every day.
The accommodations are lush. Our Mountain Hardwear tent would sleep three or even four in relative comfort; there are flaps at both ends for ease of entry (more importantly, for flow-through vemntilatiom later); it's palatial for the two of us and all of our gear. Large pockets in the walls hold everything we might want to have off the floor—glasses, watch, flashlight... The sleeping pads are three-inch Thermarests with fleece covers.
Our tents at whale camp.
Domes for gathering and cooking at whale camp.
After orientation, I crawl into the sun-warmed tent, unpack the sleeping bags and pull them over me, and shiver and sleep a feverish afternoon away. In between times of sleeping, I wake and ponder the wisdom of putting myself out on a remote island in the middle of nowhere when I'm obviously sick with god knows what. I also think that I'd like to have a Buddhist funeral and hope that Steve knows it's ok to have me cremated here and just take the ashes home instead of going to the expense to fly a body back to the states. I'm able to laugh to myself a little over this, but I try not to think too much of the unfairness of feeling this sick on a dream vacation because I'm afraid I'll start crying and won't be able to stop. Thankfully, I mainly just sleep.
Figuring Terrie just needs peace and quiet, I take a walk, first to the east (which, Eli doesn't mention, is only open for maybe 200 yards—as soon as I round the corner, it's impassable marsh and mangrove), then around the top of the island to the northwest. There I can walk at least a mile or two, finding lots of interesting shells and flora. I'm not sure what everyone else does during this time, but I suspect it falls into two categories: the nappers and the drinkers.
I skip dinner, but Steve comes by the tent to see if I want anything. Maybe fruit? He brings an orange and a banana, and the orange turns out to be the best-tasting thing I've had in my life, ever. It's succulent and sweet and cool, and after eating it I feel much better. I even raid Steve's bag of ginger snaps, which are the second best-tasting thing I've ever eaten.
We're out for the night, shortly after sunset—by 8pm easily. It's warm enough in the tent to sleep with sleeping bags spread over us rather than zipped around us.
I wake and venture out to the "comfort station" at about 3:30 am. The stars are incredible.
I venture out once in the night also, enjoying the privacy to figure out the bathroom situation. The materials I read about the trip noted that, "For your comfort we provide privacy-screened toilet facilities." At whale camp, here's the real situation: there's two camp toilets, with a screen around three sides, for solid waste; we can use either of those. For peeing, you're supposed to go out to the edges of camp and go below the tide line. I'm a greenhorn when it comes to peeing on the ground...I've made it through all these years without doing it with only a few exceptions, despite my love of hiking and the outdoors. I'm just not sure I can figure out how, without getting pee all over myself. But, at Magdalena Bay, I become a veritable pro at it, even learning advanced techniques like facing up-slope so that the runoff is behind you. Let's face it, no outdoor adventure is complete without learning a new skill!
Yeah, the fine points of outdoor pooping have eluded me for the most part. I manage to skulk off in the "wee" hours every night to take care of this. It is not pleasant or comfortable, but it's doable. There is a stick in the ground with a cloth "flag" you're supposed to raise when you are occupying the rest room to ensure privacy, but that open side does expose one in the daytime to anyone who might come up from the south/east—unlikely as that may be (but theree are fishermen sometimes directly across the water here) . They could have turned the whole thing 45-90 degrees (like the guides' toilet at the other end of camp, I might add) so the open side faces mangrove for complete privacy.
Somehow, Eli and Erin have managed to get a large amount of ice onto our little island. They are not averse to the occasional drop of tequila or beer, so maybe they secured it as a group thing that they could use if nobody else did. Anyway, it keeps the beer cold for the duration of our three-night stay.
Tuesday, February 5, 2008: Magdalena Bay Whale Camp
I can sense the sunrise from within the tent, as it starts to get lighter and the sounds of the shorebirds begin to rise. I'm happy to realize that I feel much, much better. Things are looking up!
Breakfast is at 8:00, and I'm introduced to the luxury of having meals prepared for us; and it's truly a luxury...I don't have to think about what to have, how to make it, or any of that...not even dishes, beyond my own utensils. Everything just appears, with no effort on my part. Lala puts food out on a table outside of the kitchen dome, and we serve ourselves and take our plates into the other dome, out of the wind, and enjoy the morning. I love to cook, but I'm really happy to be able to be immersed in other things on this trip.
Lala, our cook, with Erin and Eli our guides.
Today we will have our first of two scheduled whale-watching adventures. I have been whale-watching before in large boats in the Pacific Ocean near San Francisco, where we wandered about and saw maybe two or three (or no) whales. Here, a nice Mexican man (Fernando) drives his Panga right up onto the beach and we pile in and head out into Magdalena Bay. The Panga is a fairly light and quite powerful (usually a 115 engine, which I take to be horepower) open boat, which seats the 9 of us, including the driver, and might take one or two more. The Bay is mostly pretty calm, except near the mouth where the ocean comes in. Pretty quickly, we see a spout in the near distance and from then on it's pretty much constant whale-watching—either looking at whales close-up or spotting one nearby and going to investigate. They are almost all in mother-and-calf pairs. I don't know if it's even really describable, but suffice to say it is AMAZING to see a creature larger than the Panga and all of us in it, often coming within ten-20 feet of us, and making eye contact. Also, the "motherliness" of a whale shepherding its little one just makes you connect with them instantly on a very emotional level. We spend more than two hours out on the water with pair after pair of whales, and will do it again tomorrow morning—and ALL of us are happy to pay to do it again tomorrow afternoon.
The Pangas often skirt the choppy waves near where the ocean enters the bay and could make a person uneasy when the waves start getting in the six-eight foot range, but when they turn on the power, the boat seems to cut through pretty effortlessly, and take a tremendous pounding when getting airborne off the crests and slapping down into the troughs (the word "Whomp" frequently comes to mind).
The whale watching trips are hella fun. The boats are fast, and when we bounce over the waves it's pretty exciting.
Heading out for whale watching in a panga.
But the real attraction, of course, is the whales. It's so interesting to be out with them. We learn to spot "footprints"—big oval patches on the water, about the size of the panga, that are smoothed over, with the usual ripples oddly missing. This is a sign that a whale has surfaced and dove here. Once you learn what they are, they're unmistakably, and you get a feel for the direction to look for the next surfacing. The babies surface first, and seem to surface and breath four times for every breath mom takes.
Eli tells us that he's met Pancho, the son of the first fisherman here who had a encounter with a "friendly" years ago. A "friendly" is a whale that approaches close enough to touch, and seems to enjoy it. We're cautioned about touching the whales—don't try to touch around the blowhole, and don't try to grab a fluke. Eli related one of Pancho's stories of a guy who reached out to touch a fluke anyway, and was slapped in the face hard enough to break a tooth. (Eli also notes that dentristy in Insurgentes is probably not a great experience.) To encourage the whales to approach, we're instructed to make bubbles and splash with our hands in the water; Pancho told Eli that this is the best way to entice the babies to approach.
We get a few close approaches and splash dutifully, but don't have any takers among these whales. Still, we get incredible close views, unlike any whale watch trip I've ever been on before.
Mama whale comes in close; Eli splashes in the hopes of drawing the baby near.
I do, however, feel a little uneasy by how quickly we get to a whale once we've spotted them. I'm relieved to notice later that this may be a factor of panga driver habits. This driver is the most agressive we'll have. Still, we are thrilled to see the whales so closely. Whale watching Northern California-style will never seem as exciting as it once did. After two hours of this, we head back to camp for lunch.
There is a certain amount of lip-service paid to Lala's great cooking, "isn't this amazing?" etc. It is NOT gourmet cuisine, but it IS nothing short of amazing that she manages to provide reasonable variety, mostly vegetarian, three times a day, for nine people and herself (I'm assuming she does eat, though I never see it). I reach a point where I cannot and will not eat one more bean or chili, but even then, I still have options at every meal. She also manages to bake cakes for two different birthdays.
We get in a short paddle in the afternoon, exploring briefly around the sourth end of the island, including an ill-advised foray up the proverbial creek; we do have paddles, but not so's you'd notice. Eli comes back and bails us out. I feel like I should have gotten out of the boat and done this, but he is a few minutes ahead of me. I am glad to be prodded a bit to get out and paddle, rather than just lazing on the beach, and we do see some new birds, which Terrie will perhaps list, but including reddish and tri-colored egrets and little blue herons. I think Terrie gives Eli a bit of education in regard to birds.
Eli knows the birds here better than I do, and it's fun to trade bits of info back and forth. Steve is right on the new life birds: Reddish Egret, Tricolored Heron, and Little Blue Heron. Oh, also White Ibis. We get great looks at Yellow-crowned Night Herons foraging (I'd only seen one vagrant juvenile at Point Reyes before). In a marvelously diverse group of herons we also spot and have good looks at a Green Heron. Lots of Black-crowned Night Herons and Great Blue Herons add to the variety. I'm grateful to the non-birders in the group who are patient while we drink in good long looks. Someone comments that they're surprised when we see a bird I don't know, and I wonder if I've been overbearing about the birding. I'm a birder, but that doesn't mean I'm a good birder! One of the reasons I enjoy it so much is the constant process of discovery it offers me.
Wish I'd gotten better photos of each bird. But my Canon Powershot SD1000, especially acquired for this vacation after a search on "waterproof digital camera," seized up after ten photos, and I'm unwilling to take my "big" camera out in a kayak.
This paddle wears me out more than I'd like to admit. We have some current and wind to deal with, and I'm still not feeling completely well. But it was definitely worth it for the birds. Little Blue Heron, wow!
We have dinner in the dome, celebrating Janette's birthday with pineapple upside down cake and watching our companions enjoy their tequila. Tequila is the last thing I'd want right now, but I'm happy to sit in the cozy dome and enjoy it vicariously. We turn in early, again, with jokes about "Baja Midnight", which is around 7:30 or 8:00 pm.
Wednesday, February 6, 2008: Magdalena Bay Whale Camp
We sleep rather late, get out of the tent for breakfast at 8:00, and prepare for our second whale watching adventure.
Yes, this morning's driver is MUCH less aggressive in chasing the whales. Our last pilot, Fernando, was very good at anticipating where the whales would surface next and positioning the Panga so those of us on one or the other side would get a good view. This guy (whose name escapes me) seems to respond sluggishly or not at all sometimes when a whale is pointed out a couple hundred yards away, and he has a couple of cell-phone conversations that rather bring us all unhappily back to "civilization." Even so, we see almost as many whales as yesterday.
Whale-watching Steve.
Steve gets a group shot.
When our two hours are up, we head back towards camp in another fast panga ride. The boat narrowly misses a whale who surfaces right next to us as we pass...speed limits within the deeper areas of the bay might be a good idea.
I'm sitting on the left near the bow as we're speeding back to camp and suddenly the huge back of an adult whale appears right next to—almost under—us. By the time I can say "whoa," it's already past. There was no sound or feeling of impact, but we stop and look back. (The whale doesn't resurface, perhaps understandably.)
A full side view of a Panga.
Back at camp, we lunch and siesta... well, not siesta... we have long naps. After all, we have big plans for late afternoon.
Hear hear for the long nap! The weather is not hot enough to make tent-sleeping unpleasant, even in mid-day. A good thing, because Sleep We Must. We've all agreed to pitch in the additional $80 for an extra whale-watching excursion this afternoon.
Around 4pm, the panga arrives and we meet the driver, Juan. There's hope in our group that afternoon might provide even more whales, given the number of spouts we've seen during afternoons from camp. Usually there are more boats of tourists also, but we figure it's worth a try. We'd like to touch whales, and sometimes they're interested enough for this to happen.
Enjoying whale watching.
We have a fantastic time; Juan is my favorite driver. He combines an obvious respect for the whales with great timing and approach. At times we're in close proximity to two other boats...including one driven by our first driver, Fernando, who is zooming around to position as close as possible to the pair of whales we're watching. Juan moves off, seeing another pair in the distance, and it seems like a wise choice.
We get very close to some whales during this trip. A couple of times, babies come towards the side of the boat I'm on... never close enough to touch, but it's exciting to see them heading for us and then diving under the boat. It's easy to imagine that they're playing.
One mother surfaces directly in front of the boat, scaring us to death. But we aren't moving fast, and Juan explains that he cut the propeller as soon as he saw her, so there was no danger of her getting hit by that (the bigger danger seems to me to be of a direct collision).
As our hour ends, we encounter a mother and baby whale who actually seem interested in us, swimming around the boat and doing lots of spy hops, making eye contact with us. The sun starts to set as the two whales hang out with us, coming tantilizingly close; I splash like hell every time they approach, but just can't entice them to close the distance. It doesn't even matter at this point; this last mom and baby gave us a special experience that I'll never forget. I find myself stupidly waving to them when they surface with their heads out of the water. "Hi baby!" "Hi mamma!" It's ridiculous, but it's just so easy to feel that there is some kind of understanding and connection in those eyes.
Juan keeps the boat out past our finishing time so we can stay with them as long as they're interested; when they finally start moving away from us more directly, we head back to camp and admire the beautiful sunset in progress. It's a perfect way to cap our Mag Bay whale watch experiences.
Sunset on Mag Bay.
The evening descends (or ascends) into hilarity as the whole gang assembles in the group dome around beer and tequila, but mostly, really, around the camaraderie of satisfied whale-watching. Is it Sue who says the people at her work were so geeky they had insisted on naming each computer after a character from "Lord of the Rings," and insisted that she learn each of those names, even though she'd never seen (or necessarily wanted to see) the movie? I can't stop myself in calling this "Force of Hobbit," and am grateful for laughs and no groans.
Thursday, February 7, 2008: Magdalena Bay Whale Camp to El Santuario Eco-Retreat
I'm eager to get up and get out of the tent this morning; I haven't had the chance to do much birding around our camp, and am feeling well enough now to actually see what I can find. I first head to the north end of camp, but quickly find that it's high tide; I can't get very far! So I head back to the south end. There's a large group of shorebirds hanging out there, but rather than disturb them, I head for a small clearing in the mangroves to see what kind of passerines I can find. I'm watching Song Sparrows when I hear the shorebirds stirring. Thinking that someone from our camp must be walking near them, I don't pay much attention, until they cry and lift into the air a second time. Suddenly I remember what to look for, and find it, high in the sky above them... Peregrine Falcon! The falcon does big circles around the shorebirds, working them into a frenzy, then chooses its prey and dives. I lose track of it in the swirling birds, and start running back to camp to tell anyone who's interested about the show. I stop to watch some more, and see the falcon in the air above the birds again; evidently missed. Then I see a second Peregrine Falcon working the flock. I'm torn between staying to watch and going back so the others can see this, and do a little bit of both. But as I'm walking backwards to camp, the two falcons make a last circle and head back over the mangroves. It's a wonderful bit of morning birding; I only wish the others had had a chance to share it.
We have breakfast, finish packing and sweep out our tents so they're ready for the next crew.
Preparing to leave whale camp.
Relatively small matter to get packed and ready to go. We'll load all our crap onto a panga at about 9:30 and proceed thus unburdened in the kayaks back to the put-in. It seems like a week since that afternoon! I'm frankly astonished that more pangas don't sink in the bay, given all the stuff we've brought as a relatively small group. I suppose groups of more than seven require more than one panga.
With calm-looking waters, we paddle out and around the north side—away, actually, from our destination. We will circumnavigate the island and claim it in the name of the Aztec king Motecuhzoma Xocoyotzin! Then proceed to our lunch and the eastern shore of Baja. Around the northern edge of the island, we get some instruction on paddling in the waves (mainly: try to stay perpendicular so you don't go swimming), but the waves never really materialize, and this becomes a wonderful trip through mirror-calm waters threading between mangrove-covered islands that look for all the world like armadillo with afros. An alligator would not seem at all out of place in these waters, but as far as I know there's nothing anywhere near that dangerous here—stingrays, maybe, or snapping turtles.
The mangroves are different than I expected; I had imagined large trees that would tower over us, that we'd paddle through. But this is a desert, after all, so they're short...maybe five or six feet high...and far too dense to penetrate. We don't paddle through them as much as around the islands that are covered with them.
Paddling along the mangroves.
It's a beautiful day, and a beautiful paddle. I see another new bird, American Oystercatchers, striking cousins of the Black Oystercatchers we see up north.
It's enormously pleasant, about two hours, no hurry, and rarity of rarities, we're able to STOP paddling and just float for stretches. I'm almost sorry to see the telephone towers with Osprey nests come into view. But there is...
Lunch at the van...spinach tortas. They're quite good, even though they'd been packed for us by Lala earlier and brought along. Lala, traveling by Panga, has already left, undoubtedly happy to go home to her own family. Erin told us that they'd asked her if she misses her family while she's out on the island during the camping season, and Lala told them, "When I'm here, you all are my family." And that's what elevates camp food to something more remarkable.
We also decimate a package of Fig Newmans that I'd brought for just such an occasion. Then we pile into the van and head back towards Loreto, for our three nights on the Eastern coast.
We make another stop in Ciudad Insurgentes to resupply (and experience the novelty of flush toilets). Our companions find that the store is now out of the Casadores tequila they've become fond of, so Gerardo offers to take us to another store. We browse around the shelves while they get a clerk to open the tequila case. I chuckle to see statues of white elephants... yes, they do exist. It turns out that this store is also out of Casadores, so they settle for Hornitos, and we're on our way.
I ride in front for this trip; I tell Gerardo that I want to get a picture of a Caracara today, and he says he thinks we can do that. I get two eight-packs of Tecate (about $15 US) at Ciudad Insurgentes, thinking that should be enough—I'm told anyway that it's easy to get stuff from town at El Santuario. A few miles east of town, we start seeing the occasional Caracara, and then, bang! right by the roadside there are five or six or more perched uncomfortably on the Cardòn cacti. We pull over, and I shoot pictures as I walk toward them. I don't even know till Terrie points it out (and after I've already photographed it) that one of the "Caracaras" is actually a Harris Hawk—two life-birds (raptors, at that) on one cactus!
There were two Harris Hawks sitting among the Caracaras! The other women on the trip seem surprised to see me so lively and noisy here; they're all happy for us that we got great looks at these birds that have me so excited...plus I'm just feeling better in general. They're a tolerant bunch!
Just south of Loreto, we turn off the highway onto a dirt road, passing all-too-common scenes of choking dust and grinding poverty, pulling up to a small two-story building at El Santuario. There, we unload all of our stuff. I'd had no concept of what this part of the "tour" would be like—had actually thought we might still be camping (though EVERYone, unwashed for three days, knew there would be hot showers), and for all I know, pooping in "catholes." A guy driving an ATV with a trailer loaded our stuff onto the trailer and bade us follow him through a sandy uphill maze to our casita, "Danzante." It is remarkable. A tiny thatched-roof house with large windows on all four sides, with a view of the Gulf and its islands from the front. Having not bathed since the morning of the 4th, and this being the afternoon of the 7th, I am an "experience," and not a good one like the Jimi Hendrix one. Even so, I would actually be pleased to just take a nap now, but we have somehow drawn the first-shower straw, and so are the only thing between everyone else and THEIR showers.
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You can actually see the retreat here:
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Our casita, Danzante.
Interior of our casita.
How to describe the shower?
Beloved?
Showers and toilets. Luxury!
It is a five-gallon water jug suspended from a ceiling with a hose attached which you can open and shut off as needed. You turn on the water outside, and it fills the suspended jug, and when it's about half-full, you have enough for your shower. The water that feeds into the jug is heated by a mysterious process that delivers it at a temperature that will remove the skin from your body. There is an interesting kind of yoga one must perform, then, to get some water and some air onto any particular area of one's body so as to retain the skin for any later use. Nonetheless, for all its difficulty, it ranks among the top three showers of my lifetime, and is probably the first at that.
The interior of the shower.
After showers, it's soon time for dinner.
The kitchen is more sophisticated here than at Mag Bay, in an almost fully enclosed building, with a rotating staff of cooks, and additional goodies like chocolate. Also, tables and chairs for dining. All in view of the beach. Our beer is still cold, but there is room in the refrigerator for only four or five at a time, and we can see that this will become a problem. We talk to Chris, the manager of this retreat, and he assures us that he will make an ice chest and ice happen tomorrow morning. Two beers is about all I can drink tonight.
El Santuario Kitchen.
After dinner, we head for the beautiful fire circle. An adobe wall, painted with replicas of cave paintings near here, encircles an area in the sand, protecting it from the wind. Eli reads selections from Almost an Island: Travels in Baja California
Friday, February 8, 2008: El Santuario Eco-Retreat
We sleep in a bit but are awake in plenty of time for breakfast. The flu seems to have turned into a cold; my head feels stuffed and I'm full of coughs and sniffles. But I'm grateful that it's not enough to keep me from enjoying the trip, and I keep up my vacation routine of one Theraflu Daytime in the morning and one Theraflu Nighttime in the evening.
After breakfast, we head to the equipment room to pick up gear we might need for today's excursion. Wet suits and snorkeling gear are handed out. I'm pretty certain I don't want to try snorkeling, given how I'm feeling, but I consider taking equipment for it. When I see the size selection in wet suits (nothing for gordo gringos), I decide to just pass on snorkeling altogether. I've tried snorkeling once and had a terrible time, unable to relax and trust that I'll be able to breath through the tube, trying to breath through my nose because of this thing in my mouth and then thrashing as though I'm drowning. If I try it again, I want everything to be optimal and...snorkeling with a cold? Things aren't optimal today.
There's a hot spring in a cove about ten miles down the coast. It requires timing to go there because it's underwater at high tide. This was mentioned as an extra-cost item in the brochure for this trip, but it's only the cost of the panga, and with everyone else up for it, that comes to only about $10 each. The ride is amazing. The cliffs and islands rise almost straight up from the water, which is anywhere from deep blue to light aqua green. Cacti are strangely incongruent so near water, growing right to the edges of the cliffs, and on the islands too. We pass cove after cove with one to two hundred-foot cliffs towering above.
People out in a small boat flag us down along the way about a sailboat they've found. They tell Eli that it's tied up at their beach and its name is Sea Minor. Eventually more details come out. Important details. They finally mention that the paperwork in the boat indicates that it's owned by a "Steve Sharp." Then they mention that "their" beach is Ventana beach (and we see a window in the rock cliff there later [http://www.born-today.com/Vacations/2008/02/2008_02_08/1280/IMG_0716.JPG]). Eli thanks them, tells them he'll radio the info in when we get back to El Santuario. We're on our way, and a few minutes later Eli says, "I know that boat!" It's owned by someone who camps at the same beach that Eli and Erin stay at when they're not working, and they've watched it tossing in heavy swells, wondering how it stays put at all. We all hope that the boat just lost its anchor and drifted away, sans owner.
It might've been "Sea Miner," the better for punning, as boat owners are wont to do, into "C Minor Sharp."
The tide is high when we arrive, so we need to wait for it to go out and reveal the hot spring. But we're happy to take our things to shore and be beach bums in the meantime.
Waiting for the tide to go out, at a beautiful beach.
There is a somewhat interesting method of anchoring the panga out in deeper water so it can be retrieved when needed, involving (I think) ropes anchored to two points ashore. Anyway, the boat is out a hundred feet or so and we sit on a sunny beach waiting for the tide to go out. There's an island in the middle of our little bay with an Osprey nest (and Osprey) on top; this island will be connected to shore when the tide goes out, and the hot spring will be about halfway between that and the shore.
I walk down the beach as far as it goes, checking out and photographing rocks and shells along the way.
Eli unrolls a clever camp table and sets a packed lunch and snacks out; we settle into camp chairs with books and binoculars. The snorkeling fans prepare to hit the water.
I think an axiom may be laid out, that one is never so fat as when trying to pack one's frame into a wetsuit. Fully encased, I feel and look like a sausage (they had given me the largest wetsuit they had; that's the wurst part, yuk yuk). Still, I intend to snorkel. I had snorkeled before at Cabo, and once I got over the panic of breathing with my face underwater, had enjoyed it immensely. Here, it's a long walk through shallows in the clumsy flippers (later I see Jan walk out barefoot and put the flippers on a good hundred feet out) to get to water deep enough for floating face-down. After a bit of adjusting and inhalation of saline solution, I start to get comfortable with this, and the water is very clear, but then I find I have a nosebleed. I'm a little embarrassed to not be able to snorkel like everyone else, but not embarassed enough to continue with the bleeding nose. I go back to shore, and snack and sunbathe. It's warm and comfortable. Others snorkel all the way around the island and say it's beautiful.
Despite what Steve says, he looks quite dashing in all sorts of water gear, including wet suits. He's got a sexy sort of Jacques Cousteau thing going for him.
I say more like Lloyd Bridges...
The hot springs is uncovered and we take turns going out in small groups. The pool is fifteen to twenty feet across and about 18 inches deep at the deepest. It is mildly warm at first, and as the sea water is replaced by volcanic water bubbling up through the sand, it heats up considerably. If you're sitting in the wrong place, it becomes evident quickly that there is heat coming up from below. It's a beautiful setting and a relaxing way to spend an afternoon.
I loved the hot springs. It's the first time I've been to one, and it was just lovely to sit in the warm water at the beach, admiring the scenery and chatting with friends.
Enjoying the hot springs.
When my fingers are completely puckered, I head back for the camp chair in the sand, and dive back into Henry Miller's Sexus: The Rosy Crucifixion I
We spend most of the day on the beach here, but in the afternoon load up the panga and head back. The panga ride back is a blast, the boat speeding over top of the waves...whump whump WHUMP! Sometimes it feels like we're airborn. Steve and I are in the front of the boat on this trip, and we miss most of the conversation, but we get a ride to rival the ones at Great America on our way back to El Sanctuario [I have a couple of short videos that don't really do it justice, but maybe put 'em on youtube anyway]. We take our things to our room; we're tagged for showers again but pass... we'll shower in the morning instead.
It seems that we spend a lot of time shuffling up and down the little trail to our casita, passing each time the quaint, not to say rustic, "Danzante" sign [http://www.born-today.com/Vacations/2008/02/2008_02_08/1280/IMG_0690.JPG] that points the way to our cabin. There is some speculation that maybe this really translates to "Damn Sandy"...
Now, I recall the beer we have purchased, and commence to salivate, knowing that trusty retreat-manager Chris has promised to handle the small (but large) issue of chilling said beverages. Down to the kitchen we go, only to find the beer sitting in the sun in the same bag it came in, no ice in sight. The cooks graciously throw a few beers in the freezer, but past experience has taught me that this usually results in (a) warm beer in a chilled can or (b) fully frozen beer in an exploded can.
Our trusty manager Chris appears, cold beverage in hand. I ask Chris what happened, and he replies, "this is the desert, dude," as though stated intentions and promises are actually a product of atmospheric refraction, like the mirage phenomenon. Later, he addresses me as "Tecate Man," which I find in extremely poor taste, as I am NOT in fact the "Tecate Man" I could be, if he had actually done what he said he was going to do.
We don't drink beer the way we used to, but we're on vacation, and if we're going to have a beer or two, we want cold ones. I missed the exchange betweeen Chris and Steve, but talk to Chris about it myself and am shocked how unconcerned he is about it, given that he's responsible for overseeing our stay here (or is he just on vacation himeself?) The whole situation is ridiculous; after hearing at Mag Bay several times how easy it is to have Chris pick up items in town at El Sanctuario, we were expecting just that. The irony is that in the remote beaches of Mag Bay, ice was no problem and we didn't even have to ask for it... much less be insulted for asking about it.
It's disappointing how one minor situation sticks out in an otherwise positive trip. Dude, apologize and make an appearance of trying to fix it so your customers don't have to waste paragraphs of their trip journals on it!
The cooks really outdo themselves on dinner this night. We have delicious fresh halibut, and there's lots of it even though many of us go back for seconds. We pass on the fire ring tonight, and I'm happy to take my fish-stuffed self stumbling back up the sand to our casita, and cuddle up in bed wondering how the days can pass by so quickly.
Saturday, February 9, 2008: El Santuario Eco-Retreat
I wake up on Saturday with a dull ache behind the left side of my face. When I blow my nose, it feels like I have a toothache somewhere in my upper left teeth. After showers, we head for breakfast. I talk with Brenda and Janet in our group about my symptoms, and they confirm what I'd feared... I have a sinus infection. Great.
It's a good time to mention how convenient it is to have two nurses among your traveling group. They have good advice for me... avoid taking anything with an antihistamine (like Theraflu) from this point forward, because it will dry things out and cause further problems. They recommend Sudafed, with a decongestant only, and Janet even gives me two doses from her supply...a generous thing, given that she's battling something similar. This in itself would earn Janet MVP status in my book, but that's not the best part... she's fluent in Spanish and has been translating for our group during our entire trip. I highly recommend booking tours in groups that include bilingual nurses!
Since rejoining civilization at El Santuario, we have had more other vacationers than just our little group, a somewhat revolving cast of retreatees who appear at mealtimes. Where they go at other times, we know not. Maybe it is one of those things that can't be known—or that is best left unknown. This day at breakfast, an attractive blonde woman and her friend join us at the table. The blonde is friendly enough, asking questions about our experience with the Blue Waters team and facilities. The questions get more and more detailed, to the point where it starts to feel like an interrogation. It turns out she is doing "research" (one could call it "espionage" without abusing the truth overly), planning to start her own eco-retreat or resort for her yoga practice.
Yoga woman is an instructor who lives and works in another town in Baja, but is looking for a place to reserve space to do retreats, so she's checking out resorts and other available accommodations. We've learned earlier that El Santuario falls in the "other accommodations" category. The law in Mexico is that to be called a "resort," a facility needs to have regular plumbing. Good to know in case you're trying to decide between a "retreat" and "resort." In any event, what started out as a friendly breakfast discussion with a stranger ended up making me feel like I was just a replacement for the internet she didn't have access to, googling me for things like "reviews of el santuario" "types of tours in baja" "hot springs near Loreto".
Oh well. El Santuario is lovely, but it does require that we interact beyond the cozy circle of our Mag Bay companions. We're out of practice with civilization. With its hot showers and real toilets comes a world of greedy commerce. While it's true that I don't have much interaction with native residents here, and there is a language barrier, it's also true that I never experience this feeling with them. Only with some of the gringos.
Before we leave on our excursion for the day, I find Chris and ask if he's going to town. He says he is, and I ask if he could pick up some Sudafed for me. He seems happy enough to do this, and even starts a list of things to get, printing "sudafed" dutifully on the top of the page. I ask if he can get ice, too, and he's happy to agree to that, too. I feel pretty good; yesterday must have just been a fluke; the supply run to town seems real again.
Today, the Gulf is very calm, and we will paddle over to the island of Danzante. I start to bring scuba gear, and then realize I'm not going to use it, and return it all to storage. We convene at the beach and paddle out through a very light swell. It takes about two hours of paddling to cross the three miles of open Gulf, with the beautiful backdrop of the islands ahead of us. A problem with enclosed kayaks is that it's not the easiest thing to turn around and look back. Especially at the front of a tandem boat, I can't see directly behind without compromising my balance to some extent. In this case, maybe it's a good thing, because I can't check every few minutes to see if the shore is getting any farther away. Certainly, the island doesn't appear to get any closer! So I just relax (as much as I ever really relax) and get into the rhythm of paddling and riding the gentle swell.
Getting ready for a paddle.
At home, Steve and I each have our own boat. I think it's good that we're in two-person boats here, because there probably is some sort of conservation of energy benefit, and we're beginner paddlers. Here we get to try out a fiberglass boat, and I do notice that we glide through the water even easier.
The paddle to Danzante is about the distance of the longest paddling we've done before, and on more open bouncy water, but we do fine. The water is beautiful; in some places, when you stop, you can see several feet, straight down to the bottom. The water is sparkling turquoise... have I used that term enough? It's just beautiful.
We do arrive at the island, sooner and with less effort than expected. It is absolutely gorgeous on the shore, with turquoise water and a trillion shells, a steep hillside as backdrop, a surreal chunk of desert in the middle of placid water. We climb a trail that conveniently passes a wide selection of the local flora, about which Eli is very knowledgeable. There are numerous photo ops.
I'm happy to have a chance to go off by myself a bit here and geek out completely on the birds, following their sounds and getting closer until I find the prize flitting around the bushes. There are a number of Blue-gray Gnatcatchers here, but I keep hearing something I know I've never heard before. Finally I track one down, and after long minutes of looking and consulting my trusty Sibley, find that it's an Ash-throated Flycatcher. We get these in Sonoma County, but I've never picked one out myself before. They're beautiful birds with subtle coloring. I get an immense amount of pleasure from this little half-hour puttering around the cacti and beautiful desert scrub. Lots of ospreys fly over; it's incredible how dense they are here. Osprey in Baja seem as plentiful as Turkey Vultures back home.
Eli describes some of the flora of Danzante Island.
Eli and Erin watch the weather carefully and know what to look for. Conditions can change quickly, and as a novice paddler, you wouldn't just head out to Danzante for the day. They've told us about El Norte, the northerly wind that can rise suddenly this time of year. Kayakers have been trapped overnight on small islands, even in view of their car on the other side of a seemingly small strait, unable to paddle back because of the wind and seas during an El Norte. Today's not an El Norte day, but they do expect the wind to increase; we skip lunch on the beach.
The "gentle swell" is not so swell now, and the breeze might become a full-on wind. We decide to pack up and head out. It seems like we have the movement of the water behind us. Erin talks about the motion being illusive; "the energy moves through the water, but the individual water molecules aren't really moving." (Well, some are, because they are flying off my paddle or dripping down my arm.) The wind definitely is picking up, and we see occasional whitecaps, and occasionally are picked up and lurched forward by a particularly aggressive bit of energy in the water. Just on the edge of being a little bit scary, but also seeming to move us back toward El Santuario a lot more quickly than on the way out.
The paddle back is challenging; we don't get as much forward motion per stroke, and we're getting tired. Erin and Eli use a system where one takes a lead position, we follow, and the other guide acts as "sweep", making sure we're staying reasonably together and fixing any problems along the way.
Before we left Danzante, I moved my footpegs up a notch. I usually leave my footpegs further down than is really recommended because I find it more comfortable, but I wanted to try the "right" way. We don't get very far before my legs are cramping. Taking Erin's earlier advice, I speak up and ask her if it's feasible to adjust footpegs while we're out in the water like this. She says it's an easy thing to do, and brings her boat alongside ours. She's able to reach inside the cockpit and help me get the foot pegs adjusted back down, and I'm surprised how quickly we fix the problem (and without tipping the boat!). It's well worth the short stop.
Still, I'm getting tired and worry about keeping up. Just when I'm starting to get unhappy about it, Erin shouts ahead to Eli. "Let's trade! I'm going to be lead for a while." She paddles slowly but deliberately, and the pace slows down for everyone. Much better! I'm impressed with how Eli and Erin work as a team; the situation is handled without a lot of discussion which might make us feel bad about our capabilities, and we're able to actually relax and enjoy the paddle back.
Once we have our gear stowed, we head for the kitchen and are delighted to find leftover halibut for fish tacos. There's no ice for our cokes and beers of course, but Chris probably isn't back from town yet.
Terrie has the idea of asking Eli and Erin about their worst client—the client from hell, if you will. A great idea, as Eli proceeds to embark on a long story about "Billy" and then "Richard," both underprepared tourers encountered on kayak trips up north (Baffin Island, I think?) where the water is not as forgiving. He describes "Billy," in a very expensive, brand-new, too-small kayak as a "potato on a matchstick," and it's such a perfect visual, you get exactly how comical that would look, and yet how bad it would be in frigid northern waters... Eli is funny because he's a very lanky and taciturn person, not prone to big displays of emotion, but what he does do is slap or even occasionally pound the tabletop to make a point... I'll leave it to the imagination for the rest; suffice to say it's a good conversation-starter with your guide and fellow travelers, and he had a very entertaining way with a story.
Steve and I have taken advantage of one of the ammenities here and have arranged to get a massage this afternoon. We find that a massage table has already been brought to our casita, and at the appointed time, Manuela arrives to knead the soreness out of our bodies...a perfect luxury to have after today's paddle. It's a fairly gentle massage, but it does the job. We take turns; I go first while Steve reads, then we switch. Quiet relaxation seems like the perfect way to spend our last afternoon here.
Our massages finish and it's not long until we hear the dinner bell, so we head back to the kitchen. During dinner, Chris makes an appearance, and I don't even have to ask. It's obvious that there's no Sudafed. It's been blown off. I'm glad that I'd hoarded the last dose of it; I'm not looking forward to flying with a sinus infection, and I'll take it once we're at the airport tomorrow.
There's a lot of wisdom in the idea of just writing about what you like. I really struggled with whether I should even mention these interactions, but ultimately, I hope this part of the experience just provides the shade that throws the overall glowing picture of our vacation into relief. So much was perfect here, and this one buffoon couldn't really damage that. I'd have let it go entirely if it was just the beer, but when it came to Sudafed for my wife, THAT really was inexcusable.
This afternoon, there is a cooler with ice, with some beers in it. There are also some new fellow-travelers, drinking Tecate with their dinner. Hmmm. Well, what are you gonna do? Even if it's ours, I can't get it back now, and it wouldn't serve any purpose other than to make them feel bad—or worse, make them try to get Chris to go to town! There's enough for everyone.
We decide on the yurt rather than the fire ring tonight, pulling out the cushions (shake for scorpions!) and making ourselves comfortable. It's so pleasant to sit here with our friends and reflect on the trip. When we mention yoga woman from this morning, Eli goes into a brilliant rant, channeling Edward Abbey and waving his arms, asking the question that needs to be asked...why is it that, so often, people who make their living with a lifestyle sounds more spiritual, grounded in peace and tranquility...why are these so often the people who leave us feeling exploited?
Oh man, our last night! We all go to the yurt with the rest of the beer and the Hornitos tequila. There's a guitar. "Stairway to Heaven" is mentioned. The musician's union frowns on this, and as you know if you've seen Wayne's World, it's not allowed in a guitar store, but what the hell. A few drinks in, and it's StH for everyone, me on guitar, Eli on bongos! Chris appears with his nylon-stringed "machine," and who's gonna fault him for that? We polish off all alcohol between the eight or nine or ten of us, and slog on up to our casitas, happy campers truly.
Revelry in the yurt.
Chris offers Steve his guitar to try. While Steve's wailing away on that, Chris warns him "be careful, those are nylon strings, they'll break!" but Steve can't hear him and continues merrily along. Luckily, no strings break and Chris won't have to find anyone to run into town and get him some new ones.
Having played the ultimate 10-minute rock anthem, and having nothing to prove, I hand the guitar back to Chris, who proceeds to contribute to the delinquency of A-minor. (To be fair, there was another chord.) Booze all gone, and me not accustomed to drinking this much anyway, we head up the damn sandy path to our little casita.
Sunday, February 10, 2008: El Santuario Eco-Retreat to home
It's our last morning here, and I'm eager to get up early and putter around with my binoculars to see what I can find. I'm not disappointed; I pick up Green Towhees and other fine passerines. I spend many minutes trying to see a bird I can hear in the brush. When I finally do, I'm shocked; I catch a quick glimpse of bright blood-red, but not much more. My mind keeps saying "Cardinal", but I don't believe that because Cardinals are Eastern Birds. But searching Sibley for anything red reveals that Cardinals are indeed common here in the winter; their range extends south and then west.
We have breakfast and discuss morning plans with our friends. There's time to pack, and for me more birding. I get a good look at the hummingbird near the yurt and am delighted by it. It's big, colorful, with a gorgeous curved beak. But the more I look at Sibley, the more confused I get. I can't find it in the field guide. This has never happened to me before, but I'm sure that this hummingbird has different field marks than anything in the guide. I make a crude sketch of it to help me remember the markings, and later consult the bird list that's posted in the kitchen. They list Xantus Hummingbird, so that must be it (and later I'm able to confirm that it is).
We don't have to leave till 1. Eli offers an interpretive walk up the hill south of the retreat, and that's a nice walk, ultimately with a great view south down the coast.
At the summit of our morning hike.
We are mostly packed; we finish getting everything in order and piled outside our casita, and bid farewell to our little Danzante. I'm trying not to feel as sad as I should, but this has been a fantastic vacation, one of our best ever (and we've had some pretty good ones!), and I would love to not leave and spend another week. You, dear reader, have NO idea how rare it is for ME to go on ANY kind of excursion with two or more other strangers and not end up being intensely annoyed by at least one of them. Retreat-"manager" notwithstanding, this group has been absolutely stellar. I'd sign up for another trip with THIS gang in an instant. We exchange emails, this now again being the 21st century, as we get our last great meal from the El Santuario cooks. We tip well, I hope.
We've arranged that Steve will tip Eli and Erin (and Lala), while I'll handle tipping for the El Santuario staff. There's a tip jar we can use to make sure our tip is distributed among them, but I wait for a moment alone with the cooks in the kitchen, hand them money and try to make them understand. "Gracias" and "for you" and "nada Chris." I have never before stiffed anyone on a tip in my life, and I don't know if the cooks will actually keep it for themselves.
We meet Gerardo at the van and pass him our cameras so we can get some good-bye photos of the group. I say goodbye to Erin and Eli and, yes, cry a little. It's been such an extraordinary week, and I've felt so taken care of by them, by our cooks, by the others in our group. I've gotten to stretch my physical capabilities a bit while leaving the more mundane details of life to others to handle, and the birds, the water, the desert, the WHALES! Honestly it's a wonder I don't just fall to the sand sobbing.
A sad farewell.
We load into the van one last time, driving out along the dirt road towards the highway. Along the way we meet and pass yoga woman on her way back into El Santuario, and I wonder if that's won out as the location for her retreat.
We drive through an area with small cinderblock houses; some structures are abandoned. Quiet remarks are made about poverty. But I wonder... obviously the people who live in these houses have never seen the kind of money we have, even though we don't consider ourselves wealthy. But it doesn't seem like an unhappy place. We've had a week of slowing down to a pace that all of Baja seems to be on, and of leaving behind our computers, TVs, heaters, plumbing...even cars for the most part. I feel wonderful for it. Our relative wealth got us here. Who is living a fuller life? Nothing is simple.
We make it to the highway and the pace quickens. Back to the... I can't say "real world", can I?
We pass free-ranging cattle and cacti, and notice a pickup truck with camper shell ahead, loaded on top with a heavy wooden bed frame and mattress tied to the roof. It doesn't look very stable. As we get closer, the whole bed suddenly slips and starts to fall off the truck, but the ropes catch at the last moment. Gerardo slows the van...we don't want to get hit by a flying bed! But the truck doesn't stop... in fact, they seem oblivious to the precarious load. Gerardo speeds up, blowing the horn, and we hold our breath as we approach the truck. I'm relieved when we pull alongside, make crazy gestures, and pass the truck. They seem to get the idea and we see them pulling off the road. It looks like a brand new bed, and I'm happy it ends well for all of us.
The airport is a madhouse again; it's a small place, and it's probably open for about four hours a day since two flights come in each afternoon around the same time and then the planes depart around the same time. We recognize some of the other people waiting to go through customs; the fishermen with their ice chests are there. This is the only place on our trip with the opportunity to buy souvenirs...there's a liquor store with every kind of tequila imaginable, and a regular gift shop that also doesn't have much of interest. To sit in the chairs in the waiting area, you nearly touch knees with the person across from you; Steve and I try to disappear into our books, and soon enough they call for our flight and we're crossing the tarmac to board the plane.
I love a window seat. This flight goes straight up the Gulf and we're on the east side of the plane, so I can often see the mainland and baja at the same time—I had no idea it was so close, but then again, we're at least several thousand feet up. I'm not sure you'd ever be able to see across from ground level. At the narrowest, it's maybe 80 miles across, though sometimes with islands dividing up that distance. Coming into LA is like a horrible nightmare from which I can't awaken, as we are "handled" very efficiently through Customs only to have to settle in for a five-hour wait at the terminal, with its "American" food and "American" manners and that "American" egocentric ickiness that refers to the U.S. as "America" when it's really only a tiny part of a much more inclusive and interesting America. Wouldn't those sanctimonious warmongers be shocked and mortified to learn that, when they are telling God to bless America, THEY ARE ALSO TELLING "HIM" TO BLESS MEXICO, CANADA, and SOUTH AMERICA? THEY ARE BLESSING MEXICANS!
Yes, we're back into all the agitation of modern life. But it doesn't take much to conjure a picture in my mind of mangroves and calm waters, whales with their mamas, or Ash-throated Flycatchers calling in desert scrub. We've experienced something in the natural world that gives us a touch point and connection to it. I'm not sure I can say, though, that it makes the nightmare of Home Turf Sports Bar/California Pizza Kitchen (who doesn't serve pizza) any more tolerable.
God bless books. We dive into them again, and doze, and finally get onto the plane for the flight back to Santa Rosa. Once there, it's an easy matter of getting the car from the lot and a short drive home... which would be easier if the parking lot gate worked. I'm sitting in line in the car, waiting and waiting, while Steve gets our luggage and waits with it at the terminal. Out of the darkness, I see an odd shape approaching, and realize that it's Steve, somehow managing to carry ALL of our luggage and gear ALL the way to the parking lot... three duffles, sleeping bags. We're eager to get out of here and get home! After more waiting, the parking lot attendant comes and gets the gate working again and we escape the lot.
When we finally do pull in to the driveway and get into the house, there is a VERY excited dog there!
