Thrill Ride Through Baja: Mexico’s Epic 1000-Mile Adventure

 

Ruta Uno, Baja’s Federal Highway Route 1, hugs its coastline most of the time, but not always on the same coastline of the nation’s enormous peninsula. South of Guerrero Negro and into Baja Sur (Southern Baja), it crosses to the east and skirts the Sea of Cortez until flopping back west just before coming into Cabo San Lucas.

Sweeping west we saw some of the most arid country I’d ever come across. Even the cactus seem to shrivel. If you happen to be looking on Baja from a satellite, it would appear to be folded chocolate fudge, all dark swirls and humps and valleys; not a green thing in sight. We wound our way through it in less than two hours before bisecting a great mountain pass and then descending out of the desiccated plateau to the azure Sea of Cortez below, windswept with mountain/islands that seemed to erupt from the water, green to their caps. After hours of seeing nothing but dust and grit, it was like coming into Tolkien’s Valinor.

But the view soon changed when we arrived at sea level and rattled into Santa Rosalia, as ugly as a badger hole, rimmed by small warehouses, decrepit shacks and truck stops along the main highway. We were hoping to find something to eat, but a quick survey into the heart of the town revealed, as they say in Mexico, nada, so we headed onto Mulegé, our next stop.

There we pulled up to a gravel parking lot that split off a road that had taken us by some spaghetti route deeper into town among white stucco buildings crammed along its narrow streets. Across the road sat a deep inlet where modest but brightly colored homes rimmed the water, their small wooden docks housing motor or row boats that could take you deeper into the estuary in one direction or out to sea in the other. It has the Hippie, laid-back vibe of the 1960s, a throwback to the days of flowers in your hair, bell-bottom jeans and the scents of Panama Red wafting in the air. The restaurant was an open shack with outdoor tables that served beer, tacos, empanadas and enchiladas. Every person dining at the place seemed to be American, and everyone seemed to be preoccupied with food, beer, motorcycles and their races.

The town of Mulege in Baja. Small shops line a small street with cars parked on either side. In the background is a small ridge with homes and a tall cell tower.

 “Hola, I am Juan Carlos,” says a big, bald man heaving up to our little metal table. “The shrimp chile rellenos are spectacular!” He wears a Texas-sized grin and is the picture of raw energy. No sleepy siestas for him.

“Juan !” I say. “You must be the owner.”

“Oh, no, “ he says. “I’m not that one. I’m just Juan. That’s THE Juan over there,” and he jabs his thumb at the boarded sign that hangs behind him, the one that reads: “Juan’s Racing Bar and Grill.” 

He grins. We laugh. He had the joke down pat.

“I’ll be back with your beers.” He disappears into the shack that rings with the sounds of another big man, the short order cook with a 5 o’clock shadow, his massive hands waving his metal spatula around like a samurai as he serves up sizzling grilled beef, chicken and shrimp.

Juan speaks English as flawlessly as a Chicago anchorman though he was born in San Quintin (recently visited— see Dispatch XXIV) and grew up in Mulegé (pronounce Moo legh-hay with a guttural “gh.”) “Lots of television,” he explains. “Lots of movies with subtitles. The chile relllenos! They’re comin.”

We ask if there is hotel around. “Right up the road, top of the hill,” says the other Juan.

We had seen that place while exploring the spaghetti route. “There’s no one home there,” I say.

“Oh, they’ll be back,” Bob probably just ran out for beer. “Check after you eat.”

We do, but the hotel, which looked promising, is clearly cerrado (closed). We rope our way our back, hoping to find a bed along the coastal road before its unpredictable highway and the dark swallow us up.

We’ve been told that along the Sea of Cortez, you’ll see some of the most beautiful beaches in the world. Try Playa El Requesón, Playa de Balandra, Playa Santispac and Playa El Coyote, all between Mulége and La Paz. The beaches are wide and undeveloped. Sometimes we saw trucks or small RVs and tents right up on the sand, their denizens as carefree and easy as the ocean air. No condos or hotels here; just more of the 60’s-hanging-ten beach vibe. If we had any camping gear it would have been tempting to just set up, build a fire and uncork a couple of cold ones, but we are tentless and without food and therefore in need of sturdier accommodations. And we were running low on time.

A small campground sits on a secluded Baja beach under a blue sky. A tent and bench sits in the shade of the lone tree on the beach.

Soon we found ourselves creeping, not speeding, along Route 1 because we were stuck behind an 18-wheeler that was hauling tons of long, bouncing, iron rebar. From the time we began our descent out of the desert, we could not seem to shake this truck. Route 1’s maximum width is never more than two lanes. The only way to pass is to find a slab of pavement long and straight enough to make the passage non-lethal. But straight stretches are rare in Baja. We get to calling the truck “Rebar Guy” and this is not a term of endearment. The behemoth is slow, heavy and noisy, crashing its gears when heading up hill and blaaahhhting with its Jake brake when heading down. Never once does this driver offer to pull to the side to allow us or anyone else to pass. We had passed him before Rosalia, but fell behind when looking for food there; later we passed him again, but after lunch with Juan he passed us by.  Each time we caught him, we again were forced to risk death to circumnavigate his enormous haul, or risk running out of daylight. This happened every time we stopped to take a picture or checked to see if a hotel was open. Naturally the few hotels we found were all closed - COVID has shut them down. So once again we returned to the highway to find ourselves gazing at the backend of Rebar Guy’s reams of thudding iron bars. It was maddening and darkness was coming.

Loreto

After multiple Rebar Guy encounters we finally decided to forsake any efforts at finding accommodations, leave the truck in the rearview mirror for good and push onto Loretto, Baja’s next city.  In Spanish the word Loreto means “a destination at the end of a pilgrimage.” It was certainly that after our encounters with Ruta 1 and Rebar Guy.  Loreto might be our most favorite Baja city. It's a small town, but not too small, embraceable, and the people are enormously friendly. As we rolled off the highway and through its darkening streets Cyn found a charming hotel called the Posada de las Flores Loreto, a hotel in the classic Spanish colonial style perfectly located near the town plaza and the beach.

 

Loreto was founded by a Jesuit missionary named Juan Maria Salvatierra in 1697 when he built a small mission there, and for that reason it became the first capital of all the Californias, a region that in those days included Mexico and much what became the United States as far north as San Francisco. The famous Franciscan priest Junipero Serra used Loreto as his base when he began colonizing New California - missions built in San Diego, Sacramento, Monterey, Santa Barbara and San Francisco. You can find all of the historical proof displayed right there in Loreto’s museum located next to Our Lady of Loreto mission. Many of the documents are 300 years old.

The next morning we explored our posada’s roof top pool festooned with wood and iron wrought tables and bright white canvas umbrellas above a tan tile floor. It gave us a perfect view of the town’s small but vibrant plaza with its shops and restaurants and bakeries. People scurried back and forth below, while children laughed and played, and quiet clusters of tourists wandered the small stores or settled down for a meal among the patioed eateries. The plaza has everything you can want by day: coffee shops, local retail stores, the required steepled church (Our Lady of Loreto), and at night excellent restaurants and bars and plenty of open pedestrian walkways.

While exploring the town we met Mike from Alaska who learned of our travels and told us we must take the Oresund train between Sweden and Copenhagen that crosses over a great bridge and then dives for miles through a tunnel below water. We noted that because we knew we’d be heading that way after exploring South America and Antarctica (trace the route on our PolarSteps map).  The next morning at breakfast we met Bob, originally from Newfoundland (also see dispatches IX and X), and his wife Stasia at breakfast. They’ve often visited Loreto to escape Victoria’s Canadian winters.  “When you make it to Victoria (also on our itinerary),” they told us, “be sure to take the  Blackball Express ferry from Port Angeles. Bob, who loves to motorcycle also recommended I read a book that was one of his favorites: Jupiter’s Travels. Later I did read it on my way by ship through the Panama Canal and enjoyed it so much I chose it as my favorite travel book. (You can read summaries of my personal current list of the world’s ten best travel books here.) 

In the evenings, we took long walks along the town’s malecón (boardwalk). It was pristine, calming and absolutely safe. The perfect weather, verdant mountains and riotous sunsets didn’t hurt either. It’s a sweet little gem, Loreto, known in Mexico as a Pueblo Magico. If you’re in the neighborhood, you’ll love this town. Nevertheless, after three evenings, it was time to push on toward the bottom of the peninsula and  La Paz.

La Paz

A silhouetted figure looks over the boats in the La Paz harbor at sunset. The bright orange and red clouds shine above.

La Paz means peace in Spanish, but the vile story behind the first Spanish conquistadors to find the bay was anything but peaceful. In 1533  Hernán Cortés sent two ships under the command of Diego de Becerra to explore the South Pacific and find two other Spanish ships that had been lost the previous year.  Becerra’s ship, the Concepción, was separated from its sister but continued its explorations. That’s when things got ugly.  Fortún Ximénez was the Concepión’s navigator and second in command, and he was not happy with the decisions Becerra was making. He mutineed and murdered Becerra in his sleep. And he had all of Becerra’s crewmen murdered too. From there Ximénez and his men wandered until they found what they believed to be the Island of California, a mythical place written about in the popular Spanish romance novel Las Sergas de Esplandián.  The fictional California was supposedly a terrestrial paradise populated only by dark-skinned women. When the mutineers landed, they found scantily clad natives who spoke a language entirely unknown to them from the Mexican highlands. Rather than learning from them, they raped the women and plundered the bay for black pearl oysters the locals sometimes harvested. In retaliation the natives killed Ximénez and several of his men.

La Paz is not the mythical island that the conquistadors were looking for, but its bay remains as beautiful as it was the day Ximénez and his men came to plunder it 500 years ago. With a population of over 200,000 today it is a larger version of Loreto (10 times the population).  But like Loreto, it has a long and lovely malecón, even if it is more active than its sister city.  Dark-haired children and their parents and lovers of every age saunter in uneven lines between sculptures and along the sun-kissed beach as roller skaters weave in and out.  Between the malecón and the sea lay a broad beach filled with volleyballers, and bathers lounging beneath small umbrellas of straw. Everything is spotless. In the evening we watched hundreds of cars cruise along the beach’s main drag with children leaning out of the windows gazing beyond the water as the sun set. I was not sure what I expected to see in La Paz or Loreto, but it wasn’t this. Unlike San Quintin or Santa Rosalia or even Mulegé, they were neither run down trash strewn towns nor high end Cancún style resorts. They were simply pleasant beach towns filled mostly with local families enjoying the fine winter weather and spectacular views. 

We had found La Paz after driving four hours of winding highway that rises up and down the peninsula, wheeling us between the sea and the Sierra La Gigantica. By afternoon we had arrived at a tiny B&B with a small enclosed swimming pool called Casa Juarez that Cyndy had found near the corners of Benito Juárez and Revolution 1910 streets - eight snug, but well-appointed rooms. (The streets are named for the bloody revolution that lasted ten years in Mexico and shaped the modern nation. Benito Juarez was a liberal politician who served as Mexico’s 26th president from 1858 to 1872.)

A quiet beach on a calm day after sunset. The sky is orange and beige. Some palms are scattered in the background and the beach on the left is lapped by gentle waves.

Casa Juarez was just a few blocks from the La Paz wharf, owned and operated by Silvana and Jacopo, both Italian. Silvana ran the place, an attractive middle-aged woman, always busy, her long dark hair looking a bit tussled as she ran around the compound attending to clients, checking email, preparing coffee like an expert barista, one cup at a time.   Her husband Jacopo, a big jolly man, had built the hotel and prepared all the food all while belting out his favorite Italian operas. Together they had created a little oasis in the middle of the city; gated (but don’t worry it’s safe), a small, lovely pool, ringed with palm trees and bamboo and grass hut awnings with snug patios and porches for each of the rooms. They had designed the place and then built it from the ground up over 10 years earlier. Every corner was square and plum which is not always the case in Mexican buildings. Silvana had found the property when she was vacationing in La Paz and decided she wanted to create a B&B, and so they did.

She loved the work but they had recently put the B&B up for sale – available for $1.3 million if you're interested. If it sells she told us, that was fine and then they would travel. If not she was also perfectly content continuing to run it. Where would they go when they did travel, I asked? Mexico, Silvana said, maybe Japan and China. Europe she already knew. She did love Sicily and Sardinia. Maybe South America. She was less sure of Asia and Africa. We said we would do our best to let her know what we found.

Each morning we sat down to breakfast and got the full board of Jacopo cooking. The first day I had a single poached egg, topped on a tiny tortilla, wrapped around one strip of bacon with just a touch of tangy cheese at the base. I took the tortilla, dipped it in the egg until it was all gone and then devoured the remainder.  You’d think this was enough with papaya and pineapple, watermelon and cantaloupe chunks available along with yogurt and toast and a variety of cereals, but it wasn't. After you ate all of that, Jacopo, wearing a broad, proud grin would then drop, without asking, three tiny sandwiches each in front of us. He did this every morning for every customer after first going to the counter he had created, quaffing a shot of espresso and singing out in a basso profundo, “Aaahhh!” This sometimes caused their yellow Labrador to rouse himself with a bark, but then he’d swiftly settle back to sleep.

People from all over the world seemed to find Casa Juarez — there was the young couple Ian and Ana, staying with us; a middle-aged French couple of unknown origin; another couple who spoke German (or maybe it was Dutch) and liked to lounge by the pool; and four Canadians. I learned from Silvana that she spoke four languages with varying degrees of command. Italian was her native language, Spanish came easy, then English and finally French. “I never could master Portuguese,” she said. “Or Sardinian for that matter - totally different, completely unlike Italian! I don't know where it comes from!" In between her duties Silvana advised we all must keep our brains active. “Or you’ll lose them!” I figured that mastering four languages probably put her brain in a good spot.

We enjoyed our time in La Paz. Got some work done (solid internet), strolled the malecón, witnessed the sun setting over the Sea of Cortez and watched the endless parade of shining sedans, SUVs and convertibles rumble by. On our last evening, heading back to our room we met Ian and Ana helping themselves to glasses of wine by the small pool. Both, we quickly learned were serious travelers. They  worked on cruise ships, Ian as a cook. Anna had traveled the Trans-Siberian Railway and they were now headed to the Mexican mainland to take the El Chepe Express, considered one of the most spectacular trains in the world. I had never heard of it, but gathered all the information I could from them before saying goodnight. Back at the room I told Cyndy all about the El Chepe, and she immediately said, "We have to try that!"

"Absolutely!" I said. I’d begin looking into it as soon as we got to Cabo San Lucas and completed our one thousand mile Baja run the next day. And the following morning that’s what we did.

But that’s another story.

See you somewhere soon. In the meantime, crack on!

Your Vagabonds,

 

Resource: https://vagabond-adventure.com/library/driving-mexicos-baja-1000-part-two