© 2019 by Dan Clark.
Baja Divide
THE BAJA DIVIDE
Story and photos by Dan Clark
For the first time in two months of riding, I am scared. Today we can't find any place for a rest. The heat is suffocating, inescapable. With the sun almost directly overhead, the towering Cardon cactuses throw a shadow no bigger than a dinner plate. We sit for a while in the partial shade of a small bush, sweating. When I walk up to the road to get water off the bikes, I discover a rattlesnake coiled beneath my framebag. "Even the snakes are trying to get out of the sun," comments Alice on my return.
We are nearing the tropics on the Baja Divide and have ridden the majority of the route, but the heat and humidity are combining to create impossible riding conditions for us as a family. We start early each morning, riding by headlamp until the sun comes up. We take long siestas in the mid-day heat. We drink quart after quart of water, but it is never enough.
Back on the bikes we climb the final distance to a pass, riding where we can, and pushing when the track is covered by huge rocks. Gazing down at the Sea of Cortez, we can see our next resupply at the beach community of San Evaristo. The capital city of La Paz is in the hazy distance to our right. The end of our Baja ride is in view, we just don't know it yet.
The idea of riding the Baja Divide originates years prior with our kids' desire to visit Disneyland. My response is, "Sure, we can ride our bikes there!" Our home is thousands of miles from California, but the kids don't batt an eye at the idea. Our plans start to develop when I am granted a sabbatical from work. With ample time for the adventure, the idea of riding to Disneyland gradually transforms into a grandiose dream to ride our bikes from the Arctic to Mexico, including the much anticipated stop at Disneyland.
In the months of planning before our departure, the dream of this lengthy ride is as daunting as it is exciting. This objective requires more than a little problem solving. We need a solid bikepacking setup that will work for a family, and to modify towing systems for the kids that will work with plus-sized tires on rough terrain. Last but not least, we have to source kids bikes with wide tires set up tubeless, and a low gear ratio to get us up steep climbs. All of these logistics are overwhelming at times, but fortunately we already have a few adventures under our collective belts.
Since the birth of the kids, we have repeatedly carved out big chunks of time for self-propelled paddling, hiking and cycling adventures. The kids have literally grown up in the wilderness, with hundreds of nights camped under the stars during self-propelled journeys from the Arctic to Patagonia. These family expeditions are immensely rewarding and provide us simplicity and unity far from the distractions of our busy lives at home. These times together help us grow as a family and as individuals. Our trips form important milestones in our collective history.
Our start on the Baja Divide is filled with anxiety over the border crossing and the transition into a new culture. I am hyper alert as we navigate the back streets of Tecate, ever watchful for dangerous people, biting dogs, and wild drivers. The worries are all in my head! We are repeatedly met with smiles and waves. Our first night in the Baja, February 3rd, is typical of many initial experiences in a new country. We can only find a room with one bed for the four of us, and then with my rusty Spanish I mistakenly order goat stew for our takeout dinner.
As we leave the highway south of Tecate for our first foray into the mountains, we shift down into our new paradigm - sweating slowly uphill with heavily loaded bikes and kids in tow. Our low gear of 28-49 isn't nearly low enough and we find ourselves pushing up the steepest sections. Our adjustment to a bikepacking workload is further tested as our Canadian bodies nearly melt in the mid-day heat. It is a struggle up the first big climbs, but we know that the first days are often difficult on a long trip. The kids take the transition in stride and quickly fall into play at each break, exploring the desert world that is new to all of us.
Amid these difficulties we have to marvel at the optimism and cheer of the few locals we meet. Crossing the high point of the route, we come upon a local girl and friends trying to roller blade along the sandy track, miles from the nearest pavement. They are laughing and make the best of their footwear, even though the wheels just won't spin.
Four days into the trip, all the planning, preparation and initial discomforts fade away and the magic of a big, crazy adventure begins. Descending out of the Sierra Jaurez to Uruapan we feel the first glimmer of hope that this route is navigable as a family on bikes. Alice and I are inspired to watch the kids roll down their first big descent, floating through sandy washes on plus sized tires, and balancing over granite slabs all on their own. At eight- and ten-years old, they are becoming increasingly independent and their hoots and hollers in the distance pry us from our reverie. We are getting left in the dust! Under the slanting rays of a setting sun in the Baja backcountry, this gift of bike travel feels particularly special.
As we leave the highway south of Tecate for our first foray into the mountains, we shift down into our new paradigm - sweating slowly uphill with heavily loaded bikes and kids in tow. Our low gear of 28-49 isn't nearly low enough and we find ourselves pushing our bikes up the steepest sections. Our adjustment to a bikepacking workload is further tested as our Canadian bodies nearly melt in the mid-day heat. It is a struggle up the first big climbs, but we know that the first days are often difficult on a long trip. The kids take the transition in stride and quickly fall into play at each break, exploring the desert world that is new to all of us.
Family adventures in the backcountry walk a tentative balance between challenge and risk. Biking to the horizon as a family presents uncertainty around each corner and more than a few challenges. It is easy as a parent to minimize the risk by avoiding such undertakings altogether. Yet, kids are adaptable by nature and make excellent travel companions. On previous adventures, we have been overjoyed to discover the kids comfortably snug on the wettest of days in Patagonia, better acclimatized than their parents in the thin air of the Bolivian Altiplano, and more than happy to bust out a 90 mile day on the bikes to reach a restaurant that serves a fine bowl of Vietnamese Pho in northern BC.
As we edge into our second week in the Baja, we are forced to balance challenge and risk during our first difficult route decision. As we load our bikes with refried beans, tortillas and fiery Gummi bears outside a tienda in Punta Colonet, we notice a huge dark wall of cloud advancing toward us. We look tensely into the mountains and the steep climb to El Coyote. Our progress has been slow enough in dry conditions and I can't imagine the hardship posed by rain and mud. I am nervous about getting stranded by sticky conditions in the hills and running short on drinking water or food. Our first consensus decision of the trip leads to a conservative choice to stay nearer the highway through Vicente Guerrero and avoid the climb into the sierra.
Riding near the highway through the farming communities of the San Quintin Valley puts us into contact with many people. The world opens its arms to kids, and we are repeatedly stopped by curious locals, wondering where we have travelled on our bikes. We also get the chance to sample fish tacos and fresh strawberries from the many roadside vendors.
When we walk through the doors at Fass Bike in Vicente Guerrero, Salvador exclaims, "You must be the Clark family! I've been worried about you in this wet weather! My friend saw you near Punta Colonet and we were hoping you didn't get stuck in the mud up in the sierra!" Salvador is an amazing host and opens our eyes to the Baja. While our kids get to know each other over an impromptu soccer game outside the store, Salvador answers my various questions and explains much about life in the Baja. There is much laughter from the kids and adults alike, and the short time we spend together feels particularly rich.
Our next attempt to ride into the mountains is stopped within 12 miles of the highway. As we gain altitude a light mist turns to determined rain drops. With a little moisture, the surface changes character and we soon have three inches of red cement on our wheels. We can't pedal, nor walk our bikes. We hastily pitch our tent in the nearest opening and hunker in our sleeping bags. The kids have spent their share of time in the tent and immediately immerse themselves in their e-readers, only to pause when we hear our friend Mike approach. We have been bumping into Mike since our first day in the Baja and it is always a pleasure. Mike is riding with his dog Koda and we poke our heads out of the tent to see that even Koda's paws are gummed up with a thick layer of mud. Near dusk, I turn on the phone and receive a text from Salvador. "Are you guys OK? It rained really hard here today. Let me know if you need anything!" Mike's camaraderie and Salvador's hospitality make the challenges of these tough conditions much more bearable.
In the morning, the rain has stopped but the ground remains glutinous. When we emerge from the tent after 20 hours of hibernation, we stumble around drunkenly on high heels of mud. By lunch things have dried enough to walk normally and we are faced with another difficult decision: continue further into the mountains or retreat back to the coast. We search for consensus as a family and opt for another conservative decision, dropping down to the coast. These setbacks are hard on my morale, but the kids enjoy the opportunity to play on the beach, and are delighted when Salvador and his family pay us a surprise visit. The kids play soccer by the headlights of the car on a beach that stretches uninterrupted for miles. These experiences are as much a part of the adventure as the riding.
Redemption comes on a frosty morning leaving Cataviña. There is not a cloud in the sky as we ride off the pavement and head for the Pacific. This is the longest section of the Baja Divide without food or water, traversing 120 miles of varied terrain along the Pacific coast. Our Salsa Fargos are heavily loaded with four days of food and over seven gallons of water. By my calculations, my bike weighs at least 130 pounds!
The diversity in this section is astonishing. The route to the sea passes granite boulders, forests of Cardon cactus, and stunted white-skinned Torote trees. The Curio trees look like something off the pages of a Dr. Suess book. And then it all changes. The wind-beaten coast is largely devoid of vegetation with vacant white sand beaches, rocky points and more than a few challenging climbs. In the low spots there are muddy ponds that hint at the wet weather from the previous week.
Part way through this epic section, I am puzzled to find that Koby doesn't want to be towed as we get ready to leave camp. Alice whispers, "He made a goal to ride entirely on his own today. He doesn't want to be towed." An immense feeling of pride fills me as I watch him pedal ahead with Alice. True to his goal, he rides independently for the next 30 miles over several steep climbs and endless technical double track. As the kids get older, it is great to see them taking on goals of their own.
For a family riding this wild section, we are fortunate that the temperatures remain cool and skies clear. We even make it through with some extra water! Pulling into Santa Rossalita after four hard days of riding is a huge relief, which gives a strong sense of accomplishment. We happily bump into Mike at the only store in town, and swap stories over a gallon of ice tea and 17 burritos.
Under ideal conditions we are challenged in the Baja, and enjoy the adventure. When the tracks are reasonably smooth and temperatures moderate we make good progress, averaging as much as 40 miles a day in some sections. Five good days of riding from Bahia de Los Angeles to Vizcaíno take us along the Sea of Cortez through majestic uplands. We camp on the beach and watch a full moon rise out of the sea. We ride through towering cactus and successfully repair a broken part on our towing attachment. Every day has surprises that keep the riding interesting. Near the end of our second day in this section, we race darkness to reach a nearby ranch, riding hard in our train with father, daughter and son tethered on one track and Alice beside us. The speedometer on this slight downhill reads a rare 15 miles per hour. The cool evening air is luxurious. We are filled with wonder at the hues in the sky and talk excitedly about what we will find at Rancho Escondido. It is moments like these that bring us to these distant places.
When conditions are less ideal, the challenge becomes too great for our family. A week later we are at an important intersection: turn into the mountains for three hard days to Mulege, or take a shortcut to the south. Our morning progress is a scant 15 hot and sweaty miles to a pine tree in a river valley. This is the only shade in miles. Even out of the sun we are baking in a hot northerly wind unlike anything we have experienced thus far. We cannot move in this oppressive heat, so our two-hour siesta stretches into the late afternoon and yet it is still too hot to be exerting ourselves. Soon we are joined by a herd of goats seeking respite from the heat. To make this vital route decision, we launch into another discussion. As parents we worry about the kids and their ability to regulate their temperature in the intense heat. As adults, we worry about our own ability to function with our heavy load. We lay out the details of the options, and encourage the kids to share their opinions. Consensus evades us. It is dusk by the time we decide on the easier route south to a nearby town. I am disheartened to leave the route, but cannot reconcile the difficulties required for our family, the heat wearing down our physical and mental reserves. As darkness overtakes us, we turn on our lights and ride rolling hills to San Juanico. It is still hot in the darkness, and the decision feels right.
Back in the sierra days later, we ride between Spanish Missions on the route. Much of the road is littered with volcanic rock that tinkles like broken pottery as we roll over it. In the sandy sections there are more goat tracks than tire tracks. The riding is hard, but doable. Some days we cover less than 30 miles. Each night we sleep in a date palm oasis hidden in a remote valley - cool, humid and comfortable. On our last day, rain fills the sky and we are again forced off the route, making 14 stream crossings on our way to the paved highway and some rest days in Constitucion. Six weeks into the trip we realize that the Baja is wearing us down.
Our final descent to San Evaristo is as challenging as any of the riding we have encountered. We roll down 2000 ft from the pass, walking our bikes over long sections of storm damaged track littered with boulders and sand. It is a relief to make it into the village of San Evaristo after three strenuous days of riding from Constitucion. Alice and I agree that this has been the hardest stretch of the trip. Sitting in the shade of Maggie and Lupes' front porch, we enjoy fish tacos and the kids meet new friends on the beach. Alice and I are exhausted, yet the kids come alive with the prospect of play in a new environment.
It is not our intention to end our ride in San Evaristo. There is no catastrophic event that halts our progress. Instead, it is some combination of dehydration, exhaustion, and a food- or water-borne illness, that literally brings me to my knees. For three days, Alice and the kids care for me in our tent, but there are few services in San Evaristo and my condition is not improving. I can barely walk, let alone ride. We accept a lift from Lupe into La Paz, where we can get a hotel room and access a wider range of services. It takes me another week to recover. It is during this time that we decide we are finished riding in the Baja.
In La Paz, amid the honking of horns and the bustle of people, we bump into other cyclists who have completed the Baja Divide. We happily share stories in the foyer of Pension California. Each rider expresses a similar sentiment about the difficulty of the route. More than once we hear, "I totally underestimated how hard it would be!" This improves my morale as I am feeling pretty beat up by the Baja.
To wrap up our time in Mexico, we do what most other families are doing on the Easter weekend. We drive to the beach, rent an umbrella and chairs. We go surfing. We eat ice cream and fresh mango. We visit the water park and enjoy the thrill of the water slides. We even swim with whale sharks! These experiences are markedly different than our ride on the Baja Divide, and we luxuriate in the comforts after weeks of tough travel.
As we travel north to the US by bus, we gaze out at the land we have spent two months traversing. For us the Baja is a wide range of intense experiences. It is dirt tracks through cactus, scoured by a NW wind. It is dollar fish tacos piled high with cabbage and salsa. It is turkey vultures circling lazily above, and pelicans diving just offshore. It is plastic bags plastered to cactus by the wind, and beer cans chucked in the ditch. It is the shopkeeper's smile and sincere, "Buen viaje!" or "Have a nice trip!" It is our family of four camped beneath an intensely dark, star-filled sky. The Baja is the hardest adventure we have attempted as a family, and will settle prominently in our memories for years to come.
On our return from Mexico, the significance of the trip continues to impact us. Even with some rest, we are weary as we turn our tires north on the Great Divide. On the edge of the Gila National Forest in New Mexico, Alice and I come to the realization that we are simply too exhausted to continue riding for another four months with the kids in tow. We talk openly as a family about what we should do. And then Ava Fei clears all indecision when she states, "I want to go back to school." How can a parent deny such a simple desire?
Instead of pushing on, we make the decision as a family to stop riding. We take the train home and transition back into our regular routine. Things do not always go as planned, especially when the degree of difficulty increases for an objective. Yet, the success of challenging a backcountry route through the Baja as a family lives on in each of us.
Six months after leaving the Baja, this adventure comes to the surface during the school district writing assessment. In a classroom looking out on pine forest, grade six students are busy putting together their best essay on a 'sticky situation'. Koby writes about the tough decision we had to make on the turn to Mulege, far away in the Baja. He clearly describes the complexity of the situation, how options were weighed along with their accompanying risks. He details how his dad wanted to try the more challenging route, the worries his mom shared, as well as his own role in our consensus decision. He finishes his essay describing how he and his sister made the final decision and how good it felt to ride into the dusk, together as a family.
It is our hope as parents that these adventures help our kids develop the skills to navigate the unknowns of life, the grit to push through the challenges that arise, and the curiosity to seek out the unknowns in each day.