Maps
Map of Baja
 

in baja norte
Tijuana to El Rosario
El Rosario to Catavina
>Catavina to Bahia de Los Angeles
Bahia de Los Angeles to San Felipe
Mountains of Baja Norte
Canyons of Baja Norte

in baja sur
Mulege
The Islets of Bahia Coyote
La Trinidad
Guerrero Negro and Dunas de Soledad

 

 

 

 

 

courtesy of
Erik Gauger
copyright 2003
notesfromtheroad.com

 

I had told Vance that in Bahìa de Los Angeles there would be people, and hotels, and good food, telephones! We played Jimmy Buffett when the vast island-ridden bay appeared, and soon learned that Bahìa de Los Angeles was nearly deserted. 'Stashed his trash in Ecuador Bought a good suit and clothes Flew on up to Mexico…' A small town of fish camps, motels, and a few restaurants.

It was also the most breathtaking place I had been in weeks - wide, unspoiled beaches. Two sailboats moored against a sandbar; giant islands shadowing the bay. Despite my misperception, there was beer, and it was for sale, so we drank in the hundred and ten degree heat, and pitched camp under a palapa north of the city.

"We drove here," I told Vance. 'I dial your number for you' the lady next to a large fan said, drinking a soda with ice, pat in her comfort. I called my mother on a satellite phone, "I didn't know you could drive to places like this!" I said, and before the line went dead, she said, "You know that the elections…" I took to a shower stall near our palapa - cool water - a man in the stall next to me was singing, "Mary had a Little Lamb" in a whispering falsetto.

It seems that the heat was getting to people. "You know that the elections…" I thought about it for a while. The elections! No cervezas to be sold on election weekend. Zedillo! Fox! I suddenly had some appreciation for our struggle for beer. My mother, a constant reader and observer, was more in touch with Mexico than we; the plight of travel, of being out of touch, had caught us.

But there was a 'who cares?' line in there somewhere, and we snorkeled the shallows to get an idea of the life here - plenty of wrasses, sea bass, a grouper or two, skates. Most of the fish were oversized, well fed. It made sense: the Sea of Cortez is a natural fish-trap, and holds more species than any other region in the world. Vance went to sea, paddling in the vicious wind. I hacked away chest-deep, fly-fishing north of camp, in a spell of utter concentration, and a sloppy fly-line ripping at the water.

Fish were passing beneath me. Jumping feet from my line. I pulled a Corona out of my pocket, drank it, and soon my line was flying right, back, forth, back, forth. The fish kept jumping around my line, mocking me. But I drove here, and I couldn't give a fish-gut for a bite, I was chest-deep in the sea, exactly where I wanted to be. We took to dinner at a second floor beach-restaurant; the only restaurant in five miles, which was called, "Restaurant." The owner, Reno, offered us Margaritas (seeds at the bottom meant he used real limes) and we ordered fish tacos - the taste of the fish dominated, which meant this was caught locally, probably by the guy with a fishing pole who was yelling at Reno from the beach.