Magdalena Bay 2002

Jan 26 – 31,2002

        For years now, a group of the local gringos has made an annual pilgrimage to Bahia Magdalena for a few days of relaxation and some great clamming, reminiscent of the heydays at Pismo Beach. This year I've decided to join the crowd, to see what I've been missing.

        We've looked at the tide tables, and the lowest tide occurs on Monday, January 28th. We've decided to leave on Saturday, the 26th, giving us plenty of time to just relax. This will be a diverse group, with motorhomes, campers and tenters all scheduled to participate.

        Last weekend I suffered a near tragedy. While cruising to Los Barriles on my quad, the rear axle snapped off. Here I am, five days away from the trip, with no quad, and the nearest dealer over 1000 miles away. Evaluating my options, I call my secretary's brother, Lalo. He has the only other Raptor in Cabo, which he uses for racing. He just happens to have a spare axle, which he graciously offers to me. All I have to do is replace it. He even picks up my quad and has his mechanic install the new axle - only in Mexico! All that's left is to wait for Saturday.

        The big day is here! I packed everything last night, and am ready to go. Arriving at the designated rally point, soon Les and Kathy, Howard and Patricia, and DC and Mike show up. Caravanning with Howard to La Paz, I continue on solo when he turns off to buy propane.

        I have been asked to keep the exact location of the camp a secret. No one wants this private paradise exposed to the world. All I can say is the spot is spectacular, located somewhere between San Carlos and the south end of Magdalena Bay. Arriving about 1pm, the site is reminiscent of my annual excursion to San Felipe, with the same tidal extremes. The only difference is the pure solitude here - no Miramar bar, no briefcase salesmen, no spring breakers partying all night.

        Pulling in, I pass Jerry and Greg out on a firewood collection mission. Most of the other earlier arrivals are out clamming in the low tide, so I casually set up my campsite. Upon their return, Jerry and Greg try their luck at clamming with the rest of the crowd, while I just kick back and enjoy the view.

         A couple of hours later, the peaceful nature of our camp is shattered, as the stragglers finally show up, and promptly get stuck on the last turn before camp. Seeing how they're all somewhat alcohol impaired, watching them attempt to set their respective camp spots provides me with endless amusement.

        Jerry and Greg bought 5 pounds of fresh jumbo shrimp at the local fish camp, and we greedily devour them for dinner, vowing to see if we can buy more tomorrow.

         The rest of the evening is spent around the campfire, exchanging war stories. About 9pm my switch goes to off, and I turn in for the night, with the wailing of countless coyotes as my Baja lullaby.

        Waking at 6, I stick my head out of my tent to see the spectacular morning twilight.  As everyone's still asleep, I take advantage of the privacy and grab a flashlight and look for a spot to take my morning constitutional.  There’s noting like squatting behind a bush to realize how truly insignificant we really are.  Returning to camp a bit lighter, I put on some water for coffee. Pretty soon Jerry's up, and I treat him to my special pseudo-Starbuck's camp coffee - with cocoa, creamer and sweetener, it makes a pretty good mocha.

        DC and Howard are soon vertical, and they manage to talk Jerry into going fishing with them. In a classic move, they push off from shore without taking the oars, and sure enough, the motor won't start. As soon as they drift in close to shore to pick up the oars, the motor suddenly comes to life. As they disappear over the horizon, DC's dogs spend the next half-hour wailing for their master's return.

        Scrambled eggs and bacon later, the brave slayers of fish return, bringing back their catch - about a dozen small bass, which DC promptly fillets.

        Soon the boys start getting restless, eager to put some miles on the quads. DC has wanted to try to find the illusive inside passage from Puerto Viejo to Puerto Chale. Six of us take off, however at the first pit stop it becomes evident we left ill prepared - we didn't pack enough booze or gas. Turning back before reaching our desired target, we vow to return tomorrow, properly packed. On the way home, we make a few side trips to check out some new spots on the beach. Pulling Into Puerto Viejo, the temporarily abandoned fish camp is straight out of a Hollywood back lot. I mark the correct location with the GPS, noting our map shows it in the incorrect spot.

        Back at camp, the clammers are back at it again, and soon several more buckets are filled to the brim. Les has a recipe for clam ceviche, and he whips up a batch - good stuff.  Howard and Patricia have been working all afternoon on a huge pot of clam chowder, which is greedily consumed around the evening's campfire.

        The day's fun schedule has taken its toll on everyone, and after Kathy falls out of her chair twice, it's time for bed.

        As usual, Jerry and I are the first ones up, and coffee is the first order of the day. DC is adamant about his quest for the illusive inside trail to Puerto Chale. Today we're better prepared, with plenty of gas, rum and whiskey. We take off early, as it could be a long day. Armed once again with a belly full of bacon and eggs, we take off.

        Just before we reach our turn-around point from yesterday, we mark the intersection with a now-useless empty rum bottle, prompting us to name this spot "rum bottle junction". Marking the spot on my map, we continue on and quickly run into some D-8 tracks, going in our direction. Soon we pass the dozer and come upon the advance truck. Stopping to talk to the engineers, they tell us they're cutting a new road for a shrimp farm to be built in the estero. Before moving on, we mull on the notion that someday when this road is a highway, we can tell everyone how we cut the trail. Continuing on, the truck trail disappears, and we start going overland, dodging cactuses and mangrove swamps. Getting to the edge of the estero, our frustration factor goes to max, as we can see the water tower of Puerto Chale, but can't find a way across. After bouncing across the desert, we finally concede defeat, and drag our butts back to camp.

         Today is Bob Ham's 70th birthday, and the whole camp is planning a communal dinner in celebration. DC brought 100 gallons of water, and he, Greg and Howard rig up a pump system to fill Greg's trailer so we can all take showers. While this is going on, I make some calcs from the GPS and plot them on the map, causing DC to give me a new nickname, "Magellan".

        Cleaned up and smelling sweet, we head on over to the north camp, where all the civilized people are. Pretty soon, a huge buffet spread is set up, with New York strips, baked potatoes, cole slaw, spaghetti, rice, and German chocolate birthday cake.

        Midway through the evening's festivities, Jerry's ex, Dolly, (see Todos Santos '98) makes an appearance, bearing a sign calling him a bastard, as she's now pregnant. Jennifer Rayor comments that the kids will probably look like Ziploc bags.

        Being full with good food, good cheer, good company and good thoughts, there's nothing left to do but wish Bob a great birthday and stagger back to camp to call it a day.

        This morning's sunrise was straight out of a painter's canvas, with a spectacular palette of purple and pink skies. As usual, Jerry and I are up first, and fresh coffee is the perfect accompaniment to the gorgeous sunrise. To no one's surprise, most of the wild bunch isn’t hitting on all cylinders today. In a thinly veiled attempt to shake out the cobwebs, DC and Howard start their day by cleaning the buckets of clams everyone’s gathered.

         After breakfast, four of us, DC, Howard, Jerry and myself, decide to make one last try to find the shortcut to Chale. Armed again with extra gas, the GPS, and plenty of rum, we take off again, down the familiar path to oblivion. This time we zig instead of zag, and find a path through a spot called Agua Verde. Jerry finds a bleached cow pelvis, and improves his looks by wearing it like a mask. Cruising on in to Puerto Chale, we stop for a congratulatory cocktail and the obligatory photo shoot.

         Zipping back up the main road to Santa Rita, we load up on machaca burritos before heading on home. On the way, we run across Rancho San Francisco de la Costa, where we find a working windmill, busily pumping water into a huge pila.

        Back at camp, we come cruising on in with Jerry wearing his trophy, but no one’s here to see it – they’re all out clamming in the afternoon low tide. Clarence and one of his friends have shown up. While DC and the boys break out the chainsaw for a firewood-gathering mission, the girls have whipped up a modest dinner of chicken Parmesana, salad and garlic bread. We're eating better here than at home, and some of the boys are commenting they might actually be putting on weight during the trip.

        Clarence's presence has brought some new topics for campfire conversation. He's telling us all the horror stories from last year’s local Shakespearian production. However, this evening's socializing around the campfire gets cut short, as the stiff breeze that's been blowing all afternoon has brought some rare January rain. Bundling up, it's off to bed, with the din of countless raindrops bouncing off my tent to lull me to sleep.

Day 5

        The rain finally tapers off at 2:30 in the morning. The eerie silence is immediately shattered by the wails of countless coyotes. Drifting back off to sleep, the scene is repeated at 6. This time a coyote is right next to camp, and all our dogs go nuts when they catch its scent. Everything settles back down, and there's nothing left to do but wait for sunrise to check out how everyone fared during the rain.

        I'm up before Jerry, so I get my coffee started. World War III might have begun, but as long as I get my morning coffee, everything will be OK. Soon the rest of the crew is up, and we survey the damage. It looks like the worst casualties were my boots, inadvertently left out. We get a fire started and the boots quickly dry out in the welcome heat.

        After another fabulous breakfast, Howard and I decide to go fishing. On the way to the fishing grounds in the rickety tin boat, we're treated to several spectacular rainbows to the northeast. Unfortunately, you can't have rainbows without rain, and pretty soon the cloudburst is upon us. Just as suddenly, the storm passes, and we continue on to the mangrove swamp, in search of hungry fish.

        Tying on a plastic scampi, soon the spotted bay bass are almost jumping into the boat. With more than enough to feed everyone, we cruise back on the receding tide.

        While we were gone, Clarence has left, along with Jerry, who’s riding his quad to their destination, San Carlos. The excuse for the trip is to buy some shrimp, but all of us in the know don’t expect Jerry to show back up until tomorrow. In the meantime, Howard and DC clean our catch, while Patricia puts on a big pot of chili for lunch. With full bellies, it's time for a nap.

        The breeze has been strong all day, and sleep is impossible with the flapping tent. Getting up, we move some of the vehicles around to create a windbreak for our campfire. Mike has whipped up beer batter for our fresh fish, and we feast on the ambrosia from the sea.

        Everyone wants to turn in early, as the clear sky means it’s gonna get cold tonight. We make a pact to wait until the moonrise, and while we wait around the campfire, we look for satellites in the night sky. About 8:30, the moon makes its scheduled appearance, signaling our bedtime.

        All good things must come to an end, and today is no different. It’s time to go home. We loaded up my quad last night, so I’m just waiting for the rising sun to chase away the morning dampness that has settled on everything.

        Cooking up the last of my bacon and eggs, I start working on the massive jigsaw puzzle necessary to fit all of my stuff into the truck. Dumping out my unused water jugs, everything finally fits in. Taking my time, as I don’t want to leave until the sun is high enough in the sky to not blind me, I am treated to a repeat of Day 1’s entertainment, as DC has to pull Howard out.

         With not much else to do but leave, I take one last photo, jump into the truck, and head for home.

        This trip was another smashing success. No one got hurt, tons of clams were gathered, I got to catch some fish on the new rod I got for Christmas (thanks Gary), we found some new roads and great camping spots, and ate like kings.

        As I reach the highway, the only unanswered question is "whatever happened to Jerry?"

Sr Divertido

January 31, 2002