If you read last year's story, you would remember that instead of taking the Laguna Chapala / Gonzaga Bay / Puertocitos shortcut to San Felipe, I opted for the long way around, through Ensenada (the Gonzaga Bay road was rumored to be in bad shape). That trip took an eternity - I vowed never to do it again. This year I'm going to try something new - possibly dangerous and, for sure, incredibly stupid. I'm going to drive to Laguna Chapala, unload the quad there, then ride the 140 miles to San Felipe - with any luck I'll get there in one piece. At any rate, it will be a worthy adventure.

    Prepping for this trip will demand careful consideration, as I will need to pack everything in a single backpack. My buddy Al (and his toilet-demolishing son, Ryan) will be bringing an extra tent and bedding, so that issue is resolved. I will need to bring clothes, gas and water for the trip. I'll be carrying a 2.5-gallon gas can in my cooler rack - this should be adequate insurance, as there should be gas available in both Gonzaga Bay and Puertocitos. I'll have a handlebar pack with 2 quarts of water, and a second pack with tools and first aid supplies strapped behind the seat.

    I've got a Palm Vx handheld computer with folding keyboard, and a Canon Elph digital camera, perfect for traveling light to document the trip. However, my most important piece of equipment will be one of the new Iridium satellite phones, not much larger than a cell phone. My friends Scott and Andy at Honor Marine Communications have ordered one for me - they're supposed to be out before the end of March - I'm keeping my fingers crossed. I really don't want to do this trip solo without the security the satphone offers.

    Last night I received an email from Jeff, who with his friend Drew, used to hang with us during the Percebu glory days of the late 80's - early 90's. He wants to rent a house at Percebu for this year's spring break festivities and asked if I could help him out. Sorry, Jeff - I still remember the time you trashed my quad!

    On March 15th I got a call from Andy at Honor Marine, and they will have my phone in stock in time for me to pick up next week in San Diego. Relieved that I will have the security of communications on the trip, my thoughts turn towards the details of the preparations. My friends Bill & Maggie drove down from San Diego last week, and they stopped at the little rancho located by the Laguna Chapala turnoff, arranging for me to leave my truck in their secured yard.

    The whoosh-whoosh-whoosh sound of the ceiling fan seems extremely aggravating this morning. I fell asleep last night leaving the fan and lights on – and don’t remember a thing. Jimmy Buffett must have had a day like this when he wrote "...my head hurts, my feet stink, and I don't love Jesus..." It's Sunday the 18th, and I'm nursing a St. Patrick's Day hangover. Thinking about some of my past trips to San Felipe on the Gonzaga Bay road, I'm beginning to have doubts as to the wisdom of my plan to traverse the 80 miles of volcanic washboard solo. I decide I'll take a ride up to Jerry Brown's place to see if he's interested in going along. Besides, the 40-mile quad ride should help clear the cobwebs out of my alcohol-damaged brain. Breakfast at the hotel makes me feel a bit better, and the ride up the beach to Jerry's definitely gets the blood moving. I'm wearing my new helmet, and the false sense of security it offers lulls me into taking some stupid chances on the narrow, winding pockmarked dirt road to Punta Pescadero. Hitting on all cylinders by the time I get to Jerry's, I'm disappointed to find he's not there. Turning around, I no sooner get down his driveway and here he comes.

    I brought along a copy of last year’s San Felipe trip in an attempt to entice Jerry into coming along. I think it’s done the trick, as his eyes grow wide checking out the photos of the girls that usually go on these trips. We discuss the dates, and he promises to see if he can work it into his schedule.

    On the ride back home, I make a mental note to call Amparo in San Diego. Her family owns Laguna Percebu, and I'd sure like to see them this trip - maybe I can talk her mom into making me some of her awesome chicken molé when I visit. Years ago, when we were considered recreational gods, we ruled at Percebu, bringing all kinds of toys with us. The college kids on spring break would look upon us in awe, as we would roll in with the latest quads, jet skis, generators, blenders, and other assorted party paraphernalia. Unfortunately, we’ve made the terrible transition from being legends in our own time to being legends in our own minds, and now the college kids just consider us to be "old guys". However, the ravages of our impending venture into senility does little to diminish the pleasure of Percebu’s notorious "cazuela", a party drink served in a large clay bowl, meant to be shared, the perfect way to break the ice with that cute co-ed sitting at the next table - ahh the memories!

    I’m notorious for being the world’s greatest boy scout, preparing for every eventuality. It’s the little details that make the difference between a vacation in paradise and a trip to hell. In addition to the satphone for communications, it’s things like copies of vehicle registration and insurance policies, small bills for making change, toilet paper, lip balm and sun block that are worth their weight in gold. There’s nothing worse than trying to kiss a senorita when you’ve got sunburnt lips, or trying to buy a taco from a street vendor with a $20 bill.

    It’s now April Fool’s Day, three days before lift-off. I just got back from a quick trip to San Diego to get my eyes checked (everything A-OK), arrange the travel details with Al, and to pick up supplies for the trip. Oh, no! – No Iridium phone, they didn’t arrive in time. I guess I’ll just have to take Old Faithful, my bulkier SkyCell phone from years past for the trip. Especially since Jerry advised me yesterday he couldn’t make the trip. Continuing the pattern that started in childhood, it seems the only person I can rely upon to have fun with is myself – oh well, making these trips solo sure beats sitting at home alone whining about it! Spent most of the day servicing the truck and quad, then begin the fine art of packing, figuring out how to put 10 pounds of s--- into a 5 pound bag.

    Time flies when you’re having fun – it’s now less than 24 hours before blastoff, and I’m starting to get San Felipeitis. The guys are washing and waxing everything, while I’m making last minute preparations at the hotel. By evening short-time fever sets in with a vengeance. Over the years I’ve found the best treatment for this malady is chicken wings. After a big dose of this magic medicine I’m feeling better and go to bed with the giddiness of a kid on Christmas Eve.

Day 1

    Getting to the La Paz vehicle inspection station, there's a line in front of me - for some reason everyone is being subjected to a more extensive search than normal. After a joint-numbing wait, it's finally my turn. Pulling up, I'm amazed they let me pass after only asking where I came from. As I leave, I can't help but wonder if they let me pass because someone recognized me from last year's concealed pocketknife debacle. Oh well, I just take it as a good omen, and continue north.

    After an otherwise uneventful trip, I pull onto the Malarrimo in Guererro Negro. The weather is overcast, cold and blustery. The place is filled with skinny people; all bundled up and shivering as of they're on an Antarctic expedition. All the while, I'm perfectly comfortable wearing shorts and a t-shirt. Sometimes it's good to be Roy.

    After a t-bone steak, washed down with a couple of cold Negro Modelo's, I turn in, anticipating a fun day tomorrow. During the night, I have a near-reality dream about Laguna Percebu. Just visualizing the entrance there elicits an intense emotional response - some of the best days of my life were there; just the thought of it is bringing back buried memories which make the entire trip worthwhile.

Day 2

    No sense in getting up early, the restaurant doesn't open up 'till 7. Getting up at 6, every bone on my body is shrieking in pain - it's a bitch getting old! The weather is typical Guererro Negro, overcast, chilly and windy - I hope it's not a portend of things to come. Waiting on the patio for the restaurant to open, I work on this journal, all the while being entertained by bundled up skinny people, complaining about the cold.

    After chorizo & eggs, I hit the road at 7:45. Cruising on into Laguna Chapala about 9:30, they think I'm nuts, and I'm beginning to think so myself. The weather is definitely no fun, and as I change into my riding gear I'm sure glad I brought along a jacket. Right on schedule, I pull out at 10, almost unwilling to believe I'm committing this madness. Stopping for a photo, the sad reality of a dead battery hits home. Oh well, no photos until I can recharge the camera once I get to camp.

    Pulling into Alfonsina's at Gonzaga Bay just before 11, I stop for a beer and to add my sticker to the collection on the front window. Stopping at the store on the main road for some gas, they get a sticker too. Bracing myself for the rough road ahead going over Three Sisters, marking the time at 11:30. In years past, this stretch would usually take over two and a half hours, and that's what I'm estimating it'll take today. The road is just as I remember it, volcanic washboard, hairpin turns when you least expect it, and wheel-crunching rocks around every corner. Keeping a steady pace, the miles fly by, and before you know it I see Puertocitos coming into view. Stopping at the closed Pemex station, I make a time check and an please to discover it only took an hour and 20 minutes to make this stretch. Topping off with the extra gas I was carrying, I eagerly pursued my next goal, Percebu.

    The god-awful dirt road from hell soon becomes smooth blacktop. However, this doesn't mean I drop my vigilance. Treacherous vados, or drainage channels are cut about every half-mile or so, and hitting one of these at speed could turn you into "film at eleven". Carefully negotiating the vados and giant potholes, I soon reach the Percebu turnoff. My spirits soar as I pass the half-buried airplane marking the camp's entrance. Stopping at the now deserted bar, the crew is working at a frantic pace, trying to get their kitchen remodeling completed before the hordes of hungry vacationers descend upon the camp. Jorge isn't there, so I leave word we'll be back over the weekend.

    Stopping in San Felipe for gas, I make a quick pass through town looking for our favorite taco vendor, Kiko - no luck. With all the packs I'm carrying, I decide to take the pavement out to Pete's. Getting there is a bit of a letdown, as everyone is either gone or hasn't arrived yet. Pulling down into camp, I'm pleasantly surprised to find Al and Ryan have already set up my tent - thanks guys!

    The weather is getting gloomier by the minute; Al and I look at each other and decide to put the rain covers on the tents. Cruising on up to the restaurant, it's time for tacos and bloody Mary’s. Back at camp, the weather is about as cold and nasty as I remember it. The long ride getting here has taken its toll on me, and I decide to turn in before I pass out.

    About 9:30, the rain begins, and I'm thankful for the foresight in having put up the rain cove earlier. It's now 11, the wind is howling, the rain coming down in buckets, I’m in a borrowed tent, my air mattress is leaking, I've driven and rode nearly 800 miles to get here, and I'm wondering how it can get any better than this. It does, as I wake up at 4 with a rumble in my stomach and that familiar sense of urgency as my old friend, Montezuma, pays me an early visit. Crawling out of my half-flattened tent, I barely make it to the bathroom in time. There is no better feeling in the world than a colon relieved of its poisonous contents. Crawling back into bed, I'm hoping for a couple hours of rest before the beginnings of the new day.

Day 3

    Dawn arrives with clearing skies and a renewed determination to have fun. Scott and I head on up for showers at 6:30, then proceed to inflict great damage to the bottle of Bailey's residing behind the bar. Machaca and eggs later, we're ready to organize camp for a run into town.

    About 10:30 the weather turns absolutely gorgeous, with dead flat seas, azure skies and not even a hint of the foul conditions we had last night. A briefcase vendor appears and I wind up springing for a couple of necklaces for Ryan and me.

    Ryan is having fireworks withdrawals big-time. He's been trying to talk me into a trip to town for some big-boomer skyrockets since last night. He's now shaking with anticipation. Al and I can't stand his suffering any longer so we cave in and decide to make a run to town to find Ryan some pyrotechnic medication. Jumping into Al's truck (no easy feat), we take off on a road trip to town, leaving Jodi behind - this will probably be good for a spectacular fight when we get back. Not that there's a lot of trouble we can get into in town. Daytime in town is pretty tame, with shopping and tacos the order of the day. After taking care of Ryan's needs to the tune of $160, we're heading back to camp, when out of the corner of my eye I spot a familiar sign; it's Kiko, our taco vendor for the last 20 years, in a new location.

     After renewing acquaintances and sampling a couple of tacos, we promise to return tomorrow, then start on back to camp, for the dreaded reunion with Jodi. By the time we get there, the wind is howling and everyone is kicking back behind the shelter of Doug's trailer. As soon as we roll in, Jodi takes off with Robert and Teresa, in a tit-for-tat move. The afternoon's entertainment soon turns to jumping Doug's little mini-50 over a makeshift ramp, seeing who can wreck the most spectacularly. After enough bruised egos, the action moves to the bar, where we engage in a different form of self-abuse. Now remember, I’ve been drinking since 7 this morning, and by now I'm feeling no pain. veryone decides to come on up for Pete's famous Friday night spaghetti dinner. In the mass hysteria $5 dinner causes, it takes me an hour and a half to get the cheeseburger I ordered. Finally regrouping back at camp, most of the crew decides to head on into town, while the best I can do is stumble into my tent, where my switch goes immediately to off. About 1:30, the revelers return from their excursion to party land, and Al tosses some girl's bikini top into my tent; I'm waiting for the story he's going to concoct about this in the morning.

Day 4

    I've left the door open on the tent during the night, and the brilliant rays of dawn's first light seeks me out and awakens me with a grand entry, It's about 6:30, and the camp is littered with dead bodies. A cold shower followed be some hot coffee gets most of the brain cells functioning. To my surprise, Al makes an early appearance, an auspicious indicator of the day ahead. But before I can even say "hi", he jumps back in his truck and heads back to camp, soon to be replaced by his pyrotechnic son, Ryan. After buying him breakfast, the rest of the alcohol-damaged camp starts to drag their butts up for showers and life-giving coffee.

    Back at camp, we try to organize a trip to Percebu, but we're not getting many takers. Instead, Al and I jump on the quads and cruise on over to Eldorado, looking for the Powell's, who have a place there. We're amazed at the extent of the development going on there, with hundreds of vacation homes going back for several miles. We spend so much time looking for our friends in the endless maze; Al runs out of gas and has to limp home on reserve, while I continue the search. Eventually I find their empty camp, making a note of its location for a return visit later.

    Afterwards, the girls kiss and make up, while Ryan provides the next round of entertainment. He's perfected a new pyrotechnic technique, taping a plastic water bottle containing gasoline to one of the big boomer skyrockets - the results are spectacular, with the resulting explosion sending a mushroom cloud of fire and smoke high into the dusk sky.

    Cruising up to Pete's restaurant for their Saturday night steak dinner, we're devastated to be told they're already closed - time for Plan B. We head on over to Eldorado's restaurant for dinner, then return for the latest crisis. It seems Lori's friend Alicia lost her money and cigarettes at the bar, and is so upset in her alcohol-impaired perception; she has packed up and headed home. She's drunk, upset, and trying to drive home from Mexico alone on a Saturday night - not smart in anybody's book. Robert and Scott jump in Robert's truck to reel her in, she's only left 5 minutes earlier. Pretty soon they get back with her in tow, and with this crisis over, I turn in, with Ryan's gas bomb explosions lulling me to sleep.

Day 5

    The dawn is shattered with the arrival of the dreaded north wind, as a weather front moves through at about 5:30. At 6:10, the sun makes a brief appearance before being gobbled up by the angry clouds. Pulling the covers over me, there's no use in getting up before the restaurant can revive me with the magic elixir commonly known as coffee. Heading on up at 7, after a shower and coffee, I witness the sun's successful struggle to break through the gauntlet of clouds. Scott tries to organize a run to Eldorado for their Sunday champagne brunch.

    The weather finally decides to cooperate, and we eventually make it on over to Eldorado for their $6 all-you-can-eat brunch. Returning to camp, it's getting harder by the minute to get anything organized. Finally Al and Jodi take charge and we get a few more takers for the trip to Percebu, including the 16 & 19-year-old nymphets, Jennifer and Jessica.

    The trip to Percebu renders a flashback from nearly 20 years ago, when Al and I would cruise on into town in his old red Ford truck, even before the road to Percebu was paved; then return drunk we could barely see - it still amazes me we survived that era. Getting to Percebu, we head immediately to the cazuela bar, where we keep Lupita and the girls busy making drink after drink. As the girls are getting fall-down drunk, I head on over to say hi to mama, and she cries as I give her a big hug. Meanwhile, some college kids show up, they’re acting really subdued, not like in years past, so I shout at them, yelling that they party like high-schoolers. They yell back, but it's evident they're not in our league.

    Back at camp, we're still buzzed from all the cazuelas we drank. Scott breaks out about 10 pounds of Italian sausage and fires up the barbeque. In the midst of the resulting feast, guess who shows up, that's right - Jessica and Jennifer come bounding out of the now-infamous black Navigator, with Jessica sporting a stylish new cast on her right hand, and a bill for me for $25 for the x-ray. Tom soon returns for the tearful reunion.

    The day's excitement has taken its toll on us, so Al, Jodi and I turn in early, with tonight's bedtime lullaby provided by Scott, who's having simultaneous projectile emissions from both ends of his digestive tract.

Day 6

    I'm up at 5:30, making a bathroom run to remove all traces of evidence of yesterday's excesses - I sure hope Monty isn't coming back for a return engagement. Back in the tent, I begin the dreaded task of packing - how is it possible that the same stuff always takes up twice the packing space on the trip home?

    A brilliant sunrise marks the day's beginning, and as the first rays come streaming through the tent door, it's as if San Felipe is saying to me "Please don't go - if you stay I'll behave!" Despite her protestations, today's nice weather isn't enough to make me stay - I'm getting out of town before this constant partying lifestyle hurts me.

    After the usual routine of shower and breakfast, it's goodbyes all around (Thanks for everything Al, Jodi & Ryan), as I hit the road at 9:40. Gassing up in town, I make the first uneventful stretch run to Puertocitos, bucking a heavy crosswind most of the way. Finding a new Pemex station I hadn't noticed on the trip north, I gas up and start the more difficult run to Gonzaga Bay, pulling out of Puertocitos at 11 on the money. The road is just as bad as on the trip north. Going over Three Sisters is always spectacular as well as dangerous. Admiring the scenery for a second too long, and you can easily wind up going over a sheer cliff. Stopping for a couple of photos, it's a wonder how beauty and desolation co-exists here. A few miles north of Gonzaga Bay, I come across the first cars I've seen on this section. Coming up on them, I can easily see the strain the cars' suspensions are going through, in the seconds just before I pass them like they're standing still.

    Arriving at the Gonzaga Bay store at 12:30, I decide to stop for a beer, as I'm making good time. Leaving at 1, I keep the throttle open, and reach my truck at Laguna Chapala at 1:50. Loading up, I'm on the road home by 2:15; feeling pretty good, I think I might try to get all the way to Mulege today. However, the farther I go, the more I realize I'm tired, so I stick with Plan A and head for the Malarrimo in Guererro Negro. A shower, clean clothes and a carne asada dinner later, I'm ready to turn in, eagerly anticipating the home stretch tomorrow.

    I had contemplated leaving at 5, in order to cross the desert before sunrise and avoid driving with the sun straight in my eyes, but these old bones just wouldn’t cooperate. Now there’s no use leaving until the sun gets a little higher in the sky. Leisurely getting up at 7, I wind up sharing breakfast with an interesting character, Art. He’s a retired San Diego State professor who now lives 6 months a year in Santa Rosalia, and the other 6 months in Hawaii. He’s recently gotten divorced, told his kids they’re on their own, and is now awash in the giddiness of his newfound freedom.

    Hitting the road at 8:10, the trip south is pretty uneventful, except for the strong winds blowing dirt and dust across the road. The Semana Santa rush has started and the packed highway makes the going slow. The scene is eerily reminiscent of the Grapes of Wrath, with caravans of Ma & Pa Kettle’s heading to their favorite camping spot, with their trucks overloaded with camping gear, pots & pans, and kids toys. Stopping at Cuidad Constitucion about 2, it’s time for some Super Pollo roasted chicken.

    With a full stomach and a happy disposition, I continue the seemingly endless trip home. Lulled into a false sense of security, I’m shocked into action as a tremendous explosion rocks the truck. I’m about 20 miles south of Constitucion, and the right rear tire has just disintegrated. Fortunately there’s no traffic so I manage to get pulled over to the left shoulder. The tire is obliterated, but the rim looks like its still OK – I guess a little luck is better than no luck.

    Wrestling with the never-used spare, it looks like my little bit of luck has turned into no luck, as 4 years of rubbing against the cross member has put several deep gouges into the sidewall. There’s no way this tire is going to get me home. With the help of a passing horseback-riding rancher, we get the spare on, and then I limp on back to Constitucion. I know there’s no Goodrich dealer here, so I head for the biggest tire shop I can find, and hope for the best. Several years ago, I switched from the stock 17-inch wheels to a more standard 16.5-inch size, which is the standard ¾ ton truck tire available at almost any llantera (tire shop) in the Baja. And my luck has returned, with no problem finding a brand new 33x12.5x16.5 tire to fit my miraculously undamaged wheel. Soon I’m back on the road, although now 2 hours behind schedule.

    Pulling into Los Barriles at 8, I stop at Otra Vez for a quick dinner before continuing on home to a very happy parrot, Ranger. Pulling into my driveway, I whisper a prayer of thanks to the spirits above who always seem to be looking after me.

Sr. Divertido

April 10, 2001

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