"The Devil's Road" Main Expedition, Day 35

May 19, 2017

April 4th (Punta Conjeo to El Triunfo)

Everything was wet when we woke. The dew was so strong it seemed as though it had rained during the night. But, within an hour, most everything was dry. We had found a cool camp site tucked in under some low growing trees and had a great night’s sleep. Our next move was to head to El Triunfo. We had a day to kill before we needed to be in La Paz, so the decision was made to bypass La Paz and film El Triunfo.

Getting through La Paz has always been a problem for us and is notorious for other travelers as well for having very poor signs. We got lost again. One dead end road after another had me frustrated. I flagged down a passing motorist to ask him where the road to Cabo was and he began to stumble as to how to give us directions. After a few puzzling seconds, he said, "Just follow me." This nice man took us three miles out of his way and took us to the right road to Cabo San Lucas. Only in Mexico will you find that kind of hospitality. Thank you!

El Triunfo is an old town with a storied history. At one time 11,000 people lived and worked in this gold and silver mining town. Now only 500 people make it their home. The mining operation is in ruins and restoration work is in place to save the 70-meter smokestack that was designed by Gustav Eiffel. We were met by an interesting fellow that said he was a tour guide and asked if he could show us around. We agreed and he set about to tell us things like, "This is the machine," and "This is the quartz," and "This is the cow." In the end he asked for a propina, or tip, and continued to give us a blank stare when we asked how much the usual tip was. When I reached into my wallet and pulled out a bill, he seemed to not understand what I was doing. Or, was it his way of saying that it was not enough? We were perplexed.

Most of the land surrounding this community is private and well fenced, so we decided to head for Los Barilles to spend the night on the beach. The 30-mile ride was a wonderful mountainous and curvy ride that made the trip out to the beach that much more pleasant to be camping on.

"The Devil's Road" Main Expedition, Day 46

May 6, 2017

Guest blog by Associate Producer Bri Bruce

Woke to a thick haze in the air, a mixture of fog and smoke—likely burning trash.

JT, Papa and I headed to Cerritos early, where I rented a board from a guy named Juan at one of the stands we had seen the day before. The surf was decent, though somewhat disorganized, more or less an extended beach break that sweeps around a rocky point below a large hotel on the cliff. There were only a few others out, and I enjoyed a handful of fast waves with short rides.

I did a short interview with JT afterwards, then interviewed Juan who told us all about the changes he’d seen at this beach in the last ten years. The beach used to be relatively unknown, and was unbuilt, “undiscovered.” But now, more than a few large hotels dot the stretch of beach, and people come from all over the world to surf and swim. Juan explained how sad it was, but ultimately it was good for business. He and his brother owned the stand, provided rentals and lessons to beachgoers, and slept right there in the sand most nights.

We spent a few hours in the evening in the central part of Cabo San Lucas, walking the stretch of beach in front of the resorts that gave us a good view of Land’s End, the boats leaving and entering the harbor, and all the people.

We found an out-of-the-way place for some tacos and beer, then roamed around the main streets to film some of the nightlife. Loud music poured from the open entryways of bars and nightclubs. Men stood on the sidewalk handing out flyers, attempting to usher us into their establishments. There were families, and sunburnt couples, gaggles of women in high heels, groups of men yelling and jostling one another. Every so often we’d pass a bachelorette party, colorful tiaras or boas setting them apart.

Once we had our fill of Cabo, we made our way back to Todos Santos. We were silent on the drive home, most of us likely reflecting on the day, and the week, knowing some of us would be leaving in the morning.

"The Devil's Road" Main Expedition, Day 44

May 2, 2017

Guest blog by Associate Producer Bri Bruce

I woke at first light, made coffee, and walked to the bluff to find perfect dark lines of swell waves wrapping around the rocky point to the south. A gentle breeze dimpled the surface and I watched the steady strokes of a paddle boarder as they caught a few waves and rode them clear to shore. At the excitement of the conditions, I walked back to the condo to wake JT so he could film.

It was a perfect "Baja morning" by the time I paddled out. It wasn't long before the wind died completely, giving way to the stifling desert heat, the sky yellowing with day, the water becoming a clear blue-green beneath me. As I paddled for the point, I paused to look at the reef beneath me. My shadow was visible; I watched silvery fish glinting as their scales caught the light. Ahead of me, a fin or two broke the glassy surface, and even farther out the misty spout of a whale shot up from the horizon.

I exchanged pleasantries with the paddle boarder, a woman named Tammy who worked as a social worker in Idaho and was currently on sabbatical. She had been coming to the cape for fifteen years with her husband, retired. She motioned toward JT on the shore, filming, and I told her about our project, and before long we were exchanging stories about how much change we've both seen in recent years. I made a remark about how little birds there were in the area, and how everything seemed almost hushed, lacking, as this was something I noticed the day before. She continued, saying the beaches here used to be covered in seabirds, all feasting off of sardines in the wide cove north of the point, but this was something she hadn't seen in years. She and her husband sold their fishing boat because there were just no fish left to catch. We shared sentiments on the current state of the peninsula, broken up by long pauses of contemplation as we waited for the next set to roll through. We took turns riding waves, conversing, and being in the moment.

Eventually, she rode a wave into the shallow waters and continued paddling toward shore and exiting at the beach, done for the morning. Not long after, JT and Papa swam out to meet me, floating as I continued to surf. Still, questions gnawed at me in the wake of my conversation with Tammy, my observations about the lack of birds now amplified the more I paid attention to it. No birds meant no fish, and no fish.... well, what did that mean? Was anything being done about it? What impact does that have on the ecosystem as a whole? Where have all the birds gone, and more importantly, will they ever come back?

We continued south, then west around the cape. I had never been to Cabo San Lucas, and as we crested a small hill on the highway I caught my first glimpse of Land's End. I was shocked. Jet skis and boats of all sizes buzzed around the bay before the rocky point, leaving wakes like jet trails in every direction. Billowing, colorful parasails dotted the horizon, every bit of shoreline covered with sprawling monoliths of resorts and hotels. The opulence was disgusting, everywhere one looked--except on the other side of the highway where there was nothing but desert and dust leading up to the mountains--was sprawling with it. Such a manmade "paradise" at the expense of the natural beauty. I'd sen so many photographs of the granite cliffs falling into the sea, the iconic arch at the southernmost point of Baja, that somehow left out all of this. There was so much that wasn't supposed to be there.

It was with slightly heavy hearts that we passed, mostly in silence, along the highway.

Mex19 took us right to Todos Santos, the highway only slightly veering right and dropping us right into the central part of the town. We wound through narrow, brick-laden streets, past tourists taking photographs in front of the Hotel California (there is some speculation as to whether this is the Hotel California of the famous Eagles song). The old brick buildings in el centro, in the historical district, hold libraries and museums, art galleries and places for tourists to buy souvenirs and curios. Just beyond, the road dips down, through a palm forest, and the pavement ends. We're staying at a newly built complex behind a cafe and an ice cream shop.

Later we watched the sun set from the yard of the mission in town, a herd of goats wandering teh streets with bells around their necks. The clanging could be heard for blocks as they stopped periodically to munch on the plants lining the sidewalks, darting in and out of traffic.

We stopped by the Hotel California for a cold beer, didn't discover whether it was in fact the Hotel California (much to my disappointment) though learned that it had been in operation, originally as a tienda, since 1945 and then was renovated in 2002. For all intents and purposes, to me, it is the real Hotel California. We did eventually leave, and found a place a few streets away from the main road to have some tacos for dinner before heading back.

"The Devil's Road" Main Expedition, Day 43

May 1, 2017

Guest blog by Associate Producer Bri Bruce

Went into town to try to meet Rigoberto at his tequila shop for an interview only to find he had gone to Jalisco for the week. Instead, we bought food for the next few days and wandered about town.

After returning, I drove south alone along the dirt road to a large hotel down the beach to rent a surfboard. Being a longboarder, I rented the only longboard they had, a blue and yellow eight-footer that had seen better days. Knowing that the wind was blowing offshore, and the tide was dropping, I rushed back to the condo and paddled out to the point just before sundown. I spent the golden hour riding chest high waves, one after the other, all by myself.

Once the sun set behind the peninsula, I put my board on the beach and went bodysurfing with JT until dark. Papa came out to watch us, laughing as we acted like children rolling around in the surf, letting the waves push us up the slope of sand, and then the undertow take us back out.

Later, all of us watched the moon rise over the gulf, a big golden orb pushing through the mirage-like layer of heat over the ocean. For some time we stood watching the sky grow darker and the stars come into view. We pointed out all the constellations we knew, and the stars that comprised them: Sirius, Rigel, Betelgeuse the brightest.

We ended the day by cooking a meal together and sharing stories of the journey thus far.

The carapace of a sea turtle carcass washed ashore.

"The Devil's Road" Main Expedition, Day 42

April 26, 2017

Guest blog by Associate Producer Bri Bruce

Rose before the sun, an orange glow from the east across the gulf. The shorebreak echoed like thunder through the night, booming and reverberating against the stucco walls of the nearby houses. I took a short walk to the steps above the beach just as the sun was rising, creating a bright, eye-tearing glare off the water. There were already two surfers out at the rocky point, and I watched as they caught wave after wave, unencumbered. Their strokes were steady as they paddled back out to the lineup, then fluidly slid into the curling mouths of aqua waves rolling toward the shore. I was nearly giddy with excitement.

On the walk back to the condo and while looking at the neighboring houses, I thought how strange it was (and what a feat of engineering, really) that these communities pop up all over Baja seemingly out of nowhere and in the middle of nowhere, so far from any central hub of a town or city. And most, if not all, have modern amenities--running water, electricity, cable, even wifi. On previous trips, calling home was unheard of. Checking email? Forget it. You were MIA for the duration of your stay. Completely disconnected. I prefer it that way. What happened to the simple life? Pura vida? Beachfront palapas, sleeping in the sand, catching fish or diving for rock scallops to feed yourself and your family, trucking in and storing water in 50-gallon drums, rise with the sun, sleep when its dark. . . . For such a long time this was, in my opinion, part of the allure of Baja: its harshness. You had to be okay with roughing it and going a few days or more without a shower, or devise creative ways to entertain yourself to pass the hottest part of the day. Sure, it was not an existence of convenience and undoubtedly many will disagree with my opinion. One travels to Baja to do just that: go to Baja. Immerse yourself in the sights, the culture. Why the need to bring home with you? Is it just a matter of comfort? How many resources are wasted for these kinds of conveniences? I can only imagine the waste associated with larger resorts and hotels along the cape.

Baja is far from being Cabo; it is not Cancun. I hope it never will be, yet I can't help but fear it's evolution into a tourist destination is unstoppable.

Yes, the local economy benefits from tourism, but at the cost of Baja, its natural resources, flora and fauna. Large populations of tourists demand modern conveniences. This could mean a depletion of naturally occurring fresh water sources, or desalination plants for fresh water (at the cost of plant and animal life on land as well as already-sensitive marine life due to the resulting toxic brine), unsustainable (and perhaps unregulated) fishing practices, erosion, habitat destruction for fragile endemic species... the list goes on.

But is there a way to meld ecological preservation and tourism more seamlessly? Or does opulence breed opulence? Will one always outweigh the other?

The World Conservation Union defines eco-tourism as "Environmentally responsible travel to natural areas, in order to enjoy and appreciate nature (and accompanying cultural features, both past and present) that promote conservation, have a low visitor impact and provide for beneficially active socio-economic involvement of local peoples."

One of our goals in making this film was to capture the beauty of Baja as it was at the turn of the last century, how it is now, and show what will happen if this region is forever at the mercy of those that want to exploit it. We are, at our core, eco-tourists, wanting to make as small an environmental impact as we can, enrich ourselves with Baja's culture, and appreciate it's beauty. We also want to share with the world all that defines Baja in hopes that our passion for it is contagious. To quote a number of conservation organizations, we protect the places we are most passionate about. Maybe we strike a chord in someone, or in a group of people. Maybe we bring to the surface all of the change over the last century, or of the importance of the work that Nelson and Goldman did for Baja's natural history. Maybe. We remain hopeful.

"The Devil's Road" Main Expedition, Day 41

April 25, 2017

Guest Blog by Associate Producer Bri Bruce

We woke early an spent the day on horseback. Oscar took us from the villa stables to La Boca de la Sierra, winding on a dusty road through the foothills of the Sierra la Laguna. Along the way, he stopped to point out and several species of plants and flowers, explaining what native Baja Californians would use for medicinal purposes.

At one point, we traversed the Arroyo San Bernardo, and for a moment I felt as I imagined Nelson and Goldman once did during their time here, looking to either side of the road at the expanse of the dry river basin. To think that in this very canyon they rode their own horses during their own trek, over a century before. Suddenly we heard a loud whooshing noise, cross between a strong gust of wind and a plane flying overhead. When we looked up to where the sound was coming from, whatever it was was moving--and quickly--we saw a person, clad in helmet, gloves, and ropes, suspended from and rolling along a cable high above the arroyo. Zipline. All this before I could presume that little had changed in the last hundred or so years, with the exception of trash hung up in the underbrush and the branded cattle roaming about. Shortly after we came upon a small outpost, vans emblazoned with "Cabo Adventures," offering ziplining and ATVing to tourists from the cape.

We continued on, noting the number of ziplines in the area, the platforms of various heights that were scattered among the peaks. Every now and then we heard someone whooping as they swung from one platform to the next along one of the the cables. We couldn't go five minutes without a bus full of smiling tourists lumbering down the narrow road or convoy of ATVers at our heels, revving their engines in an attempt to urge us to guide the horses to the shoulder. We were left to choke on their dust and calm the horses for some time afterward.

The road ended in a picturesque, rocky canyon that had collected rainwater in blue pools in its basin--a welcome reward for the journey. The water was remarkably clear for having been stagnant for some time, shrouded in grasses, a lone palm at the southeastern end. The horses drank and trotted through the water, clearly pleased, as several of them began pawing at the water, letting it splash around us. We did our best to cool off before filming a black water snake we had happened upon near a marshy crevice at the water's edge. Oscar tended to the horses, checking their saddles and upturning his hat, filling it with water from the canyon, and offering it to them to drink, pouring the rest over their necks and flanks.

I have a new respect for Nelson and Goldman and all they endured and were able to accomplish in this place. They must have been incredibly seasoned horsemen because I cannot imagine riding over 2,000 miles on horseback when only a day's ride has left me so sore and bruised I can hardly sit.

On our return, the horses were eager to get back, picking up their pace to a trot despite Oscar's insistence (and our pulling at the reigns) that we not let them. Undoubtedly they were also growing more agitated at the constant convoys of ATVs whizzing past, coating us all in a fine layer of Baja dust.

We finally made it back to Rigoberto's villa, hot and thirsty, the horses sweating and snorting. We helped Oscar wash and brush the horses, and then tie them up beneath some trees near the aviary to feed them alfalfa. Afterward, Oscar helped us in recreating a photograph that Nelson and Goldman took on their expedition of a vaquero in traditional dress. We were in awe. The photos we captured were nearly identical, down to the way the horse held his ears, the brim of Oscar's hat, the handmade leather chaps and saddle. This was truly a highlight of our time in the area, and truly a recreation of the original expedition we're aiming to recreate.

Later in the afternoon, once packed, we bid Rigoberto and Oscar farewell and thanks, and continued south around the cape. After ten or so miles on a rutted and windy dirt road toward Cabo Pulmo, we arrived at our next destination: a gated community of houses and condos atop a cliff overlooking the ocean. We're staying at a condo belonging to a surfer from Southern California in one of the last small housing developments along the road.

The entire drive, as the sun was slowly descending toward the western horizon (and not over the ocean as I'm so accustomed to seeing back home) I watched the surf. The blue-green waves rolling around the rocky points near Nine Palms and Shipwrecks brought butterflies to my stomach.

We watched the sun set and the moon rise from the beach below the condo, watching as JT and Jade went for a swim, struggling with the shorebreak and the undertow.

"The Devil's Road" Main Expedition, Day 39

April 19, 2017

Guest blog by Bri Bruce, "The Devil's Road" Associate Producer

There is an acute and undeniable buzz in me--a palpable, electric thrumming. I'm keeping pace of it, all too aware of the nerves, an excitement I feel coursing through me right down to the tips of my fingers. And I know why.

Though it's only been several years, I nearly felt my heart skip a beat at my first glimpse of the Sea of Cortez after some time. It's like seeing an old friend. This body of water is the definition of blue. Azure, cobalt, sapphire, cyan. Navy, midnight, indigo. In the cut out of the airplane window, this blue and all of its shades fills every space, halved by the plane's slice of wing. Slivers of peninsula in the distance are flanked by wisps and crescents of sandy beaches. Gusts of wind dimple the water's surface, making it look as though it is shimmering. This is the blue that one dreams about long after leaving; the blue becomes part of you.

This came to mind earlier, seated outside Gate 55 for Virgin America flight 751. I was consumed by visions of that gulf blue. In contrast, I am also reminded of the browns and tans and rusts of Baja's desert terrain. Memories become only a kaleidoscope of colors, each belonging to a part of this wild and desolate corner of the world: dusty green of cordon; impossible orange of the tulip tree; vermillion on the wings of fly catchers and cardinals; blue-black of night sky. When I think of Baja, it is in a canvas of colors and in a symphony of movement and sounds--even that of silence.

The plane dipped, and swung south over the cape. Slowly, cactus took shape, scattered as far as the base of the mountains to the north, and sectioned by straight lines of dusty roads. Before I knew it, the runway seemed to roll out beneath us, announcing our arrival. After bouncing briefly along the pavement, we came to a halt beside the terminal.

When I stepped through the wall of heat pressing itself against the door of the airplane, immediately, as if by impulse or reflex, the word "home" came to me. Though I only stood on the tarmac of the San Jose del Cabo airport waiting for a bus beside all of the other luggage-laden passengers, I was distracted completely by thoughts of Baja--the Baja I have come to know.

For parts of my soul, this place is home. I'll never forget the desert's impossible silence, the drone of pangas in the shallow waters at dawn, machine-like clicking of cicadas at midday. As much the salt water of the gulf courses in my veins, I dream in the colors of the tala vera that adorn the entryways of tiendas and beachfront motels. On certain mornings, thousands of miles away from here, I'll notice the ocean at first light resembles the glassiness of the Sea of Cortez on a warm and windless morning. This is a Baja morning, I'll say.

Yet, equally memory fails me, never serving again as it once did, reminded of change. With each visit, there is a vast, ever-shifting view to adjust for. I hold more fondly my oldest memories. The way things used to be. Change here is a recurring theme. Though some may call it progress or industry, it saddens me to see the quickly disappearing character and last vestiges of all that colorfully defines the Baja I've come to know intimately over my lifetime. Memories become a point of reference. The way things used to be.

Never before have I been so self-aware. I believe recent politics have lent a sharper edge to our presence here. We are Americans, gringos. Gueros. There has never been any denying our outsided-ness. Self-aware and self-conscious, I am guilty by association regardless. We often mock ourselves. Which of these are not like the others. Though we try, we are incapable of assimilating completely. We know this.

But our respect and passion for the culture and the people and the places here keep us returning. And at this, I smiled at the bus driver who offered to load my bag into the bus, told him muchas gracias, and took a seat by the window.

Headed north on a narrow stretch of uneven highway, we passed cinderblock fences, spikes of rebar exposed along their lengths, ranchitos with herds of goats grazing in the shade of bristly shrubs. Hot air blew in through the window. Everywhere, arms of cordon lifted skyward as if in praise.

Twenty minutes later we turned east toward Miraflores. As we reached the central part of the town, we scanned the streets for several blocks. When we finally spotted the pair--in riding gear, bikes propped in front of a yellow building with the words La Tienda Popular overhead--their familiar faces were out of place. It was like seeing a mirage in the desert.

For a long time, we didn't stop talking, clearly all of us excited to be reunited after a month and a half. We listened to stories of their journey, and were grateful they had come this far without significant incident. Knock on wood.

Miraflores is a small, picturesque sloping puebla nestled against the striking backdrop of the Sierra la Laguna. Several tiendas and brightly colored houses are connected by dirt roads in the central part of the town. Bougainvillea flowers of all colors creep along fences and brick facades. A handful of abandoned buildings remain propped along the roadside. As we arrived the sun was dipping behind the crags of the mountain peaks, the dust in the air lending a hazy, almost dream-like quality to the scene. Beams of light like beacons shown out over the valley below.

Over a century ago, Nelson and Goldman rode through Miraflores on horseback during their expedition, traversing a wide arroyo--Arroyo San Bernardo--a wide riverbed, now dry (as it was then during the time of their visit) and strewn with rounded boulders shaped by past floods. The valley leads right to the base of the Sierra la Laguna, just a stone's throw from where I sit now.

Of note, the pair spoke at length about the long-leaved, wide-trunked live oaks in the area that reminded them of those that can be found in California. The road to the villa, owned by Rigoberto, the great grand nephew of Jose Cuervo (and also a good friend of revolutionary Pancho Villa) meanders through a grove of them.

Rigoberto has invited us to San Jose del Cabo, where he owns a tequila shop that features the brand he makes. We hope to learn more about the history of the industry and of the area.

We spent the rest of the evening at a villa, catching up, drinking mezcal, and sharing a meal of burritos with carne asada from the carniceria in town.