Viewing entries tagged
Sierra la Laguna

"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 40

April 21, 2017

Guest Blog by Associate Producer Bri Bruce

Through the night I listened to coyotes yipping somewhere off through the trees, only to be replaced by birdsong as the sky grew lighter. There were doves, cardinals, quail, orioles, all creating a symphony as the Sierra glowed pink with dawn.

After a cup of coffee in the garden with my father, we took a walk up the dirt road near the villa. There were few houses, livestock roaming about--their bells and bellowing could always be heard.

Before heading to San Jose del Cabo to film and buy supplies, we spent the late morning interviewing Oscar, Rigoberto's friend, who oversees the villa's ranchito and stables that house several horses, a donkey, goats, turkeys, and laying hens. Oscar is a vaquero, or cattleman, deft with horses and the tough but artful vocation of horsemanship and ranching. The vaquero tradition, as Oscar explained, is disappearing, something that is not taken up by Mexico's newest generations. During Nelson and Goldman's time, vaqueros were prevalent and they often sought their expertise during their expedition when it came to riding horses for thousands of miles through the inhospitable Baja desert.

The details of Oscar's traditional, handmade leather saddle.

Now, after a swim in the villa's pool to cool off, we're sitting under the palms that line the villa compound, preparing dinner and listening to Frank Sinatra on the stereo. The light is fading behind the mountains, the paved walkways still clinging to the day's heat.

"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.