Changing course in Cancun

For the second time, my trip to the southern state of Chiapas was thwarted by the lure of Baja California. The previous time, I had intended to travel to the southernmost state of Mexico to explore the lakes region, including a hike across the border to Guatemala but opted instead for a trip to Baja. This time, my plan was to head south from Cancun to Belize and then through central America, perhaps as far as Panama. That was before I opened my guidebook and read about the Copper Canyon railway.

The railway is the last passenger train in Mexico since they dismantled passenger service in 1997. It takes you on a journey over 390 miles in length, crosses 39 bridges, passes through 86 tunnels, and does one 360 turn as it crosses 3 spectacular canyons.

The trip ends in the Sinaloan town of Los Mochis. From previous trips, I knew there was ferry service to Baja California from a few towns along the west coast of Mexico. As it turns out, there is ferry service from Los Mochis to La Paz. Here was a chance to link my two favorite modes of transportation and end up in Baja. I had wanted to return to the remote fishing village of Bahia Asuncion since my visit two years ago, and this presented me with the promising challenge of figuring out to get there from La Paz.

My trip began 3000 miles away with a ferry ride from Isla Mujeres (Island of the Women), an island sandwiched between Cuba and the Mexican resort town of Cancun. I first visited the island several years ago on a day trip from Cozumel. I vowed that on my return to the east coast of Mexico, I would stay on the island instead of the heavily touristed Cozumel. Unfortunately, much had changed since my first visit. The town was filled with shirtless young men and bikini clad women strolling the streets with bottles of Corona. Song like Margaritaville and Kenny Roger’s the Gambler could be heard wafting out from the open air bars. The town was so hemorrhaging with Gringos that I could have been in Key West and not noticed a difference.

I was glad to be leaving the island and the Mayan Riviera, quite possibly for the last time. I never really liked this part of Mexico: Its focus on indulgent, entitled Gringos, unwilling to learn any more Spanish than “mas cerveza por favor” and “no gracias” yet demanding all Mexicans in the US speak fluent english; Its hot, muggy climate; And its monotonous landscape, devoid of any geographic features beyond miles of flat jungle. I am a mountain man. It’s why my favorite parts of Mexico, Canada, and the US are all on the west coast.

I hopped on the catamaran ferry and bid farewell to the Island of the Women for my 20 minute ferry trip to Cancun. Once across, I caught a cab to the bus station. The trip was only $2.50, and I knew I could catch the bus to the airport for just $3.50 more. That was cheaper than taking the taxi all the way to the airport, which would have cost about $15. I know we’re talking minor differences by American standards, but keep in mind that $10 buys me a night’s lodging at many of the places I stay.

Along the way, the driver asked me my ultimate destination, and I told him. He said he could take me there, but I replied that the bus would be cheaper. A couple minutes later, he came back with an offer to take me to the airport for $10. It seemed like a reasonable compromise that would save me close to an hour in time, so I took him up on it. A couple hours later I was headed west for another Mexican adventure.

Chihuahua

I landed in the town of Chihuahua about 7:45 in the evening. From everything I’d read, there was no bus service from the airport and, in no coincidence at all, taxis charged exorbitant rates. From past experiences, I knew you could usually walk from the airport to the main highway and catch a bus for a fraction of the taxi cost. You are always told there’s no bus service, but I know the airport employees aren’t paying taxi fares to get to work. I inquired with a couple of workers, and they said I could walk about 2 miles to the main highway, but it was dark by now, and I was unfamiliar with the city. Fortunately, the airport had Wifi so I pulled out my phone and decided to try Uber for the first time.

A guy on the plane told me Uber wasn’t allowed to service the airport, but I figured there was no harm in trying. Ten minutes later, Cesar showed up in his white Nissan. He confirmed that Uber was not allowed to serve the airport, but he had no sign on his car, and he said that since he saw I was American, he decided to take the risk since I was not likely to be entrapping him.

Cesar was a nice guy, a lawyer during the day and an Uber driver at night. He talked quickly, so I understood very little of what he said, but as we got closer to my hotel, he was kind enough to point out all the good bars and restaurants.

The hotel was called Paqui BnB, which I assumed to be a Spanish word until a Pakistani guy opened the door, and I realized he was making a pun with the name. The large house was empty except for one couple, and he showed be to the dorm room, of which I was to be the only occupant. I paid him $10 and settled into my now private room.

After catching up on a few emails, I decided to head out to get something to eat. When I got downstairs, the Mexican couple, who was there when I arrived, offered me the rest of their pizza and some wine. We sat and talked for awhile, and as it turns out, they were also planning to catch the train the next morning so we agreed to share an Uber car.

I felt better about not having a reservation for the train since they did not either. I had tried to make one in advance, since this is a very popular excursion train in Mexico, but was told that you could only make advance reservations for the first class cars, which cost twice the price as the economy cars. In this case, that was a significant difference; economy class was $100 US dollars, so we decided to take our chances by arriving at the ticket office early the next morning.

Copper Canyon Railway

El Chepe (The Copper Canyon railway) departs from Chihuahua every morning at 6am so we decided to leave the hotel around 5:15 in order to get to the station early enough to buy tickets. My alarm went off at 4:45, and I rolled out of bed to brush my teeth and use the bathroom. As I peered down at the toilet, I was a little surprised to see a full sized rabbit, hiding beside the pedestal. It seemed as surprised to see me and stayed frozen in place so as to not attract my attention, but it’s pretty to miss a large rabbit in your bathroom.

Coincidentally, I had just learned the Spanish word for rabbit while using my foreign language tutorial. At the time I thought I wouldn’t have any need to remember that word, but already it was proving a helpful addition to my vocabulary as I shared the experience with the Spanish couple. They said, “oh yeah, that’s the housepet”. So now the word “conejo”, including a visual aid, is engrained in my memory.

We caught another Uber to the train station. As it turned out, it was the same one that had picked up the other couple up from the airport the day before. I don’t suspect there are too many Uber drivers here, but apparently they all slough off the restriction about picking up from the airport. She had us across town in no time as there were no other cars on the street, but when we arrived at the station, it was packed. Suddenly I became nervous about not yet having a ticket.

When we entered I saw that there were two ticket windows, one for economy class and one for first class. While people were crowded in front of the economy window, no one was in the first class line. The station was one level shy of mayhem with people trying to edge their way up in the ticket line and the line to get on the train. I decided then that I would make the upgrade to first class as I didn’t want to spend this marvelous trip distracted by hordes of people. It turned out to be a good choice. When I got in my first class car, I was one of six people in it and was able to sit next to the window with plenty of space to see. For this experience, I had to pay $25 more than sitting in economy, but this is why I save my money on other occasions.

I wrote that there were six of us in first class. I should mention that only two of the others were also tourists. The other three were big men clad in olive drab fatigues, each carry large machine guns. Though many people worry about safety in Mexico, I always scoff at that since most places I go are patrolled by heavily armed policemen or militia. The train was no exception. It seemed like a good precaution since this was primarily an excursion train and would make a good target for a robbery.

When the train pulled out, it was dark, but I don’t think it mattered much. We were simply rolling through the outskirts of Chihuahua, a pretty industrial town. By the time the sun rose, we had entered the countryside. It reminded me a great deal the country in Nevada and Utah. Large open spaces with dark mountains towering in the distance. There were farms and ranches, but you could tell it was an arid valley.

Eventually we began to climb into the foothills and I got occasional glimpses of the rest of the train as it wound around curves, traversing the edges of the emerging hills. It always surprises that at a certain elevation, no matter where you are in the world, you find pine trees. The terrain began to get more rocky, and we would occasionally pass huge walls of stone that had been carved out to make room for the train.

It was clear from the trees that it was windy outside and dark storm clouds were growing in the direction we we traveled. I began to question my decision to spend the night at one of the towns ahead. When I’d read about the landscape the train would travel through, I decided it would be fun to stop somewhere along the way so that I could enjoy the canyons. I picked the town of Creel because it seemed to have the best access to all the natural features of the area. Unfortunately, right then, it was looking like a mistake.

The rain was short lived to be replaced by snow which whipped past the train on gusts of wind. There was a buzz of excitement as everyone pressed to the windows to get pictures of something never seen by most Mexicans. On my way to the dining car earlier, I had discovered that the space between the cars was open to the outside, and you could get an unobstructed view of the landscape. I was joined by several others as we snapped pictures of each other with the powdery background.

Of course, it was freezing out there, so I headed back into my car after a while to enjoy the heat and watch the blizzard from my window. Apparently, this was fairly common on the trip as several of the conductors were now littered about my car taking naps or looking at their phones. One had brought a portable speaker and was listening to what must have been Abba’s greatest hits as I heard Dancing Queen and Take a Chance on Me. He was actually dancing in the seat while the music played and gave me a guilty but not unashamed smile when I caught his eye.

Creel

The train conductors were so engrossed in their own activities that they had stopped calling out the stations, but I had a pretty good idea of where we were. When we arrived at the station in Creel, I grabbed my bag and hopped onto the platform amidst a throng of people waiting to leave. I guess the weather had disheartened everyone. Additionally, the economy train doesn’t run every day, so it was always more crowded.

After getting my bearings, I headed across the tracks to my hotel, which I’d marked on the map the day before. It was a simple place, but they upgraded me from the dorm to a private room since I was one of only two people staying there. Still, I had to go outside to get to the communal bathroom since I had only paid $10 for a dorm, but I was glad to be close to the lobby, as the wood stove next to the front desk seemed to be the only source of heat in the building. I left my door open many a time while I was there in order to get some of that heat into my room.

I inquired about food, and the owner directed me to a place across the street and down the road. Walking head down into the blowing snow, I noticed that nothing was open, and I was a concerned about finding food at all. Several places had “abierto” signs on the doors but didn’t appear to be open. This was the case with the place he recommended, but when I opened the door I found that indeed they were open for business, even if I was the only person there.

I ordered a gringa, which is apparently the same as a fajita. In addition to learning the names of all the different foods in Mexico, there is the added challenge that in different regions, the same foods have a different name. In the state of Puebla, a sandwich is called a cemita. In the state of Chihuahua it is called a torta. Other places it is called an emparedor. So it goes with many foods in Mexico, and often I must learn several times the number of vocabulary words I would have had to otherwise just to order food.

As I waited for my food, another man walked in and placed an order to go. I guess he could see I was soaked from my trudge through the snow, and he invited me to join him by the wood stove which I hadn’t noticed earlier. This proved to be a great suggestion, and by the time I was finished my lunch I was dry, just in time to get soaked again on the return trip to the hotel.

The heat in the hotel wasn’t quite enough to dry anything so I spent the rest of the day with a slight chill and was pretty excited to get under my three heavy wool blankets at bedtime. Of course, I minimized water consumption so as to avoid any uncomfortable trips to the bathroom in the middle of the night. I could only hope that tomorrow would be better.

Sierra Tarahumara

The next day came, and I was greeted by the bright sun through my window. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky so I hopped out of bed to get an early start on my day. Unfortunately, I was the only one up at this time, so there was no food or coffee to be found. By 9am, however, the town started buzzing, and I headed to Tres Amigos, and outdoor adventure outfitter I’d read about the day before. Gustavo greeted me with a warm smile, and we sat down to talk about the things that could be done during my short stay.

We decided that the first day, I should rent a bike and ride the valley of the Sierra Tarahumara. He was disappointed to hear I had booked two nights in Creel because the next stop on the train, Divisadero, had much to see as well. The train did stop there for 20 minutes so that people could get out and take pictures, but he said you really needed a couple of hours to explore. I told him the reason I didn’t stay in the next town is because it was too expensive, but he mentioned that he had a friend in the town just a short walk from Divisadero who could rent me a place for just $20. That settled it. He would call his friend to make the arrangements while I was on my ride.

I did have to go back to my hotel and cancel my second night. As anyone who has been to Mexico knows, there is no such thing as a refund in this country, but I was able to convince the manager to split the difference and give me half the money back for the night since I had just paid that morning. I packed up and headed out for my ride.

The park was like nothing I’d ever seen in Mexico. First of all there were no services. I had never been anywhere in Mexico where you couldn’t easily purchase food. Fortunately, I had been warned by Gustavo to bring a lunch, and I had bought some bread, cheese, and an apple.

I would compare the Sierra Tarahumara to some of the indian reservations in the southwestern US. It was a wide open valley, with several branch valleys coming off of it, each named after the unique rock formations found there: Valley of the mushrooms, with large rocks balanced upon narrow pedestals; valley of the frogs, with rocks carved in curvaceous shapes that in profile made them look like frogs; valley of the monks, which were tall spires that appeared hunched over in prayer. Each of these valleys lured you into their magical worlds, and in several cases, I was the only one visiting.

The other thing that made it resemble an American Indian reservation was the Tarahumara people. These were the descendants of the Indians who populated the land long before the Spanish arrived, and in their physical appearance, they looked more like American Indians than Mexicans. They are short with dark weathered skin. They speak their own language and live in pretty much the same way they have for hundreds of years.

I passed several walking along the road in the colorful outfits. None of them seemed to use cars. I read that they were particularly known for their ability to run long distances, as many as 20 miles without stopping. The men are legendary in the running world, and there is a marathon annually held in a nearby village.

They are a very simple people living a simple life. No electricity, no machines, living off the land. Personally, I referred to them as the rock people, because when they weren’t walking, they were perched on rocks throughout the valley just sitting. I can’t imagine a life with so little to do. I have to say they looked bored, but perhaps they were just content to sit in the sun, like all the other creatures of the desert. I envy such simple desires.

After visiting the valleys, I headed to the lake where I’d decided to have my lunch. At a point overlooking the lake I ran into a Mexican couple who had rented bikes just after me, and we decided to sit on the lake and have lunch together. It was an enjoyable moment as we shared the different things we’d brought for lunch. I got to taste dried meat and a rich cheese that they’d bought from the back of a truck in town. I shared my apple and bread, and we finished with a sip of a sotol, a distilled spirit made from a plant that grows in northern Mexico.

I wanted to take a more challenging route home, so I bid farewell to my new friends and headed off into the desert where I managed to get lost before getting directions from one of the locals. When I returned, Gustavo presented me with a list of accommodations at different price points. I picked one, and he called his friend to let him know I’d be there in a couple hours.

Again, I was warned there would be no food options in the town I was going to so I had better bring my dinner with me. I went back to the little place where I’d had my first meal in Creel and ordered two small burritos to go. Shortly after that, I hopped on the bus to Arrepo, a town at the head of the Copper Canyon.

Barrancas del Cobre (Copper Canyon)

The driver skipped my stop, but fortunately I was paying attention and asked to be let off at the next turnoff. I headed down a sparsely populated street, and had to ask twice by name about my accommodations. Since both people pointed me the same way, I felt more confident about the direction in which I was walking. Where the road crossed a riverbed, I found the sign for my place and headed up the driveway. It was getting dark, and the only light illuminating the property was coming from the kitchen of the adjacent restaurant. Inside, I greeted a young boy, who appeared to be the only one there, but he seemed to know who I was. He walked me to my room, and I handed him $20 for the rustic cabin.

A few minutes later, his grandfather pulled up the driveway and came over to greet me. He introduced himself as Armando and said he’d been waiting for me at the bus stop where I was supposed to be dropped off but figured I’d changed my mind when he hadn’t seen me get off the bus. I thanked him for waiting and explained about the driver missing my stop. He said not to worry, but I was touched by his gesture of coming to greet me. I had actually considered getting off early at Divisadero to take pictures of the sunset, but by the time we got there it was too late.

Armando asked me if I wanted him to build me a fire, to which I promptly assented. It was already chilly, and I had a feeling I was in for another cold night. At least this time the heat source was inside my room! The fire took the chill off, but I had to leave one of the windows open because the cabin was not well ventilated, and I was having trouble seeing the other side of the room through the smoke.

I had hoped to catch up on some internet research, but as it turns out, there was no internet access in the area. I found out later that there was no television either. I cannot imagine what our ancestors did with all that free time! After reading and writing for awhile, I looked at the time, and it was only 8:30. Certainly, I couldn’t go to bed that early, but really there was nothing else to do. The fire was also beginning to die so I slid under my three wool blankets and off to sleep. Almost. First I had to adjust the frills of the wool blanket that were draped, like a dozen tarantula legs, across my face. I don’t know why they don’t make those blankets without the frills or such that they can be turned the other way on the bed.

Naturally I awoke at 3 in the morning and again at 4. At 6, I decided I could legitimately get out of bed. I put all my clothes on as quickly as possible to retain some of the heat I’d generated in the bed and brushed my teeth, rinsing with painfully frigid water. Armando had offered to drive me to Divisadero so I wanted to repay the favor by buying breakfast in his restaurant.

They made me a warm breakfast of eggs with ham, tomato, and onion. With good fortune, I met the only other person staying at the hotel. He was wintering here from Switzerland. I told him about my plans to get a ride to Divisadero, and he asked me why I would do that when I could hike there. Leave it to a Swiss person to direct me to one of the most beautiful paths I’d ever hiked. After getting directions from him, I paid my bill and told Armando I would be walking to Divisadero.

I followed the road out of town and, as I crossed the railroad tracks, there was the trail to my right exactly as described. I began to climb on a well trodden path until it reached the canyon rim. The Swiss guy was right. The view of three canyons coming together was astounding. After getting over my initial awe, I continued to follow the trail which hugged the rim of the canyon. The Swiss guy mentioned that the trail split in several places but it always came back together. Apparently there was no chance of getting lost because you were bounded by the road on one side and a precipitous 2000 foot drop on the other.

Eventually the trail came to the canyon adventure park. I looked at the zip lines with amazement. There were 7 primary lines and each crossed a canyon no less than 1000 feet deep. As I followed the sequences of the lines, I saw that they terminated at a mesa about a mile a way. From there, you took the longest aerial tram in north America back to the main park entrance.

I went to the ticket counter and was disappointed to find that the entire route would take about an hour and a half, just about the time my train was scheduled to depart. The woman did inform me that I had time to ride the longest zipline in the world: a 1.5 mile long descent with a 1500 foot vertical drop in the span of 2.5 minutes. I was terrified and intrigued, but it cost $50 so I decided to put it off until I could bring friends to suffer with me.

Continuing along the rim trail, I reached the tiny junction of Divisadero. There was nothing more there than the train station and a hotel. This is the place where I would have gotten off to look at the view for about 20 minutes before continuing on if I had stayed in Creel the night before. I was pleased with my my decision.

I had about an hour to wait for the train so I enjoyed a coffee and then went out to peruse the crafts being sold along the path to the train. On either side of the path were vendors whose sustenance depended on two 20 minute periods each day when the eastbound and westbound trains stopped to let tourists out to see the overlook. The vendors had the challenge to impress, within that limited time, the tourists to buy their goods.

Equally interesting were the food vendors who spent hours preparing the food they planned to sell to tourists frantic to take in the landscape. I got there before the train and was able to enjoy eating my meal in peace, which was a stark contrast to the cacophony of pitches that began the moment the train pulled into the station.

As the others rushed to the canyon rim, I boarded the train and took my seat for the second part of my train journey. I was immediately greeted by my friends from the day before. We sat and talked for a bit until the conductor sent me to my assigned seat.

I sat by the window and watched the scenery drift by: waterfalls canyons, villages. This lasted for several hours until just before sunset when a buzz could be heard through the car. Again, people were headed to the open air space between the cars, this time to snap pictures of the golden rays of the sun upon the steep cliffs and distant mountain peaks. Things settled down again once the sun set, and we began to count the hours until the end of the trip. Really, there wasn’t much to do once the view went dark. Nature had turned off of the TV set for the day.

Alamos

I was excited to have entered the Mexican state of Sinaloa, home to the notorious drug cartel of the same name. Mainly I just like telling people that I made it through a place people think synonymous with violence and getting killed.

My friends from the train had agreed to share a cab since the buses stopped running about an hour before we arrived at the train station. There were more people than there were taxis, and we had to wait while all the taxis disappeared. I joked that it was only a 3 mile walk to the hotel. They laughed and said it was much too dangerous to walk. Normally I don’t pay such attention to these things, but when people from Mexico city say it’s dangerous well…

Eventually, we got a taxi to the hotel, and I was relieved to get access to the internet for the first time in two days. I admit, I’m addicted, but part of the reason I need to be online is to plan the next segment of my trip. Without the internet, I am blind. I have no way of knowing what hotels are available, no way to download maps of the area. I am able to use my downloaded version of the Lonely Planet, but you can’t check availability, and they don’t have maps of the smaller towns which I had been visiting for the past several days.

As it turns out, every place I checked at my next destination was full. I found that hard to believe, but I didn’t want to take the chance of showing up and not being able to find a place to stay so I booked in the next town over, about 40 miles away. It wasn’t too much of an inconvenience as the hotel had a swimming pool, good internet and a free hot breakfast. It wasn’t in the town center, but I easily figured out how to take the dilapidated old bus to town with the locals.

That night, I headed into town to scope out where I would catch the bus for Alamos the next day. I also needed to grab some dinner because the restaurant at the hotel was pretty pricey. I was looking for the intersection of two streets. One I could find on my map, the other was a mystery. The street I was looking for was called Guerrero, which is one of the states of Mexico. I was going through all the state named streets on the map, but I couldn’t find Guerrero. It had to be a major street since the bus headed out of town on the highway from there, so I figured maybe it was one of those streets that has two names, like the ones we re-name in the US.

I walked about a half block and asked a woman if she knew where Guerrero street was. She said no, and as I turned around to look back at the street I’d just crossed, the sign read, Guerrero. I’m often shocked at how little people know about the places they live. I remember once being about 30 minutes from the biggest national park in Costa Rica, and no one I’d asked for directions had ever heard of it.

I walked one more block and was able to find the bus terminal from where I’d depart in the morning. A quick check inside the terminal informed me that the bus left hourly on the half hour, the first one leaving at 7:30. That would give me plenty of time to get to Alamos and back.

I remembered a Chinese restaurant where I’d gotten off the bus and headed back for an early dinner. It turned out to be buffet style, but I’d already romanticized eating orange chicken, so I placed my order. The Mexican boy at the counter was heaping portions so large into the takeaway container that I had to ask him to stop. With that much food, I could cover two dinners at the cost of $3.50. Unfortunately, it was the worst Chinese food I’d ever had. Everything was soggy, but I happily scarfed it down since it was a rare chance to get vegetables in Mexico. I guess the counter boy should have been a good indication. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone but Chinese people working at a Chinese restaurant, and I envisioned a Mexican woman cooking Chinese food at home in her kitchen.

I made it back to my hotel in time for a quick dip in the pool. It really was a nice setting despite being a little outside of town. I caught up on some of my favorites on Netflix, posted some pictures on Facebook, and found myself hungry around midnight. I reached into my mini fridge and finished off the leftovers. So much for two night for one.

The next morning, I enjoyed the full breakfast provided by the hotel before catching the local bus to town. I easily found my way back to the terminal and purchased a ticket for the 9:30 bus. That gave me half an hour to shop for lunch snacks while I waited. I picked up the usual bread, a tomato, and some cheese for less than a dollar. Fortunately I returned to the station only 15 minutes later because the bus departed for Alamos at 9:20.

I hate Festivals. They’re loud, crowded, and obscure you from seeing a place at it actually is. People converge from all over so that large numbers of people are competing for a finite number of resources. The consumers far outnumber the providers.

It turns out the reason I couldn’t find accommodations in Alamos is because they were having their annual music festival. The streets were littered with canopy tents which hid all of the colonial buildings surrounding the plaza. In front of the main church was a truck with a giant satellite dish, marring any photos that might be portray this picturesque edifice, and several streets were blocked off with giant stages constructed in the middle of them. I realized this was going to be a short visit.

Besides the festival, the town didn’t really meet expectations. Mexico has a designation called Pueblo Magico, which it uses in its travel promotion, but not all Pueblos Magicos are created equal. I’ve been to grand towns with beautiful colonial buildings that are illuminated at night or villages with colorful homes hanging off the cliffside. Alamos was neither of these. The only thing that made it unique was the number of art galleries and places that spoke English. This was an ex-pat hangout, and they had probably petitioned the government for the recognition.

I noticed a lookout on a hill over town and decided that I’d probably be happier above this town than in it. As an added bonus, I saw a long set of stairs leading up to it. The kind of stairs that would deter the average person from going to the top. Unfortunately, I hadn’t seen the road that wrapped around the back side of the hill and finished the last of my 370 step climb to be greeted by throngs of tourists.

From the top, I was able to get a good perspective of the town below and planned the exploratory walk I would do before I left town. After taking in the view, I descended the stairs and circumnavigated the town to make my way back to the bus station. As it turns out, I would be eating my bread, cheese, and tomato by my hotel pool, which turned out to be a better place to spend the day than Alamos.

Guaymas

After an early breakfast, I packed my things and caught the local bus to town. I wanted to get to Guaymas early because I had read the ferry can be canceled due to high winds. I didn’t have a reservation either so getting there early was a precaution that would allow me to catch a return bus to Los Mochis if I had to cross the Sea of Cortez at another point.

I looked up the forecast for Guaymas which reported 7 mph winds, so I ruled out that issue. When I arrived in Guaymas, I headed straight for the ferry terminal to find out if I could purchase a ticket for the overnight ferry to Santa Rosalia. I was even calculating how much more I’d be willing to pay for a sleeping cabin since I don’t sleep well sitting up, and I had the money that I wouldn’t be paying for a night’s lodging anyway.

When I got to the ticket window and inquired about the price, I was told the ferry would not be going that night due to high winds. I was dumbstruck. I’d traveled three and a half hours north to catch this ferry which only ran every other day, and of course the woman at the ticket counter couldn’t predict whether the next one would be canceled for the same reason.

Though I had my back up plan, as I calculated the time it would take to return to Los Mochis and then have to take a 12 hour bus ride back north to get to Santa Rosalia, I felt deflated. I had planned to catch the bus from the ferry terminal in the morning in order to meet up with friends of my host who would drive me to the remote outpost I had chosen to complete my trip west.

I walked across the street and sat on the curb trying to process it all. Rarely do my risks end in complete failure. So many things had depended on my catching that ferry, including one solid week of recuperation from traveling. I didn’t want to cut it short, not even by a day.

As I processed the options in my head, I decided to call my host in Baja and seek some help. I broke down and bought a Mexican SIM card, which I installed my phone. I don’t know the first thing about the technology behind replacing a SIM card, and despite the efforts of the people at the convenience store who sold it to me, I was not able to get access to the phone network. Demoralized, I headed back to town while I began to calculate all my big picture options. I even considered just taking a bus to Puerto Vallarta to finish my trip, but then remembered I had a plane ticket from La Paz. At some point I would need to make it to Baja.

I was looking for an internet cafe so that I could use Skype to call my host when I passed by the office of the phone company whose SIM card I had purchased. I went inside and did my best to explain the problem despite my lack of a technical Spanish vocabulary. The young guy looked at my phone and quickly began to troubleshoot. In the end he got it working, but I was shocked at the amount of programming that had to be done in order to use my SIM card, and that is one of the reasons I never buy them when I travel.

I was on the phone almost immediately to my Baja host, and she offered to cancel my reservation, but I had been dreaming about returning to this place since my previous visit two years ago. She mentioned that some people take a plane from Guaymas to Baja for about the same cost of the ferry, and I immediately set out to find an internet cafe.

I found the websites for two tiny airlines I’d never heard of, and there was just one seat left on the Saturday afternoon flight to Baja. It was twice the price of the ferry which also departed Saturday, but the flight was guaranteed to make the journey and in only an hour and a half as opposed to the 8 hour overnight ferry. With no guarantee the ferry would sail in two days, I clicked the “purchase” button. Relief flooded through me. If all worked out as planned, I would get to my destination at Bahia Asuncion the same night I had originally planned.

San Carlos

Having booked my plane flight, it was time to find a hotel. I was surprised at the number of expensive hotels in this crappy little town, but I guess the ferry is canceled frequently, and the innkeepers take advantage of that. I found the only budget place just a few blocks away and reserved it.

When I entered the room the first thing I saw was the worn bed and wondered how many times it had been used for “paid” dates. As it turned out, the place was pretty quiet despite its tired appearance. Quiet except for the wind that howled through my room the entire night. I now understood why the ferry had been canceled. Despite the low winds in the afternoon, there were significant gusts that passed under my door and out the AC unit above my bed. It still beats listening to Tejano music late into the evening.

Trying to decide how to kill 48 hours in this dismal place, I zoomed out the map until I saw a large green patch to the north. It was labeled Canyon of the Devil and was one of the many protected biospheres of Mexico. There appeared to be a few roads that accessed it, but I was pretty sure it couldn’t be done by bus. I did a search for car rentals and found one not too far from my hotel. It quoted me $15 online, and as we all know, it would come to $30 by the time all was said and done, but that still seemed like a reasonable sum to spend on a good day’s distraction.

Naturally, the guy at the agency didn’t know anything about the park despite having spent his entire life living just 20 minutes south of it. Despite this, he added that it couldn’t be done. I rented the car anyway knowing it would be done.

The next morning, I headed north to the town of San Carlos. I knew it would be different when I noticed all the signs leading into the place were in English. I had found an ex-pat enclave. My suspicions were confirmed when I saw a couple walking a leashed dog down the road. A Mexican would never take a dog for a walk, especially on a leash. The dogs in Mexico are free to walk whenever they want.

The directions I’d found on the website the night before were relatively accurate, and I found myself headed into the desert in no time. A couple turns brought me into a canyon opening to my left. There was a fenced in area that looked like a campground so I passed it by, but when I ended up at a gate further up, I turned back to check out the enclosure. There was a Mexican man there who spoke perfect English. He confirmed that I was in the right place and that the fence around the parking lot was to relieve the fears of the foreigners who might be concerned about their cars being stolen.

After collecting the one dollar parking fee, he directed me down the path that entered the canyon. He told me that the only way out of the canyon was the way I went in. Naturally that determined my itinerary, and 90 minutes later, I exited the canyon at a different point. You can only imagine my frustrated parents who never gave up hope that I would one day do as I was told but were never really that surprised when I didn’t.

The canyon was magnificent, filled with palm trees and rock that appeared to have been twisted as one would ring out a towel. One of the signs in the canyon described a section called Los Ojos, which means “the eyes”. Seeing the reflection of the sky in the many tiny pools of water that dotted this part of the canyon explained where the name had come from. I was impressed to see this much water in the desert and wondered where it had come from, but with each turn in the canyon, there was always more just ahead. Though my view was constantly limited, it seemed that the head of this canyon was miles away at the top of a peak that grabbed what moisture there was from any clouds passing by.

I finished the 30 minute hike about 3 hours later and hopped into my car to explore the coastline on the other side of the mountain range. There were several hamburger joints and other restaurants catering to foreigners. It was the kind of place where the beach was lined with hotels that only allowed access through guarded gates, so I continued until the pavement turned to dirt and found myself in a Mexican village with no barriers to the water or anything else for that matter.

I walked out onto a beach with a breathtaking view of the mountains I’d just explored. There were fishing boats pulled above the high tide line. Children and dogs roamed between the village and the beach. This is what freedom looks like. I tried to imagine the simplicity of life in such a beautiful place and wondered how long it would take me to return here to join them for good.

Atop a nearby cliff to my right I saw some people sitting at what appeared to be a restaurant so I went up to investigate. There, at the end of a dirt road in a Mexican village, I found one of the best seafood restaurants I’d ever been to. Despite having eaten my lunch only an hour ago, I couldn’t pass up the chance to order lobster thermidor, a treat I hadn’t afforded myself in over 20 years, but at $12, how could I afford not to! To add to the experience, I watched as one of the cooks climbed down the stairs of the restaurant to fetch my lobster from a pot tied to a rope just offshore.

Returning to Guaymas was like waking from the most wonderful dream and wishing I could fall asleep again. The town itself had a great setting with giant rock spires shooting up randomly throughout town. It’s just that they had basically chosen to ignore their surroundings and slap a strip mall in middle of it. Try to imagine Monument valley in the US with Walmart, Pizza Hut and Subway as the foreground of that landscape.

While filling the gas tank, I borrowed the towel of the attendant so I could brush off any evidence of me having gone where I couldn’t have. I’d elected for the full coverage but didn’t want to take any chances. I returned the car and walked back to my hotel grateful in the good fortune that my ferry had been canceled the day before.

Baja

I woke up well before my alarm with plenty of time to catch my flight, so I slowly packed and spent some time doing research before checking out. I inquired at the front desk as to whether there was a bus to the airport, and the woman said I had to walk downtown to catch it. Just to be sure, I asked her if she was sure the bus didn’t stop in front of the hotel. You see, there was only one main road running through town, and I didn’t see how the bus could go from downtown to the airport without using it.

She reiterated that it did not stop in front of the hotel so I proceeded with the 20 minute walk downtown. I was told to look for a bus that listed San Jose as its destination. As with most local busses in Mexico, the destinations are painted on the front of the bus. Unfortunately, I didn’t see any with this indication at the location she suggested. I asked a man at the stop, and he told me to go around the corner and ask the people standing at the other stop.

Three different people said I should catch the bus to San Jose, but after waiting at the stop for 30 minutes, that particular bus never came. By now I was beginning to get a little nervous. The extra time I had given myself for riding the bus to the airport had been absorbed by trying to find that phantom bus.

At 9:30, I gave up and just got the bus to San Carlos. I mentioned earlier that there is only one road out of town, and the day before I had seen several busses pass by on their way to San Carlos, a destination further north than the airport. I knew that if I could get to the airport access road, I could walk the rest of the way anyway.

At the north end of town, the bus left the main road and began to wind through several neighborhoods. The GPS on my phone was working so I knew we were still headed in the general direction of the airport. When we got as close as I thought the bus could logically come to the airport, I asked the driver the best stop to get off in order to walk there. He pulled over and said horita which, in this case, meant immediately.

Based on the map, I figured I didn’t have more than a mile to walk and plenty of time to get there for a domestic flight out of a small airport. I couldn’t have predicted how small, however. I had been holding out on getting a coffee until I got past the airport security, but when I got there, I found that the terminal was made up of plastic chairs lined along a short cyclone fence, and the security was nothing more than two guys in fatigues briefly examining the contents of my bag. Granted, given the flights leaving out of this airport and the next, there wasn’t much terror that could be wreaked on the deserts we’d be passing over.

It wasn’t the smallest plane I’d ever ridden it, but it did make me nervous that we had no co-pilot. If you did want to commandeer the plane, it would have been easy since there was nothing dividing the cockpit from the main cabin. Main cabin is a bit of an exaggeration. There were 15 seats in total, with two seats together on one side and one on the other. Still you had to duck your head down and walk the aisle sideways in order to get to your seat.

The plane took off into heavy winds and we were shoved upward several times by the wind thrusting over the mountains whose canyons I’d explored the day before. Things stabilized once we were over the gulf, however my fear heightened at being over the water. I don’t know why. The impact of plunging into the water below from this height would have been no different than plunging into solid ground.

I was lulled to sleep after awhile by the drone of the engine and because I had not slept enough the night before, but I was awoken by turbulence about 30 minutes later. We were back over land, and the wind was again being thrust upward from the emerging mountains of the Baja peninsula. I found the worst thing to do was to look forward because you could see every deviation from a horizontal plane. From then on, I kept my eyes on the ground below where I could focus on a single cactus or dirt road headed across the desert floor.

The airport at which we landed was no bigger than the one from which we’d taken off, and I noticed as we glided in that it was not particularly close to the main town so bus service was out. Taxis didn’t seem like an option either as there were none parked in front of the air strip. The pilot told me that the girl at the check in counter, a collapsible table off balance because of the uneven earth on which its legs stood, could call me a cab from town. Since I was the last off the plane, I asked her if anyone else had requested a cab two town. She pointed to two gentlemen standing next to the 3 foot high chain link fence that defined the terminal of this airport.

I asked the men where they were headed and whether I could share a cab with them. They happily agreed, and we began to tell one another about our lives. The two brothers had flown from town to repair slot machines. Apparently the tiny town to which we were headed had a casino. I only had need of the town’s bus station since I was headed south to catch a ride with two people staying with my host.

When the taxi arrived at the bus terminal, I offered some money for the ride, but the men wouldn’t take it and bid me safe travels. I walked into the bus station and asked about the next bus south. As luck was have it, it was leaving “horita”. I bought my ticket and hopped on. When we got to Vizcaino, the crossroads of the north-south peninsula highway and the highway headed out to the peninsula of the same name, I contacted my host. I had arrived 3 hours earlier than expected, and she told me I could wait for the couple to come out to get me or I could try to find a ride to Bahia Asuncion, my ultimate destination.

Since I didn’t really want to sit around for three hours and arrive after dark, I took her suggestion and went to the gas station to ask if the attendant knew of anyone going to Bahia Asuncion. She said no but that I could ask the drivers, something that made me a little uncomfortable as I hate to appear a beggar.

Instead, I headed down the road a bit and put my thumb out, hoping this international signal would get me a ride from someone willing to take on a passenger in exchange for a little gas money. I wasn’t there long before becoming uncomfortable about the whole thing, and I headed back to the bus terminal. When I’d gotten off the bus earlier, I noticed a coffee shop next door to the terminal so I headed there for a coffee and maybe some internet to pass the time while I waited for my 6pm ride.

The tables in the front of the coffee shop were empty because they were in the direct path of the sun, so I went to the back and asked a gentleman if I could share his table. I ordered a coffee and when it arrived, I asked the waitress whether she knew of anyone heading to Bahia Asuncion. The guy across from me cut in and said his grandson was headed there shortly if I didn’t mind contributing some gas money.

“What luck”, the waitress said in Spanish, and it’s true, I seem to live a charmed life. Though I don’t believe in God, I do find myself on occasion looking upwards and uttering thanks to whatever force hastens me safely from one good experience to another. In truth, I like to think it is my ability to constantly see the best in whatever situation I am presented. My journey from coast to coast had its set of challenges, but my ability to adapt and respond positively yielded several great experiences.

So here I sit with three friends, I didn’t know an hour before, watching whales swim across the sunset with a glass of wine in my hand. Life is what you make it, and that is how a change of plans turned into an adventure of a lifetime.