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Chapter One - The Argument Against

Winter in the Pacific Northwest is not terribly bitter. We rarely have snow down near sea level. It freezes hard occasionally and the roads become treacherous in the mountains, but down near salt water the problem for many of us is simply the endless damp cold Gray that seems to go on for half the year or more. For over 30 years I ignored the problem and just slogged through, telling myself it would be much worse for example in Alaska or even North Dakota. Now things have changed. I know there is, if not a solution, then at least an alternative. . .go South old man. . .way South. It used to be just a dream, migrating to warm seas and brilliant sunshine in the Winter, but two years ago the three of us, the boat and I and our old half ton Chevy pickup made the trip from Seattle to La Paz and back. The boat and I sailed in sunshine, wind, blue skies and magnificent mountains while the truck had the tune up of her lifetime in a Mexican shop. That's another story of course, already told (you can find that story and some technical stuff here). That was the first trip of its kind for the three of us and like any first love affair, utterly staggering and unforgettable, but probably also unrepeatable. No matter. With the Winter weighing me down again this year (you'd think I'd have learned to like it after all these years here) I began stocking the boat, servicing the truck and planning the second trip.

Since the unspoken purpose of any tale of travel and adventure (chuckle), however modest, is to inspire friends to fare forth and do likewise, an honorable author is, I think, bound to offer an honest appraisal of the "argument against". Besides the often repeated argument that "you Really Can't go back" which promises a disappointment somehow in any second voyage, I suppose there are two main objections to the trip.

The first and most obvious is the length, risk and cost of the drive to get there. I would almost have said that the best reason for NOT trailering a sailboat to La Paz in the Winter is the State of California. Not that there's anything wrong with the place. . .I really rather like it. No, it's simply that there's so much of it. To get the feel of it, the round trip distance, Seattle to La Paz and back is just over 4600 miles depending on which exact route you take from the Central Valley to the border at Tijuana. Of those miles, the first 190, from my home West of Seattle down to the Columbia River at Vancouver, are easy miles, with broad, well maintained freeway and no outrageous hills to climb. Those miles pass easily, though I've commuted that route to and from Portland and Vancouver often enough over the years to be a little too familiar with the scenery. From Portland South to Eugene is all but dead flat and the 100 miles rolls behind you almost before you know it. Then begins Southern Oregon and, though it never offers a major summit until you're almost into California, its stubborn hills slow the loaded outfit down to 40 or 45 a lot. It's a steadily increasing challenge to transmission, belts, radiators and the patience of cars rushing up behind you. You leave Oregon behind at the highest point of the road from Canada to Mexico on the Siskiyou Summit, 4300 feet above the sea. Don't look at the barometer back in the boat when you're up that high. The needle will be bending, it's pressed so hard against the low end of the scale. It seems to come back just fine though when you finally return to reasonable elevations. So by then you're about out of daylight on the first day out. You might carry on to Yreka, but that's probably about far enough for one man in one day. The run from Seattle this year was in easy weather, snow around in the hillsides but none falling, 528 miles in the day, 41 gallons of gasoline and a fuel bill of $82.22. It was too cold on the 15th of February to want to camp out in the boat. I went straight to a motel for the night and slept well after a long walk and supper.

The next day Southbound normally offers some of the grandest scenery of the trip until you are deep into Mexico, all the mountains and gorges and rushing streams spread out around the incredible peak of Mt. Shasta, which normally looms ahead then to your left and finally lingers in your rear view mirror as you roll out of the high country into the town of Redding, a hundred and some miles into California. On the 16th of February 2004 it was a drab, grey howling wilderness of driving rain and incredibly violent wind. From Yreka to Weed up on that high plateau, the headwind was so strong we couldn't get the truck and trailer above 45 miles an hour at full throttle on level ground. The rain was as heavy as I've seen it since monsoon season in Vietnam and the windshield wipers cut me a tunnel through that was barely enough. The dream of blue seas, sunny skies and fine sailing kept us moving. Actually, that second day was a long one, down out of the mountains at Redding, booming past Sacramento without a sideways look, the rain and wind continuing almost unabated, shaking the rig and soaking into secret spots back in the boat. . .wetting some things that would have been happier dry, but nothing that would not heal in the sun and warmth farther South. If there's a part of California that's hard to drive through then this is it I think, the great length of farmland in the Sacramento and Central Valleys. Not ugly at all, rich flat farm land, busily feeding a good part of the country all on its own, but that's the rub. It's flat land and the engineers laid out the highway in long long straight lines with no more than an overpass every 20 or 30 miles to break the monotony, particularly with the rain and wind blotting out whatever distant scenery might have been there to see. I listened to "Lieutenant Hornblower" on a Library tape and kept the blue seas, sunny skies dream in front of me. In the past I'd always run straight down I-5 to and through Los Angeles and on to San Diego and Tijuana. This trip I branched off to the East at Buttonwillow and spent the night in Mojave in an attempt to escape the rigors of the Los Angeles freeways the following morning. That made the second day 617 miles and I was stiff and tired by the end of it. At that elevation it was still pretty cold in the evening so again I found a motel, and this time it cost me. I didn't snap the lock on the cabin of the boat and while I slept elsewhere someone quietly relieved us of our GPS, VHF, binoculars and guitar. . .and stubbed out a stinky cigarette in the carpet on the cabin floor. Sigh. I suppose I could have put up a sign to let him know it was non-smoking at least, if I was too busy to snap the lock. Oh well, life is a school where the lessons are repeated until properly understood and tuition is due upon completion of the course. I lock the boat now when I'm around thieves.

In any event, the third day's run was seriously interrupted in San Diego while I searched out a new GPS and a new pair of binoculars. On my first trip down to the Sea of Cortez the only use I'd had for the VHF had been to contact the marina in La Paz to try to get landing instructions. Now I know the approach to the marina and won't need to call them again. My logic was that most of the time in the Sea of Cortez there's nobody else within line of sight anyway, so shouting works about as well as using the radio. My whole goal when single handing is to avoid getting into trouble or deal with trouble myself rather than plan to call for help when I blunder. That is also of course why I normally single hand. I hate to scare more than one person at a time. (Note that this opinion is not universally held and several reasonable and knowledgeable people felt that I should have chosen to replace the VHF instead of the GPS. . .even that I was irresponsible wandering around without any means of communication. . .I stick with my decision, but acknowledge the comment). The guitar also waited. It may have been superfluous in any event. It was intended to be a chance to re-learn partially lost skill and resume where I left off after the onset of bad (stiff, achy, older) hands a few years back. At the end of the third day I had reached San Vicente, a small town South of the fine 4-lane toll road from Tijuana to Ensenada about 368 miles from Mojave, still far enough North to be quite chilly on the 17th of February this year, and provided with several very clean and inexpensive little motels. I have a favorite, the one hiding out of sight on the left just next to the Pemex station. . .but I haven't tried the others, they may be even better. It seems every trip South I end up spending several hours just before crossing the border on some necessity or another (a broken trailer tire to replace the first trip, the GPS and binoculars this time) and so I never quite make it far enough into Mexico to cut the trip down to just 4 days. It should be possible. In any event, the fourth day out of Seattle is a glorious day. This year the sky was still cloudy or at least hazy a good bit of the time (you are running right along the Pacific coast at first, whose fog rolls in over the sand flats and low hills without let or hindrance). By mid day though we climbed up out of the low lands past San Quintin (lush irrigated farm country) and into the hills and desert country. Here the road narrows and some of the scarier parts begin. The shoulder shrinks away to nothing or less and the canyons on one side (and the corresponding mountainside on the other) leave no room whatever for mistakes. . .either yours or those of the oncoming traffic. By and large the Mexican drivers are superb. The unskilled, careless or stupid ones are mostly dead I suppose. With the first range of high hills behind you the road settles down into a long haul straight and narrow into Guerrero Negro at the border between the states of Baja California and Baja California Sur (South). There is a military base sitting squarely in the center of the highway here, with a flag pole flying a truly magnificent Mexican flag high in the sky. I suppose that flag must be 30 feet by 60 or some such size. It flows grandly in even a light breeze, visible far away across the flat terrain. You also pass through immigration again here, so have your tourist permit at hand and be prepared to pay $10 pesos (about $1.00 still) to have your tires sprayed for insect pests by the local agriculture department. Other than that it's a painless stop and a good gas station waits in town. I never pass a Pemex station in Baja without giving it very serious thought. I've not had it happen to me yet, but I understand it's not out of the question to pull into your planned next fuel stop to find it closed or simply out of fuel. A full tank in the hand is worth a whole lot more than an empty one in the bush. . .or something like that. Town is off to the right a short ways, lots of motels, taco stands, a pizza place, auto parts store, dry goods, wedding dresses, shoes. . .what have you. . .of course, there's the big salt works, and a chance to go whale watching too. I settled for the full tank of gas Southbound. Back from town to the road you have to pay attention and not end up heading back North, but take the road East and South instead. Leaving Guerrero Negro, about 3 miles from the intersection, you will often find a pleasant looking speed trap set up. 55 seems to be a good speed to pass it at. . .a little over the posted 80 kph speed limit that ALL drivers ignore, but significantly under the 60 to 65 mph that is most normal pace on this easy stretch of road. Continuing on into the evening you pass first through more of the flat country then into varied hills, some quite rugged and beautiful and once you'll drop steeply into a palm tree oasis at San Ignacio, a place I always fuel and sometimes eat, but have never stopped to explore. Perhaps next trip. At last light you should be coming to Santa Rosalia, down the infamous "Cuesta del infierno". . .the Grade from Hell (that's the official road sign. . .no kidding). You've been cruising peacefully atop a high plateau for two hours or more when the warning signs start. . .and then the descent to the sea begins in a rush. At first it seems really steep and curving. "Curva Peligrosa" (dangerous curve) signs come past every few seconds and the yellow and black chevrons showing which way the road will wind next form an almost continuous fence as the road winds back and forth across the face of the scarp. After that first dive off the plateau comes a peaceful stretch of a mile or two and you feel that the "Grade from Hell" has been a little overstated. . .nothing serious really. Then, your brakes still nicely warmed, you come to the rest. The name is well earned. The canyon floor below is littered with the twisted wreckage of many mangled cars, trucks and busses, most of them burned out at the end of their horrible last flight. The curves are incredibly tight. There's no sight distance ahead, and the ground drops out from under you in a wild plunge to the sea. In a couple more miles it's over. You roll into Santa Rosalia along the seaside in the deepening dark. I stopped again at the Pemex station for fuel for the morning and did a U-turn in front of the all night store to park along the sea wall. I've camped there in the boat each trip and used the public toilets (banos publicos) just across the road for much needed showers.

At Santa Rosalia you've really arrived. It can still be cold here, but the sun shines, the seas are incredibly blue, the skies at night are completely filled with stars and there's good cruising to be had. Another year I may well find some way to get the boat in the water here and sail on South past Bahia Concepcion, Mulege and the several good anchorages between there and Loreto. Or perhaps not. The incredibly good cruising from Loreto to La Paz is very hard to pass up. Perhaps another year there will be more time and I can do both! There is quite a port facility here in Santa Rosalia for the ferry across to San Carlos on the other side of the Sea, and a small boat harbor as well, but no boat launch ramp and nothing that looked like a useable beach for launching. I didn't enquire, but will bet there's a crane or hoist of some sort that would put a Potter in the water. In any event, Santa Rosalia is a charming place. Its old mainstay, the copper mine and smelter are all closed now, the French firm gone back to France. There is a museum for the remnants, and somehow the town seems to prosper quite well without, thank you. The town itself is set back up a canyon side road from the highway running along the beach. I wandered in the early evening with everybody else who was out looking for supper in the taco stands and street side restaurants, finding an internet café to send messages home and generally enjoying the stroll. Four men sat on a bench and passed a new guitar back and forth to try. I stopped to admire it and began wondering about a replacement for my missing one. They do make fine guitars in Mexico.

The next morning it's an easy run through Mulege to Loreto, through exquisite scenery. You'll have stupendous mountains on your right hand when you are running along the marvelous blue sea with its gorgeous rock walls and white sand beaches. . .or mountains all around you when they block the road at the beach and force the route inland a ways. You'll be in Loreto before lunch. Don't turn at the first sign of the town, the real entrance from the highway is almost at the South end of town, sort of an interchange arrangement, well marked and easing you neatly onto the main street of town, headed straight for the waterfront. Continue on until the street T-s at the beach, take the left down to the harbor a few blocks away, then another left down a narrow street the block to find the Port Captain's office. I really should mention the stop lights here, and in La Paz for that matter. They are not exactly like the ones you're used to, for one thing many are horizontal and somehow not as prominent. Sometimes they were originally painted yellow but the yellow paint has faded and they rather match the sky in the back ground. Worse, it's likely that there will be a standard stop sign, perhaps even noted as a 4 Altos (4-way) stop at the SAME PLACE A STOPLIGHT IS ALSO FUNCTIONING. If you have a green light, don't stop. If you stop for a sign, take a second to scan the intersection and see if there's a light as well. . .if so, OBEY IT. Finally, a stop sign is treated by the locals the same way we treat a Yield sign in the States. . .slow down, check, stop if necessary, or just proceed through. I've adopted a modified version of that, NEARLY stopping rather than just hesitating a little. Hopefully I'll argue my way out of the honorary gringo ticket if it ever comes.

Later, after your cruise to La Paz is over you'll have the 200 mile drive through the mountains and high plains and even along the Pacific coast sand flats down to La Paz. It's not quite as spectacular as the drive down from Santa Rosalia, but I love it well. That's if you go so far, and It could be argued that you don't really need to at all. A wonderful cruise could be had all within a day's sail of Loreto or Puerto Escondido and you might never go so far as La Paz. . .though perhaps that would be a shame. . .or something to do another year.

As it turned out, the trip home this year, from the 10th of March through the 14th, only four days (long hard ones it must be admitted back from La Paz to Seattle) the trip Northbound, as I was saying, was honestly lovely. The desert had continued to green while I was out sailing and flowers were on all the roadsides with shining green young grass carpeting all but the very driest hillsides in the Vizcaino desert in the interior. Even the cactus and the funny trees with only tiny leaves and no limbs were blooming, if a little less spectacularly than some of the shrubs. There were still long dull stretches of course, but the Central Valley of California was alive with Springtime. Wildflowers were blooming on all the roadsides, the hills I always think of as burnt brown in the sun were simply bursting with green new grass, never trampled or chewed down, orchards were blooming in whites and pinks and purples, hawks were flying overhead and perched on any high lookout, an occasional skein of geese or ducks passed by almost out of sight so high. The Northern California mountains were just as glorious. Snow still lingered in the high ground above the roadway, but the streams were running full of white water, flowers were everywhere you looked and nothing that could be green was any other color. Even some buds were showing on the limbs of the winter lazy deciduous trees. The third day from La Paz we passed in the late afternoon and evening through the mountains from Redding to Southernmost Oregon and never was Mount Shasta any grander. There was no speck of any rock showing through the snow and ice, the sun was low in a brilliant perfect evening sky and the hundred shades of blue and white made me ache for a pair of wings to fly over it all. Wonderful scenery all through that afternoon and we came to rest that third night in Grant's Pass. Thus home to Seattle through intimately familiar countryside, my grand parents and parents' home country and the scene of much of my coming and going as well, grayer as befits the Northwest, no sun on the Springtime green, but still soft and growing fast toward Summer.

So the distance itself is not the question I suppose, rather it's the cost and risk of the travel. 4600 miles in an old V6 truck pulling a boat on a trailer with a total weight of over a ton. . .that's not inexpensive travel. We averaged a little less than 13 miles per gallon. . .4600 miles divided by 12.8 yields a total of about 360 gallons of gas. In Oregon and Washington that cost about 1.89 a gallon, in California more like $2.19 and in Mexico almost $2.60. Call it an average over the mileage of $2.25 or so. . .no need to be precise, it'll be changing as I write, but that's $800 in gasoline for the round trip. Besides that I changed the oil in the rig at each end of the trip and gave her a thorough service as well, another $300 of direct vehicle expense. Add in whatever loss of service life 4600 miles represents for an old pickup truck and a replacement trailer tire and/or rim (haven't made the round trip yet without having to replace one somehow) and just the getting to and from the sailing must amount to $1250 or more. . .and that's if you don't count motels and restaurant meals. Goodness. It's a long haul for a short vacation.

As for the risk. . .well, there's the ordinary statistical possibility of death or dismemberment on the US freeways, where you'll spend a lot of your time. On the Mexican Highway 1 it has to be a significantly higher risk, though the traffic level is vastly lower. Nonetheless, narrow winding roadways without shoulders and with frequent drastic drop offs into rocky canyons and the need to pass the entire commerce of the country on full sized semi trailer rigs. . .have to add up to a more hazardous route than the enormous and beautifully engineered freeways in the States. Many people pass the route each year with boats, trailer houses and monstrous motor homes towing large automobiles or boat trailers as well, and, as I said, the Mexican truck drivers ply back and forth every day with their loads of gasoline, diesel, groceries and produce. . .and mostly everyone arrives where they're going with only an occasional fright to report. So, there's serious risk to life and limb but with a boat no bigger than a Potter 19 I don't think it's unreasonable. Slow down as the Mexican road signs keep urging you. . ."mas vale tarde que nunca" (better late than never) or "menos velocidad, mas seguridad" (less speed, more security). They have a point. Other than that, don't ever give in to the temptation to pass when you can't see all the way clear, even if the driver of the truck ahead gives you the left-blinker-go-ahead-and-pass signal. True, you may not have seen another car approaching for half an hour, but I have seen two fatal head-ons caused by sun glare and passing without adequate sight room, and the memorial crosses, plastic flowers and shrines along the way show where many another mistake was made.

So that's the first argument against going, or at least the biggest one. I suppose there's just a bit of a question about the cruising ground itself. Take it as a given that the sea and sky are perfect blue in one shade or a hundred, the sun will shine almost every day and you'll welcome the occasional overcast day as a chance for your sunburn to heal. The stars will be clearer, thicker and brighter than you've ever seen and the moon when it's there will light the night better than anywhere else but the far arctic. However, the wind will blow most afternoons in the Winter and Spring, often from the Northwest or North, though also from the West or really, almost any other point for at least a while. The wind strength will range from glassy calm many mornings to howling gales lasting several days if a storm blows in from the West or Santa Anna winds develop in Los Angeles. . .the same meteorological phenomenon produces really strong North winds down the full length of the Sea of Cortez that can keep a boat like the Potter hunkered down for several days at a time. The fact that almost all mornings are glassy calm and many afternoons have winds up in the low 30's implies that you need to be able to handle the boat in such winds and plan your route with bolt holes to escape the onset of problem winds. If you're not up to that yet, maybe practice in easier places first, since the truth is that the Baja California coastline, especially between Loreto and La Paz where the road does not run, is a lot like the moon. It only supports a very small population of people who are well organized, equipped and trained since birth to deal with the environment. For someone like me from the softer damp North country, to be marooned along that bare coast might well be fatal, with no chance of water and in many cases, no plausible route to walk out to the rest of the world. For that matter, the reason the highway has run off so far to the West in this stretch is that the mountains fall directly into the sea. There are literally miles along the coast where there is no bite for an anchor and no path for a man to climb up from the water. If you were driven ashore in one of those stretches your only chance would be a wet suit, flippers and a very long swim. . .and then the walk. You don't need to be Joshua Slocum to cruise here, but trying to make passages along the coast might better wait until you have the basics down pretty well. Plan your routes with an eye for alternate anchorages, RIG THE BOAT FOR EASY REEFING SOMEHOW. KNOW HOW TO REDUCE SAIL AREA AT WILL, AND DO SO AT THE FIRST URGE.