Sea of Cortez Diving: A Baja Road Trip--Tuesday, December 11, 1990

Diving with Francisco!

We arrive at Puerto Escondito at ten minutes before seven eager to go diving.  The day was going to be clear and warm and the Gulf had a lake-like flatness--perfect dive conditions. Francisco is ready. We quickly loaded the panga. 

I turned and told the guys I wanted to lock the truck before we left. Francisco informed me that doing so was not necessary and seemed a little disappointed that I assumed it would be. We got underway, only to stall just outside the port. Another panga motored up beside us and Francisco and the other skipper diagnosed and fixed the problem. We were underway again headed toward Submarine Rock, so named because of the islet’s resemblance to a sub with decks awash with its central rock stack forming the conning tower. With a little imagination you can almost hear a claxon with the captain’s voice calling "dive, dive, dive" over the loud hailer.  And dive is what we came to do!

At Francisco’s signal Brandon dropped the anchor, a large rock secured by a rope cradle. We geared up and shortly after 8 a.m. we back rolled off the panga on the count of three, Andy and Brandon on the other side of the panga me on the other, with Franciso shifting his position to act as a counter balance, lest the narrow-beamed panga tilt too far to one side or the other and flip over. 

We dropped down to 40 feet and for the next hour were treated to a variety of fish, including the ever present sergeant majors and angel fish, with a great abundance of scallops and oysters. When my pressure gage shows 500 p.s.i. of air remaining in the tank, I leave my two buddies and make my way back to the panga. I hand my weight belt to Francisco. I roll out of my buoyancy compensator. Francisco grabs the tank valve and hauls the tank-b.c.-regulator rig into the boat before positioning himself on the opposite side of the boat so I can grasp the edge of the boat and pull myself over the freeboard. The boat tilts toward me, responding to the laws of physics. I outweigh Francisco by at least 100 pounds. As I flop onto the floor of the panga, he returns to fishing with a handline. We converse in broken Spanglish, with Francisco knowing more of my language than me of his. I manage to convey that Brandon is a student at the University studying marine biology and that Andy is an engineer.

We recover the remaining two divers and motor over to La Islette de las Tigerous. We flawlessly execute our back rolls, we seem to be getting pretty good at it with all the practice that we had. The dive lasts 47 minutes, which takes us pretty close to our no decompression limits as we figure them using the NAUI dive tables. 

The terrain is large boulder wall, much like a breakwater but much deeper. Visibility is great, about 60 feet. In spite of the great vis, I am a bit disappointed at the start of the dive due to be bleakness of the area. First impressions are not accurate as the area rapidly changes character. We see several large groupers, countless sergeant majors, king angel fish, and what looks like the crown of thorns starfish.

The dive is fabulous, but it ends too soon, as my strict adherence to the 500 p.s.i. rule and the minute hand on my black-faced Seiko automatic dive watch conspire to bring us to the surface. We ascend slowly, moving up slope, probing the crevices and savoring everything the spot has to offer. The sea seems to call, "wait! don’t go...I have more to show you. Explore more for the wonders the area. If you leave now, you may never be back this way again. Look under the ledge at the scallops hanging in the current like so many salamis hanging in a butcher shop window. Over there! Over there, is that a black sea bass?"

As we motor back to Puerto Escondito, I shoot portraits of the dive threesome and our skipper, Francisco. We have great conditions for surface shots, calm seas and a clear blue sky. The rugged brown of the islands punctuated by ribbons of green vegetation reminds me of the pre-rainy season look of the Channel Islands on my home ground.

 

Arriving back in port, Francisco asks that we send copies of the pictures to him and gives us his address. We thank him for two wonderful days of diving, take the obligatory buddy pictures, and part from our new amigo amid wishes for a Merry Christmas, now only two weeks away, and safe journey, now only one day away. Tomorrow is our last day of diving.

Snorkeling Juncalito

Back in camp we have the rest of the afternoon off. Brandon announces he is going snorkeling and I decide to tag along. Brandon is a nudibranch afficionado and scholar. I recall from the Log of the Sea of Cortez that while collecting from a tidepool "Doc" Rickets wondered what the critter tasted like. He plucked one out of the water and popped it in his mouth in what can only be described as empirical research, that which we know from our five senses. I wanted to be there if Brandon decided to replicate the experiment.

We move toward the south end of the bay where a small islet sits off the point. As the crow flies, the distance is short, but our circuitous route we take meanders along the shoreline, in and out of the numerous channels. One inlet has many marine caves, which we swim into, only to discover they go some distance back. Brandon points out a puffer fish that is nearly fully inflated. While this species is numerous in the area, this is the first that I have seen blown up into a ball with fins. I wonder what caused it to inflate, which I am given to understand is a defense mechanism. Moving out of the channels we see rays streaking from under the sand and scooting across the sand bottom in what seems to be an aquatic game combining "hide and go seek" and "tag." We watch these antics as we kick across the bay to an exit point near camp. After two hours kicking, I am looking forward to a good night’s sleep. I light my propane backpack stove to boil water for a hot cup of coffee, the elixir that fuels me on these trips.

We discover during dinner that the larder is getting low. Planning for food has gone pretty well. Ideally, we devour the last granola bar just as we cross the border into San Diego. Reviewing the menus of our meals, we discuss what could be added or subtracted for our next trip down here. Precut firewood tops my list as our wood has been a little too large to get a consistent fire going. I have a small hatchet, a relic of my older brother’s Scouting days, but this proves inadequate to split the larger pieces of wood. A greater variety of oatmeal flavors, macaroni and cheese, and peanut butter and jelly, old PBJ, tops our list of foodstuffs to bring more of next time.

Over the years. Brandon and I have gone on lots of dive adventures all over the globe.  The "hero pose" that you see in the image is one that we have come to call the "big friend, little friend" photo.

Sea of Cortez Diving: A Baja Road Trip--Monday, December 10, 1990

Diving out of Loretto

Since Francisco is fishing with some of his compadres, we go into Loretto to the Fantasia dive shop that is part of the Stouffer’s resort. We speak with Gonzalo, recently returned to Loretto from Oxnard, California, about getting out on a boat for a couple of dives. We are quoted an initial cost of $60 per person. We three must have involuntarily blanched at the mention of the price. Gonzalo hesitates and without skipping a beat lowers the price to $50 per person. We agree to the price realizing that with the bigger pangas that the hotel uses, we will be able to go to the more distant locations around Loretto.

Before heading out, we stopped at the town’s breakwater to take on refreshments for our time between dives. The skipper warned that he might have to fuel on the way back, but that was not necessary. 

The panga quickly speeds across the 10 miles separating the mainland from Isla Coronado.  The seas are very light and the boat seems to skim across the wavelets.  The winds we encountered in Mulege have thus far not appeared here.

Our first dive at La Piedra Blanca or "the white rock." The area drops off rapidly, forming a very large and lengthy wall. The resort insists that we be guided by a divemaster on each dive.

We dropped down at about 11:00 a.m. and had a maximum depth of 85 feet coming up slowly for a total bottom time of 20 minutes. The second dive was at another nearby location, Punta de la Fajas. Both dives were good, although our divemaster seemed to want to set a barracuda’s pace on the first dive. We had other ideas.

I remember from my time leading dives at the now-defunct Club Med at Playa Blanca in Mexico that the divemaster’s main task was to keep the group moving as a unit. If one dawdled, the group would spread out as the stronger divers raced ahead and the weaker divers lagged behind. As it was, Brandon was taking pictures, patiently waiting for just the right moment to trip the shutter. Andy and I seemed less inclined to concentrate on a single spot and moved about. Soon, we were spread out and well behind the divemaster. But that’s the way we wanted to dive. The 50+ foot visibility allowed us to maintain visual contact and mitigated our failure to keep close proximity to each other. I was the first to reach 500 p.s.i. and signaled my intention to go up leaving Andy paired up with Brandon.  I snap a shot of Brandon just before I ascend.

The dives were great. The reef abounded with sea scallops and the fish were colorful, what I term the "tropical aquarium" variety. The eels are smaller than the ones I encounter at the Channel Islands, which is surprising because I had always assumed that the tropical eels would be much larger than their colder water counterparts.

Between dives, Brandon explained the differences in the sea life compared to that of the Santa Barbara Channel. Like Doc Ricketts, he has an unquenchable curiosity about the critters and a very methodical technique for finding them. For each habitat, he seems to know what critters should be there and then he meticulously examines the area until he finds them, definitely a macro approach to discovering the underwater world. 

I am more inclined to explore, scout, or reconnoiter an area to randomly see the big picture. Anything interesting I find, like the blue lobster on the second dive, gets found via serendipity rather than by any structured search. Andy seems inclined to go with the flow, taking up a middle position between me in the lead and Brandon in the rear. We get separated sometimes, but with 50-foot-plus visibility, keeping in visual contact is not a problem. As is my habit, I circle back every so often just to see how things are going.

On the second dive, the divemaster moved at the pace car speed. We manage to stay together a little better as he races ahead. The divemaster places a small sardine in his mouth trying to coax a nearby barrcuda to snatch it.  But, we are here to explore, not watch a show.  Eventually, he got tired of trying to lead us and went back to the boat to await our ascent. 

When I got back on the panga, he related that he could see we were good divers and didn’t really need an escort (or by extension to be entertained while diving). None-the-less, we did generously tip the guide and the skipper.  We did enjoy the day, and decide to charter with the shop again on Wednesday, our last dive before heading back to California.

We take a break from camp cooking by indulging in a meal at the El Nido restaurant in Loretto. I had fish kabob and cold Pacifico beer while my companions settled on the fish platter.

Back in camp, I walk around the area to take in the view.  Very unique mountains, called "goat tip peaks" backdrop our playa.

I met Bill, a self-described snowbird from San Diego; which seems a little odd since I am not sure someone from a warm weather climate fits that description. He and his wife are searching for arrowheads on this trip. Bill related that a few years earlier, he had traded a local farmer some seeds for a copper, horse saddlehorn canteen that the farmer had found while plowing a field. Bill estimated the artifact to be between 200 and 300 years old.

Besides the couple from San Diego, our stretch of beach is shared by a group from Switzerland and Germany, with a liberal sprinkling of Canadians. The cove of which the beach is a part is shared with a fishing village and semi-permanent North Americans who call the beach "home" during the winter year after year. The roosters in this rural setting sleep later than their relatives in "urban" Mulege. I don’t hear the first crow until about 5:30 a.m.

Sea of Cortez Diving: A Baja Road Trip--Sunday, December 9, 1990

The wind came up about 4:00 a.m. this morning, about an hour after the roosters started crowing. By the time the sun was up, the wind was blowing steadily. We held out hope as we headed out for the boat. We got into our wetsuits figuring if the conditions at all made it possible and the Captain saw how committed we were to diving he might agree to go. They didn’t and he wouldn’t. So we disappointedly peeled off our wetsuits and headed back to break camp, frustrated that we had come so far for nothing.

Where to Next?

At this point a disagreement arose as to what to do next. I figured we would head to Loretto and if we found the same conditions we would cut our losses and head back to San Diego to salvage a few days of diving. Brandon suggested that we could push onto La Paz, something I was reluctant to do because of distance and time involved. We decided to see what would happen in Loretto. We stopped along the way and tried to call the dive shop in Loretto. We couldn’t get an answer, so we pressed on.

We encounter aeveral washouts and detours during the 83 mile drive to Loretto.  The delay only compounds our frustration. Arriving in Loretto, we find the dive shop, which is part of a sporting goods store, is closed, it being Sunday. We go to the Stouffers Resort (formerly the El Presidente) to find that diveshop, Fantasia, similarly deserted. The Stouffers is pretty upscale. Apparently the resort is the centerpiece of the Zona Tourista on which the government is hanging its hopes for economic development.

The question of what to do next is simmering.. On the one hand, we don’t want to lose another day but I don’t really want to run to La Paz if we are going to be greeted by the same conditions. We compromise and decide to drive 18 miles further south to Puerto Escondito (hidden or lost port) which is reported to have a boat charter business and sailing club. We get to the port and find the charter business doesn’t exist and that the sailing club seems as deserted as everything else. Near perfect conditions for diving exacerbated our frustration. Then our luck changed.

Success

A fisherman approached us, introduced himself as “Francisco,” and asked in halting English "would you boys like to go fishing."

I replied, "no sir, we were hoping to go scuba diving, but all the shops are closed."

"I can take you diving," he beamed motioning to his green fishing panga. "It will be $50.00 for the three of you."

"Fifty dollars each, or total?" I replied, not that I was in any mood to haggle.

"Total," he replied and the deal was struck without any further negotiation.

We changed into our wetsuits, rigged our gear. Francisco helped us place our gear into the panga. Our destination is Punta Coyote, a wall on the outer edge of the embayment that makes up the port. Since it is mid-afternoon, to go any further and still having time to make two dives was really not feasible.

We quickly motor out to the site.  Francisco drops his anchor--a large rock tied off with a rope.  

We backroll off the panga on the count of three, being careful to distribute the weight evenly between the port and starboard side so as to not upset this narrow beamed, yet extremely seaworthy craft. Given my size, I take one side.  Andy and Brandon take the other.  My journal entry records: "The dives are fantastic and our spirits are buoyed" but mentions very little else about the dives. It doesn’t matter as we are wet, underwater, and right now we can’t ask for much more, especially in a deserted port in Baja on a Sunday afternoon in December.

We get back to the launch point near 5:00 p.m. We ask Francisco if he is available to take us out tomorrow. He regrets that he is not; he promised a friend that they would fish together. He is available the day after and we quickly make the arrangement. We mention some of the spots we would like to visit, such as Submarine Rock, and he indicates that he knows these sites very well.

Brandon looks for a freshwater rinse for his underwater camera but Francisco informs us the harbormaster turns off the water at four o’clock when he goes home for the day. Today was the Sea and Sea 35 mm camera’s inaugural dive. Brandon had received it as an early Christmas gift from his father and was determined to give it proper care. I was less concerned about a fresh water rinse for our gear. I had been taught as long as the regulator is damp, daily rinsing is not absolutely necessary. My brass “cast iron” U.S. Divers Conshelf 14 is like a camel, it can go weeks without fresh water and be no worse off for it.

Welcome to Playa Juncalito

We decide to set up camp on the beach at Juncalito, about half way between Loretto and Puerto Escondito. We drive in on the dirt road, cross the creek bed that has just a trickle of water, and engage the 4-wheel drive to make our way down the beach. We set up the rudiments of a camp before running into Loretto in the waning sunlight in order to fill the gas tank. At the station, we discover a fresh water hose and fill the covered 5-gallon bucket that will serve as the camera’s fresh water rinse for the next few days.

Returning to camp, I light the Coleman lantern while Andy sets up the four burner Coleman stove and starts to heat up water for the coffee. Dinner is simple. The beach camp is primitive, just the car, the tent, a hand dug privy in the nearby bushes and a fire that took a little coaxing to get going. How I love sharing a fire at camp after a day of diving. On our camping and dive trips, Brandon, who would contentedly cold camp at the side of a road, has never begrudged me my campfire, even when it meant paying for a spot in a campground with a fire pit. Luckily, in the California of the late 1980s, campgrounds offer inexpensive digs. But the beach here is free. I sleep in the tent, Andy takes up residence in the back of the truck and Brandon decides to sleep under the stars in his mummy bag. I quickly fall asleep to the lullaby of the surf on the beach and the hum of the generators from the few motorhomes parked near enough to be neighborly but far enough to give us some sense of being alone.

Dive Baja Road Trip--December 8, 1990--Mulege

We reached our destination, the town of Mulege .  We fuel as soon as we find a station with unleaded gasoline and then go directly to the dive shop. The woman in the shop explains that the boat might go tomorrow or it might not.  High winds have kept the boat in port.  She asks that we return at 3:00 p.m. when her husband will be back.  He will tell us for sure, since he is the boat operator. Rather than wait at the shop, we drive out to the lighthouse to check out the view of the Sea of Cortez.

After spending two days driving through volcanic and desert landscapes, the Gulf looks wonderfully wet and refreshing. The beach is cobble and rock.    

Brandon combs the gravel bar, examining shells and the remains of a pencil urchin. I walk the length of the beach with Andy and come across the remains of a sea lion, looking very similar to one that I had found on my exploration of San Miguel Island off the California coast nearly a decade earlier.

At the appointed time we return to the dive shop having picked up a fourth passenger along the way--anticipation. The skipper relates that for the last two weeks the diving conditions have been very poor due to high winds. Almost immediately we lobby for him to consider going in the morning. He is willing to try and directs us to be at his boat at 8:00 a.m. Coming all this way to learn that the entire area has been blown out for nearly 14 days is a disappointment. It shows in our faces and underlies our conversation as we head for our campground, a collection of thatch roof shelters. We set up camp.

We seem to be the only people in the camp. The snowbird season is just starting signified by the number of elder-piloted motorhomes on the road. Fishing season has not started. This time of the year is the lull. In another few weeks the area will be flooded with visitors for the holiday. But now it is just the locals, snowbird refugees from the furthest northern reaches, and a trio of California divers praying that the now calm conditions stay that way.

What a sight we must be, lounged out on our beach chairs with our belongings hanging about the truck that makes us look like the characters from Steinbeck's novel, The Grapes of Wrath. A blanket vendor makes his way through the deserted campground asking if we would like to purchase a blanket. After a little half-hearted haggling, I give him his asking price, five dollars, and he leaves us in search of more well-heeled customers. I’m not sure whether he set the price out of desperation for a sale or out of sympathy to our appearance. Thirty years later, I still use the blanket bought that December evening.

Sea of Cortez Diving: A Baja Road Trip----Saturday, December 8, 1990

The Road to Mulege

We break camp rapidly in order to get to Mulege by early afternoon--a distance of about 320 miles. We thought briefly about detouring to Bahia de Los Angeles but decide to press on for our original destination. 

We fuel the truck just outside of Guerro Negro at the La Pinta Hotel. We are at the line of delineation between the states of Baja del Norte and Baja del Sur, as signified by a monument that straddles the highway along the 28th parallel. The monument, a unique architectural feature, seems worn out. It seems emblematic of the promise and reality that is this part of Mexico. Baja until very recently was largely a neglected frontier. Schemes to bring economic development abound, but seem to wither in the glare of the desert sun.

From here we turn east heading across the mountain spine of the Baja Peninsula. We once again enter volcano country, stopping to stretch our legs and get some photos of three volcanic cones, the Tres Virgenes. Brandon goes off into the bush in search of the indigenous reptiles while we enjoy the view. It truly is breath taking.         

Thus far, the road has been in very good condition, comparable to most secondary highways in the U.S. We are making very good time, cruising at 70 to 80 miles an hour at times. The skeletal remains of wrecks, mostly in the areas marked with the sign Curva Peligrosa or "Dangerous Curve" and the shrines to accident victims that punctuate the shoulder of the highway should serve as a caution to slow down. 

In some of the smaller villages, speed bumps actually cross the highway and are heralded by signs which state Topes as if to warn "slow down or we will bottom out your suspension." Although I installed heavy duty shock absorbers in preparation for the trip, the weight of the accumulated dive gear and other material makes me approach the asphalt reef of the speed bump with caution less it rips out my bottom. Signs along the highway emphasize that the road is built for economic development, not high speed driving. I agree, but do not find the two objectives mutually exclusive. The faster I get to the dive spot the sooner I will start to spend money which will help their economy grow.

Driving this highway is a pleasure. It seems to be thin ribbon of asphalt, two lanes in most places, a little wider in some spots, a little narrower in others. Blind spots are numerous but well-marked. At one point where the highway crossed an arroyo, the road had washed out. A crew worked to replace the missing stretch of pavement while we were sidetracked onto a detour through the dirt carved by a nearby tractor.

Drivers are exceedingly courteous, waving you by to pass their slower vehicle or signaling with the left directional when it is safe to pass. Often, stake side trucks or pickups are loaded with as many passengers as possible. One truck we pass holds about a dozen people in the back and it was standing room only. I began the drive with my lights on as I would on an isolated undivided highway in the United States.  I soon relented as every oncoming vehicle flicked their lights at me as if to say, "hey, your lights are on, turn them off, it is broad daylight." Perhaps the Baja vehicle codes prohibit such practice and this was the locals way of keeping me out of trouble with the authorities.

At two points along the way, we come across groups that have set up fund raising stations, almost like a toll booth, at the side of the road. One point is within clear sight of an agricultural inspection station. The sign indicates the local village is soliciting donations for an ambulance. I slow to a stop. I figure 3,000 pesos (about $3.00) would help. The people graciously thank us and we proceed a short distance down the road to the inspection station. We are asked if we have any plants, reply "no" and are waved through without any further consideration. 

Was our donation coupled to our expeditious processing? The Triple A guidebooks tell us of the custom in Mexico known as "moridita" or "the little bite." Think of it as a small gratuity rendered to an official for the special consideration of overlooking some trivial infraction. Forewarned, in the entire time in Mexico, I was not stopped by the local officials despite sufficient provocation that comes from breaking the basic speed law.

Clearing the mountains we power coast down a long grade from which we catch our first glimpses of the blue waters of the Sea of Cortez--we have arrived. We quickly traverse the mining town of Santa Rosalia and we are again in coastal desert. We come upon a motorhome with a trailer that is listing to port. We stop to ask the couple from Oregon if we can be of any assistance and inspect the damaged trailer. What I first thought to be a flat tire turns out to be a lost rim and tire. Only the axle hub rests on the pavement. They graciously decline our offer of assistance, we say "via con Dios" and we are on our way.

The miles roll up on the odometer and by midafternoon we arrive at Mulege. 

Sea of Cortez Diving: A Baja Road Trip--Friday, December 7, 1990

 Author's Note

In December 2022, I started transcribing my journals and dive logs sporadically kept during my various maritime and diving adventures around the globe since getting certified in July 1984.  One year later, with a manuscript of nealy 200 pages, I have hardly made a dent in compiling the stories.  I have a lot of material to work with.  Next year marks my 40th year being seduced by the underwater world.  

I actually started the process of developing the stories at the dawning of the internet age when companies were begging for content and willing to host webpages for free in order to get it  My selected channel in those days was Geocities, especially after it was purchased by Yahoo in 1999.  Ten years later Yahoo announced that Geocities would be closing.  The pages, such as mine could be accessed with some difficulty for a short period of time thereafter, but could not be updated.  Geocities quickly faded, haphazardly preserved in the Internet Archives.

The following blog posts are the results of a salvage of the webpages that describe the daily progress of a road trip that Brandon Cole, my brother Andy, and I took in December 1990 from San Diego to Loretto, Baja del Sur, to go scuba diving in the Sea of Cortez. aka the Gulf of California.  The trip was conceived by Brandon and I after one of our many Santa Barbara area beach dives.  Ed Stetson, our mentor and dive instructor, suggested Mulege as a great destination for the expedition.  How we ended up in Loretto will unfold in the following posts.

Brandon, Andy and I made a practice run to dive in Monterey the summer of 1990.  We camped at Julia Pfeiffer Burns State Park and dived in the Carmel and Pacific Grove area.  But that is an entirely different story.

Half the Fun is Getting There

The truck is tightly packed. We loaded six tanks, dive bags, tents, sleeping bags, coolers, and assorted other flotsam and jetsam in the cargo bag on the fiberglass Snug-top shell’s roof rack and in the bed of the truck. The rack is improvised from my sailboard racks and 2x4s. A vinyl cargo bag, containing the less used items, rests atop of the shell nested within the improvised rack.  Yellow plastic rope strung through eyebolts and cleats in the 2x4s secures everything in place. The bed has just enough room for one person to stretch out, with the other two riding in the bucket seats in the truck’s cab. 

We have planned the trip down to Mulege on the Sea of Cortez in two segments.  Our destination today is a campground at Catavina, about 315 miles down the Baja peninsula from my brother's apartment in San Diego. 

As we head south on Highway 5 toward the U.S.-Mexico border crossing, we see groups of people walking up the median of the freeway. I can’t imagine what is going on.  Andy explains that these people are probably undocumented border crossers. Right now they seem more like traffic hazards than anything else.

We slow to a stop at the border checkpoint. Smartly uniformed officers ask if we have any firearms. Our reply is "no, we do not" and we are directed to the Immigration counter. Because we are going deep down the peninsula, we have to have tourist cards approved by the officials. From the checkpoint, we catch the divided four-lane toll road, Highway 1D, from Tijuana to Ensenada.

South of Ensenada, the terrain quickly changes from urban to rural. We stop at San Quitin to fill up with unleaded gas, a commodity that is only available at some of the Pemex stations along the route.  We are immediately surrounded by child vendors who aggressively jockey to wash our windshield or sell us cassette tapes. I politely turn them down and they ask "do you not like Mexican music?" I attempt to explain that I like all music but that I have more than enough tapes.

The guide books and people I consulted about travel in Baja advise that leaded and unleaded gasoline is available in most larger towns and most of the stations associated with resort hotels, such as the La Quinta. My sources caution that smaller towns and isolated stations will have only leaded gasoline, if they have any at all. As such, I resolve to keep the tank always at least half filled. Consulting information given to me by our family friend, Carl Nielsen, who has traveled down the peninsula when the highway was just a dirt road, I map out critical fueling points and several intermediate locations to mitigate against the possibility of running out of gas. We have 2.5 gallon emergency reserve jerry can secured to the roof rack of the truck.

Between San Quetin and Catavina, our stopover point for the night, the terrain changes from coastal ranges to volcanic rock and caldera, bearing a resemblance to the landscape along Route 395 which winds up the eastern Sierra Nevada mountains in California between Mojave and Carson City, Nevada, except cacti abound instead of Joshua Trees.

Overnighting in Catavina

The entire route down Mexico 1 is open range. We see "road kill" cattle by the side of the road. At one point vultures circle over the road marking what turns out to be a road kill coyote. The travel guides discourage driving at night because of the livestock that takes refuge on the highway’s warm asphalt. So, we stop for the night.  

Catavina is little more than a hamlet, a wide spot in the road, consisting of the campground, abandoned gas station, rancherias, and a luxury hotel, which seems out of place. The terrain is largely rock boulder, which are said to contain numerous petroglyphs.

We set up camp. Staking the tent into the granite that underlies the campgrounds  is impossible. We find several large rocks to anchor the corner of the dome tent. We wander across the highway to the luncheria for dinner. Brandon was immediately befriended by the owner’s little girl and a small pack of dogs that seem to accompany her everywhere. Brandon speaks passable Spanish, which has already come in quite handy. I have a small vocabulary, picked up living in Southern California, but having taken German in high school I am at a disadvantage unless we meet a bus load of tourists from Bavaria.

The diner is sparsely decorated, immaculately clean, and largely deserted. We are the only customers. I notice each table has a ubiquitous jar of Nescafe instant coffee. I quickly come to learn Nescafe is regarded by many as the national drink of rural Mexico. Being a coffee hound, unable to start a dive trip without a 7-11 20 ouncer, I must look confused because the owner places a carafe of hot water before me and motions for me to help myself to the coffee. I order a carnitas dish, and can’t help wonder if it is distantly related to some of the road kill we saw earlier. The evening sunset, the first of many we will see in Mexico, is fantastic.

During the night, cattle move into camp. I hear a noise outside the tent and shine my light into the night only to discover I am in the midst of a small herd. I mutter a silent prayer that nothing creates a stampede or that none of the boys have come a callin’ looking to revenge the entree at tonight’s dinner. A cold, brisk wind blows across the camp carrying on it the chorus of coyote howls that become my Mexican lullaby.

Beluga Monitoring on a Sunday Morning in May

The excavator’s clamshell bucket grabs the glacial till from the seabed, piling the grey slurry on an adjacent barge, stopping only as a tug comes along side.  Two tugs leave the dock to intercept the inbound Alaska Marine Lines ocean-going tug and barge. Mid-channel, the ocean going tug surrenders its tow and the harbor tags coax the barge sideways towards the AML wharf.  Off in the north part of the harbor, two muck barges pushed by tugs move about.  Atop the cargo containers on the AML barge, I see a great deal of construction equipment, tanker trucks, passenger buses and small boats.  The heavy equipment no doubt will support the unfolding Alaska construction season.  As the saying goes, we have two seasons in Alaska, “winter” and “construction.”  The buses and boats support the summer tourist and recreation activities. Cargo containers roll off the TOTE ship and the adjacent Matson containerized cargo vessel berthed in the port.  A steady stream of trucks carries these containers out of the Port of Anchorage up C Street.  A train whistle sounds as if to remind us that it carries cargo as well.  An occassional small aircraft buzzes overhead crossing Knik Arm, inbound to or outboand from from Merrill Field.  

 A bit after 10 am on an overcast Sunday morning in May the Port of Anchorage is abuzz with activity.  The time of day does not dictate the level of activity, that is left to the rising high tide.  As the tide falls the activity level will moderate as the vessels in Port become landlocked by the tidal flats that expose at lowest tide. Three weeks ago, the waterway was covered in pack ice and there was little activity.  Today, only a few pieces of relict floating ice lingers, entrained in the tidal currents. The boat ramp floats have not been installed, but a few small boats have already trailer launched from near the peak of the tide when the water level approaches the top of the ramp.

I observe the maritime choreography from the vantage point a park bench of the north jetty of the boat ramp.    I note movement and times the vessels on my log sheet and scribble other details in my Field Notes.  Today, as part of the Alaska Beluga Monitoring Project, I am observing the area for signs of the Cook Inlet beluga as they slowly return to the upper Inlet.  I wonder what if any, if any, all this activity might have on the presence or absence of beluga.  Last fall, while at this same location, I observed the beluga feeding around the mouth of Ship Creek.  They seemed unaffected by the Port activity, but most of the times I saw beluga there was less activity.

In the last few days, my fellow AKBMP volunteer observers have seen beluga along Turnagain Arm, but I have yet to see any in Knik Arm.  The day before, the Protected Species Observers hired to monitor marine mammal activity during Port construction, reported seeing a few around Port McKenzie on the far shore of Knik Arm.  That area is just beyond my scanning zone.  The PSO’s in their elevated Hilton-like covered observation post atop a conex box on the ramp’s south jetty have much more high tech equiment including high powered optics than do I from the park bench.

The 10 power binoculars, inherited from my grandfather 40 years ago, and my Fujifilm digital camera provide more than adequate resolution and detail for the monitoring I do in the area immediately adjacent to the mouth of Ship Creek and the Port of Anchorage.  The PSOs have their schedule (they are absent this morning) dictated construction activity, mine depends on the time of the rising and falling tide.  Today, the time is from 0839 to 1039, with the tide forecast to peak at 1139.  As Geoffrey Chaucer wrote “time and tide wait for no man.”  It would seem this day neither do the beluga.