I feel cursed by the things that happen to me, but blessed by the convenience with which they happen.
But first, an update.
After a genuine Canadian breakfast at the B&B in San Ignacio, I rode south along the Sea of Cortez to Santa Rosalia. I spent a few hours lunching with an American traveller before continuing south to Mulege. While exploring the small, colonial-style town, a transplanted Californian retiree invited me to a friend's backyard barbecue. I struggled to communicate in Spanish, but capably did my part to remove the roasted swordfish and ample spirits.
The following day, I rode a beautiful 130km seaside stretch of road to Loreto, a European inspired town of about 3,000 people. In the only campground, I met a resident British Columbian guitarist, Marc and his visiting friend, Brad. Marc was one of the hundreds employed by a developer attempting to turn Loreto Bay into the next big Mexican tourist destination. He graciously invited me to a lasagna dinner at his brother's house, not far from my tent.
Spending two days in Loreto afforded me the opportunity to write that clever first sentence. Enroute, one of my gear shifters started misbehaving. Having rebuilt it before, I thought I'd have a look inside to see what I could do. Long story short, I ended up doing more harm than good. By blessed coincidence, Loreto was the first town since Ensenada with a bike shop. By even greater blessed coincidence, Manny, the mechanic, had a 20 year old shifter that worked flawlessly in replacing mine. He didn't even charge me a penny. Muchas gracias, Manny.
Rolling once again, I spent two days riding the dregs of the desert and the Sierras Gigantes(Sierras means mountains) into the southern capital of La Paz, pop. 400,000. After exploring the downtown, I scouted a $16 hotel and resolved to forgo the immediate mainland ferry for the Monday afternoon trip. I spent Friday evening at The Dock restaurant with another displaced Canadian friend, Stefen. Thereafter I spent a few hours at a popular night club, La Casa de la Villa, being serenaded by a really adept Spanish rock band blasting hits by CCR, The Who and Guns n' Roses.
Stefen drove me to the beautiful Telacote Beach where I spent most of Saturday afternoon before returning to town to see an amazing late night performance of Mexican Banda music. Afterwards, until 1am, I sat on a bench on the seaside Malecon, marvelling at the similarities between La Paz's main drag & Richmond St. West in Toronto.
Tomorrow, I'll embark on an 18 hour overnight ferry ride to the mainland town of Mazatlan. Soon thereafter, Guadalajara, Mexico City, who knows what else?
Sunday, October 28, 2007
Saturday, October 20, 2007
Santa Rosalia
The Deserts of Baja have now taken the place as the most intriguing settings across which I´ve ever ridden. It´s amazing to look to one´s left and see a field of shrub and cacti extending beyond the horizon. It´s amazing to look to one´s right and see the same. It´s breathtaking to look ahead and see a yellow line down the middle of the road with no visible end. It´s frustrating, sometimes infuriating to ride that yellow line for hours at a time without seeing even the slightest deviation in scenery or trajectory. In fact, the only thing that ever changes while riding in the desert is the position of your shadow - not very rewarding.
Baja´s scenery changes almost as rapidly as the minutes of the day (until you arrive in the desert, that is.) In one day, I saw forested mountains, sand dunes, seas of cacti, fields of boulders the size of houses and dehydrated river canyons much deeper than I´d like to fall into.
I spent a night on a Pacific beach near San Quintin before heading inland for a few days. Following the only paved road on the peninsula, I rode to the town of Cataviña where I camped amidst a huge boulder field with an American motorcyclist. Derric eagerly shared his double rations after his weekender partner bailed out on him. I carried on to Chapala and from there, hitched a ride with a hydro worker down a 60km detour to Bahia de Los Angeles, a charming tourist mecca nestled in a huge rocky cove on the overwhelmingly blue Sea of Cortez. Bearing a few days of desert I couped up at a Canadian owned, eco-friendly bed & breakfast in San Ignacio, on the shore of a natural spring lake by the same name.
Weekends here have been a little hectic with the infamous Baja 1000 offroad race approaching. There are a lot of dirt bikes and dune buggies cruising about in the sand in an effort to master their respective sections of the 1600 mile relay. I´m still being granted lots of space on the road from the many trucks and cars that pass my way.
While it seems I´ve parted ways with my new found cycling team, I´ve heard rumours of more on the horizon. With only a few more days until my arrival at La Paz, I´ll soon be finished with the Baja and on to the marvel that will be mainland Mexico.
Adios, amigos!
Baja´s scenery changes almost as rapidly as the minutes of the day (until you arrive in the desert, that is.) In one day, I saw forested mountains, sand dunes, seas of cacti, fields of boulders the size of houses and dehydrated river canyons much deeper than I´d like to fall into.
I spent a night on a Pacific beach near San Quintin before heading inland for a few days. Following the only paved road on the peninsula, I rode to the town of Cataviña where I camped amidst a huge boulder field with an American motorcyclist. Derric eagerly shared his double rations after his weekender partner bailed out on him. I carried on to Chapala and from there, hitched a ride with a hydro worker down a 60km detour to Bahia de Los Angeles, a charming tourist mecca nestled in a huge rocky cove on the overwhelmingly blue Sea of Cortez. Bearing a few days of desert I couped up at a Canadian owned, eco-friendly bed & breakfast in San Ignacio, on the shore of a natural spring lake by the same name.
Weekends here have been a little hectic with the infamous Baja 1000 offroad race approaching. There are a lot of dirt bikes and dune buggies cruising about in the sand in an effort to master their respective sections of the 1600 mile relay. I´m still being granted lots of space on the road from the many trucks and cars that pass my way.
While it seems I´ve parted ways with my new found cycling team, I´ve heard rumours of more on the horizon. With only a few more days until my arrival at La Paz, I´ll soon be finished with the Baja and on to the marvel that will be mainland Mexico.
Adios, amigos!
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
Ensenada
San Diego is an interesting place. It's the last establishment of American civilization as the Mexican border approaches. That said, there doesn't really seem to be a clear border. The city officially ends with one of America's largest naval bases, but suburbia continues beyond that for another 25km. Those 25km represent an interesting gradient from English speaking Americans to Spanish speaking Americans & Mexicans. Within the last 3km of the border, you'd be hard pressed to find a sign in English.
In any case, my last night in the good old U.S. of A. was spent between an R.V. packed K.O.A. campground and ironically, a Mexican restaurant. I'd have more symbolically preferred McDonald's, but my group had other ideas.
Crossing the border the following day was a bit of a surprise. Despite my best efforts, I could not find anyone who cared to look at my passport. Cars were flowing south by the hundreds and not a single one was being stopped. To my left was parked a line of cars at least 1km in length, waiting to head north.
Tijuana only received about an hour of my time; enough to see some peculiar, but very touristy sites. This included a donkey, painted like a Zebra. I thereafter headed east and inland to the smaller, understated town of Tecate; home of the world famous Tecate brewery. I spent the night in an $18 motel - it was worth every penny.
I continued east the following day through a sizable range of mountains. My hopes of of seeing the nearby national park were quickly dashed when my well-paved and popular corridor turned into an impassable patch of sand. I did an about face and after 80km of mountainous riding, returned to the every charming Motel Paraiso in Tecate.
Yesterday, I rode southeast down an Alternate route to the coast and the town of Ensenada. The road brought forth 3 incredibly challenging climbs atop desert mountains, all of which revealed stunning vistas. On the more thrilling side, there were four converse descents into beautiful valleys, the last of which brought me into the Valle de Guadalupe - one of Mexico's winery regions. Faced with the opportunity, I spend the equivalent of 80 cents to sample 7 varieties of Don Juan wine. The final 30km of my 113km day were a little tipsy, but I made it safe and sound to Ensenada where I requainted with Mike, Kelvin and another tourista, Judith.
Today, I continue South, destination: unknown.
In any case, my last night in the good old U.S. of A. was spent between an R.V. packed K.O.A. campground and ironically, a Mexican restaurant. I'd have more symbolically preferred McDonald's, but my group had other ideas.
Crossing the border the following day was a bit of a surprise. Despite my best efforts, I could not find anyone who cared to look at my passport. Cars were flowing south by the hundreds and not a single one was being stopped. To my left was parked a line of cars at least 1km in length, waiting to head north.
Tijuana only received about an hour of my time; enough to see some peculiar, but very touristy sites. This included a donkey, painted like a Zebra. I thereafter headed east and inland to the smaller, understated town of Tecate; home of the world famous Tecate brewery. I spent the night in an $18 motel - it was worth every penny.
I continued east the following day through a sizable range of mountains. My hopes of of seeing the nearby national park were quickly dashed when my well-paved and popular corridor turned into an impassable patch of sand. I did an about face and after 80km of mountainous riding, returned to the every charming Motel Paraiso in Tecate.
Yesterday, I rode southeast down an Alternate route to the coast and the town of Ensenada. The road brought forth 3 incredibly challenging climbs atop desert mountains, all of which revealed stunning vistas. On the more thrilling side, there were four converse descents into beautiful valleys, the last of which brought me into the Valle de Guadalupe - one of Mexico's winery regions. Faced with the opportunity, I spend the equivalent of 80 cents to sample 7 varieties of Don Juan wine. The final 30km of my 113km day were a little tipsy, but I made it safe and sound to Ensenada where I requainted with Mike, Kelvin and another tourista, Judith.
Today, I continue South, destination: unknown.
Saturday, October 13, 2007
Arrival
After several minutes of intensive trip planning, I gleefully arrived in Los Angeles. Accommodated by dear family friends near Huntington Beach, CA, I was afforded two days of generous rations and lots of time to get my bike in working order.
Itching to hit the road, I made a relatively early start on Friday mid-morning, destined for Oceanside, CA. Enroute, I coordinated with another pair of cyclists, John & Phil. John was on his penultimate travel day from Portland to San Diego and Phil was a single-day freeloader. We spent the night at the Encenidas campground amidst the company of three other cyclists with whom John had been playing cyclo-leap frog for more than a month down the west coast. We were all furthermore blessed by the addition of a surf/cyclist who had ridden with surfboard in tow from Santa Barbara. His colourful personality and unique ability to rapidly consume alcohol proved quite the source of irritation & amusement.
Headstrong into the first day of rain that Southern California had seen in 9 months, the five of us played leapfrog all the way to San Diego where from I type this entry. The group will be disbanding tomorrow with the exception of Mike, who'll be continuing on to the tip of Baja. I expect to see a fair bit more of him.
Onward - to the Chula Vista campground. Tomorrow, the border. *cue doomsday music*
Sunday, September 17, 2006
Greetings and salutations!
Formalities first of all. I have returned safely to Toronto and for the most part, I'm happy to be here.
My last weekend on Cape Breton Island was wonderful! A rainy Friday afternoon cleared into a beautiful evening. At the recommendation of a Little Narrows resident, I stowed my bike and travelled 2km on foot to the end of a peninsula where I made my camp for the night. The point had a 270 degree view of Bras d'Or and once the sky grew dark, a picture-worthy sight of the happily illuminated Baddeck shone from some 2km away. I hosted my second rocky beach campfire and marvelled at the ocean of stars twinkling overhead. The night was silent, allowing the occasional distant echo of a 18 wheeler engine-braking along the Trans Canada.
Regrettably, between Saturday and Sunday, I was unable to return to the coast for one a final glimpse of the Atlantic. Nonetheless, I made the most out of the two outrageously sunny days by exploring the inner hidings of Bras d'Or Lakes. Unjustly, these routes were more scarcely travelled than the more popular coastal routes on the island. I stopped numerous times just to stand by and absorb my surroundings. The seemingly endless, winding roads made for an exciting ride and the curious absence of traffic made the days highly enjoyable. Along one such route, I met another cyclist. Andrew, a product of great Britain, was two thirds through a 6 month journey from Los Angeles to Miama (featuring stops in Vancouver, Toronto and St. John's, Newfoundland.) I was amazed at his progress. Perhaps for another year. :)
Awaiting an early Monday flight, I knocked on a stranger's door, seeking permission to camp in his yard. Reminiscent of my arrival night, I soon found myself eating dinner in his kitchen before falling asleep in his guest bed. Eggs and toast fuelled my 3 minute ride to the airport where I irritably spent the next 90 minutes disassembling and packaging my bike for flight. The one-room air terminal was almost laughable in the face of Pearson and yet I had never seen so many families waiting to greet their new arrivals at the gate. Watching the reunions of dozens of loved ones seemed to be a highly appropriate epilogue to a tour of Cape Breton. The love and friendliness I've experienced here is unparallelled in any of my travels past. Certainly, this is what I will remember Cape Breton for.
The other tidbit of knowledge I've gained here is as follows. Of the countless beautiful sights I've seen on this ride, the cream of the crop are always hidden at the end of a long dirt road, miles from the highway. An irritant, maybe, but something to be taken into consideration for any traveller - or anyone, for that matter. Only so much can be seen superficially. To put it eloquently, to get the good stuff, you've got to work for it.
-Dan
Formalities first of all. I have returned safely to Toronto and for the most part, I'm happy to be here.
My last weekend on Cape Breton Island was wonderful! A rainy Friday afternoon cleared into a beautiful evening. At the recommendation of a Little Narrows resident, I stowed my bike and travelled 2km on foot to the end of a peninsula where I made my camp for the night. The point had a 270 degree view of Bras d'Or and once the sky grew dark, a picture-worthy sight of the happily illuminated Baddeck shone from some 2km away. I hosted my second rocky beach campfire and marvelled at the ocean of stars twinkling overhead. The night was silent, allowing the occasional distant echo of a 18 wheeler engine-braking along the Trans Canada.
Regrettably, between Saturday and Sunday, I was unable to return to the coast for one a final glimpse of the Atlantic. Nonetheless, I made the most out of the two outrageously sunny days by exploring the inner hidings of Bras d'Or Lakes. Unjustly, these routes were more scarcely travelled than the more popular coastal routes on the island. I stopped numerous times just to stand by and absorb my surroundings. The seemingly endless, winding roads made for an exciting ride and the curious absence of traffic made the days highly enjoyable. Along one such route, I met another cyclist. Andrew, a product of great Britain, was two thirds through a 6 month journey from Los Angeles to Miama (featuring stops in Vancouver, Toronto and St. John's, Newfoundland.) I was amazed at his progress. Perhaps for another year. :)
Awaiting an early Monday flight, I knocked on a stranger's door, seeking permission to camp in his yard. Reminiscent of my arrival night, I soon found myself eating dinner in his kitchen before falling asleep in his guest bed. Eggs and toast fuelled my 3 minute ride to the airport where I irritably spent the next 90 minutes disassembling and packaging my bike for flight. The one-room air terminal was almost laughable in the face of Pearson and yet I had never seen so many families waiting to greet their new arrivals at the gate. Watching the reunions of dozens of loved ones seemed to be a highly appropriate epilogue to a tour of Cape Breton. The love and friendliness I've experienced here is unparallelled in any of my travels past. Certainly, this is what I will remember Cape Breton for.
The other tidbit of knowledge I've gained here is as follows. Of the countless beautiful sights I've seen on this ride, the cream of the crop are always hidden at the end of a long dirt road, miles from the highway. An irritant, maybe, but something to be taken into consideration for any traveller - or anyone, for that matter. Only so much can be seen superficially. To put it eloquently, to get the good stuff, you've got to work for it.
-Dan
Friday, September 1, 2006
Ciad Mille Failte (Gaelic for "a thousand welcomes")
Until recently I had suspected that this bike riding hobby qualified me as being completely crazy. What has changed, you ask? Only that it has been confirmed. Yes, in fact, riding your bicycle hundreds of kilometres uphill in the wind and rain to find yourself smiling at the end of every day does certify insanity!
Onward and... well... some lateral-motion-ward.
I've been officially put in my place. On my way south from the Cape Breton Highlands, I passed a trio of cyclists; two quite young in appearance. I assumed they were campers going for a leisurely ride. 50kms later when I talked to them, I found out that father, son and daughter (12 & 13 respectively) were riding 120km of the Cabot, challenging some of the most difficult terrain. 12 & 13 years old! I give up!
I spent Tuesday night, camped at the bike-fanatic-owned sailboat terminal in Baddeck. I met and ate two meals with a quartet of sailors, returning from a two month journey around Greenland and Labrador. We shared lots of stories and I was granted access to the terminal's showers and bathrooms. It was a much needed treat. A light rain trickled upon my tent, making for a soothing bedtime soundtrack. Mostly dry by the morning, I bid final adieu to the sailors and my new friends from Brooklyn before heading Northeast to Lake Ainslie via Margaree Forks.
I camped for the first time and a campground on Lake Ainslie. Here, I met numerous car campers getting a three day head start on the long weekend. They were rowdy and mildly disturbing, but good company nonetheless. It rained overnight and my tent went away wet. Lake Ainslie proved to be quite beautiful in the rare instances when the sun shone through the cloudy day. It was very much unlike anything I'd seen elsewhere in Cape Breton.
I left Ainslie to head South through Mabou to Port Hood. I stopped in the public library to read awhile. Moments after I arrived, it began to pour rain. My timing proved quite impeccable. The wind grew strong from the northwest. Fortunately, I was heading South. After aborting a campsite search, I ran into Janice. Only 5 months my senior, she was riding solo around the Cabot Trail and back to her home in Halifax. I took up her offer on a cabin for the night and we fought heavy rain and wind in the last stretch until we arrived. The cabin, while not much to the urbanite, was heaven to a pair of tired cyclists. We enjoyed real food, real dishes, real heat, real beds, real showers, real laundry. It was almost... unreal!
Stuffed and rejuvenated, we parted ways this morning. I find myself back in St. Peter's. The day has gone from gloriously sunny to depressingly precipitant at least thrice so far. The weekend forecast is looking up and I'm very excited.
Until recently I had suspected that this bike riding hobby qualified me as being completely crazy. What has changed, you ask? Only that it has been confirmed. Yes, in fact, riding your bicycle hundreds of kilometres uphill in the wind and rain to find yourself smiling at the end of every day does certify insanity!
Onward and... well... some lateral-motion-ward.
I've been officially put in my place. On my way south from the Cape Breton Highlands, I passed a trio of cyclists; two quite young in appearance. I assumed they were campers going for a leisurely ride. 50kms later when I talked to them, I found out that father, son and daughter (12 & 13 respectively) were riding 120km of the Cabot, challenging some of the most difficult terrain. 12 & 13 years old! I give up!
I spent Tuesday night, camped at the bike-fanatic-owned sailboat terminal in Baddeck. I met and ate two meals with a quartet of sailors, returning from a two month journey around Greenland and Labrador. We shared lots of stories and I was granted access to the terminal's showers and bathrooms. It was a much needed treat. A light rain trickled upon my tent, making for a soothing bedtime soundtrack. Mostly dry by the morning, I bid final adieu to the sailors and my new friends from Brooklyn before heading Northeast to Lake Ainslie via Margaree Forks.
I camped for the first time and a campground on Lake Ainslie. Here, I met numerous car campers getting a three day head start on the long weekend. They were rowdy and mildly disturbing, but good company nonetheless. It rained overnight and my tent went away wet. Lake Ainslie proved to be quite beautiful in the rare instances when the sun shone through the cloudy day. It was very much unlike anything I'd seen elsewhere in Cape Breton.
I left Ainslie to head South through Mabou to Port Hood. I stopped in the public library to read awhile. Moments after I arrived, it began to pour rain. My timing proved quite impeccable. The wind grew strong from the northwest. Fortunately, I was heading South. After aborting a campsite search, I ran into Janice. Only 5 months my senior, she was riding solo around the Cabot Trail and back to her home in Halifax. I took up her offer on a cabin for the night and we fought heavy rain and wind in the last stretch until we arrived. The cabin, while not much to the urbanite, was heaven to a pair of tired cyclists. We enjoyed real food, real dishes, real heat, real beds, real showers, real laundry. It was almost... unreal!
Stuffed and rejuvenated, we parted ways this morning. I find myself back in St. Peter's. The day has gone from gloriously sunny to depressingly precipitant at least thrice so far. The weekend forecast is looking up and I'm very excited.
Tuesday, August 29, 2006
I'm currently waiting out the rain at the public library in Ingonish. The last couple of days have shown me a bit of everything I should expect on such an adventure. I've been to and mostly through Cape Breton Highlands National Park and I've seen many fine offerings along the way.
As I sent my last message, I was joined in the C@P site by two other cyclists from Brooklyn. We shared stories like a group of Cape Bretoners before I headed onward. I was a bit disappointed by the town of Cheticamp; stopping only for a quick break at Tim Horton's. "Toujours frais," read the sign. I rode from there to the National Park visitors centre where I met a cycling trio on their way out. Their tales of hills were unsurprising. It was quite evident that they were glad to be done with it. The route thereafter was guided by the shoreline, obeying the many tall and long hills. I stopped at numerous scenic outlook points and was never disappointed. I was often astonished to look back at the road, asking myself, "did I just ride that?" The road returned to sea level at Cap Rouge, just in time to scale one side of French Mountain. This 455 meter ascent was stretched across 6km of road. It doesn't sound bad, but it's bad. Believe me. Thankfully, what goes up must come down. The descent back to Pleasant Bay was long and speedy. I stopped midway and had some other visitors take my picture (see flickr.)
Pleasant Bay was cool overnight and into the morning. Such made for a hasty departure. Re-entering the park, I stopped at a picnic area to make breakfast. My Brooklyn friends had camped there and were on their way out. After breakfast, I rode a more gruelling 4km uphill to the 457 meter North Mountain, meeting my new friends at the top. We three shared in our recent success and I joined them for the next 30km to Cape North. There, they continued on the Cabot Trail while I took a lengthy detour to visit Bay St. Lawrence and Meat Cove. The ride featured views unlike any I'd seen before, including the Marshy North Harbour Bay and the serene Deadman's Pond. I made my way back across some of the hilliest terrain I've ever ridden in my life to White Point. This was the most stunning place I've seen thus far on my trip. The town is completely and naturally protected from the ocean by a long mossy point which made for a spectacular campsite. The evening was the warmest of the past three and I made company with another solo tourist (driving) from Toronto.
As I sent my last message, I was joined in the C@P site by two other cyclists from Brooklyn. We shared stories like a group of Cape Bretoners before I headed onward. I was a bit disappointed by the town of Cheticamp; stopping only for a quick break at Tim Horton's. "Toujours frais," read the sign. I rode from there to the National Park visitors centre where I met a cycling trio on their way out. Their tales of hills were unsurprising. It was quite evident that they were glad to be done with it. The route thereafter was guided by the shoreline, obeying the many tall and long hills. I stopped at numerous scenic outlook points and was never disappointed. I was often astonished to look back at the road, asking myself, "did I just ride that?" The road returned to sea level at Cap Rouge, just in time to scale one side of French Mountain. This 455 meter ascent was stretched across 6km of road. It doesn't sound bad, but it's bad. Believe me. Thankfully, what goes up must come down. The descent back to Pleasant Bay was long and speedy. I stopped midway and had some other visitors take my picture (see flickr.)
Pleasant Bay was cool overnight and into the morning. Such made for a hasty departure. Re-entering the park, I stopped at a picnic area to make breakfast. My Brooklyn friends had camped there and were on their way out. After breakfast, I rode a more gruelling 4km uphill to the 457 meter North Mountain, meeting my new friends at the top. We three shared in our recent success and I joined them for the next 30km to Cape North. There, they continued on the Cabot Trail while I took a lengthy detour to visit Bay St. Lawrence and Meat Cove. The ride featured views unlike any I'd seen before, including the Marshy North Harbour Bay and the serene Deadman's Pond. I made my way back across some of the hilliest terrain I've ever ridden in my life to White Point. This was the most stunning place I've seen thus far on my trip. The town is completely and naturally protected from the ocean by a long mossy point which made for a spectacular campsite. The evening was the warmest of the past three and I made company with another solo tourist (driving) from Toronto.
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