WW Blog: Powell River to Ojo de Liebre Jan 31 – Feb. 11, 2018

After deciding that nothing would induce us to drive the “Highway from Hell” in Northern Baja again, whales worked their magic and changed our minds. Grey whales to be precise – the Greys of Ojo De Liebre Laguna, located outside Guerrero Negro on the border of Baja norte and Baja Sur. I will spare you the details involved in 4 weeks of intense preparation for this 2018 Baja Expedition.

We made the decision in late December. Shari Bondy, Grey whale advocate and guide asked us if we would assist the Laguna Del Mar Fishermen’s Collective to offer whale watching ecotours in their off season. In return we could live in their “Whale Camp” on the edge of the Lagoon and be able to do lots of filming of whales and people interacting. It was an offer we couldn’t refuse.

Following is a brief synopsis of our trip to Ojo De Liebre from Powell River to open the story before the Grey whales steal every scene!

Jan. 31  The last 3 weeks have been a whirlwind of preparation and communication. Repairs to our Mitsubishi Delica van and additions to our AudioVisual and camping gear required a few days in Vancouver to access equipment and expertise unavailable in Powell River.

“Do you think we really need the whole solar charging system?” I ponder out loud to Terry. “We’re going to be at Whale camp most of the time we’re in Baja and Shari said there’s plenty of solar power there to charge batteries.” We are determined to pare down the amount of stuff we are packing into our little Delica this trip. It’s still a tight fit though. We will be constantly moving everything around the van in order to pull out the bed so we can sleep in it.

“Some music for the road would be nice.” Terry muses, “I could have used some last year on that long drive home from East Cape”

So I spend a day copying song files from CDs to our tablet to plug into the Delica tuner. Unfortunately the factory installed radio is tuned to Japanese frequencies. This means that North American stations are never received clearly. Plus, the antenna is not grounded properly so the radio periodically emits ear splittingly high pitched shrieks!

“I think we’re going to need a new radio” I say to Terry. We purchase an after market USB/Bluetooth model in Vancouver which we plan to install ourselves – later on that.

Feb. 2   Repeating our strategy from 2017 we pull up to the Canada/US border at dusk.

The US border official takes a moment to register that Terry, in the left hand passenger seat, is not driving the right hand drive Delica. I flash him my most winning smile from the driver’s seat.

“Where are you going” he intones, taking in the 2 kayaks perched on top of the van.

“We’re going to Baja, Mexico” Terry informs him, handing him our passports.

“How long will you be in the United States?”

“4 or 5 days”

He gives the passports back to Terry. “OK”

And we’re through – yipee cayay!

We spend the night at a rest stop in Northern Washington state. It only takes an hour to shuffle all the stuff around in the van so we can pull out the bed.

Feb. 3  Drive, drive, drive. We barely stop the next day. Then we Bearly stop at the Black Bear Diner for dinner – good food, good choice. The moonlit night is clear and traffic is bearable so we motor on through Oregon, climb the passes into Northern California and finally stop to sleep in our favourite spot near Shasta caverns.

Temperatures are warm now – yipee cayay eh?

Feb. 4   We spend a lovely lazy morning watching birds and critter life at the Shasta Lake campground. “The lake is so low” we observe – drought conditions again after the previous year of plentiful precipitation. Dry, dry through the miles and miles and miles of agribusiness monoculture.

“How many liters of water does it take to grow 1 almond?” I wonder. “3 gallons I think” says Terry. The wind rips over flat, dry fields. “It’s sure easy to imagine a dust bowl here”.

At midnight we find some running water – the Kern River tumbling below a single lane winding road. We pull off into a pull-out and set up the bed.

“How much traffic could there be this late at night?” I fret as a few large trucks rattle by. Lots evidently.

“Ten times the population equals ten times the traffic” says Terry

It’s hard for a small town Canadian to get used to the relentless stream of vehicles.

Ear plugs save the night.

Feb. 5  We drive, drive, drive through the hot, hot, dry, dry. Seems to take forever to get to Joshua Tree National Park.

“Geez it’s HOT” I complain.

“You didn’t have to drive back from Baja to Powell River without air conditioning last year at the end of May” Terry reminds me.

Too many attempts to get the air conditioning working in the Delica have proved expensive and futile. We give up on a cooling system. Electrolytes and constant hydration becomes our prime directive. “Hmmm, thermometer reading 31°C outside, 34°C inside” I note. The windows are down, hot wind is humming in our ears – “Isn’t this the way our parents used to do it 100 years ago when we were kids?”

It’s lucky for us that we arrive at Joshua Tree around 5pm on a Monday.

“There’s still lots of room in the campgrounds.” smiles the park biologist, who also registers guests and sells souvenirs. “If you’d come anytime this past long weekend we would have been full. It gets crazy here. We had 3 million visitors last year! She adds “This is your last stop for water – there isn’t any in the campgrounds”

OK – lucky us. We slowly drive the road to the campsites, noting the dry, red, broken rocks. Soon broken rock becomes pillowy boulders nestled in piles and archways with surfaces sanded smooth by the scouring wind. “This Landscape was sculpted by nature, the most ingenious sculptor” I pronounce “and don’t those Joshua trees look like something out of Dr. Seuss?” The rock sculptures are ornamented with cactus gardens sprouting from dusty sands. We are in awe of our incredibly beautiful home – planet Earth.

However, “lots of room” proves to be a little optimistic. Most campsites are occupied – usually by huge RVs sandwiched together. We pass 105 campsites………

Then we turn around and retrace our route, choosing a place where we can pitch our tent back from the road on a sandy hill. A grey bunny checks us out as we set up camp at sunset. We snuggle into our sleeping bags.

Feb 6  At 3am the moon disappears behind boulder walls revealing a sky full of stars. They flash in the cool, crisp air – inviting us for a wander through wonders by starlight.

Morning brings a dilemma. “You have to walk the cactus trail!” the park biologist had enthused.

We are behind schedule but we can’t just drive past an intriguing trail without investigating. More good luck – a group of 3 tourists stops at the trail, led by a knowledgeable naturalist guide. We tag along to learn about the choyas and a bit about how the indigenous peoples used the plants in the area. Reluctantly we leave, vowing to return to this fascinating place.

It’s another long hot drive without AC through the interior of southern California. But there are moments of transcendant beauty in the coloured cliffs of the Box Canyon. The Salton Sea on the other hand holds no joy or possibility of a cooling swim. We sweat out the hot miles to the border at Calexico/Mexicali and cross around 3pm.

“Where do we get our FMMs stamped?” I scan the customs buildings as we drive through the border and get funneled into a 6 lane roundabout. Vehicles are whistling off in all directions. We pull over into a taxi stand to ponder. “Maybe over there” Of course it’s on the other side of the 6 moving lanes of traffic. We park, run the gauntlet of cars and stumble breathless into the tourism office.

Again we are lucky – the customs official, who doesn’t speak much English, manages to communicate to us that we have 2 FMMs for the same person – Terry!

“Unbelievable! I was sure I printed one for each of us.” Terry fumes. “I checked and double checked.”

“I thought I checked too” I angsted. We had made sure to get them online BEFORE we left home because last year it took us 2 days of driving around Ensenada to get them.

The sympatico hombre at the tourism office shrugs and calls in a young man who works in the office and speaks more english to assist us. He photocopies my FMM after I email it to him from our laptop. This only takes an hour to figure out and another run through the traffic gauntlet to the van. Ay Chihuahua! NOTE: We have never yet been asked for our FMMs while traveling anywhere in Baja.

The sun is setting as we arrive at Playa Del Sol on the Sea of Cortez. Wading in the warm shallow water by moonlight after another long hot day is such a relief. We made it!

“Hóla Mexico!”

Feb. 7   Ceviche and taco brunch in San Felipe is yummy. Provisioning is easy. We register for our Telcel accounts and head off to Bahia de Gonzaga to camp for a few nights.

“Hóla Mexico – Ay Carrumba!” The highway is typical for northern Baja – a jumble of broken ashphalt, huge potholes and no shoulders. We had been lulled into false security by the smooth fast highway between Mexicali and San Felipe where the expensive vacation homes of Baja Norte’s government and corporate poobahs reside. We take 2 hour driving watches to sustain our concentration on the bad roads.

Feb 8/9: Shari wants us to meet her in Guererro Negro on Feb 10. That’s on the Pacific Ocean side of the peninsula. But here on the Sea of Cortes we are seduced by turquoise water, sandy beaches and sunny 25°C temperatures – perfect weather for kayaking and snorkeling. So we carefully navigate the boulder sized pot holes that threaten to eat our tires arriving at Papa Fernandes Campground in time to set up our tent on the beach for the night.

“OOOO, COLD WATER!” I exclaim next morning as I wade out a few meters. “We’re definitely going to need our wet suits”

We stuff the suits into our dry packs and launch our kayaks. The plan is to paddle to a good place to snorkel. Wave action from many windy days has stirred up the sand around shore. Even in the rocky area where we decide to snorkel visibility in the cool water is only around 1 metre – disappointing. Faded forms of damsel fish, parrot fish and sargeant majors tease and tantalize us like pale ghosts.

Feb. 10   Papa Fernandes hasn’t been bueno for kayaking, snorkeling or food but we have had the opportunity for a bit of rest before undertaking the onerous next leg of our road trip. 39 km of highway construction over broken rock, bedrock, loose sand and mountain passes stretches ahead of us – over 2 hours of driving at about 20km/hr with constant attention to find aroute which won’t blow a tire or break an axle.

“They’ve been working on that road between the coasts for 25 years and it may take another 25 at the rate it’s going.” warned one of our knowledgeable friends. He added “The construction workers appreciate a cold beer if you’ve got any when you go through”

We are hot, dusty and pretty tired before we feel the lift of pavement under our wheels again. We almost coast the rest of the way to the junction at Hwy 1 where there is a tiny campground run by a leathery old gaucho. He opens the gate for us and we find a spot near an old dry tree. We are a bit too early for the spring migration when the tree will bloom and come alive with birdsong.