The Longest Friday

I did my research, “knew” about all the border crossing for Guatemala, all the fees, and everything that was required. I was confidant as I set out that morning. I was over confident.

About 10km from the actual border another motorcyclists rode up next to me. A Mexican looking guy on a 250cc Honda wanted to know where I was from and where I was headed. We yelled a conversation back and forth as we rode. I assumed he was genuinely interested in my bike and politely made small talk as we rode.

He told me he was going to show me the way to the border. I immediately felt suspicious of him, knowing all the stories of the “mules” (people who “help” you process your way across the border for what can be a major fee.) I reasoned that it was improbable that I was already being hawked 10 km from the border by a fellow motorcyclest on the road. I asked where he was going and why. I was relieved to hear he was Guatamalan and was simply returning home. I figured that was an innocent enough reason and that he wasn’t looking at me as a cash cow.

After a while I simply felt uncomfortable riding with him, so I said goodbye and smoked his 250cc. I was also perturbed that he had guided me off track from the border crossing I wanted to take. There are three border crossings in Chiapas. The best is way up north. I should have gone there. The second best is at Talisman, that’s where I had planned to cross. The absolute worse- sworn by all,.. is the Hidalgo crossing. And, sure as shit,….I was there cus I let this guy steer me off course.

I found the Mexican immigration office, and paid my exit fee to a very professional and polite border agent. I then proceeded across the river to Guatamala. I smiled at all the money changer types who called out to me, in an attempt to work me over on the exchange rate. I patted myself on the back for having changed my money over in Mexico at a very good rate. At the end of the bridge, a well dressed man stepped out of the guard house, and put a traffic cone in front of me. (note, the traffic cone was for me,…all other traffic slid through.) And sure enough there was my fellow motorcyclist waiting there to “help” me.

At this point I was highly suspicious of the Guatamalan Motocyclist and suspected him of being a mule. I was confused because there was no one in actual uniform. The best dressed man who had come out of the guard shack and put the cone in front of me politely asked me for my papers. This is were I fell for the classic red herring technique. I focused to much on motorcyclist dude as the threat and I didn’t pay enough attention to the Imigration dude who received my papers. I told the Guatamalan biker that I was not going to pay him for any help that he offered. I told him this in Spanish and English. Imigration is relatively easy and I speak enough Spanish to understand what I need.

So I thought the immigration dude was taking care of me as I kept the biker dude at bay. The joke was on me as the immigration guy and the biker dude approached me after about 20 minutes of paperwork. The immigration guy demanded 800 quetzals, that’s 105 US Dollars, which is insane! I was astounded. I knew I was totally being railed. I was now in a major losing position and it was killing me. The immigration guy was likely not an immigration official but another mule. I was actually getting played like a fish by two mules. Because I had given them my critical documents I was totally against the wall.

I couldn’t leave my bike to go into the terminal office to raise hell, and it probably wouldn’t have helped anyway. They knew, and I knew that my documents were worth far more than a hundred bucks. I can not explain the level of frustration I was experiencing as I handed over a hundred dollars that I had worked extremely hard for (as a matter of fact risked life and bodily injury for). It was killing me to make such a generous cash donation to Team Asshole Guatemala.

Some lessons are painful, some are free, and some are notably expensive! All I could do was learn. These are my following learning points

-I’m traveling alone, I’m a target, and this scenario will happen again (Honduras is next up—and said to be one of the worst border crossings in the world)

-Beware of the red herring. All the warning signs were there- I didn’t have to make copies, I didn’t actually enter the guard shack, I didn’t pay any individual minor fees,- I was so focused on dealing with biker bastard I totally missed the big picture.

- Don’t give up your paper work, unless they have a gun, or they have some sort of credentials, follow the paper work if possible. (this is a hard one- there were no uniforms, and he said he was with immigration)

-If you have a choice of border entry points, research the best one, stick with it no matter what, even if it means hundreds of miles of extra riding.

-when I do get screwed, I should try not to let it reflect in my riding style(fast and furious) after the incident.

-Shit happens! Learn from it, and get over it!

So I rode away from the border hard, fast, and madley. I was furios. I blamed Guatemala for my own stupidity. I was putting some serious miles in under full throttle, arriving early at my planned destination of Quetzeltenango with plenty of daylight left. I was still pissed, and I just needed the therapeutic comfort of acceleration. The road from Quetzeltenango is an awesome highway, high up in the mountains.

I didn’t close the vents in my jacket as the cold air rushed in, letting it cool my blood and temper. The road opened up like I’ve never seen before. It was a newly built 4 lane highway that twisted through the valleys and between towering volcanoes. There were no lines painted on the road yet, just a huge runway of perfect flowing tarmac. My knobbies have worn down sufficiently enough that I can really start leaning into those turns. Traffic was light and I burned through the mountains temporarily forgetting my border nightmare and simply focusing on each turn and fully enjoying myself.

I settled for Panajechel and it was a good move. Panajechel strikes me as a town out of a fantasy story. Settled between dramatic jungle covered volcanoes and the shores of lake Atitlan, Panajechel exceeds my standards of an exotic and wonderful destination.

It’s well off the Pan American highway and overlooked by most except the Mayans and those expats that discovered the secret and seduction of lake Atitlan..

There are many beautifull places in the world. Especially high and remote places. However, as you explore deeper off the trail and out of your normal comfort zone you become the stranger, the foreigner, and sometimes the perceived threat. Much of it depends on the culture and the culture’s history of interaction with outsiders.

I’ve found that political boundries are of little consequence in regards to how a culture reacts to me as an outsider. One town can send you running with cold stares penetrating your back as you make your exit to friendlier grounds. 20 miles down the same dirt road you find a smile at ever homestead and limitless hospitality.

Panajachel has a culture of its own that’s worth falling in love with. I may be jumping to conclusions, as I’ve only been here for one afternoon. I was strolling down an ally way this evening, looking for a cheap meal, when I passed an old lady sitting on the edge of the side walk. I gave her a polite smile as I passed. I was completely taken for surprise when she smiled and greeted me warmly with a “buenas tardes joven!” Almost every person I passed offered the same greeting. I was greeted even as I was returning to my hotel at night and I couldn’t even see their faces. It was the type of small town friendliness that I love. Down here, you simply don’t pass some one on the street with out saying a hello, it would be rude and seem weird just to walk by! I’ve missed that small town comfort which associate with my favorite US cow towns.

So they’re nice folks, but you should see the way they dress! I’ve seen pictures of indigenous Guatemalans, but I kinda thought it was tourist gimmick, or just someone who dressed up to sell some baskets or pose for a postcard,….naive I know!

As soon as I entered the mountains, virtually every person was dressed in a magnificent array of colors. These are some very poor folk, but the colors they wear are the richest in the world. The women look fantastic. Regardless of there poverty level they must take extreme care in there appearance. They are garbed in beautifully home spun skirts and blosses, with additional bright patterned garments folded over their heads barely covering a façade of shining, perfectly combed long black hair, and more often than not, theres a smile on their face, at least in Panajachel! I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t smiling to. It’s a good thing I didn’t succumb to my own frustration from the border and angrily blow through Guatemala. Now if I could just score a paraglider flight over the lake, it would really top things off…we’ll have to see what tomorrow brings.

Leaving Tlachichuca wasn’t easy. The mountain town had offered me so much and the experiences were so intense that I’ll never forget them, at least I hope I don’t. I got one last picture, a closing shot if you will.

A few miles out of town, I found myself running a gauntlet of dust devils.

As a free flight pilot I recognize this as epic thermic conditions over the high altitude plain. It was to much for me to fly in, but I bet my friend Mike B. would have given it a go on his hanglider back in the day. Its just a reminder that under the right conditions you could probably pull some major cross country flying over this terrain. I promised myself that next time I launch from such a high altitude as Pico de Orizaba, I’m going for distance.

The ride to Oaxaca- awesome paved roads, through epic canyon land, expensive tolls, ect ect ect,… the same stuff I’ve come to write about most Mexican toll roads. They are all awesome rides. Nuff said!

I was hoping to make better time and get past Oaxaca, but I as usual I left late. Leaving late is much safer than leaving in a rush on time. The bike needs a good inspection before a long day of riding. I’m not looking to reexperience my Colorado GP Moto slide.

Oaxaca is a beautiful colonial city with more cathedrals than you can count, but the real reason to visit Oaxaca is for a cup off hot chocolate. I’m not talking about your average swiss miss. This stuff is a meal in its own. I would describe it as hot melted dark chocolate spiked with some unknown spice. I’m sure its really good for you! Its clearly fortified with all sorts of vitamins like sugar, chocolate and whipped cream.

I regret that I didn’t stop in the mescal country for a taste of thier brew.

I could see men stiring huge vats of mystery juice alongside their hill side fields of agave. I don’t now why, but the average mescal in Mexico tastes about one million times better than the Jose Quervo crap that they export to us gringos.

I toyed with the idea of pushing all the way to the border town of Tapachula, but the sun was setting, and I wanted one last hurrah on the Mexican coast. There was no real method to choosing a spot to spend the night. As the sun was setting, I simply pulled off the highway and took a back road to the nearest coastal town. Punta Arina was no let down. I was ecstatic to find camping. Jose’s, a Canadian expat set up a budget campers dream.

A few bucks later, I was lounging under a mango tree stuffing myself on the endless supply of fresh fruit.

Jose’s son cooked up some local “bass” for dinner. I’m a fisherman, and these looked a lot more like toothy piranha than bass, but they sure were tasty. (The fish looked akin to sunfish, but were armed with some mean chompers)

I took advantage of Joses spread to do a full inspection on both the paraglider and the bike. I wanted to cross into the next country with everything in order. Meanwhile, Jose stalked his property with his pellet gun and his dog.

I’m not sure what he was after, but I’d hear him plink away, then curse at varios critters in the trees. Another local named Claudio would patrol the property armed with a bottle of insecticide. He was waging a personal campaign against the local ants. By the time I left I knew all about the 4 different species of ants that lived in the area an the negative effect they had against the environment(campers). They were all an odd bunch, and they were all cool to hang with. Even the local dog was crazy. He’d brush up against you wagging his tail and nuzzle your hand, but if you pet him, he’d bite you!

The best part about the whole scene was that it was totally laid back. I kited my wing on the beach for a bit and watched the shrimpers roll by just beyond the breakers. The sunset was as good as it always is on a Mexican coast.

Mexico Synopsis

Our perceptions of the places we visit and the people we meet are based on our own unique experience in that given place. I feel its important for me to share the fact that Mexico was very very good to me. Admittedly, some of my new found friends were not so fortunate. Urban legends about bad experiences in Mexico are based on facts. I believe these facts(negative experiences) are probably not the norm. I found myself interacting with the police and military on a number of occasions, and I was duly impressed by their courtesy and professionalism. I’d say it was a combination of both my luck, and that fact that for the most part Mexico is a wonderful country with wonderful people.

For me, it was an epic tour through a magnicicent land of jungle, beaches, deserts, and icy volcanic peaks. I’d argue that there’s no better way to see this country than from a duel sport motorcycle (or perhaps a paragliderJ). If there’s not a road to your hearts desire in Mexico, then there’s probably a four-by track. Just outside every tourist abomination such as Aculpolco, Puerto Vallarto or Cabo san Lucas lies remote beaches, friendly people, epic food and good wholesome adventure. You just need an open mind, the wheels and enough tenacity to get there(and a little luck never hurt).

Old dreams die hard. Visibility was low as I had ascended into a cloud at over 13,000ft. I adjusted the idle for the second time as the engine suck in the thin air. The trail was rough, but I was making steady progress in first gear.

I was spinning out my rear tire in volcanic silt, trying to top out of a steep section, when it crossed my mind to be more careful in the future when making commitments to myself.

Six years ago I was hiking down to Tlachichuca after a successful summit bid on Pico de Orizaba. My lungs were happily sucking down the thick air of the lower altitudes relieving my body of the stresses of the high altitude climb. The ash laden track I was following felt soft and comfortable under my feet in contrast to the talus and glacier ice I’d been climbing higher on the mountain. The alpine scenery was enticing and exotic. Forests of tall black trunked pine trees were interspersed with meadows of chest high grass. The glaciated summit of Pico de Orizaba loomed above, its glaciated summit visible through the pine branches. It was on this 4×4 trail leading down the mountain that I determined to return some day on a motorcycle and ride up to base camp at nearly 14,000ft on Pico de Orizaba. It may seem inconsequential to anyone else, but to me it was important to at least attempt this self imposed mission. And now I’m back in Mexico with a very capable bike. I simply couldn’t just continue riding south with out giving Orizaba a shot. There were adventures to be had and old dreams to be fulfilled.

I had planned to circle part of the mountain on a dirt track from Cosmotopec to Tlachichuca. In Tlachichuca I would spend the night, then attempt the 4×4 trail up to the Piedra base camp. Working with a vague track on my gps and no maps, I wandered for 23 miles along various dirt and cobblestone roads for several hours.

The mountainous country side was green and shrouded in low clouds. The mountain folk seemed suspicious of me as I rode through their villages. They stared at me from horseback as I passed them on my motorcycle. I would slow way down to avoid frightening their horses or pack mules. I would call out a greeting and give them a nod or wave, but I never sparked any response other than a cold stare. I had a very real feeling of trespassing were I shouldn’t be. The terrain was so steep I was worried I’d never find a good campsite before sunset and be forced to ask permission to camp in one of these rough villages. Given the circumstances and wanting to make it to Tlachichuca that night, I retreated off this dirt route and onto the tarmac.

I prefer riding dirt tracks, but sealed roads can still offer a great ride. As with most Mexican roads, the tarmac contoured the dramatic landscape through lovely twisties, drops and rises. There was hardly a soul on the road and I thoroughly enjoyed the evening riding the Eastern flank of Pico de Orizaba to Tlachichuca.

I arrived in Tlachichuca’s town center after dark and scored directions to a hotel from a police officer. Hotel Gerar is the way to go. Prices are good, people are friendly, rooms are clean and they cater to climbers. Shortly after my arrival I linked up with a climber who was guiding for AMG(Alaska Mountain Guides). He had just finished guiding some clients on Orizaba and was enjoying a few rest days before flying back north. We swapped some stories and talked over a few beers. (note: He deserves credit for having the courage to try some of the moonshine I bought in Pie de costa) When I mentioned I was riding up to base camp, be generously offered to lend me his personal climbing gear. I wasn’t planning on climbing the mountain, but with climbing gear in my hand…new opportunities were evolving.

My first priority was to get to base camp, then, if the weather was right and I wasn’t laid over from the altitude, I would climb with my glider up to the glacier. From the glacier I would consider flying if conditions were perfect, and if conditions were not right for flying(which I suspected), I’d cache my glider and make a bid for the summit. I had not acclimatized and I was relying on a quick alpine style ascent and descent. (Most climbers dedicated at least 3 days for acclimatization.) I had to be back down to 10,000ft before the altitude laid me over, and I had to get the mountaineering gear back to Brian, the AMG guide. A lot had to come together for a climb- gear, weather, my body’s reaction to the altitude, and of course actually getting to base camp.

I was surprised and lucky to have the gear(thanks Brian!) and I didn’t expect the rest to come together, but I wasn’t worried about it. Just attempting to drive my bike up to base camp was a worthy adventure. Actually arriving at base camp and then climbing on the volcano was all icing on the cake!

The trail was tough and it was a great GS challenge. The volcanic silt made the track slick, but once my TKC 80 tread dug through it and found traction on the hard pack dirt, I’d ultimately get through the tough sections.

I was hoping for epic views as I rode up the mountain, but instead I ascended into thick clouds. The fog was eerie and cool in a weird way. You could see just far enough to make out the trail and the big black tree trunks along the path. I only dropped my bike once on the way up, just another low speed get off to remind me to stay focused.

Mountaineers from all over the world pitch their tent at Piedra base camp waiting for a weather window to push to a higher camp or make a bid for the summit. I immediately parked the bike and went about shaking hands, hearing stories, and catching the latest conditions on the mountain.

I found the exact same rock wind block we had camped behind 6 years ago.

I parked my bike, pitched my tent, sucked at the thin air, got a headache, made a hot brew, and went to chat with some German climbers camped nearby. Dennis and Yaki had (from Frankfurt) made the long and ardous trek in from Tlachichuca by foot(a notable accomplishment coupled with an anticipated successful summit bid). A bit waylaid from the trek and the altitude they were waiting for their bodies to adjust to the altitude before going higher. We talked of making a possible summit bid the following day.

I also met up with Jeff from Oregon. He had recently finished his masters in Glacier Hydrology and was now living out of a small backpack and traveling central and south America for a year. All he carried was a harness, climbing shoes, some clothes, water, and an ice axe,..and one nice set of clothes in case he met any hotties in EcuadorJ Its not often that you find a big wall climber that can still get his kicks with out the extreme vertical face of the Diamond or el Cap. Jeff struck me as a guy who usually has a smile on his face, and overlooks minor inconveniences in lieu of a vast appreciation for life’s adventures. We got along just fine!

I sorted through my kit from the beam of my headlight. I’d never been on a big mountain before with out my full kit of climbing equipment and apparel. I felt I had just enough gear to safely climb and even bivouac if necessary. I would wear my motorcycle boots with my thickest pair of socks. I had my heavy cold weather riding gloves, balaclava, long underwear, and the BMW gortex liner to riding suit that I could use as a shell layer. I could wrap myself in my glider if I was trapped by the storm. Thanks to Brian, I had crampons, ice axe and a climbing helmet. Everything would fit into my reversible paragliding harness/backpack.

Sleeping at 13,900 feet with out acclimatization is never easy. I read for an hour, munched on some granola, spilled my water bottle over my bag, and tried not to worry about the upcoming climb. Long dark nights at high altitudes leave lots of time to worry and anticipate all the things that could go wrong during the upcoming climb. Its easy to psych yourself when your imagination seems to feed off the darkness. Eventually, around midnight I drifted off to sleep.

My watch beeped me awake at 3:30am. I dressed as much as I could from within the warmth of my sleeping bag, then I fired up the stove for a steaming cup of top ramen. Having spilt most of my water during the night, I re-upped my bottle from a nearby spring and popped in a few iodine tablets. Even though I felt this base camp to be safe place, I locked up whatever I could. (it takes a special breed of criminal to conduct an ardous 4wheel drive up to 13,000 feet to rob a few dirt bag climbers- does happen, but its rare.)

Just after 4am I was on the trail. I found myself wishing for my trekking poles and solid mountaineering boots as I trudged through the crumbling slag. After an hour the route transitioned to fairly easy mixed climbing through rock, snow and ice. I stopped every thirty minutes to force down some water and enter a waypoint into my gps. It was beautiful climbing,..alone… under a magnificent starlit sky. No clouds, no screaming wind, just the sound of axe clanking against the rock and snow. Without a bottle insulator my water was starting to freeze over, so I tied a string around it and hung it around my neck under my shirt to keep it warm. The sun was just creeping up as I topped out of the rock section and stepped onto the glacier. The warm rays brought the temperature above freezing. I could just make out a two man team making good progress towards the summit. I was certain it was the German team and I was happy to know they’d found their window.

It was an incredibly beautiful day. I was astounded. I’ve done a fair bit of mountaineering and I can only remember such perfect conditions above 14,000 feet on a few occasions. Realizing that the dream of flying off this volcano might actually be materializing, I immediately began evaluating the glacier for potential launch. I wanted a launch on the glacier that offered enough vertical to take off, but with out to much immediate vertical exposure( in case something went wrong during launch).

However, the winds were coming from the West. Knowing I had to launch into the wind, I traversed the glacier to a sort of saddle that sat between the summit glacier and the Sarcafago(a prominent secondary peak on the same mountain). The glacier was deeply scared by jagged sun cups which would eat my lines for breakfast. I stepped up off the glacier to a slag heap on the saddle. The pile of small loose volcanic stones provided an ideal spread for my wing.

Below the slag heap was one of the steepest, biggest faces on the entire mountain. The exposure was mind numbing. I dropped my pack and walked along the saddle peering over the edge. I was nervous to say the least. I debated over exact launch positions and wind directions and possible bail out zones. It was on me. There was no one else to reference. There was no local expert to rely on. The decisions I was making over how where and when to launch were extremely critical. The immediate drop off of thousands of feet was evidence of just what to expect if things went south. It was real, very real, that’s the only way to explain it.

The decision was to either back out and walk down or fly down. Who wouldn’t want to be in my place, standing on volcano at 16,000 feet with a paraglider and perfect flying conditions. The final choice was easy.

The clouds blowing directly up the face of the mountain confirmed that the time was right. I double wrapped my crampons and stuffed them in my harness bag, and attached Brian’s axe to the outside. I hooked in, checked my harness, double checked it, and triple checked, then took one last look over the edge. The situation was intimidating, but I was going for it. I saw the wind gently toy with the leading edge of my wing as it lay on the volcanic rocks. Using this as a sign, I pulled on the A risers and the wing rose up slowly. The wing struggle to rise in thin air and I pulled hard on it and backed up towards the edge. One wingtip jumped up under a gust and I pulled up the other side to level it out. All the years of practice in ground handling accumulating at this point. As soon as the wing was over head, I felt the reassuring tug on my harness as she let me know she was ready to fly. In a split second I turned and rushed with everything I had for the void of open space.

(sorry, no pics, had my hands full- but video should be posted soon under video tab)

I shot out over the cliffs and away from the mountain rising up with the clouds as they rushed up the face. I stabilized the wing and then looked up to ensure there were no rips or broken lines from the volcanic rocks on launch. Everything was in order. My head throbbed from the altitude, but I didn’t care, I was the luckiest man in the world. I had pulled off the launch and was now soaring way up in the sky- the safest place for a paraglider pilot. I looked back at the volcano from my position in the sky and witnessed one of the most impressive views of any mountain I’d ever seen. The experience is beyond words, even beyond imagination, reserved only for those lucky enough be there.

There was some turbulence and lift near the mountain, but I never experienced even so much as a single partial collapse. However, each bump felt like big turbulence because I was so amped from the launch and overcome by the intense nature of the flight. I decided I’d had enough of an adrenaline rush for the day and I chose to fly with extreme caution, avoiding lift and turbulence whenever possible. I could have easily flown to Tlachichuca, and looking back I probably should have. But my kit and bike were at base camp so I kept a wide arc and worked my way around the mountain bearing for base camp. Lift was everywhere, there was huge potential for cross country flying. Even after circling the sarcophago, I arrived over base camp, looking down at it from 1,000 feet above it. Base camp sits on a plain of alpine tundra and grass that was producing substantial lift and turbulence. Looking back, it wasn’t that bad, and I could have landed there, but I was pretty psyched out and I went to lower altitudes in search of calmer air for a landing approach.

I located some soft air with a decent landing zone several miles from away from base camp. The landing approach took forever. I don’t really understand it. I had thought that I would sink out like a rock at this altitude, but I wasn’t. Some how the alpine grasses and forests were creating lift all over the place. Eventually I found the ground rising up to meet me. I wiggled forward in my harness and touched down softly in a grassy meadow.

Still hooked in to my glider, I stood there soaking in the moment. I basked in the warm air, breathing in the sweet smell of grass and trees, reveling in the safety of having both feet on the ground. I laughed out loud as an accumulation of emotion rushed through me. I’d safely pulled of a major personal feat.

My body reacted happily to the lower altitude as I packed up my glider. My head cleared up some, but I was hungry, tired, thirsty, out of water, miles from camp, and still above 13,000 feet. I walked back to camp too tired to truly enjoy the beauty of the volcanic alpine environment.

I met up with Jeff in camp, happily dropped my pack and rested against my front tire. I could seriously feel the altitude.

It had occurred to me that I had lost my camera between base camp and the glacier. Already worn out and wasted by the thin air, I wasn’t excited about going back up to look for the camera. It wasn’t the camera that concerned me, but the pictures. So decided to go back up, and I’d go as far as l could.

Jeff joined me on the way up and our conversation distracted me from my throbbing head and empty stomach.

An hour up we saw the Germans descending. Weary from the climb, but content in having made the summit, they greeted us and told us about their climb. Then one of them looked at me and said, “I think I might have something you’ll want”, and to my enormous relief, he produced my camera out of his pack. Let it be known that I have a serious beer debt to fulfill to Dennis and Yaki. (thanks guys!)

Back in camp it was a mad dash to pack up and get down into thicker air. I knew I had nearly maxed my time limit at this altitude and a major storm was now bashing the summit. Dark ominous clouds were sinking down towards base camp. The lightening and thunder further motivated me to throw everything together and make a run for it. I was relieved when the trusty GS fired up. She was working hard at this altitude. I had thrown my leatherman deep into my cases, so I couldn’t adjust the idle. After stalling out once, I kept the throttle rocked even as I rolled down the trail in neutral.

It was tough managing a bike on a silt laden trail at high altitude after mentally and physically smoking myself all over a big mountain. But I had no idea what was in store for me on the way down.

A mile down the trail, I was already beginning to feel better. The bike was running smooth as she warmed up. On one particularly rough section I dumped the bike, trying too top out in deep ashen silt.

I tried and tried again, but I was to weak to lift the bike from the position it was in. I swung the bike around on its side and began unpacking the luggage. At this point a dark ominous cloud opened up on me, it thundered, lightening…..and snowed.

All the while I’m trying to get my bike up out of the ashy silt and over the hill. Maybe it was the nearest lightening bolt that gave me enough adrenaline to get the bike. After all the abuse, she still fires up every time! I got the bike up to the top of the hill, reloaded her, and mounted up. The silty ash covering the trail was now covered in snow.

I wasn’t sure how I was going to get out. But I reasoned I should try my best before an inch of snow turned to a foot or two. And, I didn’t want to abuse Brian’s generosity by not returning his gear on time.

It was slow, steady and a lot of low speed crashes.

I dropped the beast about 4 times in the snow and mud, but it was relatively easy to pick up on the more level terrain. As my body adjusted to the lower altitude a feeling of euphoria was aroused with me. I was enjoying the hell out of this ride! The mud, the hail, the lightening, the thunder, the day’s crazy experiences, I was seriously high on life. And at the end of the trail was warm bed and luke warm shower in Tlachichuca. And if I didn’t make it, at least I could camp in the thick air of the lower altitudes.

As I descended, the snow turned to rain.

I happily touched onto tarmac, knowing I’d be staying in bed that night. I pulled into hotel Gerar covered in mud head to toe. I asked for a room as I apologized for my trail of mud. Gerar (hotel owner), a climber himself, just chuckled and showed me the way to my room. I used up the hotels entire supply of hot water thawing out in the shower. After cleaning up, I linked up with Brian and we went to the town square to scare up some chow. Misunderstanding the cook, I accidentally ordered an enormous quantity of food,….and polished it off to the last bite.

As I slept that night in the comfort of Gerar’s hotel, the storm continued to rage on the mountain. On the upper slopes it continued to drop snow all night and into the next day.

My best wishes go to the German team and Brian who are still up there. (Guys! Tell me about it when you get out!)

I spotted a two man team nearing the summit, and I was happy that the Germans had found their window for the summit.

Everything considered the Sidi Setup Riding boots were proving to be a very capable boot.

Pie de la Cuesta-

I enjoyed a cold shower, a warm beer, and the luxery of not having to worry about terminator busses running me over. Driving heavy traffic in a foreign environment is a skill I’ll have to develop. I’m sure the streets of Acapulco are childs play compared to downtown Calcutta.

The map showed a way back to the main highway that would allow me to bypass Acapulco. However, many miles down this route I found that the road was cut by river.

Crossing was only by Panga. By the time 5 mexican’s lifted my bike into the little boat, I could probably ride back the way I came. As I sat contemplating this, a man named Tony introduced himself. He had come down as 3 year old with his missionary parents and the locals had virtually adopted him. He lives most of the year down here, living and working with the locals.

Intrigued by his stories and friendly nature I hung out for a bit to soak in the place. Out of nowhere two plastic cups filled with some vile liquid were thrusted upon us. One of Tony’s friends, makes his own moonshine,…its fantastic,.. as long as you don’t look at. Basicly, he takes a bottle of mescal and adds spices and varios fruits that soak for weeks in the liquer. The end product is a very chunky, but exceptionally tasty brew called Mangcina. I realized that the water bottle on the side of my gas tank was causing my bike to be slightly heavier on one side. It occurred to me that a bottle of this dudes moonshine attached to the other side of my tank would counter balance the water bottle. So in the necessity of balancing my bike and ensuring a safer ride, I scored a coke bottle full of this guy’s mystery juice.

20feb

It was a long hot ride to Puebla. I’m finding that toll roads in Mexico are budget busters. I spent over 30 US dollars in one day just in tolls. After an hour of wandering around Puebla I eventually arrived at pleasant hostal near the main cathedral. They were more than willing to accommodate my motorcycle inside the common area and I scored a bunk bed in a room all to myself.

Hostal Santo Domingo has excellent service, safe parking and great prices.

The following morning I found myself in stop and go traffic looking for a parking space so I could visit an café. I needed some time to plan my route for the day and down load the files into my gps. As I was idling in traffic the bike died and my heart sank as I fruitlessly attempted to restart the bike. I pushed the bike out of the traffic and pulled my seat off to get my jumper cables out. The first guy I asked for a jump declined due to concern over his car’s computer controller. Next, I flagged a taxi driver down. I offered him 10 pesos for the jump, but he wanted 40 and I was in no position to argue. I was gambling that I could ride fast enough through the dense traffic to keep my RPMs running enough to charge the bike. It was my only chance. I got lucky with a serios of green lights. I don’t know how I didn’t get picked up by the cops for reckless driving. I white lined and bullied my through traffic, pulling hard on the throttle with my Remus pipe roaring. For once, the taxis weren’t the craziest on the road. Ultimately, this sort of driving is stupid. Its only a matter of time before I hit some thing or something hits me. My theory at the time was that I had some how drained my battery again and once I got it charged I’d be in the clear. I figured I just needed to double check that nothing was drawing power from my bike over night.

Of course this spontaneous rampage through town left no time for choosing a route. So I ultimately bypassed my exit for Pico de Orizaba and rerouted for Fortin de Las Flores. From Fortin de las flores I could catch a dirt track that would in theory lead to Piedra Grande on Pico de Orizaba.

It was late in the day by the time I made Fortin de las flores. The cool high altitude climate of Puebla changed to hot humid air as I dropped into the valley South of Pico de Orizaba. A solid carpet of jungle growth covers the steep valley walls. Sporadic corn fields appear on the slopes. These are carved out of the hillsides by hand and are harvested and brought down from the hills by teams of donkeys.

I was aiming for a mountain southwest of Fortin de Flores. A rough coble stone road leads to a few radio towers on the summit ridge. This is a cool place. Its not a world reknown paragliding site, but it should be! Conditions were good and I wanted to fly but I had to secure a place for the night first. I talked to the radio tower operators and asked permission to camp on the mountain.

Since the moment I arrived in this part of the country I’ve experienced nothing but exceptional hospitality. The radio tower guys were very friendly. After chatting for a bit and meeting all ten of their dogs, they offered me a grassy secluded spot near their bunk house. I felt my gear and bike was probably safer here then any hotel.

Locals of Fortin like to make the drive up the mountain to watch the paraglider pilots, take tandem flights, and a few of them are pilots themselves. It’s a good crowd. Many of them came over to chat with me as I set my tent up, and a small crowd was gathered to watch my launch.

Conditions were good. There was limitless lift coming off the ridge. I was thrust directly up 50 feet the moment I launched. With in a minute I was over a hundred feet above launch and climbing. It was a cloudy day and I was flying just under the bottom of large cloud that was providing unbelievable lift. The hard part, I learned, was staying out of the clouds. I felt like I was getting sucked right up into them. Normally, a paraglider pilot focuses on gaining altitude. I was trying to lose altitude to stay out of the cloud.

The endless lift provided an opportunity to pull all sorts of fun stunts and never worry about losing altitude. I was pulling some spirals when I either rose into a cloud, or the cloud move onto me. It was a white out and I didn’t know what direction to pull out of my spiral. I made my best guess, leveled out and kept a strait course. I was seriously concerned about flying blind right into the mountain, or worse, into a radio tower. I reduced the size of my wing, and pushed hard on my speed in hopes of sinking below the cloud.

It ultimately worked and I found myself falling out of the bottom of the cloud into clear air. I kept it in mind not to try any turns unless I was sure I’d be able to maintain visibililty. When I found myself arriving into another cloud I kept my bearing away from any uninviting geography.

Over an hour later I realized it was getting dark in a hurry. Not wanting to hike all the way back up the mountain from landing zone, I started looking for an alternative. With the strong lift conditions and radio towers near launch, I wasn’t willing to attempt a landing there.

There was one corn field on the upper half of the ridge. It was steep, but looked totally doable. I could not get the glider to lose altitude with out pulling the sides (big ears), so I came in like a bat out of hell. Looking back, I should have come up with a better plan. It was my first hard landing in 13 months. But I’ll take any lesson learned, especially with out injuries.

I noticed that the terrain was steeper than it looked from the air. I climbed up around my glider to untangled it from various weeds and corn stocks. By the time I had my glider packed, it was dark.

above photo-on the adopted landing zone after packing glider

With my glider on my back and my motorcycle helmet in hand I climbed to the top of the field and entered the jungle. This is where I learned my mistake. The undergrowth was nearly impenetrable. If I wasn’t being strangled by vines I was looking for handholds on sections of vertical cliff. I couldn’t see anything and I felt my way up the mountain at a snails pace. Most the time I was on my hands and knees pushing my glider in front of me. It took me an hour and a half to move 200 meters. By the time I made it out I was soaked in sweat, covered in dirt and leaves, and exhausted.

The guys from the radio tower were relieved to see me, as they had assumed I had crash landed in the lee side of the mountain. I had planned to camp that night on the mountain, but the thought of climbing into my bag covered in dirt was not appealing. I was also very low on water. So I packed up, and made for lower ground. My priorities were tacos, water, and a shower.

Fortin is good place! I pulled over onto the side of the road to eyeball a potential place for dinner. A women and her daughter noticed me, and they walked over to see if I needed help. As I pulled my helmet off these two good samaritans backed up a bit in surprise. I figured it was my wild helmet hair, so I threw on hat. I asked them if they could recommend a good place for tacos and a nearby hotel. Thanks to their initiative to help out a stranger, I ate that night at the best taco joint, and slept in the best hotel with the best rates.

As I stepped into the bathroom for a shower I noticed why the ladies had been surprised when I took my helmet off. I had dried blood all over my ear and a bit on my neck. A stick or critter must have took a chunk out of me as I was bushwacking on the mountain.

The following day I was out looking for a laundry, when I lost power on the motorcycle. It was the same scenario as in Pueblo. In Pueblo I had assumed that I had some how accidentally drained the battery overnight, but now I knew I had a battery charging problem. I decided to take another day in Fortin to trouble shoot the bike problem and determine my next course of action.

I pulled the battery and had it charged up. The battery held a charge, but that didn’t necessarily mean that it was good. At least I could start the bike again. As luck would have it, the battery in my multimeter was also dead, so trouble shooting the electrical system was difficult.

As I couldn’t find the source of the problem I decided to take the bike to a BMW dealership in Veracruz. I knew as long as I kept my RPMs up I’d make it out there. I killed the rest of the day cleaning my kit, swapping out my rear brakes and checking my fluids.

In the evening I went for an internet café near my favorite taco joint. It turns out that the lady who had helped me out the night before, was the sister of the guy who ran the internet shop. He (Jose) was a cool dude and we chatted for a bit as I surfed online and checked my mail. Within minutes the doors were shut behind me and my new friends had arrived with some cold beer. I agreed on one beer, but 8 beers later it was 3am and I was staggering back to my hotel. I had never partied in an internet shop before and it was a cool experience. Again I was impressed with the hospitality of Fortin.

I didn’t know where the BMW dealership was, but I figured it was on the main drag through town. It was a good guess, and I found that reasurng bmw logo within a few minutes. Luis (the BMW motorcycle guru in Veracruz), welcomed me inside with a cold glass of water and chance to relax in the air conditioned display room. Their motorcycle mechanic was out for lunch, so Luis and I talked bikes and wondered through rows of sparkling new BMW motorcycles. Luis noticed my fascination with the new F800GS, and fished the key from his pocket and told me to take it out for as long as I wanted. This was only the beginning of the incredible hospitality I experienced at BMW Veracruz. I was only to happy to oblige. I ran that bike through Veracruz as fast as I dared. She was a peppy machine and fast off the line.

Above photo-luis and his beautiful daughter

There was only one bike mechanic there, and that’s all they needed.

Ricardo, the master bike mechanic, was all over my motorcycle as soon as he arrived. I loved the fact that I was able to work through the diagnosis with the mechanic in his shop. I didn’t have to wait in lobby with nothing to do but worry about the size and price of the problem.

Ricardo tested my alternator and battery while talking me through everything he was doing. His computer recognized an irregularity in the charging system, so we knew there was in issue. He then isolated the problem as a burned out bulb in the telltale lights that indicated my charging status. The blown bulb was affecting the entire charging system. I should have noticed this issue a long time ago. The battery light should have come on every time I started the bike, but I had not noticed this. The bike was in fact telling me the problem, I just wasn’t paying attention. It’s another lesson learned and I was only to happy to resolve the issue with a three dollar light bulb.

When I received my bill, I immediately returned it to the clerk stating that they had forgotten to charge me for the service fee. Luis arrived and explained to me that he was happy help and that there was no service charged. I was astounded. I thanked him profusely.

On top of all this help I received from BMW Veracruz, Luis invited me out dinner and coffee with his friends. We took a table at an establishment in Veracruz that is famous among the locals for its coffee. And I can say with confidence that it’s the best coffee I’ve ever had in my life.

-strange looking meal, but absolutely delicious!

They’ve been serving coffee since 1887 and they’ve got it down to perfection from the harvested beans all the way to its exquisite presentation to the customer. Thank you Luis and the BMW team for a wondeful experience in Veracruz.

I found a hotel nearby with good rates. When the clerk asked me if I wanted the room for the whole night, I began to wonder what kind hotel this was. Once I settled into my room I realized that this place was probably a no tell motel type establishment. I’m guessing that people bring their unsanctioned companions to this sort of place. It was perfect for a motorcyclist(and not because of unsanctioned companions)(get your mind out of the gutterJ). There was a garage for every room that was meant for hiding your vehicle. This was ideal security for my motorcycle.

There were no windows, so no one could see my laptop and other toys. The air-conditioning was bliss, and there was actually hot water for a shower. And to top it off the ambiance of the room was highly entertaining.

I don’t like retracing my steps, but I had made a promise to myself 6 years ago, that I would some day return to the base camp on Pico de Orizaba. so- next post

Baja will grace my memory forever as a land of limitless adventure.  With a capable vehicle and enough fuel and water you can do anything and go anywhere your heart desires.  I suspect I won’t top this expereince until I hit the dirt trail again somewhere down the road.  Pico de Orizaba is my next big adventure motorcycleing destination. Check the video tab, I’ve posted some good ones.

By the time I made it to La Paz I felt that the real Baja was already behind me. The Alaskans went for Cabo and I headed into the city to get a ticket for the next boat to Mazatlan. Coming into the city was a tough transition after a week of pristine beaches and desert wilderness,. Like most cities, everybody is in a hurry to get some place they didn’t want to go to in the first place. The city map in my guide book had just about every street labeled wrong, so I was still driving around after dark looking for a campsite. I finally pulled into an RV campground deep within the city. On a good note, some older folks in a tour group had cooked up more food than they could manage and I was only to happy to polish off their spaghetti.

I was relieved to slip onto the ferry and leave La Paz. It was a big Danish built ferry that opened up from the stern to load anything from motorcycles to eighteen wheelers.

I didn’t know what to expect, I had simply bought a ticket and went with the flow.

The guide books said it was an 18 hour crossing, but we made much better time. I spent the night in room full of Mexican families waiting it out in airliner type chairs. I was happy find my earplugs to ward off all the crying babies. At 7am we docked at Mazatlan and I was thrilled to escape on my motorcycle. Even with only a few hours sleep, the feeling of freedom ensured a full day’s ride to Puerto Vallarta.

I had my reservations about Puerto Vallarta, but I found my own little niche away from the high-rises in the old colonial quarter. I scored a room in a colonial style hotel, marking my first night in a hotel for the last two months. I spent the better part of an hour soaking hot water in the shower, and then went off to explore the city.

Puerto Vallarta in itself was merely a place to refit and move South, but I decided to take a day and explore rumors of a nearby paragliding launch. You can only get there by boat, at least that’s what they will tell you. The esteemed Lonely Travel guide book concurs. So I shelled out three hundred pesos for a water taxi to take me along the coast to the village of Yelapa. The forecast called for clear skies, but the waves were whipping up and the clouds appeared on verge of dumping. As the waves spilled over the bow and drenched me, I was beginning to regret my decision. I was certain the conditions were unflyable, and I was even more worried about soaking my paraglider and reserve chute in saltwater. As I leaned against the gunwales soaked and shivering I thought I saw a guiser of water shooting out of an oncoming wave. Then a huge whale surfaced within 50 meters of our little launch. I was ecstatic to see one of these massive animals and it totally made the trip regardless of the weather.

An hour after boarding, we stepped off the launch onto a dock that led into town. There were no roads in town, just a maze of cobblestone foot paths that led to various vendors selling indigenous goods. There was also a beautiful beach that separated the sea from a fresh water lagoon. But I had come to paraglide, or at least recon any possibilities. I was inquiring about sites with some locals when a guy with an obvious paraglider pack walked up the path. I introduced myself and happily followed him up to launch.

Halfway up the trail to the launch I met the resident flyer of the site, Chris. A talkative older fellow wearing blue spandex shorts and smoking a cigarette. He spends half his year in Alaska or Canada, and the other half in Yelapa. He was a friendly guy and I chatted with him. We did the usual pg pilot thing and parawaited for the right flying conditions.

I though it looked terrible. There were actually white caps on the water below. However, Chris said that at this site strong winds and clouds can create excellent flying conditions. However the wind was just a hair in the wrong direction in relation to the launch zone. In this situation everyone waits until some one volunteers to give it go,…then everyone flys if the “wind dummy” makes it.

The wind direction looked fine to me and Chris said the flying conditions were okay. My boat was leaving shortly and it was now or never, so I stepped forward and laid my wing out. Chris and his friend were kind enough to call out the wind cycles and assist with launch. Launch was easy. I was immediately picked up by lift and enjoyed a 20 minute flight over the bay. Everything was smooth, so I did a few turns over the beach and came in for landing. Feeling confidant after a great flight, I kept the wing in the air as I touched down. I was trying to kite it over to good place to fold up. I never expected the gust of wind that came off the water and blew me into the lagoon. It was an embarrassing ending to a very nice flight. Fortunately my hotel had laundry lines on the roof and they were kind enough to let me dominate the entire drying area with my wing.

While I was in Yelapa I heard rumors of a road. Judging by amount of tourist catering in the village I seriously doubted all supplies came in by boat. Chris actually confirmed that there was a road but it was rough and difficult to find. No one seemed willing to give directions. I actually got the impression that I was not supposed to know about the road. That’s all I needed to arouse my curiosity. My new mission was to drive my motorcycle to Yelapa.

Back in Vallarta I got online and found some hints. Then I used Trailino.com to locate the road through satellite imagery and then plot the track through Trailino’s free software. After an hour of research I had a GPX track loaded into my gps and I was ready to role.

The first town I came to was about as far away from the tourist zone as you could get. The GPS only keeps me vaguely on track. I needed local help to navigate the maze of ally ways in the villages. As a white guy in an indigenous town I was eyed with suspicion and got some unfriendly looks. I found that women and children are much more approachable than the machismo types. I coaxed directions out of an older lady near the main plaza.

The road was excellent. If it wasn’t paved then it was freshly graded. I actually passed the grader in route. In the next village, even further in the sticks, I blew past a bunch of rough looking cowboys and scored the directions for the final stretch from a local kid.

Lizards bigger than squirrels!

From Chacalla the road became rougher, but it was by no means a goat trail. If it had rained I would have been in trouble. The dry tracks were easy and even offered a few creek crossings. I finally topped out at the high paragliding launch overlooking the town of Yelapa. I had made it. It was just a short stretch down to town.

The winds were perfect on launch. I couldn’t pass it up. Why ride into town when you can fly into town. There was some risk in leaving the bike, but it was well hidden from the road and I locked everything down as best I could. Bike security is always on my mind, but sometimes I’ll take risks if I feel the odds are in my favor. As a good friend of mine always says, its risk verse reward, and the reward of flying off this mountain was potentially big.

I had the wing set up, the harness was on, and the thermal cycles were consistent. I was nervous. It sure did look like a long way to the beach landing zone. It was a big flight, and I didn’t now what to expect. I packed my emergency SPOT beacon and kept my armored motorcycle gear on in case I had to make a tree landing. The updraft looked real good, and I went for it. The thermal cycle wasn’t as strong as I’d hoped and I scratched low as I came off the launch brushing trees with my feet, then a big cycle hit and up I went. Before I knew it I was above the launch riding the sky elevator. However, the thermals were coupled with some significant turbulence. After a ten percent collapse, I turned way from the mountain in search of calmer air. As I headed for the ocean I passed way above the lower launch that I’d flown from yesterday. There were several pilots looking up at me and I couldn’t help but enjoy the feeling of being on top. They launched in an attempt to join me, but their low starting position kept them out of range of any good thermals.

I circled over the ocean in some of the most stable air I’ve ever felt. It was so smooth, I couldn’t tell if I was sinking, rising, or just perched. Even my normally chirping vario (flight instrument) was silent. Remembering my motorcycle, I decided to take it on in with some spirals over the beach. This time I dropped my wing as soon as I hit the ground and stayed high and dry.

The hike out was a lot more than I had bargained for. I moved fast, wearing my motorcycle gear, with my glider on my back, thinking all the while about what could be happening to my motorcycle. The jungle mountain road kicked my butt. I blew through a liter of water, and promptly sweated it all out. By the time I made the summit I was exhausted.

It was late, the sun was setting, and I decided to make camp right there on the mountain. It was a wonderful experience. I took a sponge bath and then boiled up some noodles for dinner. After the sun went down, a dense layer of clouds sank below the mountain and into the valley allowing me to enjoy a clear cool night sky. I lay in the grass looking up at the stars while smoking a cigar and listening to the chorus of night time jungle critters. And yes,..I did get some bug bites,…but it was still a cool experience…and it wasn’t as bad as the chiggers in Oklahoma.

The following day was a bit wild. Things went in a direction I didn’t expect. I might call this phase “Escape from Yelapa”

I woke to a magnificent sun rise. As the sun warmed the valley, the clouds below drifted up the mountain to be burned away at the higher altitudes.

I could feel the updraft of warm air coming from the jungled slopes below. These were perfect launch conditions. My decision to make another flight was based on two principles. One, was that I heard that this site can be epic thermaling in the morning. Two, my previous attempts to film a flight at this location had failed, and I wanted to capture and share this experience. So I went for it, but this time I dressed lightly and took lots of water in anticipation of the hike back up.

The flight was a joy  (see video under video tab) as almost all flights are. Launch was easier, but the thermals had not quite picked up yet, so I did not reach the altitudes of the previous day. I was treated for a smooth 15 minute sled ride out to the beach. I folded up my glider and chatted with some friendly tourists. Knowing there was a steamy hike ahead of me I took a cool swim in the surf then headed for town. I bought a loaf of bread to hold me over for the hike. I wanted a hot breakfast but didn’t want to push my luck on time away from my bike. Yelapa is a maze, and it took me a good 20 minutes just to work my way onto the road out of town.

With plenty of water, comfortable shoes, snacks, and no shirt, I was enjoying the hike that had torn me up the day before. As I topped out onto the ridge leading to the launch zone I heard a vehicle coming my way. I stepped off the trail, and gave a polite wave and a smile to the oncoming red pickup. The pick up pulled over and I peered through the open window at a shirtless, well tanned, Fabio looking white guy. We exchanged hellos, and he explained that he had just driven a number of pilots up to the launch. He let me know my bike was still there, and then offered me a ride for the last 300 meters. I agreed and stepped in. He rightfully asked for a little change to cover gas which I obliged. The guy (Antoine) was super friendly and we swapped our stories. Turns out, Antoine is a Canadian who spends half his year down in Yelapa. His father was Chris, who I had met the previous day. Chris and his father run a lucrative paragliding business in Yelapa. They offer rides to the launch, tandem flights, and lodging,.. all for top dollar. I initially found Chris and his son to be both pretty cool guys. I did not take advantage of any of there services, but I had never felt pressured to either. As we neared the summit we talked about flying and I was even considering staying another day if the thermals really picked up. At the summit I handed him 200 pesos, which was more than enough to cover the gas consumption over the mere 300 meters. This is where things went south at Yelapa.

He took the bill and then looked disgustedly at it as if he expected a great deal more. This was huge warning sign for me. He then stated that it was 100 pesos to catch a ride from the bottom. I thought he was just letting me know in case I flew again and wanted a ride up. I replied that I might take him up on it if I flew again. Then he stated, “it costs 200 pesos”. I assumed he was referring to lodging, which I stated was a good deal and I’d consider. Antoine replied, “I’m not talking about lodging, lodging is 700 pesos”. Then he stated, “Its 200 pesos”. I looked at him and inquired on what he meant. He said, “its 200 pesos or 20 US dollars, and you get to fly here three times”. I said, “I’m not paying you 20 US dollars for a single flight off some patch of dirt” I continued to say,”that’s ridiculous, I didn’t use any of your services”. There was no site introduction, no tandem flight, no ride from landing to LZ, no radio support, no lodging, in fact, other than hanging out with his dad the day prior (who said nothing of paying anyone to simply fly), I had nothing to do with these guys other than use a site they used for their own paragliding business. Whether he knew it or not, 200 pesos was over half my daily budget and I wasn’t going to blow it on some crooked request that came out of know where. He said, “its for site maintenance, and we rent the land from the locals”. I replied, “You’re sure as hell not renting this backwoods patch of dirt for 20 bucks a launch”. If he was paying the locals, it was because he was making a living off of local land and the dirt poor locals deserved a cut. He continued to demand 20 bucks. I even offered to pay him a bit to support the site but stated that demanding 200 pesos was completely unreasonable. He stood firm on 20 bucks. I couldn’t help but size him up; wondering what was going to ensue. I told him, “I apologize for the confrontation, I did not know, nor could have known that this site was exclusively private, and that a single launch came at a cost 200 pesos”. He replied,” its 200 for 3 launches. I replied, “I launched once this morning, I’m not going to launch again, and that I will in fact never launch here again”. I turned my back and began packing my bags with one eye on Antoine. Realizing he could not get anything out of me with out physical confrontation he stormed off angrily to his truck, hung out for while and then drove off.

I packed as fast as I could. There was 50 kilometers of dirt road and native villages between Yelapa and the freeway. I didn’t know how far Antoine may try to take things. I knew if it was highly unlikely he had enough connections in the towns between me and the open road to stop me, but if he did, and if he was hardcore enough to set me up, he knew exactly where I was going and I was an easy obvious target.

I chose to remove myself from the situation as fast as possible. I was off the ” exclusive launch ” in minutes and roaring down dirt roads. I made it through the villages and country side with out incident, and arrived happily on the coastal highway.

The high speeds of the paved road calmed me down and gave me time to reflect on the scenario. I don’t like pissing people off. Leaving ill feelings in my wake is something I try to avoid whenever possible. I’m aware of the consequences of my actions as a visitor in a foreign country, whether I like I like it or not I’m both a tourist and an ambassador of my country, culture and values.

I toyed in my mind over the moral dilemma of the scenario. Had I over reacted? Should I have paid the man? Was I right to blow him off? I had in fact used a site that he may have contributed to in some way. But there was no escaping the vague and unnatural method of his request. Why had the father and true guru of the place never mentioned the charge when I flew previously? Why had none of the other pilots mentioned the charge? Why wasn’t information posted explaining that it was forbidden to fly with out paying an expensive fee. I’ve flown all over the world and never even heard of some one running such a monopoly on a site they didn’t find, build and post as private, and especially charging 20 dollars for a single flight. I wonder what the actual founder and builder of this site would think about this. The whole thing smelled terribly of scam, and I’m ultimately glad I didn’t contribute to it. Leaving the game instead of playing the game was the right thing to do. Its an incredible place to fly, but sadly I cant recommend it to anyone.

A full day on the twisty coastal road means only a few hundred miles. At one point I took a wrong turn and found myself on a coastal town looking for a way to get back on track. At first I tried not to look like a stupid lost tourist. They say that’s what criminals home in on. But the fact is that you need the map out, you need to stop, and you need to look around …whether you’re lost or not. Every one with two brain cells can spot you as tourist. It has actually come in handy, because there are a lot of good Samaritans out there. The arrival of a weary traveler and his enormous dirt bike, loaded with gear and boasting foreign plates, attracts more good people than bad people.

It was on wrong turn town that ran into another Alaskan. He (Mike) was a fisherman who surfs the winter and fishes the summer. Mike had flown to Utah, then ridden a DR650 all the way down to Tecoman. We had actually just missed each other in the US. I was humbled by the fact that he had ridden through the snow storm that I had waited out in the comfort of Quin’s apartment. He showed me some pictures of his tour and I knew I wanted to ride with this guy. I sold him the world tour concept as best I could and I could see his eye’s light up when I mentioned Africa. So hopefully I’ll have a ridding buddy somewhere along the way.

Mike gave me directions to a real gem of a beach town.

I arrived in Pescuales and asked the first guy I saw where I could camp and gets some tacos. Before I knew it I was sitting around a campfire feeling right at home with some Colorado boys, a German and an Australian. The camping was free as long as we ate at the restaurant nearby called Lupita’s, which had the BEST and cheapest food I’ve had during the entire tour. It was all so perfect I had to stay another day. It wasn’t Baja, but I was sleeping on the beach next to a campfire.

In the morning, the surfers beat me out of bed to catch the waves as the sun rose. These weren’t ordinary beach goers! They were riding waves that scared the hell out of me.

The German surfer got “chundered” and came out of the wash with his surf board broken in half. Within the hour he had sold his ipod, bought a dinged up surfboard and was back in the waves. These guys were all about it!

The Aussie rides!

2 pics up-Grant is about to get tubed!

From Pescuales I aimed for Acapulco. I stopped along the way at a sort of road café and ordered up some fish tacos. I’d seen a number of trucks near the restaurant so I figured that if it was busy it was good. It turns out that the truckers just parked there, no one was in the restaurant. The fish was clearly bad and I wondered if I’d already eaten enough to make myself sick. Its ironic that the more pricy places like this offer worse food than the very satisfying inter city taco stands or surfer camp cafes like Lupita’s.

Down the road, I stopped again for dinner hoping to get a few quesadillas. It seams that that some restaurants don’t serve quesadillas and tacos…much to my disappointment. However, I was hungry and went with the flow. This place was actually busy so I pinned my hopes on a tasty meal. I received a weird specimen of a meat that tasted more like beef jerky than steak. At any rate I wolfed it down before the flys beat me to it.

My plan was to stop just north of Acapulco and find the hotel I’d picked out of the lonely planet travel guide. I risked driving at night to make it to some place with internet. It was after all Valentines day, and I had a phone call to make.

I missed my exit for Pie de la Cuesta and was subsequently sucked into the madness of downtown Acapulco. It started as stop and go traffic. My hands ached as I worked the clutch and slowly drifted forward. I don’t know how, but traffic went from stop and go to a screaming mad dash through the urban jungle of down town Acapulco. I hate driving in the city, especially at night, and this really topped it off. I repetitively found myself in a canyon between two massive busses closing in to crush me. Little VW bug taxis fought with me for whatever space was available between busses and trucks. It was combat driving and I blew a quarter tank of gas just trying to get out of Acapulco’s endless rush hour. Somehow, after running in circles I eventually found my way to Pie de La Cuesta by 10pm.

We ultimately completed the loop coming back to tarmac somewhere well south of Catavina. There was a sense of accomplishment in having challenged ourselves with an unusual travel plan and come out with nothing less then an epic experience. We had grown confident in our compatibility as a team and were already planning our next backcountry run. We pulled into Guerro Negro on our last drop of fuel.

Pulling into an urban camping area(yuck!), we were thrilled to see our friends from Ensenada. The Coloradans and Germans had teamed up and convoyed down to the same location via the main highway. We were in for a late night of swapping stories and pictures at the hotel restaurant.

Outfitted with fresh supplies, we said or goodbyes to our friends and made a run for the other side of Baja. The road transitioned from gentle turns in the hilly desert to tight twisties as it snaked through the coastal mountains. We followed the coast to Mulege. This is a place that I must return to. Its an oasis of palm trees tucked along a river between steep desert hills and cliffs. The town still retains its colonial ambiance with cobbled streets and historic buildings. Its easy to find your way around, the people are friendly, and the fish tacos are top notch. Between the three of us we put away a record 17 fish tacos. Maybe it was the scenery I don’t know (inside joke for Nate and Jake-Hudinyas).

At the taco stand we ran into some refuges from deepest darkest Iowa. A Lawyer, nurse and investment banker were packing as much sun and sand in as they could before returning to the States at the end of the week. Brian, the Banker was a proud owner of virtually every motorcycle that ever existed at one time or another, so we quickly found ourselves absorbed in bike talk. The Iowans leased a place down the coast and they insisted we join them for margaritas and a floor space.

However, after the adventures of the last backcountry trip, we were to eager to step back into the unknown and pound the dirt roads in search of more remote beaches. Moving to the southern edge of Punta de Concepcion we happily dashed off the tarmac and into the dust tracing along the coast. One side of Concepcion has a few small villages tucked into shallow turquoise colored coves and the other side is a rugged desolate wildernes.  We went for the desolate side.

These roads were different then the other coast. The track following the waters edge lay along an alluvial plain of silt that washed out of the mountains. The silt formed a sort of sand that was consistently kicking my butt. I was exhausted and dropping my bike all over the place.

Jake pointed out that I’d clearly eaten too many tacos and could no longer handle my bike. Admitadly he was right, you really need to be dialed in to ride dirt tracks, and that evening I wasn’t, so we called it a day. We found a cove that met our standards set up a few feet from the gentle waves.

As Jake and Nate put up their teepee I pulled in some weird looking fish on the spin rod. There was firewood everywhere and the Alaskans tried to collect all of it, putting together a respectable bonfire that was clearly visible from eight miles away. (locals would comment on this several days latter) One thing about this campsite was the scorpions. The first one I noticed ran to the end of a stick trying to escape the fire, then a few more showed among the rocks. They weren’t a nuisance just a reminder to double check our sleeping bags.

I woke up to the sound of splashes just off shore and was greeted with an inspiring view of several dolphin pods working the shoreline for fish.  This is the view from my sleeping bag as I woke up-

In the morning the Alaskan boys went kayaking out into the bay, and I put some time in for maintenance on the bike. I knew I had recently developed a slow leak in the rear tire. I figured it was a cactus spine but instead I found a monster screw buried in the tire. Although it was holding air fairly well, I decided to pull the screw to prevent major damage to tire.

The stop and go plug worked like a dream for the next three hundred miles to La Paz, where I had it professionally repaired.

Before leaving our campsite, we realized a collective need to explore the rugged mountains near our campsite.  The Alaskans and I had something in common. We share the same childlike fascination for adventure and we see the world as a jungle gym to be climbed through, under and over, and endlessly explored.  We’re not the type to sit around camp all day.

While reinflating the tire I used the inline pressure guage, which doubled the amount of energy drawn from the battery. This was a mistake. Not wanting to have a replay of yesterdays poor riding, I kept my pace down and slowly worked my way through the tough sections. This slow riding prevented my RPMs from rising enough to charge the battery back up. I continued to sap the already low battery as I inched along. And then the bike died out and I couldn’t restart it. This was  a new learning point.  I thought the bike charged as long as the engine was running, but this was not occuring. (Edit 17feb, begining of an electrical problem to be solved a week down the road) It was one of those times I was very fortunate to have back up. My buddies came up behind me and we hooked up my homemade jumper cables.

Our first attempt got the bike going, but it could not idle. So our next plan was to jump it and for me to ride off ralley style, tearing down the path to keep the RPMs up enough to charge the battery. This worked,…. and it was a rush. I finally had an excuse to ride ridiculously fast. I made it all the way out at a breakneck speed and the battery did in fact charge up. When my buddies pulled up next to me they commented on the branch hanging off my helmet and cactus spines bristling out of my jacket.

The plan was to roll back to Mulege for more tacos. But then we remembered the invitation from the Iowans. We reasoned that the invitation could be extended a day since we didn’t make it on the actual day we were invited. Rolling into their expat community we asked around, found their pad, and waited for them to return from dinner. Meanwhile we pulled out an ice chest of cold beer and camped on their driveway. We recognized that this was a bit wierd and we were fortunate the Iowans have a sense of humor.

We swapped stories in the morning over a pot of coffee and poured over maps making ambitions plans for the day. We decided to shoot for La Paz, but would make a quick stop a few miles down the coast to get online and grab some tacos.

Buenaventura is a quaint little village sitting on a white sand beach. There are probably only about 20 people living there. Mark, Olivia, and their beautiful  daughter Breanne run an awesome beachside cantina. As usual, as soon as I plugged my laptop in, the internet crashed. As I continued to try to coax the internet back up, the Alaskans began to sample the house margaritas. You can bet it’s a good margarita if you can get it before noon and the bar tender has one with you. Olivia also makes the finest homemade salsa I’ve ever had in my life.

The family running the cantina was so hospitable and we were so enjoying the atmosphere that we just could’nt pry ourselves away. Before long the sun was setting and we’d abandoned all hope of getting to La Paz after having knocked out only 3 miles that day. It was our second unplanned night at Concepcion.

Mark can cook! I wandered into the cantina after an evening swim to a full on candlelit dinner with the family. Wine, fresh caught halibut, fried rice, fresh caught shrimp, and steamed vegetables. And the helpings were huge. We were stuffed by the end of the meal. Dinner was followed by another Jake and Nate style super bonfire on the beach. Few places offer such hospitality as Buena Ventura, and fewer invite you into their lives as family.

oops- closing time at the internet cafe- gotta run, will update more later

later

We spent the night on the beach in front of the cantina.

So if you’ve seen the “Last Seen” tab on this website, you’ll know I’ve crossed over to mainland Mexico,..currently in Puerto Vallarta- good times in the jungle! will update soon

I’m too tired to write this post, but my experiences have been to rich to keep to myself. I only rolled 210 miles today but 120 of it was bashing cactus through Baja’s intoxicatingly endless dirt tracks.  A week ago I was in Ensenada catching up with the news at an Internet café.

A couple of older gentlemen were making their way out of the local Hilton and noticed me in my riding apparel. They were in fact BMW riders coming up from La Paz. Eager for first hand information, I immediately whipped out my map and spread it out on the side walk luring them in for a look at my route. They immediately proclaimed that I wouldn’t make it.  The route was too tough, and the bike I was riding was too heavy and overloaded. They talked to two GS riders who had just attempted the trial, but backed off after only ten miles of beating their bikes up. “The Motorcycle Journeys through Baja” book I had packed with me reinforced what the three guys were saying. I began to have doubts about the reasonability of my ambitions. The route was all about getting to nowhere to find that perfectly remote beach,.. the beach we all dream about that you could call your own with out a sole around to say other wise.

The men and author of the Baja motorcycle book were certain the route I’d chosen was out of me league. But they had other things in common that gave me hope,… they didn’t run knobby tires, they stayed in plush hotels and they just didn’t quite look dirty enough to be credible sources of information on dirt riding. I remember reading the book and noting that the author had plastic panniers…dead give away that  he’s not running tough trails.

The guys I’d met recommended I take the common tourist route through San Felipe. Probably a great route with its own rewards, but the fact that the information came from a couple of dudes riding GSes through Baja that were not riding dirt, made me feel a bit biased against any of their suggestions.

I pushed on into the night, forgoing any route decisions in favor of finding a budget camping place and calling it a night.

Its no secret that Mexico saves a lot of tax payer dough by installing mammoth bumps on the road in place of police officers with radar guns. If you hit these bumps at full speed, you will be airborne wishing you weren’t. I pulled off the road and waited for a car to pass, then slid in behind him and used his reacting tail lights to recognize all the invisible speed bumps. Feeling a bit insecure about riding at night through rural Mexico, I pulled off at the first camping place that gave off a good vibe. As long as it’s not raining I prefer to camp any day over a hotel room. In fact I sort of hate hotels, their stuffy, ugly and more often then not, budget killers. I feel instead of paying, I should be paid for the inconvenience of not seeing the stars at night. La Jolla campsite was a lucky score.

I was guided over to the camping zone on the beach by an old Mexican man named Alex who ran the camping area. I was camping for a few bucks on the beach, under the stars and just when I thought it couldn’t get any better, Alex casually mentioned that there were hot springs a mere 100m from my camping spot.

Alex took me out on the beach and pointed to the ground. I thought maybe we had miscommunicated because I couldn’t see anything resembling that steamy bubbling sulfur water I love. He told me to dig my hand into the wet sand, and sure enough hot water nearly scalded my hand and steam rose up from the beach. The trick was to dig out your own hot tub and soak away on the beach until the tide came in. And if you didn’t feel like digging, the hot springs also fed the nearby camp showers.

As Alex and I walked back towards my bike a voice from a nearby campfire called to us and invited us over for a drink and the warmth of a campfire. Eager to meet some other camper types, I made my way over to the fire and found myself among new friends. There were four Germans, a Coloradan, a Hawaiian, and couple of Alaskans. The nine of us were the only ones at the campsite and we hung out each evening, told stories and tested Tony’s (the Hawaiian) tequila.

It was remarkable to find myself among like minded people in a cool location, but as it seems with Baja, things just keep getting better. I immediately identified the Alaskans as potential fellow adventurers. You couldn’t miss their campsite, it’s the full size authentic teepee surrounded by a yard sale of surfboards, fishing gear, and a kayak.

Jake and Nate are two very cool steel workers who traded the Alaskan winter for some time in the Mexican sun.

The men behind the legend- Jake and Nate.  ….known for Leaving a wide swath of charred  destruction and brutal hangovers where ever they traveled.

After hanging out with the Alaskans for some time I realized that if we teamed up we could probably tackle the route and if things went South we’d have better chance of getting out. All I had to do was convince them to forgo the superbowl game, drive off aimlessly into the desert for 3 days and put their newly acquired Chevy Tahoe through hell and back.

I waited until they were well into a case of beer then I approached them on the subject. I barely opened my mouth, and they said they were game so long as we could restock on beer. We had ourselves a convoy.

The relaxing nature of the La Jolla made it an easy decision to stick around for another day to restock, plan, fish and explore locally. After a few fruitless casts on Nate’s fly rod I ran off on the bike to explore the ridges above the campsite. I rode for few hours along ridges above the coast, subconsciously keeping en eye out for possible paraglider launch zones. The ridges were dramatically steep, meeting the pounding surf below in a cascade of giant black cliffs and sea stacks.

There was a small fishing village that had enough of a meadow above the cliffs and below the hills to make due as a possible landing zone. I knew I could make the landing zone, but the “what if” scenario of landing in the pounding surf below the cliffs was a bit disturbing. I didn’t find a launch zone anywhere from the road. I did however spot a hill top that seemed of favorable height and location in respect to the landing zone. I thought…. just maybe.

As I’ve come to know them as excellent sports for anything, Jake and Nate offered with out hesitation to drive me up close to the hilltop and assist with the launch. I had my doubts as I walked up ridge with my glider slung over my back. The sage brush and cactus carpeted the slope, would eat my glider for breakfast if given the chance.

The summit however was different. Sometimes things just come together, and this was that time. The local farmers had for whatever reason cleared the brush off the top providing a near perfect launch zone. The wind was light but steady and drafting up off the ridge. Within minutes I had my glider out and was triple checking my lines and harness. I watched the breeze tease the edge of wing and I knew it was time to fly. A steady pull on the A risers and the wing was above me pulling at my harness. I turned and dashed through the cactus towards the void of open ocean.

There was no lift or thermals but soft evening conditions provided a glassy smooth ride towards the ocean. As I approached the meadow I found that I still had plenty of altitude to play over the water. The cactus covered hills beneath my feet gave way to the massive black cliffs and swelling surf. Some Mexican fisherman cheered from their pangas below. Flying over such rugged coastal sea stacks and cliffs made for one of my all time best flying experiences. Never the less, I didn’t linger over the water for long. I was losing altitude and had to work my way back to the meadow above the cliffs.

Loaded with supplies and armed with a half baked plan we left La Jolla and drove southeast for five hours to Catavina. The paved road was nothing less than fantastic. It rolled beautifully with the contour of the land. There are posted speed limits, but everyone drives at whatever speed they feel comfortable driving. The military and police check points were courteous and professional.

Catavina is a one horse town deep in the parched interior of Baja. This is a desert like no other desert I’ve seen. Weird rock formations and giant boulders are scattered about teeming with cactus stands soaring 30 feet tall.

The Cirio tree, probably endemic to this desert, seems to step directly out of some other worldly science fiction novel.

I located a shady look’n fellow selling gas out of jerry cans on the side of the road. Knowing we’d need every liter for the trip ahead, we paid top dollar to fill our tanks.

By the time we found our dirt road leading west, the sun was already low on the mountains. We camped eight miles off the highway in a blissful desert wilderness.

I parked the bike in a wadi and rushed off with my camera to try to capture the sun setting over the desert ridges. Jake and Nate gathered a small mountain of dead cactus to burn for a fire. We were all a bit skeptical about how well it would burn, but to our delight ancient dead cactus in this area lights up with a single spark and can burn for hours. This was ideal as the temperature sank with the sun. We kept that fire burning all night as we slept close by bundled up in our sleeping bags. If you could imagine the desert skyscape, it’s ten times better.The ride to the coast took us down 90 kilometers of fairly good dirt road. After a half day of riding through the desert the view of the ocean opening up in front of us gave us a second wind. We took a dirt track leading south along the coast. Somewhere along this track we’d hoped to find that perfect beach. Within a mile of coastal riding we hit the toughest section of the track. I slid down a trail covered in golf ball like rocks stopping at the bottom of a gully to catch my breath and steady my nerves. Looking back at what I had descended and forward at what I had to climb to get out, I was feeling less than confidant. Maybe those guys in Ensenada were right. I pulled aside to let the Alaskans hit it first and to scope the ascent. The Chevy climbed out in four-wheel low kicking rocks back and grinding into the ruts but slowly and surely climbing out. Topping out, Nate and Jake dismounted at the top canyon, anticipating the show of a 1,000lbs of GS hurling itself against Satan’s rock slide. To say I was nervous was understatement, but I shifted to my saving grace of the R1150gs’s uber low first gear. I gunned it and never came off the gas as I grounded up the hill bouncing the front wheel from one rut to another. I just knew I wasn’t going to make it, but somehow I was making it. I just hung on and one way or another she kept on chugging up, with those knobbies finding just enough purchase to keep from slidding back..and eventually we topped out. I stopped at the top of the trail and paid homage to my bike knowing the recent accomplishment had a lot more to due with a one mean machine than the rider’s skill. I admitted to my friends that this trail was maxing out my riding capability.

We were relieved to find that we had negotiated the worst of the track. It was a mere 200 meters of hell to test our determination(aka rockheadedness). Although the worst was behind us, the trail was still tough, but in a great way. There were sandy washes, silt filled ruts, steep climbs, big drops, but it was never too difficult to take out the fun. Just as you were about to get frustrated over an endless stretch of uber slow 1^st gear trudging, the tight path would spew open into a perfect plain of dry lake bed or oceanside beach, which slingshots you into 6^th gear and effortlessly speeding across the crust at 60mph. The views of the coast were magnificent and the sun cast a golden hue on the rocky coastline.

I regret I don’t have any pictures of the harry sections of “road”, I was to focused on keeping my bike upright to take pictures.  You will just have to take my word for it, or I invite you to check it out yourself for an epic ride!

Passing through a fishing camp we spotted a couple fisherman offloading their catch from a panga. We approached them and inquired on buying some of their catch. To my surprise they didn’t want money but wanted something more substantial like..booze. Jake had already befriended them over a few cold ones, so we gave them a few more and scored about 15lbs of fish for 3 beers and a 3 dollar tip.

Coming over a rise a view opened up below us that stopped us in our tracks. We gazed down on THE BEACH. There was a full mile of sparkling white sand locked between jagged black cliffs on each side. We had found our haven.

We had worked up an appetite over the days adventure, so Jake and I got to work savagely cutting up fish with our pathetically small leathermans. It was a hack job that didn’t do justice to some very nice Corbina. Never the less it was a tasty meal. By far, the freshest seafood I’d eaten for long time. We did however make the mistake of cleaning the fish in the surf, so there was bit of sand in the wash. I recall Jake serving up a fillet to Nate, and Nate asking,”so is this spice I’m seeing or sand?”..”its spicy sand”, replied Jake!

Nate caught some waves on his board, Jake was pulling in some halibut on his rod, and I ran off to explore possible LZs. We came back together again in the evening and gorged our selves on more “spicedsand” Corbina. Dinner was followed by a beach campfire and rum induced storytelling. We tried to stay up until the moon went down so we could get catch the best of the starlight sky, but we all passed out dreaming of the next days adventures.