I explained to Dan that I was on my way down south to Argentina, which he thought was pretty cool. He told me that he and a couple of friends had planned a trip to Creele, Mexico, but had cancelled because “there was a war going on over there.” War, what war? Count me in.

Moments later I met Steve, who owns an awesome Bed & Breakfast in the Yosemite area, where he and his wife will teach you how to — get this — ride long distance on horseback. Way cool character. After the standard exchange of “wow, what a bike setup” and “how cool, you’re going to Argentina,” Steve offered me a place to sleep for the night just near his barn. Apparently, he and his wife were travellers in their youth, and even lived in Mexico for quite some time, so he had a little thing in his heart for guys like me.  Thanks Steve.

The next day I did a bit of off-roading in the Yosemite area before hopping on to Highway 395 to Death Valley.

The drive down to Death Valley was really nice. True it was all highway, but the 395 was pretty secluded and the scenery was something else.  When I finally arrived I took the first turn off from the highway on to the desert trails of the Valley. Like a kid in a candy store I tell ya. Loved Death Valley…fell in love with California again and thought to myself on at least five occasions “why am I leaving this place again?” I am definitely going to ride the CA deserts a wee bit more often when I get back. Sweet they are. Free-riding the desert…yummy! Happy trails indeed.

With all the fun fun fun in the desert sun (and a healthy serving of ye ole Mary-jane), I zoned out playing in the sand a little more than I should have. I wanted to get to San Diego before dark, but there was no way that was happening. The sun was already beginning to set.

I called my friend Shaffy, with whom I was planning to stay in San Diego for a couple of days before crossing into Baja, and told her that I would be getting to San Diego a little late. Turned out she was out celebrating her birthday with friends and wouldn’t get back home ’til late that night. Works with me.

I ultimately ended up staying in San Diego longer than the expected “couple of days.” For one, I was having a lot of fun chillin with mi childhood mate Shaffy; two, San Diego was kinda chill — I was really diggin the place this time ’round; and three, I had a few odds and ends to tie up.

After about a week, just when I was psyched to embark, I noticed what might have turned into a major mechanical on the bike. Anyway, I found the necessary parts, fixed the issue, and two days later was on my way to Tijuana. Chillin!

Pulling out of San Felipe, I once again zoned out and forgot to fill up. I only had about 50 miles worth of fuel. Beyond San Felipe, there are no gas stations for about four to five hundred miles on the HWY 5 (all ; so you’re luck if yuo find “Gasonlina” drums (massive containers that store/dispense fuel) or guys selling petrol out of the back of their pick-ups. About 30 miles out of town, I noticed a little cafe/restaurant with a fuel drum. I pulled in, but was told there was no gas available for sale. Just then I noticed a friendly-looking “Gringo” and his two kids, so I pulled up to ask him how far it would be ’til the next Pemex station.

Will Hernquist turned out to be one cool dude. Aside from his day job (he’s a construction litigation lawyer in San Diego), Will has been running the Baja 1000 rally every year for some twenty odd years. To make a long story short, he took me back to his beach house, filled up my gas tank with premium American fuel, filled up my “Camelback” 3 liter water container with bottled water from his garage, and refused to take a dime from me. What a guy. Thanks Will. If you’re reading this, you’re flat out awesome and I really appreciate what you did for me — made my day for sure. Almost forgot, Will had the cutest kids ever. His boy Robert/Bob (I think) must have been four or five years old. Anyway, Will had him lead me back to their beach house on his little KTM 65cc dirt bike. Surprise, surprise, the kid was smoking on the bike. It was outright pleasure to see this kid ride his little KTM motorcrosser like a seasoned dirt biker. Awesome, awesome, way awesome. Great eye candy. Rippin’ through sand like nada. I was impressed. Anyway, me and Bob (?) got to the beach house before everyone else. I had myself a surprisingly intelligent conversation with the boy while we waited for Will and his daughter to arrive in their off-road golf cart. A few minutes later the monster golf cart pulls in blowing dust. Who’s driving? Will’s daughter. She must have been like 8 at most. Way cool kids. Way cool dad.

Just short of an hour had passed since I met the Hernquists, and I had to be on my way before it got dark. Will gave me some great last second tips about fueling, some words of caution about the Baja 1000 pre-runners (Semis not dirt-bikers) who would surely be doing their practice runs on the off-road route I was about to hit, about how jealous he was of my trip, and for good measure his son threw in “the road is sooo fun…it’s all like this,” pointing to the gravel and sand below our feet. I was psyched, I was out. Thanks Will.

I got to Alphonsino’s, a small rather secluded resort (not luxury, but spectacular in its own right) of the beaten path in the Bahia Gonzaga area (I think in El Rosario; not sure though. Ben and Charla, hook me up dudes). I really loved it there. The population consisted of only warm-hearted rugged types, young and old. You have to off-road quite a few miles to get here, so naturally only a particular types are attracted here. Anyway, by the time I got there it was already quite dark, and everyone was well on their way to being pissed drunk. I had to catch up. The restaurant had already closed and they were about to stop serving alcohol too. I had to put the charm into full swing, and when that didn’t work, I just heckled the owner, Antonio, until he brought me three Fajitas and four beers. Chillin.

Once, I was properly drunk like the rest of ‘em I began to socialize with the other off-road drunkards. A couple, Ben(dejo) and Charla, befriended me and kindly offered me their single bed for the night. I would later find out were there celebrating their tenth anniversary. If I had known earlier, I wouldn’t have flopped on to that single bed. In any event, given how drunk everyone was, I doubt I was interrupting any romance on that particular occasion.

Ben and Charla had driven down to Baja on their dirt bikes from Colorado, no easy feat considering their dirt bikes were relatively small – a 350cc Suzuki DRZ and a 250cc Kawasaki KLX. Way cool. You can check out their blog of the trip on AdvRider.com (http://www.advrider.com/forums/showthread.php?t=398719).

Ben, Charla, and I ended up chilling with a couple of really cool Mexican dudes (who turned out to be undercover Federales, ie. the Feds). I had a blast with these two (names remain anonymous at their own insistence). They clearly had clout with Antonio (a/k/a Chupapito), the owner/manager of Alphonsinos, so the beers kept coming for free, and by four AM, there were just two of us left talking incomprehensible jibberish. It was time to hit the hay.

The next day I stuck around ’til well past noon. I had really enjoyed everybody, so I guess I couldn’t get enough, but at some point I had to depart. There would be no roads or inns so I had to find a spot to camp before it got dark.

The off-roading was awesome: scary at times with the amount of weight I was carrrying, but fun as hell for the most part. I decided not to worry about my tires getting punched by the massive, sharp, Japanese-Sushi-Chef-Knive-like boulders on the gravel road. I just hauled ass. Full speed ahead captain. Loved every minute of it.

I don’t recall seeing anyone for hundreds of miles, not even drug runners or millitarios. Just me and the desert. Sheer bliss.

The next morning, just as I got out of my tent to beachwhale on the shore, I noticed another motorcyclist cruising the shore. He stopped by my tent to introduce himself. When he removed his helmet, I stood in awe. Robert was a 72 year old German travelling the America’s by himself for the third time. I couldn’t help but to joke with him about the possiblity of a relationship with my grandmother. He chuckled.

As German’s go, he immediately started talking about routes, schedules, strategy, etc. More specifically, he asked how I was going to cross into Colombia because the prices to fly the bike in from Panama had increased to $800 USD. I told him I had no plan, that if there was a ferry that would do, and if not, that a coke-trafficking fishing boat would do just fine. He chuckled, then became cynical when he realized that I was being serious. We exchanged emails. I packed up. I was out.

Oh, I briefly stopped at Santa Rosalia to have some lunch. It was a really colorful town with a lot of character. No pretense whatsoever. It is also one of two port towns (La Paz being the other) where one can cross over to mainland Mexico by ferry. This is where Robert was planning to cross. My plan was to cross-over much further south in La Paz.

The next morning I left for San Ignacio, which Will Hernquist had recommended I visit if I got a chance. At the old Mission in San Ignacio, I met up with Kevin and Albana, whom I had briefly encountered earlier at a gas station, but where I hadn’t stuck around long enough to meet them or the Dutch family they were talking. My shifter was broken, and I ripped out of that gas station as soon as I got a recommendation for welder. Good thing I met up with them again ’cause I got along great with these two crazies. (Apperently the Dutch were bicycling around the world — mom, dad, and their two kids. How wild is that). Anyway, Kevin and Albana were on their way down to the Todos Santos area on their Soviet era Ural motorcycle. Kevin drove, Albana sat behind him, and their dog Whiny drove in the side car. I immediately knew I would like these Cookoos…and I did. I would later meet up with them in La Paz, where we hung out on a beach for a couple of days. This was one crazy couple…and I loved them that way. Peace out you two.

Now get this shit, Buzz had seen this picture of another Round-the-World (RTW) rider, Glenn Haestagg (a/k/a the Striking Viking), standing beside a highway sign in the Middle-East: the sign indicated something to the effect of “Baghdad ABC Kilometers,” “Damascus XYZ Kilometers,” and so forth. Like any self-respecting adventure rider, Buzz immediately thought to himself, “I gotta a picture beside that sign — WITH MY HARLEY DAVIDSON!” So, he did. Also, he told me he wanted to find out “why the fuck these people hate us…I wannted ride my Harley there…” and presumably break their balls or something. Anyway, amongst the many crazy stories from the Mid-East, he told me of one where a bunch of “insurgent looking types” along with a woman who spoke English stopped him. He thought he was dead for sure. The men asked him what he wanted there and Buzz answered (I’m sure he was shitting himself at this point) “my TV tells me you guys hate us…your TV tells you we hate you…I don’t believe the fucking TV…I’ve come to find out for myself.” I thought that was brilliant. It probably saved that brother’s life. I really dugg Buzz.

After lunch and a couple of cold ones I had to force myself to get back on the bike. I was having a lot of fun just hanging out with the Dude, but I had to haul ass to La Paz to catch the ferry the next morning. Buzz refused to let me pay the tab; he simply wished me farewell. I love that kind of shit. Buzz, thanks for lunch and sharing those great stories. I hope you hit me up if you’re ever in the Bay Area. Peace brother. Keep on living life fully and completely.

That night I got to La Paz. It turned out to be quite the foo foo town — not really what I expected, but it was nice change of scenery. Foo foo shops, wealthy tourists, a sexy boardwalk where all kinds of romantics strolled, artists drew charicatures, and families socialized. Plus, the place was full of hotties. Too bad they were the ambitious bourgeois type and I looked like either Robinson Crusoe or a Taliban leader, depending on how much literature you consume. I needed to shower and shave pretty badly; so what do I do? Get a hotel? Shit no. I skipped town and found a beach I could bum on between La Paz proper and the ferry terminal. I camped out on the beach, let my beard grow a few more millimeters, my skin build yet another layer of sweat, and my ass ‘n balls develop a whole new variant of last night’s rash. Chillin.

The next day, I showed up at the ferry terminal, documentation in hand, all ready to board, when the attendant royally pooped my party. The guy asks for my “tourist stamp” and I say “what tourist stamp?” He says “the one they gave you when you came into Mexico.” I say, “they didn’t stamp my passport…in fact, they didn’t even look at my passport…shit, they waived me through the boarder while I was wearing a tinted visor” (I shit you not folks, the customs guy didn’t even see my face — my visor is pitch black — and he let me through. Now that’s homeland security!). Anyway, as things go in Mexico, dude indicates that I have to go the immigration office, which of course is not conveniently located at Ferry terminal, but rather some 25 KMs back in La Paz; AND, like the Ferry terminal, it’s only open until 1 PM. It is now Friday at noon and the Gobernerio office won’t open again until Monday morning. I said fuck it, I’m not gonna stress it because I was actually enjoying the beach I stayed at. Playa Tesoro was family owned and run, had a twenty-four hour security guard plus three dogs to hold down the joint. I decided I would camp out there for the weekend.

I went back to the Playa made a deal with the owner to get some water for a shower and to have them watch all my equipment so I could hit up some of the beaches people had recommended on the other end of the peninsula. How much did this cost me? $50 pesos a night for the palapa (about $4 USD) plus two bucks for the shower. Loved it.

The next morning I left all my gear behind at Playa Tesoro and took the off-road route accross to the south-western end of the peninsula. It was sweet off-roading without gear. Like riding without a pig attached to the back of your motorcycle.

The beaches in the Todos Santos/Pescadero area where sweet indeed. I think they were the only surf beaches in Baja. The waters in and around the Peninsula are pretty calm for the most part. Plus, this where all the hotties were at: French ones, Brazilian ones, American ones, Mexican ones. Chillin. I bummed at Cerritos beach for a couple of days, befriending almost everyone from the surf instructor to the mota-selling bar tender. Loved the energy even though on day two all kinds of rich families (Gringo and Espagnol) showed up at Cerritos. The energy was way cool.

On Sunday, I headed back to La Paz. Surprise, surprise, Kevin and Albana were in town to see their physician. (I forgot to mention, these two have a property in the Todos Santos/Pescadero area, and they’re trying to move down to Baja for good this time ’round). We ate, got drunk, and ultimately went back to Playa Tesoro where they pitched tent next time, and got even more drunk. Chill-sky!

Come Monday morning, I took off to do my immigration work at the government office and Kevin and Albana to see their doctor. The visit to the Officina de Migracion turned out to be a surprisingly hassle-free experience, even though the only other people — all three of them — a couple of wealthy, retired, Gringos were sighing and bitching about the Mexican service. I kind of felt like asking them if they’d ever known any Mexcian who had to deal with American customs, a/k/a The Department of Homeland Security, so as to shut them up. Whatever, I was out of there in a breeze and heading to the ferry terminal. That too turned out to be a breeze. Showed my documents, paid my dues, and was told to come back around 3 PM to board the ferry. It was around 11 AM so I returned to the beach to chill for a couple of hours.

Kevin and Albana were back too. Kevin told me about a couple of bikers he had met in town, that they were heading my way, and that they would be coming by the beach later to meet. I told him that I had seen them, but had made myself unseeable. I’m always sceptical of people who have bikes with model names that end with the suffix “Adventure,” but haven’t got the slightest bit of dirt on their bikes. He understood but pointed out that they would be good to know “in case.” I agreed.

The two bikers turned out to be quite nice. Lucas is a Brazilian who had been living and studying in New York for the pas couple of years, and his friend Marc with whom Lucas had gone to college in New York, was apperently the only one of his friends willing to ride down to Brazil with him. Lucas, Marc and I ended up boarding the ferry to La Paz. I would ride with them intermittently for the next couple of days.

After having a relatively good cafeteria dinner using our meal coupons, Lucas found us a sweet little spot on the upper deck. We pitched our sleeping bags on deck and hit the sack. (Lucas, send me some pictures when you get a chance dude).

The next day, the ferry docked, our bikes were in tact, and we were off to Puerto Vallarta.

Below are some links to video clips Lucas took with his Super-Awesome Power Ranger helmet cam of us leaving La Paz, boarding/unboarding the ferry, and departing Maztlan. Chillin.

http://lucaslongo.blip.tv/file/1395134/

http://lucaslongo.blip.tv/file/1395114/