This is the fifth of a seven-part series about a December 1982 trek across the Baja—enjoy! Will post Part 6 tomorrow. Part 1 is here. —Ken
The Baja’s Sonoran Desert is a large place. Our little piece of it included minor rolls, bumps and dips between the flatter planes, and many shapes and colors to catch the eye, but nothing so striking as the desert as a whole. I felt completely unleashed from Western Civilization, for a while at least.
We crossed rutted wheel tracks several times, wondering if these might be evidence of the infamous Baja 1000, the mega-race among hundreds of contestants bounding across the desert like migrating arthropods. Beyond the car tracks, the landscape was nearly pristine again.
The hike droned on as the coolness of the morning was displaced by the warmth of spreading sunlight. My ankle was doing well, I thought. Maybe we should have started at the beach after all, sea to shining sea or bust. The mountains moved closer and grew larger and more formidable with every hour. We could see canyons, but they blended into the escarpment, making them difficult to fully identify. Cañon del Diablo could be especially challenging to distinguish from a distance.
Most canyons, according to the topographical maps I carried, poured off to the east, as any good canyon should in a north-south trending mountain range. The Canyon of the Devil, as noted, had ulterior motives, flowing south to north, parallel to the escarpment, which also left it largely hidden from view. Descending fifteen miles from the high col between Picacho del Diablo and Botella Azul, Cañon del Diablo necessarily cut a deep trough between dramatic granite walls.
By mid-morning, we could see clumps of trees and the ranch dead ahead. We reached the gate and let ourselves through. An old, baked-and-broiled farmer was at work among the buildings and corrals and looked up to see us coming. He wore overalls and a gray sombrero with a medium brim and carried a steel tool in his hand. As quickly as we could say Buenas tardes, he motioned us toward the well.
“Agua” was all he said.
“Gracias.”
We walked past a few chickens clucking their suspicions at our waddling emu forms and resupplied our water jugs. We left our gallon-sized empties as token gifts, then ambled back to visit with the old man. Though cordial, he seemed uninterested in our purposes. I guessed he’d encountered other strange visitors before us and anticipated the routine: water, directions, maybe some eggs. We explained where we were off to and he showed us the start of a rough road that would take us near the mouth of our canyon. We thanked him and he went back to his business.
Not far along the road, we encountered a newer white pick-up truck coming down from above. Once again two young men stopped to greet us, impressed by the loads we were carrying. One noticed my heavy mountaineering boots.
“Son alpinistas?” he asked.
“Si.”
For a moment I thought these fellows might know something about the place we were headed to. They said they were forestry workers. A crew was working several kilometers away putting out the last embers of a wildfire.
“No pasen,” they said. If the forest supervisor saw us, he would make us leave. “No se puede subir.” We were not allowed to go up there, nor into the canyon.
“Muy peligroso.” It was too dangerous, the other said.
“El fuego.” The fire.
They were fairly convincing that we were not going to get past the fire boss. I suspected Dennis was thinking the same thing I was. We were going to try regardless.
“Espera.” Wait, they said. They would show us a way. They were headed for the well at Rancho Santa Clara to fill several large buckets with drinking water and would return shortly.
“Espera,” they repeated and drove off.
We sat quietly on our packs and looked out over the desert, visually retracing our steps. When the truck returned, we lifted our packs aboard and climbed in the back. They turned onto a rough narrow track and the driver explained this would get us around the fire crew without anyone noticing. When we reached a dry wash he pointed upslope to the mouth of what seemed to be a smallish canyon.
“Cañon del Diablo,” he said with a nod and a grin.
We hoped he was right, of course, and were grateful and excited to be standing at the start of another leg of our long-imagined journey. I handed them our last two beers and waved farewell. We hustled upward to the protective cover of the canyon, not only to remain undetected, but to escape some of the modest heat and glare.
The canyon walls quickly narrowed and began to tower above us—like the gates of hell, I supposed. As we departed one world and entered the next, we held no premonitions or devilish fear about the place. Heavenly or enchanted seemed a more apt description. Easy walking led around a bend, and to our great delight, the waterfall. It plunged gently into an inviting pool. Though there wasn’t much water coming over the brink, the scene was sublime.
The sketchy report I’d read noted that we would likely find a rope attached to a rock wall left of the waterfall. We spotted a skimpy frayed cord hanging over the rounded slab. I dropped my pack and gave it a tug. Surprisingly, it held as I clambered up the rock to a place I could secure our own short rope and haul up the packs. They were more manageable now without all the extra water and beer.
Dennis hooted while I reeled him up the slab. I kept the belay going as he tiptoed down the other side of the rock to the stream’s edge. I lowered the packs then unclipped the rope and let it go, also tossing the frayed cord back to where we found it. I began to scoot down the slab, and quickly lost my footing. What started as a controlled butt-slide turned into an oh-shit tumble as I flopped into the shallow creek flat on my back, my head just above the brink. To have gone over and plopped into the pool may have been more annoying than hazardous, although I’m glad the thrilling part stopped where it did. We both laughed as I picked myself up and shook the water from my ears.
We found a perfect little sand bar upstream where I could dry my shirt and shorts. It was such a lovely spot we decided to camp there and devour an early supper. The night was pleasantly cool as we gazed at the band of stars embraced by the walls of the canyon.
The next day, the gorge led more steeply through multiple small ledges and falls, though with plenty of room to maneuver. We gained a lot of elevation, but sensed there was still much more canyon above than below. The rough ground was taking a toll on my injured ankle and I fell behind as Dennis scouted for another camp. We probably made eight miles that day. We staked our third night’s camp in a brushier place and lit a small fire to cook over.
Out of nowhere, a gust of wind gathered a cloud of dust and debris and blew the embers of our fire up-canyon. We nearly torched the place when a small shrub burst into flames. Dennis raced over to beat it down with his shirt, while I threw dirt on it till it was doused. We were camped in a virtual tinderbox, though being December, I think we failed to fully grasp the risk. The fire boss we'd evaded surely would have groaned at our folly.
After a few minutes of dead calm, we were blasted by a second strong gust that almost sparked another wildfire. I guessed it was turbulence—cooling mountain air barreling down the steeper canyons of the escarpment, perhaps siphoning warmer air up through our own less precipitous gorge. Then a third sudden gust sent another wave of dust and leaves flying up the canyon. Once the calm returned, not a wisp of a breeze was detected the rest of the night.
Next up: Part 6—Mountain Moonlight