Boots Across the Baja

1. From Sea to Shining Sea

This is the first of a seven-part series about a trek across the Baja—timely I hope, since it includes a bit of holiday cheer. Please ride along, armchair or otherwise. I hope you enjoy it. I’ll post Part 2 tomorrow. —Ken

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From Sea to Shining Sea

In late 1982, a hiking buddy and I, temporarily unemployed and eager to travel, seized on the big idea of a week-long trek across the 80-mile wide Baja peninsula in Mexico. Dennis and I would hike from the Sea of Cortez on the east shore, then march west to the Pacific Ocean. The walk would include a 30-mile crossing of the Sonoran Desert and a multi-day traverse of the mountains of the Sierra San Pedro Mártir. Our plan called for summiting, en route, the highest hunk of rock in the Baja, 10,157-foot Picacho del Diablo, the Devil’s Mountain. And we would do it in December.

So, an enchanted holiday with the Devil. What could be more fun than that?

We obviously anticipated a fine adventure. What I did not expect was one of the most memorable Christmas Eves I’ve ever experienced.

We would begin our trek on a beach in the quiet, somewhat isolated fishing town of San Felipe, cozy on a bay of the same name on the Sea of Cortez. The town lies about 120 miles south of the U.S.-Mexico border. After ceremoniously dipping our toes there, we hoped to end within a week with a splash on some magical Pacific shore well to the south of Ensenada.

We estimated our actual hiking distance to be a bit over 100 miles. Despite heavy packs, uncertain desert roads and no trail through these rugged mountains, we guessed we could average 15 to 20 miles per day for six days. We prepared for seven. We could go hungry for a couple days if the trek lagged much longer than that.

I don’t know where I got my climate data from, but I had it in my head that the beach and the desert would be warm, but not too hot since we’d be there late fall, which was more or less correct. And the mountains? Mild, we figured, with maybe some cold nights and a little snow at elevation. It had not occurred to me that we might run into a glaze of ice above 6,000 feet. Nor did I foresee hours of upward wallowing in thigh-deep powder snow.

Also not part of the plan were delays due to bad directions, a bad ankle sprain and a herd of thieving cats. Had we considered the comical abundance of twists and turns we’d experience along our journey? Uh, no. Or the potential danger we could face had some little thing gone awry? Vaguely. Did we run out of food? Well, yes and no.

Nevertheless, we were mountaineers. We were tough. We could do this.

Spoiler alert: We survived.