January 01, 2024

Nov 13 - Nov 17 : Settling in to our Jalco-home

January 01, 2024/ Christian Tuttle

Jalcomulco, Veracruz is very a special town. It sits in the valley of the Rio Antigua, surrounded by high plateaus of cactus and sugar cane on each side, and covered in lime and mango trees at the valley floor. The downtown square is equal parts old mission church and whitewater raft vendors, and the population seems to fall along similar lines, with some of the locals working generations old farmland to produce fresh fruit, and others guiding trips for outfitters and big adventure companies. The town itself is nestled on the banks of the river and acts as the take-out for a bumpy, fun section of class III-IV whitewater called the Pescados, and the put-in for a class II-III section often called the Rio Antigua. The river is the heart of the community, providing irrigation to the farmers, camarones and langostinos for the fishermen, and adventure for the guides.

I’ve always wanted to live at the take-out or put-in for a good whitewater section, and Jalcomulco may be that fairytale place where, for a few months every few years, I have that chance. The whole town is walkable by American standards, and the bridges that provide the river access aren’t much more than a 10 minute stroll from most spots in town. Vendors sell snacks and juices and tortas from the windows of their homes, and the traffic on the concrete and cobble streets is an equal mix of autos, motos, bikes, burros, wheelbarrows, and pedestrians.

Our first season here (Jan-March 2022), we lived up above the town proper on a hill, giving us beautiful vistas but necessitating a vehicular shuttle for our small raft, a 10ft Hyside Minimax. We made that shuttle on the back of two Yamaha TW200 motorcycles we brought with us, but this trip we packed lighter, no motos and no rubber rafts, instead opting for two lightweight “Gnarwhal” packrafts. In addition to lighter boats, we hoped to be even closer to the river, so the morning after arriving, we started scouting for a rental, calling our old contacts in town and setting out on foot, looking for “Se Renta” signs taped to fences and doors.

We paid a visit to our current friend and past coworker Mendez from our days working in Colorado, he operates a wood-fired pizzeria in the town square, but he didn’t have any leads for us. We sent a WhatsApp message to our previous landlord Ruben, but had already rented out his property for the winter, so we couldn’t reprise our stay on the hillside. A few properties near Oscar’s house had “Se Venda” and “Se Renta” hanging inside their windows, so I made a few calls. One little spot that was for sale would have been perfect for us - it had a big walled-in parking area, tiny 1 bedroom room with an attached kitchen, studio style, and a huge (by Mexican standards) pool. It was built to be a family’s get-away property, but they didn’t want to rent it to us, It was, however, for sale for $44,000 USD… tempting!

Next to the little place for sale, and directly across the street from Oscar’s, was a little yellow two story bungalow on a pie shaped lot. I messaged the owner and he immediately drove down from the neighboring city of Coatepec to open the house for us. The layout was a little weird, and it was completely devoid of furniture, but it ticked enough boxes to make us interested, and for the cheap monthly price of $3000MXN (roughly $190USD) we had secure parking, a roof over our heads, and a 60 second walk to the river!

The beautiful town of Jalcomulco sits on the riverbanks of the Rio Antigua.

The low valley is nestled beneath beautiful plateaus and is covered in thick vegetation where it’s not being farmed.

This bend in the river on the bottom right is where we take out from the Rio Pescados section and walk a few hundred feet up to the rental house.

The late evening sun casts some beautiful light across the plateaus and into the river valley.

We had to stop in to see our other old Timberline Tours friend, Mendez, who owns a local pizza joint.

Chelsea melted into a cup of delicious (home grown, harvested and roasted) coffee while I walked around town to scope out the house rental situation. (Stay tuned for a future post about that entire process!)

Gracie and little Harry became fast friends. Harry was hesitant to get closer to Gracie than this. Gracie was content just having him nearby.

River to the left and rental house to the right.

The river and an orange circle showing our rental house.

The rental house is exposed on the end of the main street, but it’s a perfect location with the river nearby and our friend Oscar right across the street. It’s also *just* far enough out of town to be pretty quiet.

The owner wanted us to be more excited about the pool. Who needs a pool when you have a river just a few hundred feet away???

The view from the kitchen to the…bathroom room?

The driveway was *just* long enough that we could pull Walter up to get the solar panel in the sun to keep the batteries charged.

Who needs railings? (Nighttime commutes from the bedroom to the bathroom can be slightly sketchy)

Our favorite feature, a second story porch with a view of the river.

The bedroom, which had no bed, quickly became our boat room.

We got settled in, parking Walter the Delica L400 under cover, and exploding our things into the empty house. The bedroom upstairs became the boat room, as we didn’t have a bed but we did have boats, and they needed to go somewhere. The heat of late autumn was still present, as were the mosquitos and sand flies, so we went looking for a strong fan to move the air around and blow away the pests. Our camp chairs and camp table became our only furniture, and all of Gracie’s things were organized into her own little corner. We flushed and scrubbed the house’s water tank, and tried to ignore the fact that it looked like it was made out of asbestos. Our landlord assured us that getting the internet hooked up would be easy, and then left us to it, encouraging us to ask our friend and now neighbor Oscar for help. We eventually got a couple of very young sales people to come around and lock us into a 6 month commitment for service, and then the technician was booked, and a few days later we had reliable internet, a necessity for us if we are going to be staying in one spot. (Don’t worry…the six month contract was only $450MXN, about $26 USD.)

Last, but not least, our final mission was to get on the water, or at least to get me on the water, as the Pescados section is still a little advanced for Chelsea to want to packraft. We had walked up the road and scouted the last significant rapid, Veintidós, right when we got to town, and it looked just like I remembered it. The water seemed to be at a low mid-season flow, bordering on late season, probably perfect for me and my packraft, a nice class III+ section with one or two class IV moves. I had seen some old paddling friends on our initial drive into town, so I messaged them and got a trip together, hiring a truck to run shuttle for $15USD split between five paddlers. Chelsea got me all packed up and sent me down the road, like a kid going to his first day at school, promising to meet us at Veintidós for some photos.

And just like that, life was that easy: a five minute walk into the town center, a 15 minute drive to the put-in, a two hour paddle back home, and artisanal wood fired pizza for dinner. What more could we ask for?

Visiting one of our favorite haunts…Chela’s! She makes fresh juices (orange, carrot, beet is our favorite) and the best tortas we’ve had in Mexico. We were excited to be back and even more excited that they remembered us!

Walking the streets of Jalcomulco to find a fan.

Putting together a fan with a look betraying that I’d forgotten just *how* bad the bugs are and just how hot it can get here.

Gracie immediately took a liking to a perch at the top of the stairs for her favorite rest spot in between disc throws.

The internet guy was efficient in taking down the existing cable and running a new one to the house. We had internet in just under an hour!

Mendez, serving one of his signature wood oven fired pizzas.

Scouting the last significant rapid of the Rio Pescados section - Veintidós.

It felt a bit like being sent off to school.

Waiting outside Kachikín Rafting for the shuttle and the rest of the paddlers to show up. Chels sat this one out, opting to meet us at the last rapid, Veintidós, for some photos.

A late start, but a beautiful day on the water.

The river canyon of the Rio PEscados is stunning.

Looking back up at the rapid called La Cueva, named for the large cave that you can see to the left above the kayaker.

I’ll never get tired of seeing Chelsea on the river shore, taking photos of me and the other boaters…fun fact, she was a whitewater rafting photographer for several years in Colorado when we were first dating and It was my favorite thing to raft by her and blow her kisses while she snapped away.

December 26, 2023

¡Feliz Navidad!

December 26, 2023/ Chelsea Tuttle

¡Feliz Navidad y prospero año nuevo! Y lo mejos para tu familia!

(Translation: Merry Christmas and Happy New Year! And the best for your family!)

We’re taking some days off from blogging and just enjoying ourselves. You’ll get a “proper” blog post soon!

December 18, 2023

Nov 6 - Nov 12 : Making the miles to Jalcomulco, Veracruz

December 18, 2023/ Christian Tuttle

I didn’t have a great sense for the national topography of Mexico before this trip; I knew that Baja was beach and desert with a big spine of mountains running down its back, and I knew that the jungle and the desert collide in parts of Veracruz, with the waves of the Gulf knocking at the door, at times no more than an hour away. I also knew that Veracruz was home to a big volcano, Pico de Orizaba, that wasn’t too far from Jalcomulco, the little community that we called home on the last trip, and that the sub tropical jungle extended down through the Yucatán peninsula. Essentially, I knew a bit about the two coasts, west and east, and not much more. I had been really looking forward to this trip to stitch together those parts of the country by driving across the center, and as we left the high alpine attractions of Mexiquillo, I understood that my wish was being granted, and we were being thrust into the body of mainland Mexico.

We departed La Ciudad and hopped back on the MEX 40D, the toll road that was supposed to be newer, faster, and safer than its original and free counterpart, MEX 40, the ruta libre. In many ways toll roads in Mexico are “safer” than their alternative - their routes are straighter, their curves are gentler, and they are backed by federal dollars for maintenance and upkeep - but they are also much faster, and that increased speed brings its own set of dangers. Managing the other traffic, especially the single and double semi trucks, is a challenge. On many of the climbs the semi trucks were struggling to maintain even 20KPH, forcing us to pass to stay safe in the flow of traffic, but those same trucks would quickly catch up to us on the declines, passing us going easily 120KPH if not faster. It was a constant battle of watching the road, watching traffic ahead of us, managing traffic behind us, and playing defense on everyone and everything. Chelsea and I were pretty stressed; we were in a new place, driving on a new road, risking a lot for what felt like a little, and when we eventually took a pothole way too hard and too fast we exploded into an emotional breakdown that forced us to pull over and just breathe for a minute. Luckily there was no immediately visible damage on Walter. He hadn’t exploded, we did. We made the decision to get off the “safe” toll road and onto the slower, windier, free road. Free roads have their own dangers as well, but we needed to get away from the constant threat of semi truck traffic.

For the next few hours we made our way through little towns on our way to the city of Durango, passing countless groups of motorcyclists gathered at the local cafes, restaurants, and haciendas. We were traveling on the tail end of the Espinazo del Diablo, a road said to be the best motorcycle route in the world, and there was a level of bike culture that I hadn’t seen anywhere else in Mexico. Like so many other countries that aren’t the US, Mexico relies on motorcycles. People, goods, ideas, hopes, and dreams ride on the back of millions of little single cylinder four stroke motorbikes. They take the place of the family sedan, the local taxi, the small pickup truck, the tractor, but perhaps due to the ubiquity there isn’t as much of a motorcyclist counterculture in Mexico, or at least I hadn’t seen it yet. That, however, is not the case in Durango, and it was a bit of a culture shock to be passed by what looked like entire motorcycle clubs of choppers, sports bikes, and baggers all posted up at restaurants, out for a Sunday group ride on one of the world’s greatest roads.

Our destination for the night was a little hot spring water park just outside the city of Durango. The reviews on iOverlander were recent and very positive, and as Idahoans we can’t pass up a good hot spring soak when offered. We pulled up to the water park towards the end of their business day, as the small crowd was just beginning to leave. The owner’s son, Edwardo, showed us around and got us situated in the RV parking area, an empty lot the size of a football field, perfect for big disc throws for Gracie. Edwardo told us they often welcome large RV caravans at the park, even providing half a dozen full hookup sites, but we were the only ones parked there for the night, and once the gates closed it was just us and a lone security guard hidden away near the office watching soap operas.

The park’s main offering were a bunch of cool pools and various water slides, but tucked in the back were two spring fed pools, one warm and one HOT. As the sun set on our second day in mainland Mexico we couldn’t resist a quiet, hot bath. We ended up staying at the hot springs for three nights, using their reliable and fast WiFi during the day to get caught up on “work” and using their pools at night (and often first thing in the morning as well). Gracie got giant disc throws in the dirt lot, and everything was pretty good for a few days at our mid-journey oasis.

The water park was huge, and though it was quiet during our time there, we could imagine it being packed on weekends and holidays.

The RV parking was equally huge, and luckily it was empty. Gracie loved having the giant field to herself.

Our first of many soaks in the evening after all the people went home for the day.

One of the natural springs to the left (no swimming in that one) and the hottest of the pools in the center bathed in the morning glow.

The sunrise soaks ended up being our favorite.

The park had great internet and lovely shaded areas for us to work in during the day.

We took advantage of the park’s endless supply of water and borrowed a hose to clean Walter up and get rid of all the salt from the ferry ride and the mud from our unexpected water crossing.

Gracie has now learned that when we put the kitchen hatch up to cook, she can sneakily beg for treats while we cook. She got a few morsels of cheese.

Three days and ten soaks later, we continued on our mostly direct journey across Mainland Mexico, trying to choose known campgrounds from iOverlander that weren’t very far off our route. We were focused on making miles, rather than exploring, because I knew that boating season in Jalcomulco was slowly slipping by. We were also a little afraid of central Mexico, and I am still struggling to determine if that fear is warranted or not. The boogieman of organized crime and decentralized government loomed large over our route making choices, so we stuck to toll roads and tried to keep our detours to campgrounds as short as possible, at least in the states of Durango and Zacatecas. Our route was leading us through sprawling agricultural lands, with our elevation usually over 5000ft, caught on the plateau between two massive mountain ranges. On our first day back on the road we stopped for delicious carnitas tacos and got to talking to a local who told us that the rains just hadn’t came this year, and the black bean crop (their main local export) was very limited, almost nonexistent. He was happy for the company and we were happy for the tacos.

Our stop that night was more of a driveway than a campsite, but it did offer a single guest room if we needed it; El Rincón de los Abuelos was one of very few “established campground” options listed on iOverlander on our route, so we were happy for whatever we found. We used WhatsApp to get in contact with the owners son who arranged a stay for us, and we had secure, gated parking for the night in the neighborhood of El Bajío just outside the cool little town of Rincón de Romos. The property was very pretty and had a definite Catholic vibe; the guest room was adjacent to a very ornate home shrine, complete with kneelers and nearly life size statues of Jesus and the Virgin of Guadalupe. It was easily the nicest shrine I’ve seen in Mexico, nearly the size of small bedroom, with room for maybe half a dozen devotees. I didn’t feel comfortable taking pictures, but now I wish I had. The lights stayed on in the shrine all night, allowing (or forcing?) us to gaze in on the Savior and Mary during our night time runs to the bathroom.

Delicious carnita tacos and delicious homemade salsas.

Pancho spoke really excellent English, and was excited to meet us and spent our time eating tacos telling us about his time working in the USA and about his home in Mexico. He was really proud to show us how clean his taco cart was, complete with two hand wash stations.

Sometimes a safe place to park is just that…nothing more, nothing less.

Heating water for our most important meal of the day…coffee.

We saw a juice and torta place on the way into town and couldn’t not stop.

The next morning we were up early enough, not exactly an alpine start but earlier that usual for two lazy travelers. We wanted to make miles and try to beat the heat as much as possible. With our eyes set to the south east, we continued on our journey, this time back on the toll road, making miles through the high plateaus of central Mexico, surrounded by farmland and mining operations in the countryside, and automobile and aviation factories in the cities, zipping past the breadbasket and the wallet of Mexico. We hadn’t found any suitable places to stay on the iOverlander app in the area that we wanted to stop for the night, so we had widened our net and used Google to look for some local campsites. We eventually found a cluster of business reviews, one for a hotel, one for a campsite, one for an undefined entity, all within a single walled compound on the outskirts of Santiago de Querétaro. We tracked down a number associated with the google business listings and sent out a message via WhatsApp. At first, the proprietor apologized, declining our request to stay due to the hotel being closed for improvements, but I pleaded with him and told him we were simple travelers in our simple van, and his tune changed immediately. I got the sense that we had found another traveler, and I wasn’t wrong.

Arriving at the address, we found a large, walled and gated compound, complete with a metal work sign advertising Casa Marucca, one of the businesses listed on Google. We’d had the best luck contacting the owner of MotoCamping, the other business listed at the address, and my heart sank a little - I was hoping we had arrived at the right place. We waited, poked around a little on foot, measured the gate to see if we would fit, and sent some more messages to the owner. It was getting late and I was getting concerned, if this didn’t work out we would have to find another solution fast, and probably end up dry camping, or maybe staying at a by-the-hour auto motel. Minutes later, our host Juan appeared astride a Royal Enfield motorcycle, wearing full leathers and an MC vest, his arrival banishing any doubt we had that this establishment was a place for motorcycles and camping, beckoning us to follow him around the side of the walled compound to a second gate, the entrance into the garden and campground.

Our conversations were basic, facilitated by equal parts hand gestures and Google translate, the two ends of the technological spectrum, as there is no correlation between miles traveled and words learned when it comes to language acquisition. Juan explained that Casa Marucca was the hotel, a beautiful, boutique guesthouse with maybe a dozen rooms on a single floor, all with exterior windows and walls, and all accessible from a shared central courtyard. Some of the rooms boasted dedicated office spaces, some had lofts for kids and families, and everything was finished tastefully in a modern-traditional aesthetic; clean, uncluttered, with local art and artifacts from indigenous peoples as well as from the age of the missions adorning the walls. Behind the hotel a variety of separate structures offered more amenities, a generous pool, a game room, a restaurant under construction, a communal outdoor kitchen or asadero, a gym with resistance machines and weights, a temazcal, and even a massage parlor. Juan had owned the hotel for 17 years, and boasted that some of the mature trees in the garden were planted right when he started the project, but he had recently began a remodel and an update. His love and care for the place was obvious, as was his love of all things motorized - he proudly showed off his Harley Davidson, his BMW adventure tourer, and his late 60s VW Combi van.

A beautiful little garden campground on the hotel grounds.

The owner, Juan, was happy to give us a tour of the hotel and grounds. This door was an antique, salvaged and now used as decoration.

A traditional Temazcal, and Juan explaining the building technique and the ritual.

What do you do when you meet a fellow traveler…you bust out a map and ask for recommendations!

Continuing on the next morning, we kept marching south east towards Veracruz, now passing through the state of Mexico and into the city of Jilotepec, and into more mountainous terrain as we exited the vast plateaus of central Mexico. Our target was a rock climbing camp, La Burbuja, with good iOverlander reviews and decent photos that really sold the place. The description of the property made it sounds like a half base camp, half commune kind of place where daily camping rates were a little relaxed, and most guests cooked together in the shared kitchen. Google routed us through some small factory towns and local suburbs, then through a large industrial plant, whose roads were private and gated, despite what the navigation software thought. We politely asked the guards for entrance, and after a few minutes of non-communication, they relented and allowed us though. In hindsight, and only after driving through the factory compound, we realized they were advising us to stick to the better, larger, public road and just take the next left, it would get us to the same place faster and easier.

The climbing camp was comfortable, basic in some ways, extravagant in others, an aesthetic not unlike rock climbing, in my opinion. The property had a casita to rent for folks coming from the city, fast and stable WiFi, simple and clean-ish bathrooms, and a communal kitchen well appointed with lots of room for multiple groups to cook at once. The shelves were stocked with leftovers from past travelers, and one refrigerator was stocked with beer and wine and coffee for sale. Payment was made on the honor system, with wads of cash being left in a small tin box on the shelf. If I was a climber and not a boater, I think we would have spent longer there. Our camp spot was pretty nice, although a little too close to an aggressive dog for Gracie’s liking, and a little too close to a failing cliff side for Chelsea’s liking. Unfortunately, that same cliffside made a loud gurgling noise and expelled some rank gases every time the toilet was flushed up in the communal building. We left the next day.

We rolled into camp to find an overlanding couple that had been on the same ferry as us. Mexico is large, but travelers always tend to find eachother.

The sloping hill of the property made for a great disc-throwing play area for Gracie, wearing her out as she would run up and down.

The nighttime city lights of Jilotepec only added to the ambiance of the misty rain that fell around us all night.

The communal kitchen, with fellow overlanders and some local climbers all preparing and enjoying breakfast together.

Leaving the camping commune felt like we were beginning the last leg of our journey across the country, with only one more night of any-port-in-a-storm camping ahead of us. Using our trusty iOverlander app, we set our destination for Centro Vacacional la Trinidad, a resort area that supposedly had some camping areas that had been bogarted by overland travelers in the past. After traversing another day’s worth of highway driving, and navigating through some backroads of the city of Chiautempan in the state of Tlaxcala, we found the place, an example of a tourist attraction that doesn’t translate well into American English. The resort structure boasted a small hotel, many pools, and many small attractions. Supposedly there is a go kart track, and we saw what looked like a mini golf course. I think there was an event venue and a restaurant as well. The whole place was a mix of day use and overnight use, like a mashup of a traditional hacienda and small amusement park, with equal parts wedding venue and four star hotel thrown in for good measure. There was a camping area, and a whole bunch of signs that said no dogs, so we had to sneak Gracie past a handful of guards as we got our entrance tickets and wristbands. Chelsea did an amazing job keeping the mutt quiet - it was late enough in the day that we didn’t want to role the dice and find another spot to sleep due to an errant, excited bark.

The camping area was pretty well hidden from us, and from everyone. We had to navigate around fenced off parking areas and cross a bridge that certainly looked to be designed for foot traffic, but we made it to our spot for the night. A security guard immediately came over and set up shop - it’s our belief he had been dispatched to guard us and make sure we were comfortable, but it meant that we were on high alert for letting Gracie out for some much deserved throws. We kept her quiet as we set up for the night, and eventually we just had to let her play disc. She behaved, and nothing was said otherwise by the guard, who seemed content to use being assigned to us as an excuse to play games and watch videos on his phone. We spent an uneventful last night on the road, camped in the shadow of the active Volcano Popocatépetl, before making our way to Jalcomulco.

The next morning brought the excitement of getting back into familiar vistas. The highways were dotted with signs for cities and towns that we had visited, and eventually we saw our first sign for the little town of Jalcomulco, complete with a whitewater raft emblem next to it, beckoning all to the call of the river. As we got closer and closer we began to climb again, from the 5000ft average of our travels, up to over 8000ft, even as our navigation apps told us we were only an hour away from our destination. I hadn’t realized just how high most of central Mexico is - within two hours of landing in Mazatlán we were at 9000ft, and now with the gulf coast only two hours away, we were still riding the spine of the Mexican dragon, perched atop a continental roller coaster, ready for the drop, ready for the fun bit.

We slid out of the high alpine clouds down into the canyons of Veracruz, lush vegetation and cactus welcoming us in equal parts, past the Veracruz Capital city, Xalapa and the towns of Coatepec and Tuzamapan, down into the canyon of the Rio Antigua, surrounded by sugar cane and coffee beans and bananas. We were nervous - we were coming home in a way, to a community we really cared about. Would it be the same? Would it welcome us back? Was it as good as we remembered, would the gold stay for just one more trip? We quieted those voices with an emergency pit stop for tacos, and then onward, to a familiar camp spot, to our friend Oscar’s driveway. We had made it, Jalco-home.

A beautiful little town we had to drive through to get to our resort-campground for the night.

As we drove out of the camp the next morning, we both gasped when we saw the volcano spewing ash. It was quite the view!

As far as either of us could remember, it’s our first active volcano!

Chelsea and Gracie had been lounging happily on the bed, but Chels had to think fast and grab Gracie mid-lung/bark/growl when a hungry stray wandered by hoping to beg some food off of us.

A bridge that we had to convince ourselves was meant for vehicles before driving over to get to our camp spot.

The first sign for Jalcomulco…notice the rafting graphic!

More climbs through the mountains on our last bit of the trip.

Emergency taco stop before we rolled into town.

Gracie, like us, was a bit fed up with the amount of mileage we’d been tackling each day and was ready to be parked for a while.

Back in Jalcomulco, ready for some whitewater adventures!

Parked safe and sound for our first night back in Jalcomulco at our good friend Oscar’s house.

December 12, 2023

Nov 4 - Nov 5 : Escaping the heat at 9000 ft in the Mainland Mexican Mountains

December 12, 2023/ Christian Tuttle

After disembarking the ferry in Mazatlán, we were faced with two immediate realities: it was stiflingly hot in the coastal city despite only being 10AM, and we had an entire day to drive ahead of us. Getting off the ferry felt like the end to a long day, but that long “day” had actually been a night, and it was morning, a fact that none of the three of us handled especially well. We were tired, already hot, thirsty, and a little lost. We had kept putting off making plans for what to do when we hit mainland - would we head south along the coast to some beach towns and maybe surf a little, or would we drive up into the mountains, following the Espinazo del Diablo route towards the mining city of Durango, as recommended by Mauricio Parra, adventurer extraordinaire of Ensenada, BCN.

Our first order of business was to find a patch of grass for Gracie, so we navigated to a park marked on Google maps, and while Gracie emptied herself we hid in the shade, gulping down ice cold Electrolit brand sports drinks and forming a plan. We did the sensible thing, trying to learn the lessons that had gone unlearnt so many times before, and checked the weather forecast. The coastal towns to the south of us had similar weather forecasts to Mazatlán, and our little lizard brains wanted none of that, but the towns a couple hours inland showed night time lows in the high 40ºFs so our decision was made and off we went, in search of cooler temps and a good night’s sleep, somewhere on the road to Durango.

Beginning our drive, I knew these things separately: the road was known for its amazing vistas and many switchbacks, our destination was in the mountains, and the forecasted cooler temps were a product of higher elevation. Somehow I had failed to put those truths together and anticipate the enormous climb Walter was about to undertake. The climb started almost immediately and did not let up. We had chosen to drive on the MEX 40D toll road, recently completed in 2013, for all the normal reasons: tolls roads are supposed to be faster, safer, and in better condition in Mexico, as compared to their free or libre counterparts. Immediately, we begin winding up through what looked like karst formations to me, steep walled hills and mountains covered in lush vegetation, with pockets of crops planted by local farmers, I imagine for their own subsistence. Bridges and tunnels seemed to make up half the route, and the drive quickly became a series of dark tunnels that exploded us out into the dizzying heights of a canyon, only to be enveloped by the mountain once again on the other side. The crown jewel of the entire project, and maybe the entire drive was the Baluarte bridge, a cable stay bridge whose deck sits 1,322ft above the valley floor.

We climbed and climbed, with my eyes bouncing from road to traffic to gauges. In moments like these, where we are constantly passing and being passed and dodging potholes while thousands of feet in the air or under hundreds of feet of mountain, driving is a two person job. Chelsea is constantly warning me of oncoming traffic from behind, or passing traffic that is using my lane as well as theirs, as I keep an eye on Walter’s gauges and gears. It’s not an easy job, and I am incredibly glad to have such a talented copilot. Even with her help we’ve found ourselves in some risky situations - I can only imagine without her I wouldn’t have completed a single one of these journeys.

We were only a few hours out of Mazatlán, but everything had changed when we finished our climb at 9000ft above sea level. In just a few hours Walter had transported us from a bustling seaside port to the high-ish alpine villages of Mexiquillo and La Ciudad. The architecture had transformed from the standard concrete block dwellings log and stick-built cabins, a rarity on most of our Mexican travels due to heat and humidity, and we felt like we were in a different world. The fall harvest of wheat was bundled in fields awaiting transport, locals passed bundled up in winter coats and hats and gloves, and smoke from wood fires wafted out brick chimneys. We had left what felt like a costal furnace and ended up in Mexico’s version of a Currier & Ives print.

The change was very welcome. Chelsea and I have made our lives in the mountains of Idaho and Colorado since we met nearly 10 years ago, and we escape to Mexico for the change, to seek the other, to be out of place, but we often miss home and the relative difficulty of the ferry crossing made us cherish this little taste of alpine. We felt normal again, being surrounded by a pine forest, with cold weather on the forecast. Feeling comfortable, we sought out a campsite at local attraction, some sort of eco adventure park. Arriving there we found our German friends and their big overland truck haggling over the price of entry and camping. The park was small and nice and very cool, with really neat cabins and guest house architecture unlike anything else we had seen on the trip thus far. They offered zip lines and tyrollean traverses and other alpine adventure products, but they didn’t seem keen on having overland campers, so we declined a stay and kept on driving. The path we took to get into the adventure park wasn’t very straight forward, and we immediately lost track of our German friends and the big truck, so we headed out a different direction, on what we thought was a more direct shot to the road, but we were mistaken, and the roads turned into trails, and soon Walter was doing a surprise water crossing that was deeper than expected. We figured after the water crossing we were home free, but the trail dwindled from a two-track to a one-and-a-half-track blocked by some downed branches, so we turned around, blasted through the water again, this time with shutter of Chelsea’s camera clicking away, and headed back the way we came.

Chelsea was literally and figuratively melting. We needed a plan and escape route from the heat.

Peekaboo views of tunnels and bridges the whole way.

The whole drive was an engineering marvel.

Tunnels and bridges, tunnels and bridges.

We topped out around 9000ft and suddenly we were back in an alpine environment.

The fall harvest waiting to be trucked away.

Driving around old unused rail grades, looking for a campspot.

Heading back out from the dead end trail that we hoped would take us to the road again - we nearly lost our front license plate to the bow wave!

We ended up at the tourist town of La Ciudad on the outskirts of Mexiquillo, a ”natural park” that celebrates the local ecosystems, the unusual geography, and the modern history of the area. Unusual rock formations and dense forests are surrounded by water features including some wetlands, a small lake, and a really impressive cascade. A few tunnels and manmade ravines dot the area, evidence of a railway project that never came to fruition. The town of La Ciudad was meant to be a temporary camp for the workers, an itinerant community for working on the rail line. It has become something completely different, now a 50/50 split of locals living on the outskirts of town in neighborhoods serviced by crumbling streets, while short term vacation rental properties are established in all the best spots closest to the amenities. Little cabins primped and preened and ready for Instagram photo shoots, a small mountain town relying on the regional tourist economy almost exclusively to stay afloat - no wonder we felt so welcome, its eerily similar to our home in Donnelly, Idaho!

The sun was getting low in the sky, so we hightailed it to the entrance of the park and paid for a night of camping, and in return got a very generic receipt with the word ACAMPAR scribbled across it… so I guess we were good to go? We shifted into low gear and crawled down the park’s roads, made bumpier on purpose for the booming side-by-side rental business. tracks and trails led everywhere, and to the best of our understanding, the “natural park” was essentially an unofficial Off-Highway-Vehicle attraction. The park was protected by the state government, so no more permanent building would take place and entrance was metered, but not protected enough to limit motorized traffic, so the locals had setup tour companies outside the gate, acting as unofficial concessionaires, to take advantage of this OHV playground.

Eventually what looked like a well worn road split into a million tracks, with evidence of travel spreading everywhere. We poked around, trying to follow the most well worn of tracks so as not to stumble into another secret bog hole. We did some really fun dead reckoning, as our map was little better than a cartoon drawing of the area, designed to market the numerous viewpoints of the area but not act as an actual navigation aid. Eventually we found a pull off near some trees and out of direct line of sight of the main thoroughfare, and decided to set up camp. We all fell out of Walter, happy to be done moving for the first time in nearly a day and a half, only to be met by a chorus of dirt bike and quad-cycle engines minutes later. A small pack of tourists, led by two guides, were slowly making their way towards us. Chelsea and I exchanged glances, both of us really not wanting to engage in the standard conversation about our travels, our van, our dog, or our lives that we normally have with interested locals. The motorized group meandered around, maybe 50 meters away, glancing our way and approaching slowly, until they parked so close to us that I got nervous. My hackles were up, and while I didn’t perceive a threat from the group, their proximity to us seemed uncanny. There was a whole park to recreate in, everywhere around us was deserted, why get so close to us? They switched off their bikes and quads, dismounted, and suddenly we were out numbered eight to two, but they just filtered past us, talking amongst themselves by a rock formation, paying us no mind. None of this behavior would have warranted a second thought anywhere else, except that it was nearing sunset in an otherwise empty part of the park, and it seemed like we had been sought out.

A few of the group were drinking beers, and some of them started climbing rock formations next to our van. I approached what looked like their guide and clumsily asked if this spot was a popular viewpoint, to which the answer was yes. It seems we had decided to set up camp in the heart of one of the more photogenic attractions, not much different than pitching a tent at the foot of the Haunted Mansion, so I gestured to my left and asked Muy tranquilo? to which I received an understanding Sí, sí.

Feeling much less threatened, we hastily fired up the van for the last half a kilometer of our journey, and found an even more private spot just around the corner. Finally breathing a sigh of relief, and finally making good on our promise to the dog that we were done for the day, we set up camp. The golden light of the evening was descending on the rock forest, so Chelsea put her drone in the air for some photos of the area and a few family portraits before a cool, quiet, and uneventful nights sleep, thousands of feet above sea level.

Our first camp spot. Little did we know it was a popular viewpoint for tours.

Posing with the dog at camp spot one. Moments later, I would watch a whole tour take photos here, but it was my idea first!

The dirt bikes and quad cycles that spooked us.

“well, this place is toooooo crowded, time to move on.”

Camp spot number two, and family portrait number one.

Family portraits in the forest of rocks, Mexiquillo, Durango, Mexico.

It was a great area for some disc throws, but we had to be careful of broken glass, it was EVERYWERE.

Camp cooking in the forest of rocks. I think we had quesadillas .

Going to sleep with the sunset meant we were in bed before eight and up early too. We had the park pretty much to ourselves the next morning, and we couldn’t say no to a quick tour around the area before making our way out to the road for bathrooms and breakfast. Our cartoonish map showed a cascada nearby, one of a handful of attractions, and the one most fitting us, so we took off in that direction, navigating mostly blindly through the forest of rocks. A parking area opened up near where we thought the cascade might be located, and there were a couple of locals setting up a trailered porta-potty (ten pesos per use) who confirmed that we were in the right spot. We paid them to watch the van and we headed off on an exploratory hike, following the siren sounds of whitewater.

Not too far from our parking spot we found the outflow of the small lakes and wetlands in the park, and the bedrock layer we had been driving on gave way to a cliff, sending the water falling down a set of cascades, before it exited through a tunnel and into the river canyon below. A trail led down into a manmade ravine, I suspect it was to be part of the rail grade before that project was abandoned, and we followed well worn, hand made wooden staircases to the base of the falls, and then a small social path to the waters edge. Early morning sunlight was still just spilling through the trees, making for great photos, and the three of us were alone in an amazing place that we had just happened upon. We had driven long and far, but not without reason, and not without reward.

Driving over bedrock ledges, looking for waterfalls.

There were obvious signs of motorized use, but the trails were really wide in some places, making navigation a little tricky.

Searching for waterfalls by listening for whitewater.

The view from the rail grade looking down stream and down valley - this photo is taken from above tunnel in some of the following photos.

One of numerous hand hewn, hand made wood viewing platforms at the cascades.

An absolute treat of a mini-hike that morning to the cascade.

Chelsea and gracie walking down the rail grade.

The tunnel outflow at the Cascade at Mexiquillo.

One of the tour vehicles shuttling sightseers into the attractions at Mexiquillo.

A convoy of 4x4 tours entering the waterfall area as we were leaving.

December 04, 2023

Nov 3 - Nov 4 : Ferry to Mainland Mexico

December 04, 2023/ Christian Tuttle

Taking the ferry across the Sea of Cortez from La Paz, Baja Sur to Mazatlán, Sinaloa had been a focal point for the beginning of our trip. Its necessity had remained constant in the back of my mind; if we chose to drive down Baja and we chose to tour mainland Mexico again, we would have no choice but to take the ferry. I know that the ferry service is an integral piece of infrastructure to Baja, and by no means is it an expeditionary experience for the hundreds or thousands of locals that use it every week, but for us it was a literal rite of passage, a rock left unturned from the last Baja trip and a path ignored from the last Mexico trip.

Part of our apprehension came from the perceived difficulty of setting up a reservation, which ended up being remarkably straight forward, even for two non-Spanish speakers like ourselves, but the rest of our fears laid in the expected discomfort for us and the dog. It’s not a long ride, maybe 15 hours, but Chelsea suffers from motion sickness, and there were no accommodations for the dog, and I had read that we would likely be surrounded by idling semi trucks all night. We had opted to use TMC ferries, the commercial/industrial option for sailing out of La Paz because they were the outfit that would let us sleep in our vehicle and didn’t require Gracie to be kenneled and left in the ship’s cargo hold. The downside, of course, being that we would be sleeping in our van on a commercial/industrial ferry.

On the morning of our departure, we left the RV park early-ish after getting a surprisingly good breakfast at a surprisingly good coffee shop attached to the park. I had been eyeing this little coffee shop, and I had written it off, assuming it was going to just be an amenity level establishment that didn’t have enough business to be really good, but boy was I wrong.

We made a quick Walmart stop to resupply some snacks and waters for the journey, in case we needed some quick bites. We had heard that the ferry offered two meals with the ride, but we weren’t sure what that meant, so we brought backups of chips, fruit and bread. Then we were off to the docks, an unknown place for us, with its own set of unknown systems and expectations and rhythms.

Thankfully, there were a few well written, step-by-step accounts of how to board the ferry written by other overland travelers, perfect for those that haven’t encountered commercial ferry yards before. We got in line right at 11am to enter the port at the direction of a perturbed traffic cop, but after sitting motionless for twenty minutes in a line of semis and watching smaller trucks whizz past us, we exited the line, blew past the same perturbed cop who paid us no attention, and slipped into the actual line to get inspected and weighed (I am not sure what that first cop was asking us to do, he didn’t want us to enter the port from the northbound lane, had us make a U-turn, sit in traffic, and then when we merged into the southbound lane he just ignored us as we entered the dockyard. I rarely understand what is happening with traffic patterns in this country, it seems like the rules are constantly changing).

The inspections went easily, mostly because we were expecting them. The security check pulled us into “secondary” which at the port just meant we moved forward and out of line so the big trucks could get past while a dock worker asked to see inside our kitchen and under our bed and in our roof box to check for weapons (and maybe drugs?). From there we got in line for the scales and the measurements, and eventually we were given a readout of our weight and length to take to the ticket office. The ticket office was the portion of the pre-trip organization that I had been fearing, as I understood it was the place where a reservation becomes reality, and some days you just don’t get on the boat. Luckily for us it went smoothly, due mostly to a generous helping of grace and patience from the ticketing staff, and soon we had tickets and papers and a ship assignment for the San Jorge ship to Mazatlán! All we had to do now was find the boat.

Earlier in a blogpost I described surface border crossings as having a system that is often invisible to the international traveller, partially due to language and cultural barriers, partially due to inexperience, and sometimes due to a shroud of energetic hubbub and perceived chaos. It was much the same at the docks. I knew there was a system - the people that ran the docks were professionals and likely much smarter than me - but to my untrained eye all I could see was chaos. Where I knew there were teammates all moving together to accomplish a shared goal, all I could see were individuals whipping semi trucks around disjointed parking lots devoid of lane markers, directional signage, and warnings. I was told our 465 foot long ship was nearby, but I could not see it, and the only direction I got was a vague hand wave towards the security checkpoint and exit of the dockyard, which didn’t seem right. I reported this to Chelsea, and our plan was to have me set out on foot, to poke my head around the myriad of low buildings and office modulars, to try to either find our ferry or distinguish some pattern of traffic that would make sense. Having grown up a rule follower that had just enough contact with ship yards and regional airports to know that you shouldn’t just drive wherever you want whenever you want, I was hesitant to just start driving around a busy dockyard.

I wandered a little, worked my way through some parking areas, asked for the San Jorge in my broken Spanish, and continued to get hand waves and gestures that led me in the same direction, essentially back the way we had come in, which seemed counter intuitive. I reported back to Chelsea, we loaded up in the van, and found a route that almost lead us out of the secured yard, but at the last moment skirted a security fence and opened up into another staging area, complete with our ship. There was no signage for where to park or what to do, and a fleet of small jockey trucks were furiously unloading the ship and parking semi trailers in different parts of the yard. And when I say furiously, I mean it - some of the drivers were doing little controlled burnouts and donuts to change directions before charging up the ferry’s ramp to grab the next trailer to haul off. The tempo of the place made us want to get out of the way, but instead of parking at distance and being baked by the sun, we snuck right in next to the ramp and into the shade of another truck waiting to load the ferry, in a good spot to watch the action and stay close to the loadmaster directing the work, but unfortunately directly downwind from all the dockyard dust being thrown up by the jockey trucks. Can’t win ‘em all.

Eventually we were joined by some more travelers, first a big German overland truck, then a few smaller rigs, some van dwellers, some surfers. A Land Rover that didn’t stop to say hi, skipped the line, and drove straight into the belly of then ship. We pled our case as best we could to the load master and asked for parking on the upper, open deck of the ship as the weather forecast showed clear skies and a calm sea, and we got an understanding nod. The day dragged on into the afternoon, the novelty of watching the jockey trucks’ work faded, but at least the shadows got longer. The cohort of travelers now numbered in the double digits, and all 10-ish of us were getting antsy to load the boat. The woman at the reservation desk had told us to show up no later than 2PM for loading, and the boat would be underway by 5PM. It was rapidly approaching 5PM, and despite being parked directly next to the loading ramp, we couldn’t shake the thought that we had been forgotten. Finally, and one-by-one, we were called to board the ship, up the steep loading ramp and onto the open deck, then directed to 3-point and snug up next to the big trucks, into spots no bigger than a Delica LWB, no bigger than a Honda Civic, no bigger than a GMC van. The guys directing the loading were experts, there was a plan and a system but we couldn’t see it, and once we were jammed onto the boat without an inch to spare, all we had to do was hurry up and wait.

Doing *all* of our laundry before our big ferry crossing.

The last sunset of our time in Baja (well, kind of…the sun set on us at the ferry terminal, but we were already on the ship, so it doesn’t count…right?)

Chelsea pondering whether cake should be eaten for breakfast.

Don’t ever let Gracie tell you she doesn’t get fed.

The mixed line of vehicles waiting to enter the port.

Made it through inspection…now on to the ticket office with all of our paperwork in hand.

Tucked into the biggest slice of shade we could find, as close to our ship as possible.

Gracie wasn’t as amused with the truck unloading traffic as we were.

Chels laughing at the jockey trucks doing little donuts in the lot as they sped up and down the ferry ramp to unload the cargo.

Walking Gracie in the limited shade from the ship and as far out of the way as possible to avoid the dust and calamity from the hubbub of the traffic.

The cement had started to cool down, so we let Gracie take a breather from the stuffy van beside the ship.

Other travelers arrived and liked our staging spot, so they joined us.

Discussions about routes, time on the road and ultimate destinations filled our time as we waited.

The Germans were the first of the overland group to get waved onto the ship…

The load masters finally waved us towards the ramp just after 5pm. Since we were so small, we got to drive forward and then do a three-point turn to get into our parking spot.

Gracie couldn’t tell if she was relieved to be out of the dirt lot and on the ship. We were all grateful that we were loaded *AFTER* the sun had dipped enough to create shade on the upper deck where we had been parked.

Many of the spaces between the trucks were too narrow to pass through.

Parked “comfortably” on the deck. Now it’s time to wait some more!

Chelsea and I locked up the dog, opened vents, turned on fans, and tried to make the van as comfortable as possible for Gracie while we did a little exploring of the ship. The sun was just beginning to dip low in the sky, casting the world in its daily dose of gold, and we scampered up the ship’s steep stairways to get the best view of the port and the harbor and the sea. Everything was calm on the upper decks as the remaining trucks and overlanders and small vehicles were packed into the hold and onto the main deck. We were able to breathe a quick sigh of relief once Walter was finally surrounded by steel, removing the chance for a bad parking job to cause some damage. The big trucks were chained into place and the little vehicles had to trust their parking brakes and hope for a calm sea.

We wandered around the ship and found the galley, the bridge, the bathrooms and showers, and even what looked to be a gym. The dining room was small, only three tables and maybe 18 chairs, so meals were rushed to make way for the next set of diners. Dinner was served around 6PM, a hearty plate of rice and beans and stewed meat, and the tables were set with fresh tortillas, plates of limes and jalapeños, and the some salsas. I got into a friendly jalapeño eating contest with a truck driver, breaking some cultural and language barriers by embracing the time honored tradition of measuring masculinity by eating spicy food. Dinner was quick, but delicious, and left us waiting to see what was served for breakfast.

Eventually the propellers spun up and the tug boats got into position, the lines were thrown off and we were bound for the mainland, steaming across the still waters of the harbor, the port fading out of view and the lights of La Paz’s malecón twinkling in the distance, giving no competition to the stars above us. We made friends on the deck with the other international travelers, making conversation about the things we understood and the things we didn’t on this new leg of the trip, and about possible routes after we made landfall in the morning. Eventually we all drifted back to our trucks, surrounded by idling semis and surprisingly stagnant sea air coated in diesel exhaust. The van was comfortable enough, and Gracie had little desire to exit the vehicle. The few times I did drag her out to offer a chance to pee, she skulked around, broken hearted that we had forgotten to pack a football field’s worth of grass for her to play on. You’re so spoiled, Gracie I told her. You made me this way, blame yourself she quipped back.

The night passed a little restlessly, but by no means was it the worst sleep we’ve ever gotten while traveling. (Speak for yourself! - Chelsea) Once the ferry hit the Sea of Cortez proper, the swell of the open water induced a gentle roll to the ship. I was fine, but if the journey had been any longer or the swell any larger I probably would have developed some sea sickness. Chelsea had taken a double dose of Dramamine, but then had trouble falling and staying asleep, and reported feeling uncomfortably drunk as a product of the medication. In the morning the other travelers had mixed reports about their conditions, and I think we were all quite happy that the journey was a short one.

I had gotten up a few times during the night to walk Gracie, as I was preoccupied with the knowledge that she hadn’t urinated in hours. I didn’t want her to make a mess in the van, partially because I didn’t want to deal with it but mostly because I know she’s smart enough to feel guilty and ashamed when she soils something that’s part of her den. We snaked our way between the idling trucks, with their air compressors hissing and burping, a rhythmic mechanical cacophony that surprised and scared Gracie but quickly faded in her mind from a possible threat to an overbearing annoyance. With her lead firmly in my grasp we made our way to the the side of the ship, where a waist high railing had some small drainage cutouts at the level of the deck, allowing Gracie to stick her snoot out into the fresh ocean breeze and confirm that we were outside and not inside. I hoped this would prompt her to urinate if she needed to, but no luck. She looked up at me uncomfortably, and I tacitly agreed - we would not be trading the van for a boat any time soon, the sea is too scary. We are overlanders, and there is an entire world to explore above the waves of the ocean.

This grated deck had nothing but water beneath it…it made me nervous.

We got lucky and ended up with the smaller vehicles parked beside us, which created a comfortable amount of space to walk and move around our vehicles during the trip.

A plate of delicious food for dinner, with horchata.

Still waiting for the ship to leave - I guess it’s as good a time as any for a beer?

Breakfast was served around 7AM, and I was excited to see what meal would follow up the previous nights dinner. We were handed a plate of scrambled eggs, chopped liver, and beans, with the standard basket of hot-n-ready tortillas. It was good, but not as good as the dinner the night before. Alas. After breakfast we made our way to the deck by the ship’s bridge to watch for land, still mesmerized by the size of the Sea of Cortez. I don’t know why I erroneously thought the Sea of Cortez was small, maybe because I have only ever compared it to the body of water on the other side of the Baja peninsula, the Pacific Ocean, so by comparison it seems small. But it isn’t, it’s a big body of water, and as someone that has landlocked himself by choice, I was equal parts impressed and terrified by our journey across the water. Maybe it’s age, maybe it’s the shared experience of COVID, maybe it’s my previous work saving lives on the side of a mountain, but whatever it is, I have a much greater sense of my own mortality on this trip than on previous overland adventures. I know we are one step away from catastrophe, and there is no guarantee for tomorrow, or even for today. I said a prayer, asking that the captain of the San Jorge would keep both his hands on the steering wheel, and watch out for traffic, just like Chelsea asks me to do on the windy roads of Mexico (and Idaho).

Eventually land came into view, and soon we could make out the skyline of Mazatlán. Our phones lit up as cell reception returned, allowing us to inspect the port city via Google Maps, and wrap our heads around what we were seeing. The sun rose in the mostly blue sky and the sweet temperatures of the early morning gave way to the heat of the day proper as we got closer to shore, and then just like that we were more terrestrial than oceanic, penned in by the breakwaters and jetties of the harbor, welcoming us back to land.

It seemed like all the travelers waited until the last moment to scurry off the upper decks and down to our vehicles. The drivers were moving with a sense of urgency, checking fluids and cleaning windshields, so we did the same. Soon the first line of vehicles was off the top deck, in a last-on-first-off order, allowing the smallest trucks and vans to exit first and make way for the cargo trucks, then it was our turn to charge down the steep loading ramp and into the great unknown.