South of Ensenada, Mexico - Highway 1 turns inland from the coast; a single ribbon of asphalt with a yellow centreline. In the moonless rain I don’t see the barrel cactus, boojum, the hillside ranchos or smell the mesquite’s sweet, woody welcome to the rain. I smell warm 90 weight oil, listen to the rhythmic slap of windshield wipers, and focus on what little of the future my 1974 Land Rover, Eore’s, headlights reveal.
Southbound, Eore is heavy with fuel and camping gear. Leaning through a corner into a steep climb the little 4 cylinder’s revs build slowly, and Eore struggles to maintain our speed. In my sleepy, wandering thoughts of fuel burn calculations, broken Rover axle repair, and the forward smile of a pretty Pemex girl - dancing later at Señor Frogs - I begin to feel the exhilaration and foreboding that always ride with me on these trips. Highway 1 is the place where livestock and wildlife meet at night, where the highway gets absorbed by shifting rock and sand and inebriated drivers celebrate.
Yawning, part of me wishes I had checked the weather and the Tijuana border wait before leaving San Diego. It brings a smile to my face to think that two years have passed since I left farm town Ontario, Canada, and I still have that “the sun always shines in California” naivete. Truth be told, I can’t blame the state; my father was a stubborn optimist so this is a family trait.
Despite the rain - I know the cool won’t last. A quick glance at my gauges confirms that Eore is happily humming along with fuel, oil pressure and temperature all normal. I am too lazy to explore desert tracks looking for campsites tonight. Nor does the thought of unrolling my sleeping bag in a drenched tent appeal. Tonight, I’ll stay damp in my dimly lit Land Rover. With the decision made, I deftly switch feet on the gas pedal and stretch out my right leg. Night drives down lonely roads, the hint of changing landscapes until sunrise - road trips are freedom, and I love that tomorrow I have no fixed agenda.
As Highway 1 climbs again, I add throttle and listen for the engine’s laboured cue to drop down into third gear. A road sign reads “Tope”, a warning for the speed bumps that slow motorists through rural towns animated by conversations fragrant with the smoke of barbequed seafood, chicken and corn. On warm desert nights - the broad, sloped and dusty shoulders between traffic and colourful cinder block buildings teem with mothers chastising careless children and vaqueros with big, shiny belt buckles flirting with giggling girls from horseback. Tonight, the road ahead is quiet. Loaded with gear, Eore’s speed drops quickly as I ease my foot off the throttle pedal.
My headlights glint off polished metal on the road; a suspension jarring type of Tope created by setting steel domes the size of bowling balls into concrete. Using brake, clutch then first gear I ease Eore over - holding the throttle steady to avoid sending shock-loads through the aging Land Rover’s driveline. My peace is broken by the rattle of tools, the thud of full jerry cans and the lingering slosh of water in plastic containers.
I slide open my window at two 50 gallon drums burning like sentries on either side of the roadway. As the flames undulate, the moving light reveals a chain laid purposeless across the pavement, and a blue tarp shelter hastily stretched over tree limbs. By kerosene lamp, soldiers in deep green uniforms play cards on a wooden table with FAL rifles in easy reach. With disinterest, one of them glances my way and waives me through; nobody wants to get wet to question another gringo heading south.
Past the soldiers and through town we’re back into darkness; only the smell of the wood fires linger. In the headlights I see animal eyes on the road's shoulder and my imagination finds a blank canvas in the surrounding darkness. Coyotes, jack rabbits and owls dance around soft blankets and sleep on the Sea of Cortez - I am fighting to keep my eyes open.
Easing off the throttle, Eore pops rhythmically as unburned fuel reaches the exhaust as we ease down a long descent. Cool air surges through the open dash vents taking with it exhaustion and woodsmoke and leaving the fresh smell of a desert under rain, and a hint of the distant salt air moving inland from the coast. A sign depicts a bridge over the desert floor - two parallel lines with bent embankments at each end. With a touch of throttle the engine speed matches our descent, and the Land Rover eases into a slow acceleration.
Rounding a corner, Eore's headlights reveal a river of water traveling at high speed across the roadway. There is no bridge, the road is cleaved by a shallow cement channel that directs flooding water across the road and to the sea. Gripping the wheel firmly, I jerk the wheels straight and increase throttle. Eore hits the water at 40 mph, it sounds like the crack of a whip, the windshield comes alive with froth and foam, and I flinch expecting it to dissolve into jagged teeth. There is steam billowing from everywhere, and my left leg is soaked with water intruding through the cracked or missing door seals.
Eore lurches, bucks, and hiccups as spark struggles to make its way through the wet ignition system. The engine rpm’s even out, build, and we continue on our way. Any hint of dopey, sleepiness is gone. Alert, I smile to myself with the thought that it may, in fact, be piss running down my left leg. The first of the day's sun is on the horizon. I’ll be alert until I find a roadside cocina open for coffee, Huevos Rancheros and a place to change my drawers.
