Wimping out and helping out

There aren’t many things that can make me cry. One of them is washboard roads. So after driving the tooth-rattling mile from Papa Fernandez’s out to Highway 5, I was in no mental or physical state to tackle twenty-five miles of it to the junction with Highway 1.

“Oh, go on and do it,” my inner tough guy said. “Prove you’re bold. Prove you’re a man. You’ll have a better story to tell.”

My outer reality-based self countered, “You’re crazy. Why would I want to intentionally make myself miserable? I don’t buy into your ‘no pain, no gain’ crap. I say, no pain, no pain. But I’m turning south anyway because I want to go to Alfonsina’s.”

Between the turnoffs to Papa Fernandez’s and Alfonsina’s is a military checkpoint. I looked unmanned, but as I approached, four soldiers moseyed from the building to take up their positions. Ok, I thought, let’s see how this goes.

“A donde va?” one of them asked. (Where are you going?)

“Alfonsina’s.”

He waved me on. They moseyed back to the building. And that was it.

About a quarter mile ahead I saw three guys pushing a pickup. I immediately recalled stories I’d been told and had read about Americans being stranded in Baja with a flat, no gas, engine problems or whatever, and locals coming to the rescue, even feeding them and putting them up for the night. I thought now it was my turn.

I pulled around them, stopped and got out. One of the guys looked at me hopefully and gestured, “Rope?”

I gave him a thumbs-up and got out my tow strap. The eye-bolts I’d installed on the Rolling Steel Tent a while back had finally come in handy. We hooked up and I pulled them the rest of the way to Alfonsina’s. Doing my small part for US-Mexico relations.

Alfonsina’s is primarily a hotel, restaurant, store, marina and air strip. They also have a camping area—a row of palapas along the shore of the bay. There was no sign of Alfonsina’s personnel there, so I asked one of the RVers what the deal was there. “It’s mighty expensive. Twenty-five bucks a night. For that kind of money I’d expect full hook-ups, but there’s nothing but the palapas. I complained and they gave me four nights for the price of three, but the two rigs that used to be there left after one night.”

“Thanks for the info,” I said, and left. I had imagined Alfonsina’s would be my cheap paradise by the sea, but it wasn’t cheap, and even if it were, something about the place just seemed off to me. Oh well.

Insane detour, or just seeing more of Baja?

So, back at the highway I had to decide whether to turn south and suffer washboard hell, or turn north and go… where? Back to San Felipe? Give Puertecitos another look? Do the crazy thing and take Highway 3 northwest to Ensenada and then Highway 1 south again—a five-hundred mile detour to avoid twenty-five miles of dirt road? I chose north and told myself I’d figure it out on the way.

Back at the checkpoint, the soldiers moseyed to their stations again, but this time one of them had a bit of signal flag action going. The guy who’d spoken to me before recognized me and waved me through again.

Puertecitos looked just as unappealing as before. I kept going.

Between Puertecitos and San Felipe are a series of campos, which are small villages or vacation home developments, not campgrounds. However, sometimes the signs will also say “camping.” I saw such a sign and made the sudden decision to go check it out.

Two miles down a washboard road later (ergh), I pulled into a place with a restaurant, picnic area, playground and, sure enough, camping spots along the shore. The place looked deserted, but there was an RV in one of the spots. Its occupants filled me in and I decided to stay a couple of nights. The guy in charge came by later to collect my money.

So, sometime tomorrow I need to decide whether to stay here longer or… something. Meanwhile, I’ll rest up for the washboard drive back out to the highway.