April 11, 2007
Guerrero Negro, BajaMex (map)

Cuesta del Infierno

(the Road to Hell)

The day started well—after changing shoes. Since the great Mulege flood, the ground in the RV park is loaded with salts that rise to the surface at night, creating a reddish paste that sticks and stains. My sandals may be doomed.

After driving for about an hour, the last part of it along the Sea of Cortez, we stopped at Santa Rosalia, a very nice town that features a church designed by Mr. Eiffel, creator of the Eiffel tower. The plan was to mass-produce these for French missionaries, but this may be the only one now in existence. We also walked the town and visited the panaderia (bakery), a town fixture since 1901, to purchase some bread and buns. The town was spotless—no trash in the streets, and they even had handicapped cuts in their sidewalks, the first such concession to the handicapped pedestrians we have seen in Mexico. Lord knows that enough people get crippled stumbling on sidewalks which feature breathtaking drops of a foot or more to the street, and also provide surprises such as gaping holes with no signs, etc. An orthopedist’s dream, if anybody had any dinero for treatment.

Following coffee and pastries in the town square, we hopped in our rig and the caravan headed northwest, saying adios to the Sea of Cortez. The road to hell, known as Cuesta del Infierno,was about to begin. First we headed uphill, or rather up-mountain, (video) snaking around heart-stopping curves, passing numerous shrines along the road where asphalt caballeros met their fate. One little shrine on a cliff-side turn featured a hazardous materials placard on it, pointing to the ominous fate of the gas truck and trailer spotted at the bottom of the chasm. R.I.P. Pedro. The challenge was heightened by my wounded right-side mirror, which had been whapped by a road sign last week while I was avoiding sure disaster with an on-coming semi.

By the grace of God, no semi-trucks were coming downhill, or we would have likely joined Pedro in his final repose. The road was narrow, and the centerline drifted arbitrarily back and forth across the center of the road like a drunken snake. Guardrails, when present, were right on the edge of the lane, promising a certain shellacking to the unwary who might venture to the side. My long-standing fear of driving on roads built onto the edge of a cliff kicked in halfway up, and I fought the sickening spasms that throbbed at the pit of my stomach (and lower!!). We followed a tanker truck uphill and it crawled in slow motion around the curves as the CB clattered with reports of overheating rigs behind us.

Finally, we reached to crest, only to begin a joyride of semi-truck roulette for the next 80 miles or so. As reports of an on-coming semi-truck would come over the CB, we would slow to a near stop, hugging the right edge of the road, but trying not to fall off, since construction contracts for building Mexican roads seemingly prohibit the installation of a shoulder. The semis would rumble down the road, hugging the center line. The terror was increased by reports such as “he’s coming fast” or “he’s over the line.” In the end we would just sit there like ducks in a shooting gallery, waiting for Senor Peterbilt to explode the driver’s side mirror as he passed, the whoosh of air and the roar of the motor and tires rising to a crescendo at the moment of truth. We survived about 25 potential “bulletos to paradise” on this leg, not to mention a few semis that overtook us from the rear, with their procession up the caravan ominously passed rig to rig by CB. Only the theme song from Jaws was missing as these behemoths ran us down, tracking us like prey, and lumbering past us into oblivion.

Not to discourage anybody who might want to take this trip, but I will never drive a motorhome on this thrill ride highway again. The excitement is best summed up by a statement heard over the CB: “After that stretch, I have a pair of shorts that are ready for the laundry.”

A brief interlude during the ride from hell was a military inspection stop. The gent who inspected our rig asked us if we had batterias. We proudly showed him our battery bin. It became obvious at that moment that Senor Inspector needed 4 batteries, so we provided him a new 4-pack of Kirkland AA’s, which he slipped into this breast pocket, saying, “Gracias.” At least he thanked us for this shakedown before he exited our rig en route to the next turista.

We are now in the Malarrimo RV Park in beautiful downtown Guerrero Negro. It is on the Pacific Coast, so the temperature has dropped considerably compared to the ‘east-side’ of Baja. I hereby designate this town as the sister city of Rio Linda. For unknown reasons we will spend 2 nights here. (It is possible that some cardiac patients may require 2 days to recalibrate their pacemakers after today’s ‘cruise’ across the Baja.) One reason to stay here is to visit the whales which R&R in a nearby lagoon. Unfortunately, the whales have moved on, except for a few sluggos, leaving little to redeem this town of crinkled pavement and a one-street business district featuring boarded-up "whale watching" kiosks. In the meantime, the local lavanderia (laundry) is featuring a 'shorts especiale' for the gringos surviving the ride from hell.

We can ‘smell the barn’ and look forward to appropriately kissing the pavement as we cross into the US next week.

. . . . .

And, of course, what would April 11 be without mention of Happy Birthday to daughter, Julie, erstwhile keeper of Carly.

So............ Happy Birthday, Julie!!!!