Ensenada, Mexico

Jenna and I woke early to watch as the ship pulled into the harbor of Ensenada. Thick rain clouds shrouded the bay and there was no spectacular sunrise. A container ship moved torpidly through the water. Below us on a buoy a sea lion barked. As we moved closer I could see traffic moving on the frontage road. Low green hills surrounded the city. In the middle of town I could see the towers of the cathedral.

I had never been to Mexico, so even though our excursion would be short, I was excited. Our Carnival Cruise from Southern Californian to Baja allowed for an eight-hour port of call in Ensenada. I knew my wife wanted to do a zip-line tour, but I figured we would have plenty of time to catch a glimpse of Ensenada. I did my homework on Google Maps before we left and got a general idea of where to spend our time, including a visit to Catedral de Nuestra Señora de Guadalupe.

Our first priority was to buy a zip-line tour. We paid way too much for a bus ride to downtown, where we were herded to a building with a lady behind a window selling tours. A sheet of paper on the glass listed our possibilities. None of them listed zip-lining alone, but coupled with another tour, a visit to La Bufadora, the renowned blowhole. This was the option we chose, paying $61 U.S. Dollars for each person.

While waiting for the tour to fill, our guide moved us to an adjacent bar. The walls of the room were painted black and over the speakers blared insane music that was a combination of rap, mariachi, and sirens. We hadn't been seated for more than thirty seconds when the first vendor came to our table trying to sell homemade bracelets. We had just shrugged him off when another came, this time with “buy your name on a chain” written on his cardboard box. After him, still another.

Just after the last vendor, another man came to our table and gave us all water bottles and a bowl of chips and salsa while we waited. I thought this was very considerate of him until he said it would be $10 for the five of us. We said “no thanks” and gave the bottles back, but he let us keep the chips and salsa “on the house.”

Finally we were able to leave the bar and we sat in a small bus with a tour guide named Tango, driving through the streets of Ensenada. Tango told us stories the entire time, but I was more interested in looking out the window. Especially the further we got from the city center, the more fascinated I became with what I saw. We traveled on a battered paved road, but everything beyond was dirt. Small store shacks sat side-by-side along the highway, selling everything from tacos to hardware. Not a tourist in sight. I knew this was the real Ensenada. If the driver had dropped me off right there and let me walk back, I would have been content. But we continued on.

We left the city and drove through a verdant valley with fields and orchards on both sides. An overhead banner welcomed us to wine country. Written on the hillside using white rocks read the caption: “ORANDO SE CAMBIAN LAS COSAS          ROMANOS 10:9”

Not much further the bus pulled off the road, arriving at our destination. I won't go into much detail on our zip-lining adventure, other than to say it was fun. The seven zip-lines stretched long and took us over spectacular scenery. In addition, the course also included several wobbly bridges, most spanning over deep ravines. Even though our safety harnesses were clipped onto cables, it was very nerve-racking for me, especially watching my 12-year old daughter walk across. But we all made it safely to the end. Now it was back in the bus.

For another forty minutes we drove to La Bufadora. This time it had begun to rain and our breathing fogged the windows and I wasn't able to watch very well outside . Tango continued his humerus stories. Through the foggy glass I was able to see that we had come alongside the ocean and were now climbing a hillside above the rugged cliffs.

La Bufadora is a marine geyser located at the base of craggy cliff-side, 17 miles southwest of Ensenada. It is the result of air being trapped in a sea cave, and then exploding upwards toward the sky like the blowhole of a whale. To arrive it is necessary to walk a quarter mile along vendors of all kinds, aggressively selling their wares. It is likely that someone from every shop will approach you during your walk. Tango walked as far as the blowhole with us, then let us mosey back on our own.

Stone walls are built around the blowhole, allowing tourists to gawk at the water spewing up. I think, however, that the best view is probably down on the water. From our elevated angle it was difficult to see more than a portion of the blast.

My enjoyment came from walking through all the shops. We only had an hour until we had to be back on the bus. Every vendor approached and I ignored them all, unless I was interested. They sold backpacks, panchos, ball caps, Day of the Dead skulls, churros, tacos, t-shirts, jewelry, leather bags, marionettes etc.

Some spoke in Spanish, but most knew how to approach in English. I didn't see many price tags, and most purchases came about through haggling. The kids had fun picking out souvenirs. The prices were somewhat cheap, but nowhere near the deals I found in Southeast Asia.

I couldn't leave the area of Ensenada without having a fish taco. According to tradition, fish tacos originated in Ensenada. I found a taco stand amidst the stalls and the whole family ordered an assortment of tacos for $1.50 each. For myself I ordered 1 fish, 1 nopal and 1 alambre. The first taco came with two fat and battered chunks of fish, and nothing else. I used a condiment bar of onions, cilantro, cabbage and various salsas to decorate my fish taco. It tasted very fluffy and fresh, and yet simple. I ate the tacos at a little table behind the grill where they charred the corn tortilla. The nopal taco was a little bland, while the alambre was surprisingly delicious. It consisted of tender beef, peppers and cheese.

By now the rain had picked up and we were coming to our deadline with the tour guide. We piled into the bus with all our bags in-hand, and made the 40-minute drive back to Ensenada proper.

By the time we returned, we had less than thirty minutes before we had to catch another bus for the ship. The rain had stopped, but the ground and storefronts were all damp. By the time we got to Primera Street, one of the main tourist strips in Ensenada, the shops were still open with their merchandise hung outside. Mexican men in rough American accents approached: “Would you like to try a glass of Tequila,” or “We have the finest leather in Ensenada.” I didn't have the time or interest in either. All we had time for was a walk around the block. ♠

The Yurt

A High-mountain Trek

The mercury on the car signaled five degrees above zero when we shut off the engine. Through the snow-stacked douglas fir the sun peeked out just above the western horizon. We pulled on heavy coats, wrapped woven beanies over our ears and strapped snow shoes to our boots.

Our hike began at nearly 10,000 feet in elevation along a dirt road that was now covered in three feet of fresh powder. In a single-file line with heavy packs over our shoulders we passed the “road closed” sign, within the rut of a solitary snowmobile track. I led the migration with Dell directly behind me, followed by Quinn, Jordan, Eric, Colter, and the other adult in the group, Dave, at the tail.

Cumbersome sheaves of snow weighed down the branches of pine in a forest that spread far and wide on either side of us. To be sure, we trekked UP hill, and as we gazed through that spacious forest, we watched the sun disappear and the clouds change into hues of pink and orange, silhouetting the crooked branches of trees.

The mask I wore covered my ears and came down to cover my chin and mouth when strapped. By now the air had turned even colder and I worried that breathing it in would burn my lungs. But when I would cover my mouth, my breathing would fog my glasses and I couldn't see. It was a constant battle of deciding to stay strapped or unstrapped, to breathe or not breathe cold air, to have or have not foggy glasses.

Not long into the trek we learned that some of our boys were fighting to keep up with their heavy loads. We at the front would frequently have to stop and wait for the tail to catch up. Colter, in particular, struggled to take anything but the smallest of steps. At the one-mile mark, at a hair-pin turn in the path, it was decided to take Colter's pack from him and divide it up. Quinn took the sleeping bag, someone else a detachable fanny pack, and I was left to carry the rest of his pack, which proved to be very heavy and burdensome. This was in addition to my own heavy pack.

The shades of sunset had disappeared by now and the fog on my glasses had now frozen into a miniature sheet of ice. I was miserable. Not only did I struggle to see any portion of the path ahead, but the second pack was difficult to carry. I kept my glasses on the tip of my nose and peered over the rims to see.

Darkness nestled into the mountains and finally I was forced to strap on my head lamp, which cast a beam over the snow. For those with better vision, a half-moon shone overhead and cast eerie, but beautiful shadows over the white powder. But I focused my attention forward, putting one exhausted leg in front of the other. Once I tripped over my snow shoes the way someone would trip over shoe laces. I fell knees first into the snow.

After two and a half miles the boys spotted the yurt. It sat nearly camouflaged against the black forest with a small trickle of smoke coming from the chimney and dim light emanating from inside.

The Yurt

The man that drove the snowmobile and left the tracks for us to follow was the man inside the yurt. He had split small rounds of cedar and had piled them next to the wood-burning stove where a blaze now burned and glowed through the flume. He wore a yellow Patagonia parka and his breath reeked from cannabis. After giving instructions he hopped back on his snowmobile rode back down the mountain to his condo.

The yurt wasn't as big as I had imagined. Two sets of bunk-beds flanked adjacent sides, each with a single bed on top and a double on bottom. Counting out spaces, that meant that one kid would have to sleep on the floor.

Next to the stove was a small shelf with a couple pots, dish soap and spatulas. Four totes with sundry items such as frying pans, paper towels, toilet paper etc. stacked alongside the bed. Hot pads hung from a clip on the wall. A bucket next the the shelf held a hand-saw and ax.

The yurt was circular in shape with a wooden frame of 2x4's and a lattice frame work. A heavy plastic-like canvas pulled over the frame work with a hole for the chimney and a transparent “sun roof” over the middle. The floor was made of wood with a large rug covering much of the area. A shorter than normal door with a knob and latch faced south and just outside this door was another pile of wood. Not far from the yurt was a makeshift outhouse using tarps and plywood. We were instructed that the outhouse was only to be used for “#2.” Otherwise we were to use the space just beyond the toilet.

We left our snow shoes outside the entrance while we pulled off our packs inside the yurt, which created a clutter of space. Each kid was to bring his own hobo dinner, and soon we had tin foil packages on top and inside the small stove.

We were all worn and tired from the hike, and all were anxious to unroll their sleeping bags and hang out in their own territory. Colter pulled out a game out called “Fact or Crap,” and spent much time reading suspicious trivia from the cards.

Soon we could hear sizzling coming from within the foil and the aroma of potatoes, onions and bacon filled our tiny quarters. The boys ate their dinners on their laps, the foil unfolded and steam rising from their meal.

We said a prayer that night and before going to bed I shared with the boys the story of a Polish man who was sent to the Gulag camps of Siberia in 1940. He walked nearly 1,000 miles from Irkutsk to Camp 303, handcuffed to a thick chain pulled by a lorry. This was in the bleak month of January, during blizzards and sub-zero temperatures with nothing more than one pound of bread and two cups of coffee for his daily ration. I felt, perhaps, that this small gem of history would be more likely to be impressed upon their minds after having a brief, but similar situation themselves.

Nightfall

Our best estimate is that the temperature dropped to -10℉ that night.

The seven of us slept in tight quarters, close enough to hear every snore, cough, roll and shuffle. The mattress I slept on wasn't as soft as it appeared. It must have been an inch thick with a piece of plywood beneath it.

Our challenge that night was to keep the fire going. The wood stove was only large enough for a few wedges of lumber. The frigid air just outside our canvas covering prevented any cozy temperatures. Instead, we enjoyed comfortable warmth when the fire was going, yet chilly conditions when neglected. Dave woke up several times to stack the stove.

Every time someone got up to use the bathroom I could hear their footsteps on the plywood floor and the the door closing shut and the squeak of the hinges. Often when they returned I could hear them handling wood from the pile, opening the door of the cast-iron stove, and tossing the wedge into the flames. Then they returned to bed, creaking the board as they laid down. I didn't get much sleep that night.

At midnight it was my turn to go outside and urinate. I quietly attempted to slide my pants back on and tip-toed across the floor to where my boots sat by the shelf. When I stepped outside, all the night was silent. Quickly the hairs in my nose froze to a bristle. The half-moon shone down brightly, illuminating the snow-draped trees. I was happy to finally be able to see without my glasses fogging up. The only noise I heard came from a slow, but steady drip of melting snow near the chimney. A very soft glow issued from the yurt.

The rest of the night was much of the same. Pure exhaustion, but no sleep. That seems to be par for the course when I camp out. But I knew I would survive.

Daylight, at last

Shortly after rising I stepped out the door of the yurt with my first daylight look at our surroundings. The deep blue sky contrasted with the bright white snow that draped everything with a heavy blanket. As far as I knew, we were the only people for several miles. If it weren't for the boys chattering away inside the yurt, there would have been a grand feeling of solitude and isolation.

I always wonder how many animals are in the high forest during a bitter winter. I know the deer and elk migrate to lower elevations, but what about the squirrels and birds? Where do they go? Up to this point I hadn't seen any animal tracks, nor had I heard chirping.

Dave and I pulled out a pot and frying pan and began cooking sausage, ham and pancakes on a propane grill. We forgot to bring oil, so the pancakes became somewhat scrambled.

After cleaning up we attempted to melt two pots of snow to add to our water supply. I filled my water bottle and took a drink, hoping it would taste as fresh as a high mountain spring. To my disappointment it tasted bearable, but like dirty snow. At least, I told myself, I have a bottle of Powerade sitting on the passenger's seat when I get back to the vehicle.

Our stay in the yurt was short-lived. After cleaning up we strapped on our snow shoes and began the 2.5 mile walk back to our starting point. I will admit that I enjoyed the walk down much more than the walk up. For starters, I could see.

The bright sun melted the snow from the tips of the tall pine trees. As we walked, that melting line slowly worked its way down. Once I heard brave birds playing in the branches. I even saw a set of animal tracks in the distance, but couldn't tell from what they came. Four miles as the crow flies was a gigantic mountain peak, bald and round in appearance, thick in snow. I knew this peak to rise to an elevation just under 12,000 feet high.

We took a small detour to a small lake that I had found during the summer. During that time it is quite colorful, with moss and reeds growing in abundance. Now, however, one can hardly tell it is a lake. The entire body of water was frozen over and two feet of snow covered the surface. Had I not known better, I would have guessed it was another small valley or open meadow.

After two hours of trudging over deep powder, we finally arrived at the vehicle. Everyone was anxious to unlatch the snow shoes and once again walk on pavement. Dave unlocked the doors and with a rabid thirst I grabbed for my bottle of Powerade . . . only to learn it was frozen solid! ♠