vacaenbaja
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The Virgin Of The Rock
The Virgin of the Rock
This story comes from a limited printing of the collection of baja stories called "Hardly any Fences" By The late John W. Hilton.
"Between Agua Dulce and Catavina is a stretch of high desert avaeraging fifteen hundred to twenty-five hundred feet. It is a wonderland of
wind-sculptured granite boulders and weird cacti, elephant trees, cerios and agaves. At about the middle of this stretch is a rock on the west side of
the road which has been made into a shrine to the Virgin of Guadalupe,patron saint of all Mexico.
I have always loved the story of how the Virgin gave roses to the poor peon so that he could prove his story to the Bishop, roses from that thorny
hill and in the wrong time of the year! I have also always treasured the story of this shrine as told to me by Senora Espinoza in her "house by the
side of the road" at El Rosario.
She told me that the Camino Real, or King's Highway of the earliest explorers, had gone by this rock with its small cave even in the early days when
it was only a horse and foot trail. Here the great missionary explorers doubtless stopped in the welcome shade. Here the sainted Father Junipero Serra
could very well have stopped to rest his weary legs and pick thorns from those tired feet. If there had been no other reason than these, the rock and
its little cave might well have been a holy place to later travelers.
The real story, however, took place many years ago when the Murillo family,which had been living at Mision San Borja,decided to move to El Rosario. It
was in the heat of midsummer. They were traveling as everyone did ,on horseback,up the old Camino Real. Shortly after passing the Arroyo of
Catavina,their little daughter,Diega,became violently illand started to run a very high temperature. The family was at a loss what to do. Help of any
sort was many miles away.
When they came to the little cave in the rock they decided to make camp and put little Diega in the cave where she would be cooler. Then they resorted
to the one thing left people in situations like this. They prayed. They prayed to the Virgin of Guadalupe that their daughter might be healed. They
prayed for three days and nights while their water supply ran low and the temperature of the desert rose. Then the miricle occurred. A great rain came
out of the south with a roar of wind and lightning. When it had passed, water stood in pools all over the desert. The stock had plenty to drink and
the family found enough caught in basins of the rocks to fill their water bags of skin. When they looked at Diega after the storm they found her
smiling and well. During he prayers Diega's mother had made a promise to the Virgin that if the child was spared,she would erect a shrine here in
Diega's cave.
So it was that a year later on the anniversary of the event that the Murillo family made a pilgramage back to the "Cueva de Diega,"as they have come
to call it, and placed a paper replica of the Virgin of Guadalupe and some other small items that made it a shrine. From that grew the resting place
along the road known the length of the peninsula as the Cave of Diega or the Virgencita de la Piedra, the Little Virgin of the Rock.
This little roadside shrine is a far cry from the basilica built for the original Guadalupe,but there is a charm to the spot that should never be
missed by any traveler. A natural cave in the rock has been closed by a swinging door so that candles will burn. A cheap lithograph of the original
picture,which is said to have miraculously appeared on the cloak in which the roses were wrapped,is the center theme. Surrounding this and banked on
both sides are paper and cloth flowers,a few Christmas tree ornaments,little gifts of all sorts including some wilted natural flowers,sea shells from
the Pacific and the Gulf,and fragments of bright colored ore. In front on a little step are dozens of squat,thick old-fashioned candles and just to
the right was,of all things,the brass headlamp of what must have been one of the first cars on the peninsula, for it still contains the acetylene
burner. This relic,placed face up without its lens,served as a collection bowl. There were always coins in the headlamp and from time to time certain
truck drivers collected enough to buy more candles in Ensenada or Santa Rosalia. So the candles burn for the Virgin most of the time unless there
should be a very high wind,or no passers-by for several days.
The morning after we camped at Agua Dulce, Calamity and I stopped to rest by the little shrine and I looked in to see if the candle was burning. The
candle was out,probably because there were so few travelers on the road. The day before we had passed only two trucks and no cars on a
daylight-to-dusk drive. I fished around in my pocket and put what loose change I had in the old headlamp;though I do not happen to belong to any
organized religious group,there is a certain compulsion about a shrine on a lonely stretch of road that affects me that way.
Then it seemed to me that I should light one of the candles,so I picked up a book of matches lying beside the collection bowl and noticed that it
carried an advertisment from a restaurant in San Francisco. I smiled to myself as I struck a match and stooped into the cave to light the candle;some
tourist had come a long way to pause beside this shrine in the rock. This was the first time I had ever tried to light one of these squat,thick votive
candles. I soon realized that they do not have a very low kindling point.
I pushed the door wider and crawled on my knees into the mouth of the cave so I could use both hands. After two or three tries,the wax seemed to be
warm enough to kindle. The flame flickered and burned. My body darkened the cave mouth so that the candlelight made a distinct difference. As I looked
up, a transformation took place. The Christmas tree ornaments glittered with the magic that only candlelight can bring,the paper flowers seemed to
glow with an almost lifelike brilliance,and the lithograph was no longer a cheap print--it was the figure and face of the patron saint of Mexico!
Suddenly I realized that I was on my knees in a shrine and wondered if I should pray,but somehow none of the pat phrases people use seemed to fit the
occasion. It was more as if I needed to tell to tell someone my troubles and the Virgin of Guadalupe looked as if she would be a good listener.If it
was hard to pray,it was equally easy to start talking. I talked out loud and unashamed. Calamity,hearing my voice,came to me and put her wet nose
against my arm. Then she seemed to understand and lay there beside me while I told about all the troubles we had gone through getting this far and
about my fears that the Jeep would fall completely apart before we came to the Bay of the Angels. It was a great relief to get those things off my
chest,so that I continued about other problems. I even confessed certain shortcomings and made certain promises that shall remain the private affair
of The Virgin of Guadalupe,Calamity Jane,and me."
[Edited on 10-14-2011 by vacaenbaja]
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vacaenbaja
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The Virgin Of The Rock PART 2
The Virgin Of The Rock Part 2
" I have never been to a psychiatrist but I am sure that this did as much or more good than a couch in some city office,for everything finally came
out. I had not wanted to admit, even to myself,that I was concerned but as I had driven along I had kept watch for the small plane that carried my
loved ones. I had neither seen it myself nor had anyone along the way. My mind had turned to the lurid tales of people who had gone down in the empty
wastes and died horrible deaths of hunger and thirst. I knew that my wife and daughter and the Major knew too much about the desert to let this
happen. They knew how to burn the spines from a barrel cactus and cut it open for the moisture and sustenance inside. They knew that this would keep
them alive for days as both food and drink. They also knew that a dead cirio would make a flame visable for many miles and a burning cirio is the
standard distress signal in Baja California, a pillar of smoke by day and a pillar of fire at night. The burning cirios would most certainly attract
help and I knew too that the Major could, under most circumstances, force-land the light plane so that everyone could walk away from the wreck. Still
I had an unreasonable worry about not seeing them pass overhead. This worry and many others seemed to fall away as I rose from my knees and closed the
door on the candlelit shrine.
The morning seemed to smile and my heart smiled with it. The giant cardon cacti and cirios stood at attention as the jeep rolled by and the twisted,
gnarled elephant trees seemed to move in a rhythmic dance to the morning sun. Everything,even the grotesque gnomes in the wind-carved rocks,seemed to
sing that God was in His heaven and all was well in the lonely desert about me and with my wife and daughters at the Bay of the Angels.
The road was fairly good;in fact, the Jeep raced along over the decomposed granite road at the amazing speed of twelve to twenty miles an hour. It was
a wonderful day. Somehow I knew that Calamity and I would eat supper at the Bay of the Angels with our family and friends . We stopped for a short
rest at Catavina and again I admired the fabulous washes full of palms,the little terraced vineyards,and the fig trees.
The owners of the ranch had gone somewhere but one young woman remained with her family of six. She was shy but friendly and seemed to think it odd
that I should exclaim over the size of her family. Actually,had she been dressed for a party,the girl would have passed for about seventeen.
This ranch is famous for its water. I filled everything that I could from the the well and then offered to pay her something. She refused as I knew
she would, so I gave candy to all the children and half of a fruit cake which I had in the back end of the Jeep. Everyone gathered around when I let
down the door that became a table,and praised my kitchen. When I told the little mother that I had built it myself she said that I should have it
patented. Before I closed it,Iasked if there was anything in the grocery line that I could leave with her. She very shyly asked if she might buy some
coffee. She had been without this important item for over a week,she said. I gave her a jar of instant coffee and finally drove on with thanks and
good wishes. This is a lovely spot and the people at adjoining ranches are friendly and intelligent. One cannot help but admire the ingenuity they use
in making so many things from the native palms. Even timbers and boards are sawed from the trunks of green palm and if they are dried properly,with
weights on them, they become hard and tough and never warp.
I stopped for a late lunch at the ranch of Mr. Grosso, an Italian who also does some mining close to the Chapala dry lake. Calamity and I were both
glad when we came to stop in the yard,for this was the last bad stretch of the accursed dust that makes a nightmare of the road here and on both sides
of El Rosario. I brought good news with me from El Rosario to Mr. Grosso's brother,who was holding down the ranch in the absence of the owner. In El
Rosario,Mrs. Espinoza had asked that I deliver the message that Grosso would live. He had been in a grave condition for some time and they had brought
him to the coast to recover from a severe case of flu.
The men here looked at the Jeep and saw how everything was falling apart. They were the sort who simply had to help. In a short time they were cutting
braces from two-by-fours and tying them with ropes so the bed box on top would not fall off. They refused a cent for all their trouble and only seemed
glad to be of service. I cannot say too much for the fine attitude of helpfulness found on almost any ranch along the road. For that matter,this goes
for the truck drivers who travel the road regularly. They will invariably stop and ask if they can help if they see a stranger stalled along the road.
Furthermore,they will spend hours,if necessary,making repairs with baling wire or whatever comes to hand and then accept nothing but thanks.
Grosso's ranch stands on the north side of the great Chapala dry lake between the dust beds and the hard packed surface of the lake itself. The Jeep
rolled on accross this natural landing field at the speed of forty miles per hour. Even Calamity seemed exhilarated to feel us progressing so well but
it was only a spurt of a few minutes. Then came the slow going,but still the road was a great improvement over what we had traveled the last two days.
The afternoon became hotter and hotter. We saw no one for hours. Mirages,appearing in the valleys off to the left,looked like cool lakes with trees
bordering them but I knew that were just shimmering heat waves and distorted cacti.
Finally the road dipped into a valley of dense and tremendous desert growth. Here everything grew larger and taller. Some of the cirios were at least
sixty feet tall and looked like gigantic dried up carrots planted upside down. The year before we had passed a new colonia in this valley which had
posted a sign which I could never forget. Translated, it rea "We solicit women of the age of fourteen to twenty-two. We are five Mexicans and two
Indians from Oaxaca. we are opening here fine lands and some day we and our wives will become rich." The sign was made of a piece of cardboard box
pegged to a giant cardon with the spines of a barrel cactus. Across the road was a similar but smaller sign which said "There will be a dance here
Saturday night if we can only find women to dance with." We could see several small huts made of slabs sawed from the giant cardon cactus and thatched
with brush they had cleared from their lands. We could also see men working a windlass,sinking a well to bring this obviously fertile land into
production. On the return trip that year,the sign was down and I saw several women around the houses. We had no time to stop then to see how the
colony was progressing,but this time I decided to spare a few minutes to see if they had all obtained wives and how things were going.
When I finally came to the spot,it took only a glance to see that the place was deserted. I turned in anyway and got out to look around. They had
taken everything with them but a pair of worn-out girl's shoes. They looked as if they would have fitted someone about fourteen. The whole story of
heartbreak was here:the empty houses built with such pains from materials at hand,the dry well with the homemade windlass made of cactus and wood
lashed with rawhide. Not a nail had been used in any construction. I drove on,wondering if they had dug until they ran out of windlass rope and moved
on to a spot where the water was shallower. One thing for sure,they were good and brave pioneers who would most certainly scratch themselves a
foothold somewhere in this stubborn land.
It was becoming hotter with each weary mile we traveled. I drank from my canteen but the water was hot enough for tea. I poured some in Calamity's
bowl and she lapped eagarly only to stop and look at me accusingly. She simply couldn't drink the stuff and climbed wearily back into her little seat
behind the special crash belt that I had made for her. She put her head on her paws and philosophically
went to sleep. I drove on again feeling sorry for my faithful little traveling companion,and dreaming wildly of the cold beer I would drink at the
Casa Diaz. I promised Calamity her cool water as soon as I got there. She looked up as if to say,"are you kiddding? There isn't any such thing in this
country."
A hot wind started blowing. It felt as if it came right out of a volcano. Calamity stirred and went back to sleep with her tongue hanging out. It was
black with dust. I sipped some more hot water and dreamed again of cold beer or even slightly cool beer. It became almost an obsession. Then
suddenly,I saw the first truck we had met on the road that day. It was a pickup and it stopped in the middle of the road. I started to wave and pull
out for it but the driver got out and stopped me.
"My name is Verdugo," he said,thrusting out his hand,"and you are Mr. Hilton who is writing a book. I may not look like it,my friend, but I am a
veritable angel straight from the sky. If you do not believe this,I shall now work a small miracle." He untied the tarpaulin on one side of the truck
and uncovered a small zinc-covered box. From it he produced a can of very cold Mexicali beer and I knew that he was what he claimed,an angel straight
from the sky wearing boots and a mustache but an angel nevertheless.
The beer was liquid laughter that cheered,cooled and healed as it went down. Suddenly,after the first great soothing gulp,I remembered my companion
and asked if I could have a little piece of ice to cool some water to drinking temperature for the dog. My angel complied. Soon Calamity was working
on the second bowl of cool water,while I drank the second can of beer with my friend.
"One cannot fly on one wing," he grinned as he opened the second one with a flourish and I agreed as I lost myself in the miraculous luxury of this
experience.
Nothing could stop us now. Calamity rode with ears up,watching for rabbbits to bark at and I looked about me and found the desert beautiful once more.
We passed the deserted Desengana mine and entered the valley of the giants,where the largest cacti in the world grow and finally,at the end of this
valley,struck the road coming from Punta Prieta and turned left towards the Gulf.
It was dark by the time we finally entered the arroyo that leads down to the Bahia de los Angeles. Then we rounded a bend and there ,a mile or so
away,the lights of the Antero Diaz establishment twinkled like tinsel in the shrine of the Virgin when I lit the candle. This had indeed been a day of
miracles! A few minutes more brought us to a stop in front of the place. Here were eight light planes parked in a neat row. American fishermen and
their women folk were sitting around the tables,dishes pushed back,listening to a couple of boatmen with a guitar singing "La Vida no Vale Nada sin
Ti." Suddenly one of the diners looked up and shrieked, "It's John! Why honey,you did make it tonight after all," and my wife,Barbara,was in my arms.
Then came Sharon and members of the Diaz family. The singers continued as I was led to a table. Girls started to bring food and drink. "La Vida no
Vale sin Ti," the men sang,"Life has no value without you," and I knew what they meant as Barbara squeezed my hand.
As I sat and finshed my meal of sea turtle steak,my mind went back to the little shrine I had visited that morning. Suddenly I realized it was the one
spot that held the very essence of this land. The Virgin enshrined by pious hands,the paper flowers,ore from the various mines,and shells from the
Pacific and the sea of Cortez--yes even the old brass headlamp--were all a distillation of what this new state really is. I turned and asked Barbara
if she had told a man,or an angel with a black mustache,to stop me and offer me a cold beer on the hottest stretch of the road. She assured me that
she had seen no such man nor had given any such instructions. Everyone else had had the same answer--no one had seen such a man nor had given any such
instructions. Everyone else had the same answer--no one had seen such a man or truck.
At any rate I felt deep in my heart,as I sat there and listened to the music behind me and the lapping of little waves on my favorite bay,that a not
so small miracle had taken place. I was further convinced that the cold beer in the wilderness, like the cloak full of roses in winter, was not the
most important part of that miracle. There must always be a part that one can talk about."
[Edited on 10-14-2011 by vacaenbaja]
[Edited on 10-14-2011 by vacaenbaja]
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Paulina
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Bravo!
\"Well behaved women rarely make history.\" Laurel Thatcher Ulrich
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BajaBlanca
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ditto on that !!
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Skipjack Joe
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Yep. This one's worth reading.
The highway, during the early years, was very special indeed.
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Pompano
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| Quote: | Originally posted by Skipjack Joe
Yep. This one's worth reading.
The highway, during the early years, was very special indeed. |
Indeed, it was, Igor. Here below is a 1975 photo of The Virgin of the Rock. A solemn, yet joyful stop for us.
Again in 2009
Thanks for that story, vacaenbaja...I enjoyed it twice. Reading about Christianity without an outright bias is refreshing nowadays. Muchas
Gracias.
I do what the voices in my tackle box tell me.
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David K
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La Virgen
Here is the original La Virgen on the old main road (about a mile east of Hwy. 1 between Rancho Sonora and Catavińa):
Photo from Neal Johns, 2003
There were photos of the shrine going back to the 1950's taken by Howard Gulick... but they are no longer online, at the same site. I will search!
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David K
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Found them!!!
UCSD moved the Howard Gulick photos!!!
La Virgen 1956:
La Virgen 1959:
La Virgen 1961:
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Pompano
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Another roadside attraction back in the not-so-distant day were all the 'Frogs'.
What happened to all of those?
I do what the voices in my tackle box tell me.
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Gypsy Jan
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If I Remember Correctly
The Frog Painter was an employee of the Caliente Betting Book.
The late, great Fred Hoctor interviewed him for his book.
The artist decorated the landscape all around the Baja Peninsula as a personal project, painting where he saw "pictures" in the rocks.
He would go round on his own to touch up the paintings when they were looking worn.
“Travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry, and narrow mindedness.”
—Mark Twain
\"La vida es dura, el corazon es puro, y cantamos hasta la madrugada.” (Life is hard, the heart is pure and we sing until dawn.)
—Kirsty MacColl, Mambo de la Luna
\"Alea iacta est.\"
—Julius Caesar
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Pompano
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Right you are, Gypsy Jan. I was just wondering why they have disappeared or faded away...I guess the artist retired or moved on to another project?
I always enjoyed spotting one here and there, especially on the Tecate-Ensenada Road...Hwy 3. Kinda like the long-gone Burma Shave signs...familiar
and friendly.
I do what the voices in my tackle box tell me.
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Whale-ista
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So it is historic!
\"Probably the airplanes will bring week-enders from Los Angeles before long, and the beautiful poor bedraggled old town will bloom with a
Floridian ugliness.\" (John Steinbeck, 1940, discussing the future of La Paz, BCS, Mexico)
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BajaBlanca
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OH MY, what fun to read this post!
Where is Pompano??? anyone know?
I have never seen the Virgen. Something new every day! Gonna have to remedy that.
What an incredible story, wonderful to read.
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advrider
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Very good read, thanks for bumping it back up...
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David K
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Baja Nomad is a wonderful library of travel stories and travel details,,, going back to 2002!
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David K
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La Virgen in 2003 from Neal Johns...
On the 1962 Howard Gulick (Lower California Guidebook) Map:
Highway 1 was built through here in mid-1973 about 1-2 miles west of and parallel to the old main road in the area of Agua Dulce and La Virgen.
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David K
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The San Agustin on the 1962 map is the old ranch located over the hill, northeast of the Hwy 1 abandoned trailer park, gas station and maintenance
camp of San Agustin. In the days before the highway, San Agustin was a popular stopping point as it had a kerosene refrigerator and the only cold beer
around!
It was the drinking water source for the town of El Mármol before the mine closed in 1958. Water at El Mármol had too high a mineral content (onyx
forming minerals).
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mtgoat666
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I like to explore catavina each time i pass thru, so stop by the virgin periodically.
Over the years i have forgotten the location of polar bear rock, anyone got a gps coord for polar bear rock?
Woke!
“...ask not what your country can do for you – ask what you can do for your country.” “My fellow citizens of the world: ask not what America
will do for you, but what together we can do for the freedom of man.”
Prefered gender pronoun: the royal we
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