From John W. Hiltons book "Hardly Any Fences"
"The lost plain, or Llano Perdido,is a lonely piece of land reaching from the middle of the peninsula far out to the Lagoon of the Black Warrior
on the Pacific side. It is a land of sand dunes crisscrossed by stony ridges covered with Joshua palms,giant cardones,and cholla catus. Here the shy
antelope still survive on the fog-fed grasses of the dunes. Here coyotes stalk jackrabbits in that timeles,endless game which made the one so cunning
and the other so fleet. Mirages hide any distant objects on clear days and fog takes over where the mirages leave off.
To travel this plain is to be in a slowly moving island of visibility,shut off from the rest of the world and forgotten,it would seem,by God
and man. To have crossed this plain alone is to know the full meaning of the word solitude. It is a solitude that seeps into each sinew and cell and
finally lies like a chill,damp shroud on the innermost recesses of the subconscious mind. An engineer from Mexico City who had been employed by the
salt company on the Pacific side once described the effect this way:
"It is, senor,as if the fog settles on some men's souls. I have seen it make them into sour-faced animals who grunt instead talking,and with some
this does not leave even when the sun shines again." He shuttered a bit and then shrugged. "Some can take it and some cannot. The later should leave
as soon as the symptoms start. No one is ever quite the same who has spent some time on this desert coast."
I know what the man was talking about for I crossed the Llano Perdido alone in a Jeep. I wanted to cross the peninsula at the 28th
parallel,which is the southern boundary of the state,so one morning early in July I left the ranch called El Barril on the gulf for the Laguna
Guerrero Negro on the Pacific .
Just before leaving I bought fresh grapes and vegetables from the people at the ranch,feeling that such items might be a pleasant surprise
for anyone I might meet on the other coast,where nothing of this sort is grown. It turned out that this was the most rewarding investment I made on
that summer's trip.
The road climbed steeply at first,winding over ridges each higher than the last. From time to time I could look back and get glimpses of the
blue postcard gulf with its rust-red islands and grey desert shore. There was a certain exhilaration about the morning that grew as the day
progressed. Finally, the Jeep and I wound our way up a long valley through a magnificent cactus forest and then up another rocky grade to Campo Aleman
and Calmalli. Here the arroyos and hillsides showed the grubbing and piling intensive placer operations. I remembered that this district had produced
millions in gold.
At Calmalli I filled my water cans and stopped to chat with a friendly ranchero,who bemoaned the fact that the capital of the new state was on
the U.S. boarder.
"It should be here," he insisted, "here in the middle of things. The pennsula should all be one State and Calmalli should be the capital for it
is in the middle. If this were so,the highway would have to come both from the north and the south,American tourists soon would come with enough
dollars to pay for the road. With the road, the mines and ranches could open up and our land would take its place in the republic as an important
asset rather than a national liability,which it is now considered in Mexico City."
I agreed with him that the excellent climate and abundant water would make a healthy capital of Calmalli and that the roads would most surely
open up the land and pay for themslves,but I reminded him too that to change the fixed concepts of the people in any capital about its outlying
possesions is like teaching water to run up hill. We agreed that there is a smugness about dwellers in big cities that shuts out the possibility of
seeing civilization and progress any place else. He ended by reciting a quotation"There is none so ignorant as the man who closes his mind to
knowledge beyond his own horizon."We parted good friends.
I drove past the other sunbaked adobes that make Calmalli and wondered if the capital and a paved highway would bring any real improvement to
this charming spot. A half hour later I left the road and took a compass heading "straight" across the desert toward the Pacific. There were roads
available that would get me to the Black Warrior Lagoon but I would have to go either north or south to catch one. Somehow, I wanted to break trail
this day,and so I did. The miles rolled by slowly for I was in compound low every time I crossed another ridge of sand dunes. Then there would be a
patch of rocky cactus-covered desert and occasionally a little valley with mesquite trees.
I saw no cattle but there were signs that cattle had been grazing in past years. Grass was actually rather abundant on some of the lower dunes.
Much of the vegetation here is of a nature to get its moisture from the Pacific fog which rolls in almost nightly. There should be water at about
thirty feet in those mesquite patches. With water,this could become quite a cattle country.
I was thinking of this when I topped another dune and ahead of me saw a group of strange-looking animals.
Their heads were held high;they were watching me. Their markings seemed much darker than those on the antelope I had seen in nothern Nevada but they
were shaped the same. I turned off the motor and reached for my camera,but before I could open the case they were off. There was a gun beside me but I
had no desire to use it here. I just wanted to watch.
Much has been written about the graceful antelope. Actually,to me the gait of these strange creatures seems clumsy and eccentric. There is none
of the smooth-running grace of a pony here. They bounce as if they were on pogo sticks. It is a stiff-legged, unpredictable bounce but somehow they
cover space faster than anything I have ever seen on four legs. It was hard to count them but I guessed that there were about thirty in the group
before they dissappeared over a rise covered with Joshua palms.
On this rough ground the Jeep was certainly no match for them. By the time that I had reached the rise they were nowhere in sight, in fact,I
began to realize that there was nothing to be seen at any distance. the dunes and ridges were just high enough at all times to hide the Pacific
ahead.
Now I found myself at the edge of a rather steepbanked arroyo and had to work my way along its edge until I could find a spot to cross. Finally I
located a break in the bank that looked reasonably easy and switched to compound low and pushed hard on the gas. It was a rough,bouncing stretch where
I could not stop even when I heard something fall to the floor. Safely on top I stopped and cut the motor to see what had jolted loose this time. It
was not hard to locate the damage. My compass had fallen from its mount on the dashboard. I tried to put it back the same way but failed. One simply
does not drop a car compass and expect it to be the same when you put it back on. They have to be adjusted while in place and in the presence of some
check point.
The sun was so nearly overhead that it was of little use to me,and I decided to wait until it was lower. I got in the Jeep and pushed on the
starter button but nothing happened-not a thing-no sound -no motion-nothing. I tried again with a panic suddenly and unreasonably rising within me.
This definitely would never do! I got out and looked around."I must be calm,"I kept telling myself."This is the time for constructive thinking and
nothing else."
I looked around as far as I could see in the haze which seemed to be thickening. Not a fence post,not a windmill,not a man-planted tree had I
seen since I left the road. I checked the speedometer. It had registered more than forty miles since I had seen so much as a tire track;forty long
miles to walk if I could not fix what was wrong. I had plenty of food and water. I could build a big fire of Joshua trees and attract attention from
someone. Planes fly over this desert once in a while and a big smoke would attract one-perhaps.
I stood there for several minutes thinking these things without raising the hood to see what was wrong. It was like not opening a telegram for
fear it would contain bad news. Finally I could do nothing else but open the hood and look at the engine. Like most things of this sort,it was nowhere
as bad as I had feared. The trouble was in plain sight. The nut holding the battery connection to the starter had worked loose and fallen off.
I got out my tool kit and, with the relief of it all,suddenly burst into a cold sweat. Now I could admit to myself how scared I had been for
those few frantic moments. I found another nut;it was too big but I wrapped the connecting post with aluminum foil and forced the nut over it. I
pushed the starter button an the Jeep roared. I have heard mechanics talk of a sweet sounding motor and I thought they were maudlin sentimentalists
but this was sheer symphonic music. I could have hugged the Jeep and poured a libation of tequila in its radiator but on second thought I took the
drink myself. I needed it!"
PART 2 to FOLLOW
[Edited on 12-19-2007 by vacaenbaja]
[Edited on 10-14-2011 by vacaenbaja]Mexitron - 12-19-2007 at 07:23 AM
I've been camping out in that desert-- been colder there than in the mountains with that foggy wind off the Pacific. But its quite beautiful as well,
the canyons and mountains around it are great places to explore.vacaenbaja - 12-24-2007 at 02:51 AM
PART 2
As I drove on I got to thinking of all the stories I had heard and read of death on this desert. I particularly remembered the account of the
wreck of a whaling vessel "Tower Castle" in 1838. The ships log was found beside the bones of the last survivor with the account of how they escaped
the wreck only to perish one by one in the desert. The last entry read:"I have observed the symptoms of my companions. It is only reasonable to expect
that my time will soon come,for now I experience the same symptoms."
I made myself a vow never to break trail again alone and with only one vehicle. It is one thing to go alone on this traveled road for sooner or
later help will come along--but this! This smacked of the "professional adventurer" tempting fate and the elements so that he would have something to
escape from. This was not for me.
As the Jeep and I bumped along it seemed that the haze around us was closing in. I could only see the next ridge of Joshuas and cardones ahead.
It was getting cooler as the haze increased . Suddenly I realized that this was not summer heat haze but Pacific fog.
Ahead and directly in my path I could see a great grey bank of heavy fog aproaching. In a few more minutes it enveloped everything in its
swirling,damp embrace. There was a chill too, a chill that seemed to go deeper than most.
I stopped and dug out a jacket, then began to take stock. This fog would not last forever, the Jeep was running well now, I had plenty of food and
water. Without a compass I could soon become confused and burn up more gas than I dared. I had just about decided to make a cold wet camp in the dunes
when I realized that there was a definite breeze carrying the fog. The breeze was most certainly coming from the Pacific. All I had to do was keep
headed into the oncoming fog. It was not as easy as it sounds. I had to get out every little while and check my course by looking back along my tracks
to see if I was really going directly into the breeze Since I could only see about a hundred yards at best, this was not a very accurate check. There
was also the difficulty of plotting a course between obstructions such as a giant cactus, Joshua palms, and catclaw thickets. I wasted a great deal of
time backing up, getting out and setting a new course every few minutes. This was inconvenient and disturbing but there was none of the panic that had
come over me when the starter had refused to work.
Once I crossed a very deep-rutted old road at right angles. Thinking that it might be going to the coast I followed it for a way but, if
anything, it seemed to turn away from the coast. The ruts were deep but blown full of sand. It was obvious that it had not been used for years. Then
came a fork in the road. Through the fog I could see a wooden sign post. What a blessing! I got out and looked it over carefully but there was not a
sigle letter visible on the sign. The wind had sand blasted it down to bare wood and dug out the softer grain like a piece of artificial driftwood.
Neither road led in the direction of the source of the fog so I decided to turn and follow my original course.
The next two hours seemed to last forever. More sand dunes, ridges of ghostly Joshua trees, clumps of cholla, all covered by the ghostly fog-fed
moss which seemed to grow before my eyes as it waved in the chill breeze. It was getting colder and the breeze was stronger. The light was failing and
I knew that soon I would have to make camp. One place would be about as good as another in this fog. Perhaps the lee side of a large sand dune would
be better than some lonely windswept Pacific beach.
Finally I saw something dark ahead that moved. It was a cow. Then I saw another. I could have kissed them for I felt that I must be nearing some
ranch or settlement. A little farther on I saw a couple more cows and the remains of an old corral made of Joshua trunks which had taken root and
started growing again. There was a dim road here. Sand had blown into the tracks but it looked as if it had been used in the last few months. It came
out from between two sand dunes and turned in the direction I was going. There was something comforting about these dim tracks after more than fifty
miles of breaking trail. At least I knew that I would not suddenly drop off a verical bank.
Now I began to smell the sea. There were salt flats here and there, edged with that prickly cactus-sharp salt grass which seems to follow
brackish lagoons in this country. Another road came in from my left that looked as though it might have been traveled within the last few days. I
could still make out a little of the tread pattern of the last car.
Then suddenly there was nothing ahead. It was as if the earth was flat and I had come to the foggy edge of it. I knew that this must be the
Laguna de Guerrero Negro but I could not see the water. The road turned right at the edge of what must be the high-tide line and there emerged from
the mist a large hulking grey building of driftwood. A man was pulling a sea turtle up the beach. There was no surprise in his face. Such people are
hard to surprise. He simply let go of the rope and casually walked over to the Jeep, shook hands, and introduced himself.
His name was Jose Aguilar. he was, he said, a fisher of sea turtles and the sort of sharks used by the Chinese for shark fin soup. He lived here
at the Laguna with his wife, and things were much better now since the Americanos down the coast had started the salt development. He paused then and
I knew that he expected a short outline of who I was, what I did for a living, where I was going, and where I had come from. I obliged as briefly as
posible and then asked if there was some place I could camp where I would be out of the wind.
Jose was a tall, wide-shouldered man, past middle age but with the bronzed skin and heavy muscles of a man who obviously earns his living
strenuously from the sea. When I asked about camping, he suddenly became about two inches taller and looked me in the eye with the stare of the eagle
who had just given his first ancestor a name.
"Senor," he said with great dignity, "no one ever camps at the Casa Aguilar. My house is your house. Pase Usted."
His wife looked up from the stove where she was cooking supper. "Have you butchered the caguama, Jose?" Then she caught herself as she saw me in
the doorway. Wiping her hands on her apron, she came foward and shook hands. "Para servirle (to serve you)," she murmured in a fine, calm voice as I
told her my name.
A warmth came into my heart that drove out the chill of the fog and the ghostly empty desert I had crossed. I understood later, when she told me
that to stay in this land one must guard in one's heart a little piece of the sun to dispel the fog and chill of the land. I remembered a Sunday
School song called "Sunshine in My Heart" and wondered wheather the writer had ever met a person like Mrs Aguilar.
TO BE CONTINUED
[Edited on 10-14-2011 by vacaenbaja]vacaenbaja - 12-25-2007 at 08:09 PM
Part 3
She too, was tall for her nationality and spare without being gaunt. Later, as she lit the kerosene lamp and we sat waiting for the breast of sea
turtle to broil over the coals, I compared the faces of these two. They might rather have been brother and sister than man and wife. Long association
and a compltete mutual admiration had blended them until each was simply an extension of the character and appearance of the other.
Thr turtle steaks were a gourmet's delight. I am sure that my hosts enjoyed the fresh vegetables and grapes from the other side of the peninsula
as much as I enjoyed the warm food and friendship they offered. After dinner we sat and talked far into the night. They were hungry for conversation.
They showed me pictures of their various children, even the one who had been born dead, and told me what had happened to each. Then came photos of the
grandchildren and even excerpts from recent letters telling how they were getting along. I pulled out photos of my family and told them of my life.
After a bit they asked if I had a radio in my car. I brought in my small portable and set it up on the kitchen table. I thought they would like
to hear the news so I tuned in a news broadcast from Mexicali. None of the news seemed real to me or very important here on this lonely lagoon. The
faces of my hosts reflected the same sentiments. I switched to soft music and we started talking again.
Finally Mrs. Aguilar cleared he throat rather importantly and I saw Jose look up as if to say "no not that one," but she stared him down kindly
but firmly and without a word. I saw that she had won her point.. I wondered wheather all of their arguments were as silent and as short as this and
just how much mental telepathy had taken place without their conscious cognizance of the fact.
"Senor," she commenced, "I know that my husband thinks you will consider me silly to tell you this story, but since you are a writer, I think you
should hear it. Also I think you are the kind of man that can believe things which he cannot either see or explain. If this you cannot do, then you
must learn to do so to be a truly good writer.
"My father told me the story, when I was very young, of the shipwreck of a certain whaling vessel on this coast. No one lived here then.
"The Indians were afraid of this place because of the giant Black Warrior who was supposed to rise from the sea here and kill any who tried to
pitch camp on the shore. Then,too, there are places where the sand dunes dip deep into the water with no beach at all and the sand where it is wet is
quicksand, Once the feet go in beyond the ankles a person is lost and can only be helped with a rope. Slowly, slowly thw man is dragged down. It is as
if the Indian story is true that the Black Warrior or his servants live in the sand and pull people to their death so they can devour them. At any
rate these things and the many shipwrecks have made a very bad reputation for this shore.
"My father told me, when I was but a small girl, that the dunes back of this lagoon are peopled by the ghosts of men who have perished of thirst
and that the quicksand itself sometimes emits strange moaning sounds from those who are burried there,God only knows how deep. He told me especially
of the wreck of a ship many years ago
called "El Castillo", or something of that sort. The men all survived, and by the grace of God, landed their life boats here on this mud flat rather
than on one of the quicksand dunes. They brought with them a book in which they wrote down all of the things that happened aboard their ship which, I
understand, is the custom of large boats.
"In this book they wrote the account of camping here an the beach and building large fires to attract someone. Finally, when their water was
almost gone, they started inland hoping to find water at the base of the mountains.
Had they only known, they could have dug at low tide along this coast and found a little fresh water, but this they did not know.
"Their journal then goes on to describe the death of one and then another until finally only one man remained to write in the book. Then he too
became a feast for the buzzards, but the book reamained and was found by my father's father when he crossed the desert. In this land of little rain,
the book could still be read. All of the horror of their deaths by thirst had been preserved on its pages.
"The thing that may be hard for you to believe, senor, is that fact that the unhappy, thirsty ghosts of this crew of men still wander these dunes
and will continue to do so until all of their bones have been burried. That is why, when our men today find even one bone dragged by a coyote, they
bury it in the sand and say a prayer. As long as they remain unburried, they wander about at night and steal water from the canteens of living
travelers. You may smile if you wish, senor, but do not camp in these dunes at night. My father was a good and honest man, he would not lie to me.
More than once he found his canteen dry in the morning even though he slept with it under his pillow. They are very cunning, these thirsty ghosts of
the lost plain--cunning and
thirstier than any other ghosts in the whole world."
[Edited on 1-11-2008 by vacaenbaja]
[Edited on 10-14-2011 by vacaenbaja]debindesert - 12-25-2007 at 09:09 PM
In this case, I’ve been taken back. And, just for a moment wondering (or hoping) if legend gives itself just a sliver of truth.
Thank you for a good read. - DebDavid K - 10-4-2011 at 11:02 PM
Nice! The early days at Laguna Guerrero Negro...Neal Johns - 10-11-2011 at 05:55 AM
The above is just a sample of what is in one of my favorite Baja books, get a copy of John Hilton's "Hardly Any Fences" or die unfulfilled!
NealArvadaGeorge - 10-11-2011 at 03:06 PM
I have traveled on a m/c out there--boy this story brought back the memories --thanks
The Tower Castle
vacaenbaja - 10-11-2011 at 06:04 PM
From Eye Of The Whale: Epic Passage From Baja To Siberia
By Dick Russell 2001
'It was too early to commence whaling. So, while the Marin headed off to another scouting mission, the Boston crew cast anchor behind a sheltered
point and went ashore.
They would need firewood. A bit of a hike up the beach, they found a shipwreak. This, Scammon realized,must be the Tower Castle, a British whaler that
had run aground thirty years before. He knew the story. A date cut into a rock indicated that the Tower Castle had been lost in 1827. The ship was
bound from the Pacific to Europe when it foundered.
The crew managed to salvage enough materiel to build a comfortable shanty house. An officer then headed off with several men in one of the whale
boats, looking to obtain another vessel and come back for their companions, But before their return" Scammon reported being told "The supply of fresh
water became exhausted,none could be found by digging, and a fruitless search of the back country for springs or standing pools in the ravines only
hastened their end" All that remained when the rescue party arrived was a
journal kept by the stranded officer in charge. His record grew shorter and less intellegable each day. It noted that the others had died of
starvation and thirst. The last line read:"Feeling the same symptoms as did my dead shipmates, it is but reasonable to expect that my time will come
soon." Now strewn along the beach were the remains of casks,broken crockery, and some of the ships spars. But if Scammon saw stumbling upon the Tower
Castle as any kind of omen,he kept it to himself."
[Edited on 10-14-2011 by vacaenbaja]mojo_norte - 10-11-2011 at 07:05 PM
David K - got maps other info stories?!David K - 10-11-2011 at 07:07 PM
Quote:
Originally posted by mojo_norte
David K - got maps other info stories?!
You bet... I have posted a LOT already in this forum (Baja Historic Interests...).
I take requests!mojo_norte - 10-11-2011 at 07:24 PM
Quote:
Originally posted by David K
Quote:
Originally posted by mojo_norte
David K - got maps other info stories?!
You bet... I have posted a LOT already in this forum (Baja Historic Interests...).
I found 3 for $60 and one for $66, the rest were $90 or more... u2u me if you need a link to the source.
HILTON, John W. Hardly Any Fences: Baja California in 1933-1959. Los Angeles: Dawson's Book Shop, 1977. 1st ed. 189 pp. Frontis., illus. Orig. cloth.
Spine lightly sunned, else near fine. One of 500 copies. Signed by the author. Series of brief essays about Baja California.vacaenbaja - 10-12-2011 at 12:32 PM
I have posted a few other stories from "Hardly Any Fences"
It is a limited print edition of about 500. That is what drives
the price so high. John Hiltons stories are a great read.
Beause of its cost and availability,I have posted a few of the stories from this fine work so that more people interested in
the Baja of yesteryear can enjoy. I would post more stories
but it takes me forever with my poor typing. I will do another one soon. Perhaps the one on Mr Diaz and Bahia de Los Angeles.mojo_norte - 10-12-2011 at 08:39 PM
