vacaenbaja
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South to El Arco By John W. Hilton
Actually very few trips come off as they are planned.
The time I drove the Jeep to El Arco was no exception. I
had planned to get going very early in the morning, but
just as I was about to leave my neighbor, the mechanical
genius of the bay, Senor Ocana called to me.
"There is some oil leaking from below the Jeep," he
shouted. "You had better let me check it before you start
out."
I stopped and pulled the Jeep under the roof of his re-
pair shed and over the pit where he could inspect it. A
gasket had sprung a leak and it took about two hours to
fix. This ruined any thought of making El Arco that eve-
ning so I simply decided that I would camp somewhere
along the way when night fell. Often these delays are
blessings in disguise. They slow us down and we see more
along the way.
The morning was well advanced when I left the main
road north and turned left toward the old Mission of San
Borja. There was a signpost at the turn-off consisting of a
slab of cardon cactus wood with some pencil mark-
ings on it that had become unintelligible. Anyhow, it was
a signpost and Antero had said, "Turn left at the first
signpost you come to after you leave the bay."
The road started climbing almost at once, rising along a
great alluvial fan. It climbed through typical Baja Califor-
nia desert. Great clumps of agaves, or century plants, made
blotches on the hillsides. The cerios and cardones stood
in heavy groups in the valleys with many other cacti and desert plants filling in the gaps. The land was actually
better covered than it had been at lower altitudes.
Once I passed two men driving cattle up the road. I
stopped and asked where they where they were taking them
They calmly replied, Ensenada, of course." I thought of the
long wary miles from there to Ensenada,even in a Jeep,
and wondered whether they would ever make it. They
had come, they said, from a ranch back of Pozo Aleman
which was close to El Arco on the twenty-eighth parallel.
I wished them luck and they said said, "Go with God." And
so we parted.
When I finally reached the valley of San Borja, it came
as a shock. I had been prepared to see something spectacu-
lar but not quite this. As I came to the crest where I could
look down into the valley, I could see why it had been
chosen by the missionaries. Volcanic flows had formed
an almost vertical cap rock surrounding the major part
of the depression. Long talus slopes led to the bottom,
where the mission gleamed amid the palms and gardens
and a few scattered homes. What a setting! It was as if I
had suddenly come upon one of my youthful dreams of a
hidden valley described in a Zane Grey novel. San Borja
was truly set apart.
PART TWO TO FOLLOW
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vacaenbaja
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South to El Arco PART 2
San Borja was for many years the seat of culture for an
area of three thousnd six hundred square miles. It had,
at first a population of more than three thousand Indians,
who were soon killed off by epidemics brought in by
the Spaniards. It was the Dominicans who built the hand-
some stone church which dominates the scene. It was
finished in 1802. By 1810 there were only about a hun-
dred and seventy-five Indians left. By 1818 there were so
few that the mission was abandoned.
Every year on October 10th, a fiesta of San Francisco
de Borja is celebrated. I fear that in recent years this fiesta
has degenerated into something not very religious in its nature. It is principally an excuse for people from miles
around to get together with music, truckloads of beer,
and some cheap fireworks and whoop it up. This is more
or less the same thing that goes on at the beautiful oasis
of San Ignacio. My son Bill, said there were religious
rites held there but that most of the men simply came
and got themselves good and drunk for the duration.
If the mission building of San Borja was impressive
from the hill above, it was even more so when I stopped
in front of it. The building is in remarkably good repair.
Local residents keep it well cleaned, except for the adobe
ruins of the earlier buildings. Here are the countless beer
cans and refuse of the last few fiestas.
The gardens with their melons, mangoes, grapes,
olives, and dates are a refreshing sight in the wilderness.
The little community of about thirty seems to get along
fairly well from the products of what is left of the mission
gardens and pastures. Carelessness and cloudbursts have
destroyed more than half of the lands which were in cul-
tivation when the mission was operating.
I wandered about the old buildings trying not to see the
beer cans and the holes dug by foolish tresure hunters.
These ruins had once been part of a very fine settlement
and they still had a dignity that could not be destroyed
entirely. The church itself was very impressive inside
and out. It has been described as being built of marble.
The building material is actually a calcareous tufa which
was once deposited by hot springs. It could be called a
kind of travertine rather than the solider relative, marble.
A beautiful circular stairway leads to the bell-tower and
the roof. Each stair is cut from an interlocking triangle of
tufa in such a way that each one braces the next. The
winding stairs are not held together with motar; it is
simply a matter of clever stone cutting. the two bells
hang side by side. One is dated 1759. Through them one
can look down on the little plaza, the houses beyond, and
the gardens. It is a view worth traveling a long way to see.
I spent more time than I had thought at San Borja talking to
some of the people, buying fruit, taking some pictures,
and making a sketch of the old ruins. Finally I started
down the road about four-thirty in the afternoon. This
road , I was told, would take me to the main road coming
south from Punta Prieta. I liked the idea of missing Punta
Prieta, for I have never cared much for the dusty spot.
the new route was on higher, much more beautiful
ground. I passed several ranches on the way toward the
coast and finally struck the 'main highway" just as the
sun was going down.
It had been a rather hot day but now that I was near
the Pacific a cool breeze made things very pleasant. I
drove for perhaps another ten miles and decided nthat I
had put in a day. There was a faint road turning off to a
deserted mine to the right and I took it to a campsite that
looked level and fairly clear although surronded by
giant cerios. I was not particularly hungry so I decided to
eat some more fresh fruit. The Bay of the Angels raises
nothing but fish and turtles. Fruits and vegetables are
scarce, having been flown in or hauled by truck from En-
senada. The fresh things had tasted so good at San Borja
that I had made my lunch of them. now I made another
meal of grapes and mangoes, put up a cot, and went to
sleep.
PART THREE TO FOLLOW
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John M
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Hilton
Vacaenbaja -
Your taking the time to present these Hilton stories is a fine introduction to his writing. His paintings of Baja are treasured as well, and just
having copies from his books show his wonderful talent.
A series of Hilton stories appeared in Desert Magazine from October 1959 through December 1960 and they include a nice number of photographs. Same
topics are covered but the text is a bit different.
John M
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David K
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Desert Magazine Hilton art (Nov. 1959)
Front and back covers:
Cover: Whispering Canyon. Blue palms and sheer walls mark this enchanting canyon on Angel de la Guarda Island in the Gulf of California. John Hilton,
who painted this and the back cover scene, is one of the few men who have set foot in this glorious setting...
[Edited on 12-26-2012 by David K]
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vacaenbaja
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Well since David has provided this wonderful example of
Mr. Hilton's artwork I suppose the next offering will have to be
the story of Whispering Canyon. When posted if you would be so kind as to move/ repost the associated artwork.
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David K
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| Quote: | Originally posted by vacaenbaja
Well since David has provided this wonderful example of
Mr. Hilton's artwork I suppose the next offering will have to be
the story of Whispering Canyon. When posted if you would be so kind as to move/ repost the associated artwork. |
Anytime! Just u2u me if I miss doing it!
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vacaenbaja
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South to El Arco PART 3
I do not know how long I had slept but gradually I was
awakened by a wonderful odor. It was as if some per-
fumed lady had stood close to my camp cot. I sat up and
looked around. The moon had come up and was flooding
the land with silver mist. Long drapes of lichens that re-
sembled Spanish moss hung from the weird cerios and
cacti. A light breeze made the moss sway in such a gentle
rhythmic manner that it gave the impression of a sub-
marine scene.
I got up and put on my shoes. The sweet perfume was
still with me, in fact it was getting stronger. Moonlight
never smelled that way, nor cerios, nor hanging moss. I
had walked only a few feet from my bed when the
mystery was solved. A great white star shown on a cluster
of Machaecereus gummossus. This is the commonest of
all the cacti in this part of Baja California and one of the
least attractive when not in bloom. It is extreamely spiny
and usually looks wilted and half dead, yet it is a relative
of the night-blooming cereus called the "Queen of the
Night."
The flower was superb both in appearance and odor.
On the other side of the clump there were three more
blossoms. Like most night-blooming cereus, they had
waited until the moon came up to open. I wondered what
anyone would say if he should see me wandering about
clad only in my tennis shoes smelling flowers, but I
would not have missed the experience for anything.
I went back to my cot and lay there watching the wav-
ing moss in the cerios and smelling the night-blooming
flowers. Besides the six-inch fragrant white flowers this
plant, which resembles a colony of snakes frozen up in a
dance and stuck full of needles, bears a good fruit. It is
called "pitahaya agria" by the people of the peninsula.
The fruits vary, depending on the rainfall, from the size
of a walnut to the size of a small apple. The skin is scarlet
and sheds its spines readily, making it easy to eat. The
pulp is purple and sweet with many small black seeds
that are eaten just like the seeds of figs or strawberries.
The plant has still another use. The stems are sometimes
mashed and used as fish poison. They are said to bring fish to the surface where they can be caught by hand
without damaging the quality or flavor of the meat. Per
haps only in Baja California would a cactus be used to
catch fish.
I dropped off to sleep again only to be awakened a sec-
ond time by the light and sound of a crackling fire. I
arose with a start, hoping it was not my Jeep on fire.
There to my astonishment, was a clump of agaves on
fire burning in their typical fashion--the dead leaves
first , then the centers of green. I got up again and this
time I put on clothes, for a thick fog had settled over the
whole scene and everything was dripping wet. The fire
was between me and the road. I got a flashlight and ex-
amined the ground near it. There were the fresh tracks of
two horses and the signs of two men who had dismounted
and started the fire.
Most of the cow hands in this country light such a fire,
which burns all night and gives them something to warm
by in the morning. It is also a good bed of coals over
which to cook coffee and breakfast. If an edible heart of
one of the larger agave plants happens to be roasted prop-
perly, the center tastes like a cross between sweet potato
and okra and has the texture of the latter. It is very nour-
ishing.
Apparently a pair of ranch hands on their way home
from some fiesta had noticed my Jeep off in the brush and
had taken a look at me. When they saw it was a gringo
too ignorant to light a proper fire for himself, they had
started one for me and ridden on. It was a fine gesture,
but I could have used the sleep.
The next morning I did use the fire and it felt mighty
good, for everything was still clammy with the fog. I dug
about for the core of one of the green plants and raked it
out with a long stick. It was a job to pull the hot, charred
leaves away from the heart. When it was finally exposed
I tried it, first straight and then with a little salt. the salt
improved it but I cannot truly say that I would like to
live on the roasted hearts of mescal as a steady diet. I
fried some spam instead.
This time I really did get on the road early. I traveled
along in a most leisurely fashion, looking at the country
as I went. One part of the road led through a shallow
canyon where there was a little water. Here I saw so
many quail that I decided to get some for lunch.
Just ahead was another covey on the right of the road.
I got out and leveled my pistol over the fender of the
Jeep and waited. In about a minute one quail came into
the center of the road. It was too close to miss. I shot its
head off. Two more came into the road and stood there
looking at the first. I shot one of them, the other flew. I
sat still and waited until another came out in the open
and, still using the unsportmanlike rest, I shot its head
off. This was enough meat. I gathered up my three quail,
cleaned them, and put them in the grub box. The whole
hunting expedition had taken about fifteen minutes. At
least none of my quail die out in some bush with shot in
them, such as the ones wounded by sportman's shot-
guns. If I shoot a quail, he stays where I shoot him and I
eat the meat.
PART FOUR TO FOLLOW
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vacaenbaja
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South To El Arco PART 4
Near Rancho Mesquital, I saw a road leading to a cop-
per mine on the left. I drove up to the mine and looked
around. Old mines intrigue me and especially copper
mines, for they often produce beautiful mineral speci-
mens. The dumps were not too productive here, but I did
pick up a few pieces of malachite and chrysocolla-stained
ore for my garden.
It was about lunch time so I built a small fire. Then
I cut two sticks with Y-shaped ends. I planted these
on each side of the fire where they wouldn't catch and
burn. Then I took out the quail and rubbed them with
seasoning salt. I had a long steel rod that made a fine spit.
When the coals were just right I turned the quail over
them till their were a rich, dripping brown. I sat and ate
my lunch and wondered smugly to myself what the or-
dinary people were eating that day. I only wished the
family had been along to share the delicacy. It would not
have taken much longer to have shot enough quail for
them too.
Rancho Mesquital is a cattle ranch composed of three
or four squat adobe houses, some corrals of Joshua palm,
and a well. I saw no one there but some children who
promptly ran indoors. I did not need water and it was
apparent that the men were away and some frightened
mother was only waiting for me to drive on, so I did.
Climbing out of the wash of Mesquital the road comes
to a stretch of fairly level mesa land heavily forested with
giant cardones and cerios. It was a much better road than
I had traveled on this trip and I made fairly good time the
rest of the way to El Arco. On the whole trip, I had not
passed one car or truck going either direction. The men
with the cattle on the road to San Borja had been the only
other travelers I had encountered except the ones I did
not see who had started a fire for me.
I came to a split in the road. The left trail led to Cal-
malli, the other went on straight to El Arco. Again the
road was on a high mesa and turning somewhat east. In a
little while I could see the workings of mines on the hills
and the framework of extensive mining machinery.
Gaston Flourie and Bud and Linda Dugeau had told me
to be sure and look up Colonel Harvey Greenlaw when I
got to El Arco. They all said he was a character I would
like to know. Now I had to find his place.
The little town of El Arco is divided by a shallow ar-
royo with steep sides which runs north and south parallel
to the airstrip. The larger settlement seemed to be on the
east side so I crossed and stopped in front of one of the
two stores. I had hardly climbed out of the Jeep when a
small boy came racing on a shortcut across the steep-
banked arroyo and between the houses. He pulled up beside
me panting and asked if I was Senor Hilton. I told him I
was. "The Colonel is expecting you," he said, climbing
into the Jeep. "I will show you the way." Importantly he
rode beside me back across the arroyo and down the
length of the airstrip, where Harvey Greenlaw stood in
his doorway to welcome me.
"I have been expecting you since yesterday," greeted
the Colonel.
"How could this happen?" I asked.
"Oh, that one is easy. A plane dropped in here yester-
day from the Bay of Angels and brought all the gossip
while they waited for the fog to clear on the Pacific side.
Come on in," he said, "and let's get acquainted. Bud and
Linda have told me a lot about you."
I took a liking to Harvey Greenlaw at once. His house
had a dirt floor but there were murals on all of the walls
painted and drawn by artists and would-be artists who
had stopped by to visit him. I added some cerios and
cactus plants on each side of a painting of the Virgin of
Guadalupe. This gave her a local touch, we thought.
When supper was over, children came in to clear away
the things. I went out to get a bottle of Cinco X Brandy
from the Jeep so we could have an after-dinner drink.
More children stood outside. It was not very long before
I realized this man was very well liked in the community.
Kids followed him around wherever he went. Kids came
in and out of the house at all hours. They were always
welcome. They washed his dishes, swept his floor, carried
his water and expected very little if anything except his
kindly smile in return.
"If a man has a genuine frindship and enough to eat
and an occasional drink," he said, "he doesn't need a lot of
dough. My sense of values has changed since I found El
Arco."
Of course, Harvey had some "big deals" in the offing,
but this time he knows how he wants to spend the money.
If he can ever get the mines open again, he hopes to pump
the mine water out onto the fertile soil and make a garden
spot of this place. Every mine worker would own a small
plot of land for this house and some fruit trees. The cli-
mate is subtropical. The soil will raise anything with
water. The water is down in the deep mines in great
abundance. With it, Harvey dreams of a do-it-yourself
oasis in the middle of the Baja California desert.
We talked far into the night and sipped occasionally on
the brandy. Harvey told me of the history of the mines
and how King C. Gillette of safety-razor fame had
dropped a tremendous amount of money into them but
lost it because of labor troubles, revolutions, and other
things. He insists that the mines of copper and gold are
good ones and all they need is capital and an understand-
ing management to make them into something of real
importance.
Harvey was hanging onto leases on most of the prop-
erties and had some Eastern and Canadian people inter-
ested. He talked of the old days when he had fought with
the Flying Tigers, of the fortunes he had made and lost
in importing, and described the morocco-bound library
he once owned. Now he trades paperback editions with
his partner, Doc McKinnon of Santa Rosalia, and others
on the peninsula.
"You can get some fine literature in the paperback edi-
tions. Of course, some aren't so fine but I like the who-
dunits, too. Lots of people read them to keep their minds
off their worries. I don't have any worries so I read them
so I can have something to worry about."
I decided that I would give this man something to
worry about. I yawned and stretched and said, "Well, I
simply must be getting to sleep. A lady in white wearing
a haunting perfume kept me awake part of last night.
Then a fire broke out in a clump of mescal near my bed.
I didn't get much, believe me!"
Harvey demanded that I give him an explaination but I
insisted that I would tell him in the morning. To make
things more confusing, I added one more thing after he
had blown out the kerosene light: "You know, I really
came down here hunting rubies and I want you to help
me. I'll tell you about that in the morning too." I don't
think the Colonel wasted any time worrying about the
outcome of any paperback novels that night!
FINIS
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David K
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Love this stuff... as it reminds me of either my travels as a kid or stories I have been told or read. In 1966, El Arco was on the main road to La Paz
and we traveled through it. In 1972, my father (a dentist) and two other dentists took a month vacation trip to the tip of Baja... In Santa Rosalia,
they met and had some good conversations with Doc 'Mac' McKinnon, the Santa Rosalia dentist who was from Australia. My father spent two years living
and working in Australia, and I lived with him there for the final 6 months (in 1970) before returning to California. So, it was fun to talk with a
Baja legend from Down Under, who was also a dentist!
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John M
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John Hilton biography
Below is a brief bio of John Hilton taken from one of the many websites devoted to him.
JOHN WILLIAM HILTON (1904-1983)
John Hilton was born on September 9, 1904 in Carrington, North Dakota, the son of itinerant missionaries. Hilton moved to Los Angeles in 1918 and
worked for a gem company. During the 1930s he operated a curio shop in the desert and began painting. John became a highly competent painter from
association and sketching trips with Maynard Dixon, Nicolai Fechin, Jimmy Swinnerton, and Clyde Forsythe. Among the books he wrote and illustrated
are: Sonora Sketch Book (1947), This is My Desert (1962), and Hilton Paints the Desert (1964). His illustrations appeared in the Los Angeles Times,
Saturday Evening Post, Desert Magazine, and others. John William Hilton's first solo exhibition was held in Palm Springs, CA in 1935; he subsequently
had over 100 solo shows nationally. As well as an artist, he was also a poet and musician. Most of his life was spent as a resident of Twentynine
Palms, CA. During the last decade of his life, Hilton maintained a second home in Maui, Hawaii.
John Hitlon biography generously provided courtesy of EDAN HUGHES.
Desert writer & newspaperman Ed Ainsworth wrote a book in the 1960 "Painters of the Desert," with one of the chapters about Hilton, the ending two
sentences conclude that "His canvases reflect a radiance he has created within himself. Worthily he wears the mantle of one who has captured the
sunshine."
Hilton has numerous articles in Desert Magazine in addition to those cited earlier.
Another book about Hilton is "The Man Who Captured Sunshine" by Katherine Hilton, his daughter.
John M
[Edited on 12-28-2012 by John M]
[Edited on 12-28-2012 by John M]
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David K
Honored Nomad
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Nice!
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Neal Johns
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Gosh, I hate to agree with everything John M says  , but thanks,
vacaenbaja for giving me a reason to re-read Hilton's Hardly Any Fences again. A great book (Dawson's Baja Travel Series #38). It has eight Hilton
painting reproductions tipped in and is signed.
My motto:
Never let a Dragon pass by without pulling its tail!
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Neal Johns
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Mood: In love!
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Gosh, I hate to agree with everything John M says , but thanks,
vacaenbaja for giving me a reason to re-read Hilton's Hardly Any Fences again. A great book (Dawson's Baja Travel Series #38). It has eight Hilton
painting reproductions tipped in and is signed.
My motto:
Never let a Dragon pass by without pulling its tail!
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vacaenbaja
Senior Nomad
Posts: 640
Registered: 4-4-2006
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your very welcome
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vacaenbaja
Senior Nomad
Posts: 640
Registered: 4-4-2006
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your very welcome
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David K
Honored Nomad
Posts: 64848
Registered: 8-30-2002
Location: San Diego County
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Mood: Have Baja Fever
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| Quote: | Originally posted by Neal Johns
Gosh, I hate to agree with everything John M says , but thanks,
vacaenbaja for giving me a reason to re-read Hilton's Hardly Any Fences again. A great book (Dawson's Baja Travel Series #38). It has eight Hilton
painting reproductions tipped in and is signed. |
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