vacaenbaja
Senior Nomad
Posts: 640
Registered: 4-4-2006
Member Is Offline
|
|
Down to the Bay of the Angeles
By John W. Hilton
I started the last chapter with a whale and as I sit here in
the old mining house at Bahia de Los Angeles, I can hear
and see whales blowing out in the bay. In fact, the people
here in the vilage say they have never seen whales so
big, bold, and playful. Some residents wish a whaling
vessel would round the point and do something about
them--they're spoiling the fishing.
The tourist have been getting some wonderful whale
pictures from the fishing boats and one boat, the other
morning, came back with quite a yarn. It seems that a
whale surfaced right under the end of the boat, tipping
up the small craft at such a dizzy angle that the anchor,
which had not been made fast, slid off into the water.
Then as the whale passed, it hooked into one of the fish-
ing lines and slowly took the whole tackle with it. Six-
teen year-old Rick Combs of San Diego holds the distinc-
tion of having an actual whales hooked up on light tackle.
If the latter appears to be a whales of a story, there is
one to top it. On July 9, 1958, as I was writing this book,
a fifty-ton commercial fishing boat out of San Felipe with
eight men aboard dropped anchor in the lee of Cardo-
nosa Island for the night. About midnight, the whales
became a nuisance, spouting and cavorting all around
the boat. Suddenly one of the monsters apparently
caught the anchor chain in its mouth. Like any hooked
fish it bolted, which pulled up the anchor and caught it
in the whale's head like a fish hook. The whale panicked
and so did Captain Luis Corduro, Engineer Padro Val-
verde (who is the hero of this piece), and the crew of six
others. Back and forth the whale thrashed, turning the
boat about like a bobber on a fish line, thrashing out its
great tail with mighty slaps. Several times, in its frenzied
maneuvers, the great beast's side bumped the side of the
boat with such force that it knocked down the men on
board. Had the mighty tail struck squarely, it would have
caved in the boat like a crushed cigarette package.
The engineer got the power going and fought the boat
away from the creature as best he could. About then the
whale decided to make a run for it. Everyone aboard
agrees that no boat of that size ever made such speed on
the Gulf of California. Everyone hung on, clinging des-
perately to whatever was close by. Spray swept up over
the prow and drenched them all. Then, dead ahead in
the waning moonlight loomed a reef of rocks. The cap-
tain shouted a warning, the engineer threw all the re-
verse power he had into the propeller. The boat shud-
dered and groaned. With a sickening thud the whale
struck the reef and slid clear of the water with his mo-
mentum, and up onto the rocky shore. he anchor chain
fell slack, and by deft maneuvering in reverse the men
kept the boat off the rocks.
The blow on the rocks had actually severed the heavy
chain, and in the early morning calm members of the
crew were able to go out to the rocks in a small boat and
resue the bent and damaged anchor from the dead
whale. The monster had suffocated as beached whales
always do, without water to support the tremendous
weight, the lungs collapse. The men were still a badly
shaken lot when they pulled into the Bahia that after-
noon. Late that night we could hear them hammer-
ing and clanking, repairing and straightening the chain.
Some of the links had been pulled so hard they were
elongated to the point where they would not let the next
link bend. The chain wouldnot wind on the winch.
Now, since the whales have brought us back to the
Bay of the Angels, I might as well tell the story of how I
came here the first time with Mr. Utt and lost my heart
to the place.
PART 2 TO FOLLOW
|
|
|
wilderone
Ultra Nomad
Posts: 3824
Registered: 2-9-2004
Member Is Offline
|
|
Thanks for that - John Hilton is one of my favorite artists - I'll bet this was inspired by his Baja travels:
http://bodegabayheritagegallery.com/Hilton_John_W_Desert_at_...
|
|
|
vacaenbaja
Senior Nomad
Posts: 640
Registered: 4-4-2006
Member Is Offline
|
|
John Hilton was quite a writer, as well a very acomplished plein air artist
who loved the desert. His daughter is a painter of note also.
I am going to prempt this story with the companion piece that preceeds this one in published order. Both works
make reference to Mr. Utt, which was the reason I originally
was making this post. I only realized after starting this piece
that "A Painting for the Governor" should really be read first.
|
|
|
David K
Honored Nomad
Posts: 64848
Registered: 8-30-2002
Location: San Diego County
Member Is Online
Mood: Have Baja Fever
|
|
Thanks!!!
|
|
|
Paulina
Ultra Nomad
Posts: 3810
Registered: 8-31-2002
Location: BCN
Member Is Offline
|
|
Waiting for part two!
P>*)))>{
\"Well behaved women rarely make history.\" Laurel Thatcher Ulrich
|
|
|
vacaenbaja
Senior Nomad
Posts: 640
Registered: 4-4-2006
Member Is Offline
|
|
Down to the Bay of the Angels Part 2
We had spent a leisurely and pleasant pack trip up in
the Sierra San Pedro Martir when Mr. Utt decided that we
would go down to see his friend Dick Daggett at Bahia de
los Angeles. That afternoon we caught about a hundred
small trout in an hour and after cleaning them, wrapped
them in wet paper and parked them on top of a high rock
to freeze, along with a side of ribs and the tenderloins
from a freshly killed deer. The next morning at dawn we
wrapped the frozen fish and meat in a waterproof tarp
and rolled it inside our bedding with another tarp out-
side.
Soon we were on our way down the mountain from
Camp Contentment. We spent just enough time at the
Meling Ranch to transfer our packs and equipment to
the pickup truck belonging to Mr. Utt. Then, we were off
for the south.
We spent the night at the Hamilton Ranch, where
Margo served us a wonderful dinner and a breakfast to
match. Mr. Utt was an early riser. He liked to travel as
soon as it was light. It was still early morning when we
arrived at the beach of San Quintin. He wanted me to
see the old flour mill and the remains of the pier built by
a corporation which had dreams of developing the whole
north end of the penisula. My friend explained that for
a time there was quite a colony of Americans, English,
French, and Scandinavians at San Quintin. There was
even regular passenger boat service to San Diego, but
about the time things were really booming the winter
rains stopped.
What had been wheat fields turned promptly back to
desert and the whole project fell apart. The penisula
had again repulsed the invasion of commercial exploita-
tion. It is as if nature has been holding this vast area for
the future. Ever since the advent of the first Spaniard,
great dreams of development have blossomed and died
on its desert shores, like the wild flowers that come up
and disapear after the infrequent winter rains. Baja
California is still untamed and I hope that great parts
of it shall remain so.
Man has so spoiled and despoiled whatever he has
found fruitful that it is a good thing that one piece of land
and sea can resist the attempts. One of the earliest explor-
ing priests said he felt that the only thing the peninsula
was good for would be health resorts. He apparently didn't
care to fish and thought the scenery was forbidding and
frightening, but he did have a kind word for the health-
ful climate. One can only hope that nature will hold
man's advances at arms length until the Mexican gov-
ernment matures to a point where it can look ahead and
set up national parks there to preserve this priceless heri-
tage rfor the Mexicans' grandchildren and the world.
We stopped long enough at El Rosario to talk for a few
minutes with the Espinosa family and fill the gas tank.
Then we were off for El Marmol. From here on the road
became rougher, but in those days it was several hundred
percent better than it is now. There was very little heavy
truck traffic to tear it up.
We started climbing slowly a few miles up the Rosario
Wash and finally reached the foot of the grade of the
turquoise mine. Here we stopped to check everything
and look at the tires before starting up the one -way grade.
We also wanted to stop and listen to see whether anyone
was coming down. When we were satisfied that there
was no one, we pressed down on the horn and started up
in low gear. Soon I had the pedal down to the floorboard
and the little pickup was laboring at top efficiency. We
jumped from rock to rock in places for the road ran over
the bare bones of the mountain itself. Every speck of soil,
as it was loosened by traffic, had been washed away by
cloudbursts. Mr. Utt explained that when it rains down
here in the sumer it really does a job of it. he said he sat
three days at the foot of this grade one time waiting for
the country to dry up enough to support travel.
PART 3 TO FOLLOW
|
|
|
David K
Honored Nomad
Posts: 64848
Registered: 8-30-2002
Location: San Diego County
Member Is Online
Mood: Have Baja Fever
|
|
Great stuff!!
|
|
|
vacaenbaja
Senior Nomad
Posts: 640
Registered: 4-4-2006
Member Is Offline
|
|
Down to the Bay of the Angels PART 3
We stopped to breathe at the summit, or one of the
summits, right on the dump of the old turquoise mine.
Since I am a rockhound and a cactus collector, my fisher-
man friend had a hard time getting me back behind the
wheel of the pickup. I doubt whether there is another
spot on the North American continent with a greater
variety of weird desert plants than right there on the top
of that grade. I was examining a giant cirio that looked
like a forty-foot carrot planted upside down when Mr.
Utt reminded me that we were trying to get the trout and
venison fresh to his friends the Browns, at El Marmol.
Up and down we bounced over summit after summit
in the top of this range. Each ridge seemed as if it would
be the last but when we topped it there was always an-
other Finally we started down and across a rocky flat
below El Arenoso. Here we had our first puncture. It was
typical of the country. We had not picked up a small nail or a
tack or a piece of glass. A splinter of hardwood had pene-
trated the heavy-duty tire just as if it had been metal.When I got out to change the tire, I discovered that we
were parked in the middle of a great field of red jasper.
By now my companion was really getting worried about
the trout so I had only time to throw a few specimens
into the back of the pickup before going on.
It was nearly dusk when we puled into El Marmol, the
onyx capital of the world. We noticed a large plane on
the field and Mr. Utt said the Browns must have com-
pany so we had better plan to camp out that night. The
Browns came out to greet us and the greetings were hard-
ly over before Mr. Utt was pulling away the layers of tarp
and blankets to see if the fish were all right.
Sure enough, both the fish and the venison were cool and
in fine shape. So were the vegetables Mrs. Meling had
sent along from her garden. Mrs. Brown was delighted.
Her friends had arrived unexpectedly but the supply
truck had not. She had been trying to figure how to feed
several unexpected guests from cans. As it was, we had a
great feast and a wonderful evening together. The next
day we discovered that a spring was broken on the brand-
new pickup so we stayed over while the local blacksmith-
mechanic made us a new one from a cut-down truck
spring, and installed it.
This gave me a chance to see the vilage and the mine.
The village is a dusty cluster of adobe houses in the mid-
dle of a high, very dry valley. even the heavy growth of
cacti, cirios, agaves, and ocotillos is stunted and thinned
out here. There is a water supply but it is good only for
washing. The company hauls all of the town's drinking
water from a well eight or ten miles away near a ranch
called San Agustin. the people were very friendly. They
all work together either directly for the oynx company
or furnish services to those who do.
Mr. Brown showed me around the quarry, where the
finest onyx of the western hemisphere was and is being
mined. He showed me a spot where a solid block of onyx
large enough for a bath tub was once quarried for a fa-
mous star of the silent screen. Another spot yawned in
the onyx bed where huge blocks were taken out for a
famous statue. The onyx is right on the surface or just
under the ground on a low hill south of the village. It is
the product of hot springs that welled up, carrying cal-
cium carbonate and depositing it in layers. What would
be the most beautiful pieces to the average rockhound
are scrap to the onyx miners. What they want are the large solid blocks of white and cream colors. the bright,iron
stained reds and yellows and the pieces having holes lined with tiny ******ite crystals are tossed aside.
As each block is mined it has a number painted on it
so that books are kept on each piece from the time it is
split from the ledge to the time it is worked into some
product at the factory in San Diego. In some areas large
blocks are all marked out and are being held for special
orders. All of the onyx in recent years has been shipped
by truck to the border. At various times there were at-
tempts at shipping by water, but it was never found to be
practical due to the difficulty of loading.
PART 4 To FOLLOW
[Edited on 4-26-2012 by vacaenbaja]
[Edited on 5-20-2012 by vacaenbaja]
|
|
|
vacaenbaja
Senior Nomad
Posts: 640
Registered: 4-4-2006
Member Is Offline
|
|
Down to the Bay of The Angels PART 4
A road runs directly from San Agustin to the sea where
a landing was established and used for a while, but the
huge blocks had to be floated out to the ship since there
was no pier and the beach was shallow and rocky. It just
didn't work out. There at the shore, however, were gigan-
tic fossils of ammonites, members of the family of the
chambered nautilus. The Browns had some on their
porch on that first trip but have gradually given them all
away to visiting collectors and scientists.
El Marmol has one claim to fame besides its great de-
posit of high-grade onyx. It is probaly the only town or
city in the world where the schoolhouse is built entirely
of pure onyx. The people living there seemed surprised
that visitors make such a fuss over it. It is natural in Mex-
ico to build from the most available material at hand.
Here it happened to be scrap onyx from the mine.
Another interesting thing is the way the people spend
their spare time at handicrafts, using the material at hand.
Objects from pendants and soap dishes to small tomb-
stones are made by the local people from onyx. It is
rather amazing that they are able to do things of such
beauty with so few and such crude tools. Most every-
thing is hand made. A broken piece of a carborundum
wheel rubbed thousands of times by hand will eventually
smooth the rock down to something like the desired
shape. Children often offer small objects for sale in El
Marmol but the buyer, really to appreciate his purchase,
should make some excuse to see the artisan at work or at
least the tools that are used.
The following day we started on to the Bay of the An-
gels. Our springs were repaired and were rested. We
stopped for a short visit with Senor Verdugo at Rancho
Catavina. Here we saw, for the first time, the famous blue
palms of Baja California. They were shorter and thicker
than the native fan palms growing in the sandy arroyo.
The leaves were wider and each leaf seemed to have a
twist which gave the palm the appearance of being
caught in a whilwind. The bluish-grey color is due to a
wax coating on the leaves. It gives the plant the appear-
ance of having been spray-painted like a Christmas tree.
A small stream ran down the arroyo in those days, but
it seems to have disappeared in recent years as the land
got drier and drier. Here in a setting of granite boulders
and great tall Washingtonia palms, the blue palms show
off in dramatic contrast to the desert around them.
There are several ranches along this arroyo, irrigated
in a very small way by windmills and burro-drawn water
from shallow wells. Grapes, garden vegetables, and figs
are grown, but only for the use of the ranchers
who run the cattle in the area. About an hour down the road
we came to the base of the grade of Jaraguay. Here was a
small ranch. Mr. Utt said he always stopped here on the
way back to wash off the dust, because they sell baths at
Jaraguay. Just beyond the little ranch, with its wild
palms, we came to a very steep, long grade. At the bottom
was the most unnecessary road sign in the whole penin-
sula. It said in Spanish "Steep grade, go slowly." We duti-
fully honked our horn and listened and honked again,
which is the proper proceedure, but to our dismay we
rounded a bend and came face to face with and old Ford
which obviously has had very bad brakes. It finally came to a
stop inches from us by the simple method of running
into the bank with one beaten-up fender.
The law of the road down here is just the same as it is
in the States. On a one-way mountain road, the vehicle
comming down is the one which is suppose to back up.
The elderly couple in the car were Americans. I took one
look at the people and their vehicle and decided they
could never back up that steep hill. We at least had a
brand new piece of equipment and the brakes worked. I
remembered a fairly wide spot back of us about a quarter
of a mile so I told them to stay where they were until
they heard three blasts from our horn, then throw their
contraption in low and come down on compression.
Just as I got to the wide spot I heard the honking of
a horn behind me, and I realized that here on a road
where a man ordinarily could die of thirst before an-
other car came along, we had a traffic jam. I pulled off
the road and Mr. Utt walked back around the bend to
warn the oncomming vehicle.
I decided not to blow my horn untril the next car came
safely behind me, but I forgot that the fellow below me
had honked his. Suddenly the Model T came roaring
down toward me, the driver holding on grimly. I could
tell he had the reverse pedel in and it was about burned
out. The car was making a tremendous racket. I honked
the pickup horn violently to warn Mr. Utt who was
walking innocently down the road. The Ford careened
past, knocking stones frm the outside edge of the road,
down over the cliff. I turned around and watched it dis-
appear around the bend and hoped against hope that it
would not strike Mr. Utt or the oncoming car. Then
there was a dull thud and silence.
PART 5 to follow
[Edited on 5-3-2012 by vacaenbaja]
[Edited on 5-4-2012 by vacaenbaja]
[Edited on 5-18-2012 by vacaenbaja]
|
|
|
Paulina
Ultra Nomad
Posts: 3810
Registered: 8-31-2002
Location: BCN
Member Is Offline
|
|
Oh my gosh, on the edge of my office chair!
Bring on part 5!
P>*)))>{
\"Well behaved women rarely make history.\" Laurel Thatcher Ulrich
|
|
|
vacaenbaja
Senior Nomad
Posts: 640
Registered: 4-4-2006
Member Is Offline
|
|
Down to the bay of the Angels PART 5
I got out and walked back. Mr, Utt was leaning against
a small Mexican truck, breathing heavily and wiping his
brow. the Model T was jammed into the bank inches from
him, and the Mexican truck driver was in sort of a trance.
It was an awful tableu. No one moved for a full minute.
Then everybody started to talk all at once. The Mexican
turned out to be the hero of the day. He was a mechanic
heading back to El Arco. He had all sorts of repairs in
stock for Model T Fords, since there were still a good
many of them in use over these rough roads. After look-
ing the situation over he decided that there would be
space for him and the other car to park off the road. If
we could back up a little more, hook onto the back end
of the Model T and haul it foward off the road, he would
take over.
We soon had the rickety auto and its occupants safely
off the road. Then, as we pulled our, the truck with the
mechanic pulled into our place. He said he had extra
brake bands and would put them in right there so the
elderly couple could go on safely. We sounded three loud
blasts on our horn, stopped a moment to listen, and
roared on to the top.
Soon I found out why Mr. Utt always stopped to bathe
at Jaraguay. At the bottom of the grade we entered a
shallow canyon. the canyon finnally widened out into a
great valley with a tremendous dry lake in its middle. I
thought that we had bucked some pretty bad dust near
El Rosario, but between the mouth of that canyon and
the ranch of Laguna Chapala on the edge of the dry lake
we encountered the worst dust I had ever seen since the
early days in the Yaqui Valley.
The dust of Baja California is not ordinary dust. It is the
fine silt that once lay on a sea bed. When the rocky land
emerged from the sea, rains washed this dust down into
the valleys and there it lay for centuries getting drier,
finer, and deeper.---waiting for people like us to travel
through it.
There was a tail wind as we entered the dust stretch
(there always is) and it carried the dust we threw up
about two miles an hour faster than we could travel. The
silt is as fine a talcum powder and fills in after the
wheels almost like water. There is no way of knowing
what chuck holes lie under the soft velvety, shallow
tracks until one hits them. There is nothing to do but
creep along at about three miles per hour and stop oc-
casionally for the cloud of dust to drift by. Then I would
get out and wipe the thick coat from the windshield so
that I could tell whether I was in the tracks or not. This
was merely a gesture, however, for there were hundreds
of tracks, each as uninviting as the others. It was a good
thing that the dust was so fine that it slithered away
almost like water for all of the ruts were so deep that the
dust came well over the axels.
To say we were a mess would have been an under-
statement, as we pulled into the dusty yard of the Rancho
Laguna Chapala. We had a letter for the owner, Mr.
Grosso, from his sister, Senora Espinosa in El Rosario.
The Grossos met us with pans of water and extra pails so
we could wash, and we stopped and had lunch with
them. We shared some of our canned goods and were
provided tortillas and coffee. Mr Grosso has a cattle
ranch here but he also is interested in mining. I gath-
ered that he was on the verge of striking it rich in the
later and had been for a good many years.
A little beyond the ranch the road crossed the dry lake.
Mr. Utt grinned at me and said, "Open he up, John,
and blow the dust out." This is the only spot in hundreds
of miles where a man can travel as fast as the car will go.
After all the low and second gear traveling, it seemed we
were flying, for the lake was like a gigantic race track or
landing field. We came to the other side of it all too soon
but not before we had lost a large part of the dust that
had been clinging to our vehicle.
PART 6 TO FOLLOW
|
|
|
Skipjack Joe
Elite Nomad
Posts: 8084
Registered: 7-12-2004
Location: Bahia Asuncion
Member Is Offline
|
|
Just wanted to say thank you. And let you know how much I'm enjoying this.
|
|
|
Paulina
Ultra Nomad
Posts: 3810
Registered: 8-31-2002
Location: BCN
Member Is Offline
|
|
| Quote: | Originally posted by Skipjack Joe
Just wanted to say thank you. And let you know how much I'm enjoying this. |
Me too.
>*)))>{
\"Well behaved women rarely make history.\" Laurel Thatcher Ulrich
|
|
|
BajaDanD
Senior Nomad
Posts: 745
Registered: 8-30-2003
Member Is Offline
|
|
good read seemed like I was there. MORE PLEASE
|
|
|
David K
Honored Nomad
Posts: 64848
Registered: 8-30-2002
Location: San Diego County
Member Is Online
Mood: Have Baja Fever
|
|
It's specially fun to read... I remember Laguna Chapala that way from our 1966 trip to the tip. Thanks!!
|
|
|
vacaenbaja
Senior Nomad
Posts: 640
Registered: 4-4-2006
Member Is Offline
|
|
Down to the Bay of the Angeles PART 6
Again we were on rocky roads but not so bad. We
traveled through forests of the strange cirio plants, the
giant cardon cacti that looked like misshapen sauguaros
from Arizona or Sonora. Mr. Utt assured me, however,
that they were a different kind and had much whiter,
pretttier flowers.
When we pulled into the dusty little village of Punta
Prieta, I saw the corrals, or stockades, made from the
trunks of Joshua trees. They held up fine for they had
taken root and were growing. I knew that no self respect-
ing Joshua tree from the States would stand to be cut
and then take root from the cuttings.
Here we asked if we could buy some more gas and
waited patiently as we could while the man hunted for
the key to the house where he kept it Then he hunted
for the funnel and a can which one would think would
have been stored with the gas drums, but this would have
made things far too simple. Finally with drums, a can,
and funnel in hand, he rummaged around and found a
a length of hose. This he inserted into the hole of a drum
and sucked on the other end. With a good deal of spitting,
he pulled the hose from his mouth and out gushed the
gas into a five-gallon can from which the top had been
cut.
There was a sign which said "Cervesa Helada" which
ment cold beer, but Mr. Utt discouraged me from buy-
ing any. In the first pplace he was opposed to drinking and
in the second he assured me that their idea of a cold
drink was something wet wrapped in a damp gunnysack.
We had not gone far when I realized that the road was
tremendously improved. Then I learned that an Ameri-
can company headed by a man named Walker, had put
in this stretch of road to get to its minning properties and
mill at the bay. It was kept in good shape by dragging.
This stretch, which has now been abandoned because it
went to pieces as soon as Walker quit, was the best piece
of improved road I have ever seen below El Rosario.
As we climbed I was amazed to see great forests of
cirios, Joshua trees, ocotillos, and many varieties of cacti,
draped with what appeared to be Spanish moss. When I
stopped to look, however, I discovered that it was not a
tillandsia moss related to the pineapple as is the Spanish
moss, but was a lacy blue-grey lichen hanging in curtains
and ribbons as much as three feet long. Mr. Utt explained
that Pacific fog supported these air plants. They gave the
land an unreal effect.
The sun was getting low as we dropped into a long
valley in the middle of the peninsula, but Mr. Utt told
me to turn left on a sandy road which he said led to the
Desengano Mine. He said he wanted to show me the
largest cactus in the world. Only a short way up this side
road ( which has now become the main road) we stopped
at the foot of the towering plant . There was no mistaking
it The cardon or pachycerius pringlii was many times
larger than any I have ever seen. I took a picture, in the
fading light, of Mr.Utt standing at the base of the giant
with arms outstretched. He was not a big man but still I
was impressed that his outstretched fingertips did not
come near the outside diameter of the trunk of this tre-
mendous plant. The branches (fifteen of them) were
about two feet in diameter and emrged from the trunk
at a point about twelve feet from the ground. A later
measurement of the highest branches proved the plant
to be sixty-two feet high.
It was dusk when we got back on the road and headed
east again but the road continued to be amazingly good
(better than I have seen it since) and we were both in
wonderful spirits, for our goal lay ahead only a couple of
hours. The last stretch of road, leading into the Bay of the
Angels, is down a tortuous canyon. The air currents are
strange in this canyon. Suddenly they will be almost
chilly, then a warm gust that smells of the hot, sunburnt
rocks of the hills will strike. Finally a cool breeze came
up the canyon that carried the unmistakeable smell of
the sea.
"The tide is low," said Mr. Utt softly. We will be com-
ing into the the bay soon. I hope you like it as much as I al-
ways have."
Suddenly the canyon opened up as we rouunded a bend,
and we could see the glow in the sky where a full moon
was about to rise over a mountain range that latter turned
out to be an island. As we left the canyon we turned right
and followed along along a dry wash and then a salt flat that
had been used as a landing field. Ahead we saw one lone
light that indicated someone lived at Bahia de los An-
geles. We stopped in front of an adobe house surrounded
by a fence of the ribs of dead cardon cacti. A dog barked
and a man came out and greeted Mr. Utt with the same
affection I had witnessed all down the road.
"Glad to have you back with us, Mr Utt," boomed
Dick Daggett and, "Glad to meet you Mr. Hilton. Come
on in and the wife will fix you some supper."
"No," said Mr. Utt, we're going to camp on the beach
and we might as well start now as any time. We may be
here quite a while."
Dick appearantly knew better than to insist. Mrs Dag-
gett and the girls came out and said hello. We started to
unpack the car and Dick told us we could camp on
Walker's porch or even use the house. He said that Mr.
Walker was in Los Angeles and would not be back for
some time. Mr. Utt was firm, however. He was going to
camp, and camp we did. He was the sort who would
camp on a vacant lot within rifle shot of a good hotel. I
know because I did so with him one time on the edge of
Ensenada.
We had just started to unload the truck when the glow
in the east turned to the gold edge of a great moon. It
sailed over the ridge and right into the sky. Suddenly
I could see the bay before me as quiet as a pond and the
silhouettes of little islands sticking up out of the glassy
moonlit water. I was sure I would like the Bay of the
Angels. As it turned out, I did, I still do, and I suppose I
always shall.
FINIS
[Edited on 5-12-2012 by vacaenbaja]
|
|
|
David K
Honored Nomad
Posts: 64848
Registered: 8-30-2002
Location: San Diego County
Member Is Online
Mood: Have Baja Fever
|
|
THANK YOU!!!
[Edited on 5-12-2012 by David K]
|
|
|
Paulina
Ultra Nomad
Posts: 3810
Registered: 8-31-2002
Location: BCN
Member Is Offline
|
|
I wish the story went on!
Thank you SO much for posting this. I very much enjoyed reading it.
P>*)))>{
\"Well behaved women rarely make history.\" Laurel Thatcher Ulrich
|
|
|
vacaenbaja
Senior Nomad
Posts: 640
Registered: 4-4-2006
Member Is Offline
|
|
Well for more of John Hiltons wonderful stories you can read "A Paninting for the Governor" It is of historic people and places of Baja ,particulary
the San Pedro Martir area .
[Edited on 5-14-2012 by vacaenbaja]
|
|
|
|
![[*]](images/xmbforum/default_icon.gif){kind=icon}
