Baja is a desert so nights tend to cool down considerably and I thoroughly enjoy snuggling into our van bedding, expensive soft cotton sheets inside a double cotton cocoon, thicker on the winter side and thinner on the summer side. A sleeping bag for comfort seeking adults. I sleep well protected from the cold desert air. Rusty starts stirring from his huge comfortable bed on the floor. He yawns loudly.
It’s time for us to walk and it’s only 6:30. A truck camper is up a couple of spots. By the time we walk back it’s gone.
The sun comes up slowly of course and we can pick our way through the thorn bushes before the day gets hot.
It’s hard to explain how massive and imposing the mountains are hovering on the western horizon. They cut the coastline off from the rest of peninsula and Highway One wiggles over the pass to get down to Loreto. In Mexico it’s just another cliff.
There are trails winding through the bushes but there is one trail I want to walk before the day heats up. It’s called the Hart Trail and it goes sharply uphill.
Apparently it’s become the Hart Memorial Trail as the person it was named for has since died. His death date is written in the Canadian style (rest of the world style) reversing the month and day method used only in the United States. I am forced to assume Craig was a Canadian lacking Internet service to investigate further.
At first Rusty is not keen but I am plodding up with or without him. He gets the idea and scrambles easily ahead of me.
The trail is steep but starts as a dirt path lined with stones but when the trail takes a sharp turn uphill there is less path and more scramble.
Rusty is out of sight but I keep plodding doggedly determined to not hurt myself. Occasional glances over my shoulder reveals much beauty below.
For Rusty it’s a case of hurry up and wait. He’s enjoying the scramble.
For me it’s a steady walk on the level bits and careful foot placement on the uphills.
There are occasional markers indicating organized trails hither and yon making me feel momentarily as though we’re on a US park trail, and Rusty off leash no less! Actually distances are in meters so it must be Canadian…
I felt like we were keeping pace with the sun as we rose higher and higher.
In the photo above we are parked along the curve of beach before the first small point that sticks out. Lost in the shrubbery. Below looking east across the bay.
My plan is to reach the top of smaller pimple. My to my discomfort the trail winds back and forth, a jumble of rocks going vertical. Trip here and you will launch yourself into space I tell myself thinking of the pins holding my legs to my already shattered pelvis.
Rusty is trotting back and forth like a mountain goat, below me and above me on his own weird schedule. I focus on putting my feet down securely between wobbly rocks while trying not to look over the edge at the chasm that tumbles down to the water’s edge. Coming down may be tricky I reassure myself.
I have summit fever, determined to reach the top of the hill. I take my picture uncomfortably wondering if this will be another of those pre-accident photos I have come to be known for. On a happier note the scenery is splendid. The development:
The anchorage:
Our private beach below with a newly arrived waterborne neighbor anchored close by our spot.
The mountains to the west of us.
Rusty rested with me as I discovered a cell phone signal. Not enough to post a full essay on my blog so I wrote a quick paragraph explaining our straitened Internet circumstances, add a picture and manage to post that small explanation of my internet silence.
I send Webb a quick note to reassure him I’m alive as though he had any doubt; I send some texts to friends for the same purpose, and Bruce reassures me my new camera is waiting for me at his home in Arizona. Then I update my crossword page. Odd our priorities with fifteen minutes of weak internet access available!
With dread in my heart I leave Mount Everest and face the ghastly vertical scramble down the demoralized rock pile. It’s actually not as bad as I think and I allow my mind to wander to the real Everest, the one where George Mallory and Sandy Irvine disappeared in 1924. Mallory was found in 1999 recognizably intact where he fell and died but Irvine his younger companion has disappeared And with him the camera that might have proved they made it to the top, the first to so do.
Rusty sits waiting for me at a junction. It’s embarrassing how fast my buddy runs downhill but he always keeps an eye on my progress and waits before getting too far ahead. He’s reassuring.
I’ve read a new rumor that has finally been made public about Sandy Irvine’s body which was reportedly seen on the mountain by a Chinese climber decades ago. Just as another Chinese climber came across Mallory’s body long before the Americans located him and made the public announcement. It seems the speculation is that the Chinese may have removed Irvines body and stored it in Nepal to preserve their own claim to be the first to summit Everest in 1960. If Irvine’s camera shows the two Englishmen on the summit in 1924 that would blow the gaffe for all others in their pursuit of glory. Mountains do strange things to people.
I was quite happy to get to sea level after two hours walking. We had a second sailboat anchored this time right in front of us. I hope he didn’t mind me showering naked as I had a lot of dust to wash off and he had lots of other places along the beach to anchor if it mattered to him. It was a good walk for both of us.
