I went for a walk without Rusty. Forgive me Father, for I have sinned.
It had to be done. I took him into town early in the day and tried to convince to walk the side streets of town as all people and dogs were out of sight. He declined the offer nervously checking for dogs and ambushes.
The collectivos were out transporting the workers. I remember commuting.
I wanted to check out the side streets. Looks safe enough, ¿no? Not bloody likely. He went all stubborn and refused.
So with much regret I girded my loins and left him behind at the campground and took off by myself. It was probably a sound decision because it was hot as hades where I was going. My solo walk had been suggested by Dale the apartment resident in our campground, the nice Canadian.
I set off late around 10:30 and only stopped to buy a bottle of water and a packet of chips for a hiking breakfast. Dale said walk past the restaurants and ask for the dude with the boat to take you across. Pay him 200 pesos, $10, which seemed a lot but overpaying is how you help the economy grind along. I found a place that said “Tours” and off we went.
I was on the beach across the lagoon from the town at 11:00 with a nice strong sun already high overhead. That was at the spot where the red line starts in the photo.
The owner of the boat had the young lad drive me and keep an eye out for me when I got back. I made a point to tip him 20 pesos ($1) on the way back and he helped me cool off after my walk by creating a cooling breeze as we spun out in the lagoon in a wide circle before we got back to the dock.
Actual waterfront dining. I love this laid back country. I wish the Keys were still like this.
The first surprise across the lagoon was the nature of the beach: it was pebbles.
Dale and Bonita came here with a guide to go fishing. I looked at Google satellite view and figured I could find the trail and gave it my best shot. Mr Bean the amateur explorer. No idea what I was doing…
Covid has killed off a couple of enterprises across here but I had a support group watching my progress:
Note the active maintenance.
It was a gorgeous 90 degree day. The ocean was calm enough we braved the surf back at the campground and swam for an hour in the morning, Layne and I, and the waters were crystal clear.
Rusty was over there somewhere pining for me. I can never get over how weird it is that he actually pines for me when I’m not there. I have witnesses.
The trick I knew from the satellite view was to pass the first coconut grove visible in the picture and walk to the second smaller clump where there appeared to be a white sandy path through the trees. It took me half an hour stumbling on the pebbles.
Sure enough I found a neat fenced coconut plantation.
And then the path. Off I went.
It all started to look Keys-familiar. A dried up salt pond.
More fencing behind the coconuts.
A hot flat sandy trail between buttonwoods and red mangroves.
“Lower Forest” I kept meeting these hard painted signs as trail markers.
A tire lined “ dock” in the mangroves. I guess there is a boat short cut here if you know how to ask for it. I wanted no guide, just to be dropped off…
…and left to my own devices.
This trail was the second half of the red line in the map above cutting across the island right at the base of the hill at the end. The hill actually has a lighthouse on top visible from our campground.
To cross the island took me another half hour of marching on sand. Still hot by the way.
Unlike Florida there are mountains and hills here and looking up I could see the dry season lack of greenery rising up above me to the blue sky.
There was a point on the trail and I smelled it coming and going where the air was filled suddenly with a strong unmistakeable smell of horse shit. Perhaps someone used a mule to carry coconuts or something and the cement well was rigged with a bucket on a rope and a second bucket as though to water an animal. The water in the well looked oily and unsavory but beggars can’t be choosers. Nor can working mules I guess.
Bilingual signage just like the National Park Service in the US.
Prickly pear. Food in a pinch.
Thick soft sand and the sound of swells crashing meant I was close to the beach.
And there it was. Miles of nothing but me. All mine!
Though I was clearly not the first to get here!
I was quite pleased with myself. I had no rod to chase fish I contented myself with writing a name in the sand. The name of a man who walked for eight years from Bradenton Florida, to New Mexico the first European to make the trek. You can Google Alvar Nuñez Cabeza de Vaca for his astonishing story.
Not really sure why I did that but the tide will wash it away.
It was noon. I sat in the little Ramada in the shade and drank half my water. I rarely carry water and my wife calls me a camel because I can go a long time without drinking but I tried to be conscientious this time.
It was a bit like landing on the moon. I got here; I looked around; now what?
I’d left my mark so it must be time to walk back.
Google translate says “falsetes” means falsettos. Somehow the phrase “close the falsettos” after you passed though them didn’t ring right even in my heat addled brain. I think it has something to do with gates of which there were as many as there were falsettos on the trail. I kept going, keeping an eye out for stray falsettos.
Actual waterfront dining. I love this laid back country. I wish the Keys were still like this.
The first surprise across the lagoon was the nature of the beach: it was pebbles.
Dale and Bonita came here with a guide to go fishing. I looked at Google satellite view and figured I could find the trail and gave it my best shot. Mr Bean the amateur explorer. No idea what I was doing…
Covid has killed off a couple of enterprises across here but I had a support group watching my progress:
Note the active maintenance.
It was a gorgeous 90 degree day. The ocean was calm enough we braved the surf back at the campground and swam for an hour in the morning, Layne and I, and the waters were crystal clear.
Rusty was over there somewhere pining for me. I can never get over how weird it is that he actually pines for me when I’m not there. I have witnesses.
The trick I knew from the satellite view was to pass the first coconut grove visible in the picture and walk to the second smaller clump where there appeared to be a white sandy path through the trees. It took me half an hour stumbling on the pebbles.
Sure enough I found a neat fenced coconut plantation.
And then the path. Off I went.
It all started to look Keys-familiar. A dried up salt pond.
More fencing behind the coconuts.
A hot flat sandy trail between buttonwoods and red mangroves.
“Lower Forest” I kept meeting these hard painted signs as trail markers.
A tire lined “ dock” in the mangroves. I guess there is a boat short cut here if you know how to ask for it. I wanted no guide, just to be dropped off…
…and left to my own devices.
This trail was the second half of the red line in the map above cutting across the island right at the base of the hill at the end. The hill actually has a lighthouse on top visible from our campground.
To cross the island took me another half hour of marching on sand. Still hot by the way.
Unlike Florida there are mountains and hills here and looking up I could see the dry season lack of greenery rising up above me to the blue sky.
There was a point on the trail and I smelled it coming and going where the air was filled suddenly with a strong unmistakeable smell of horse shit. Perhaps someone used a mule to carry coconuts or something and the cement well was rigged with a bucket on a rope and a second bucket as though to water an animal. The water in the well looked oily and unsavory but beggars can’t be choosers. Nor can working mules I guess.
Bilingual signage just like the National Park Service in the US.
Prickly pear. Food in a pinch.
Thick soft sand and the sound of swells crashing meant I was close to the beach.
And there it was. Miles of nothing but me. All mine!
Though I was clearly not the first to get here!
I was quite pleased with myself. I had no rod to chase fish I contented myself with writing a name in the sand. The name of a man who walked for eight years from Bradenton Florida, to New Mexico the first European to make the trek. You can Google Alvar Nuñez Cabeza de Vaca for his astonishing story.
Not really sure why I did that but the tide will wash it away.
It was noon. I sat in the little Ramada in the shade and drank half my water. I rarely carry water and my wife calls me a camel because I can go a long time without drinking but I tried to be conscientious this time.
It was a bit like landing on the moon. I got here; I looked around; now what?
I’d left my mark so it must be time to walk back.
Google translate says “falsetes” means falsettos. Somehow the phrase “close the falsettos” after you passed though them didn’t ring right even in my heat addled brain. I think it has something to do with gates of which there were as many as there were falsettos on the trail. I kept going, keeping an eye out for stray falsettos.
A lovely looking fungus.
And then I walked down the pebble beach back to the point and stood at thereafter edge as instructed and sure enough the panga came out to get me. I staggered back into town and stopped at the taxi stand stand. 50 pesos ($2:50) for a five minute ride home? A bargain. I collapsed in the car.
A quick ride home.
Where Layne ordered lunch for delivery. Six bucks for two plates of chile relleno, a pepper stuffed with cheese.
I was ready for a nap.
A successful day and Rusty was delighted to see his helicopter parent home safe and sound. He napped with his head on me.
