The National Marine Park of Loreto

October-November 1998

This is an article from WaveLength Magazine, available in print in North America and globally on the web.

by Steve Schmidt

 

Kayaks at rest on Punta Arena, Carmen Island, with Isla Danzante, Los Candeleros and Punta Candeleros in the background

We shook the dew that had settled during the early morning hours from our sleeping bags and threw them haphazardly into the back of the camper shell as the coming sun slowly brightened the southern California morning. We knew the warmth of the day would quickly dry the material making them suitable for use in the evening. After gulping down some breakfast bars and boxed juice, we headed for Mexicali, the Mexican border, and our long-awaited adventure. For two years we had read kayak books, bought kayak equipment, and one of us, Jack Carter, had even built a kayak in hopes of returning to Loreto, Mexico, to relive pleasant memories from the past. The National Marine Park Bay Of Loreto, consisting of Isla Coronados, Isla del Carmen, Isla Danzante, Isla Monserrat, and Isla Catalana is a paradise of marine life and scenery, and we were once again headed south to Mexico to absorb and digest its beauty, excitement, and grace.

Jack and I are residents of the high plateaus of northern New Mexico and recent inductees to the world of the kayak. Even though families and friends had challenged the sanity of a Baja sojourn with questions of sharks, scorpions, and other threatening prospects, our pending senior citizen status with its society-cultured inhibitions was not threatening or deterring us in the least. We were headed to experience the joys normally consumed by those adventure seekers two decades or more our juniors.

The border checks for papers and customs went quickly, and after negotiating the busy early morning streets of Mexicali, we found ourselves crossing Laguna Seca, part of Laguna Salada, the huge lake extending north from the upper end of the Sea of Cortez almost to Mexicali and the United States border. Normally fed by the Rio Colorado but dry in recent years, El Nino's late winter rains had left it partially flooded.

San Felipe and Puertecitos passed quickly and soon we were winding our way through the region long considered a bane to travellers, but a Mecca to off-roaders. The "Terrible Three," serving up some of Baja's steepest grades, and long considered the ultimate off-road challenge, have been tamed by grading in recent years. The dark shape of Volcan Prieto slipped by to the east without incident, separating us only momentarily from the azure sea. Progress was slower as the washboard road kept us crawling at a snail's pace. The vegetation slowly changed from that of southern California and northern Mexico to include the new offerings of the Baja peninsula. Giant cordon and organ pipe cacti, cirio or boojum, and a host of other species that inhabit the dry climate, began to dot the landscape. Passing by Bahia San Luis Gonzaga, we made our way to the transpeninsular highway and into Guerrero Negro to spend our first night in Baja.

Early the next morning saw us on the road again, easing in and out of El Nino's mist and rain as we made our way across the Baja peninsula through San Ignacio, past the peninsula's most recently active volcano, the Tres Virgenes, and finally dropping down into San Rosalia and brilliant sunshine - Baja at last. Anticipation of the coming days heightened as we absorbed the beauty of Bahia Concepcion, paused only briefly in Loreto for limes, avocados, and a few other supplies, and finally declared a driving victory in Puerto Escondido, our launch point for early the next morning. As we lay drifting off to sleep, a meteor streaked overhead, dimming slightly for an instant, then re-igniting as its firey trace was soon quenched in the western sky. Surely it was an omen that the coming days would treat us to similar splendours.

Next morning we packed and stuffed and finally all was tucked into the last nook and cranny of the kayaks. The Baja morning sun blanketed the Sierra de la Giganta that watched down over Puerto Escondido from the west as it slowly but firmly defined the day we had anticipated for months. We slipped through the outer harbour at Puerto Escondido, by Punta Coyote, and there we were: the bows of our kayaks pointed toward the north end of Isla Danzante and beyond that, Punta Arena on Isla del Carmen. The light north breeze sprayed the occasional whale spout that appeared on the horizon into a long frothy white trail as we slid slowly into our dreams of the past two years.

The boats touched bottom on Punta Arena and soon we were standing on the beach gazing back over our morning jaunt. Isla Danzante, seemingly perched on the surface of the water, dominated the foreground and beyond, the Sierra de la Giganta stood tall and stately against the sky. Punta Coyote had vanished somewhere in the maze of cliffs and arroyos. Above us, the rock monolith capping the south end of Isla del Carmen and anchoring the broad sandy expanses of Punta Baja to the island, graciously accepted our presence. A distant blue whale steadily sieved the water for krill, its periodic spout glistening like white steam in the sunlight and its flukes shaping a T in various degrees of rotation against the glossy surface of the sea each time it sounded. The radiant Baja sun saturated our entire world. We drew in every morsel of nature that we could absorb, as the realization of our dreams and efforts sunk slowly but firmly into our souls.

A tarpaulin provided shade for lunch, and an afternoon siesta brought our first encounter with the natives of Isla del Carmen. Hermit crabs are fascinated by brownies stored in an aluminum cake container. Slowly drifting off to sleep in the warm afternoon breeze, the crinkle, crinkle of several of the creatures attempting to dislodge the lid from the container awoke us. Surely evolution was in progress as they attempted to craft the necessary skills to defeat the container and rise to a higher order. Later that night we concluded that even this somewhat elementary species must possess some form of communication as a few parcels of food on the beach drew hermit crabs from great distances. At times the eye could take in as many as a hundred bound for this common destination, crossing sleeping pads, or whatever obstacles seemingly barred their paths. Upon arriving at the feeding cluster, each crab would make a full velocity approach in an attempt to dislodge those already in place. Sometimes the intruder would be sent reeling, sometimes it would wedge a small opening in the cluster, and sometimes it would just stack on top. The next morning's light revealed a beach scratched severely by their travels, although tracking their paths did not disclose where the multitudes spent the daylight hours.

Monday was to be a day of relaxation; paddle slowly up the west side of Isla del Carmen trolling a fishing line in an attempt to collect a meal. This was soon interrupted by whale spouts on the western horizon toward Isla Danzante. We paddled on, but soon realized that the spouts formed a procession that was marching toward us. Every few spouts were punctuated by a set of flukes thrusting up to the sky. Eventually the spouts and the flukes became impressively large, towering over our kayaks; time to bring in the fishing lines. We were close to the shallow cliffs that dress the west side of Isla del Carmen as the giant blue whale slid by, a few tens of yards from our boats. Spouting, gliding into and through the surface, reappearing again to repeat the routine, it passed by and then with flukes extending several stories above our heads, sounded into the deep, leaving only a swirling vortex on the surface. It happened again and again as the world's largest mammal, a most regal monarch, receded slowly out of sight to the north. We were too awestruck to continue in pursuit.

Steve giving a leopard grouper transport to the dinner table

We again played out our fishing lines and paddled south. None of the residents hidden in the colorful rocks strewn beneath the surface along the south shore of Isla del Carmen seemed interested in our offerings. The approaching pod of dolphins ended fishing for the day as we slowly paddled back to Punta Arena. Frolicking and tail slapping, they churned the surface of the sea in front of us as we approached. When it seemed they would embroil us in their antics, they suddenly submerged in unison and rocketed beneath us as dark swift torpedoes. We beached our boats on Punta Arena, and somewhat mesmerized by the day's abundance, executed the evening's perfunctory tasks. Planted in our camp chairs supported by boulders, we reflected on the day as the Baja sun settled serenely below the Sierra de la Giganta with its ragged peaks casting dancing shadows against the fading pastel screen. Surely everything was right in the world.

The days melted together as we drifted through the week; one day we paddled in the white capped waves created by a sudden squall from the north, the bows of our boats piercing the frothy crests while rising to meet the sky and then collapsing into the following troughs with the spray covering our hats, faces, and spray skirts, and making us feel good. Another brought a visit to the camp from another native of Punta Arena. A chuckwalla, unabashed by our presence, visited the camp presumably in search of fresh moisture, as we could hardly believe that any of our staples would peak its dietary interest. And yet another day brought a leopard grouper lured out from its hiding place on a rocky point to grace our beach table as Grouper a la Veracruz. We felt it was a sporting conquest as we had used only a spoon tied to some nylon line wrapped around an empty Coke bottle to capture our prey.

The sky was blue, contrasted against the white or red cliffs of the islands, and the boats left little evidence of our passage as their wakes were soon consumed by the surrounding water. Spouts from sei and blue whales continually erupted from the surface of the sea. Dolphin pods, sometimes with their members leaping high in the air as though they were auditioning for Sea World, appeared unannounced and then vanished as quickly, frequently beneath the kayaks as flitting silhouettes. Flights of brown pelicans, sleek black low-flying cormorants, soaring frigate birds duelling pelicans to steal their catch, herons stalking their quarry, and brightly colored songbirds all played their roles perfectly as though orchestrated by a master conductor. Groups of kayaks, refugee visitors from the cold gray climates of the north, crossed our path. The warm Baja sun and beauty always brought an instant bonding, and then just as promptly, an instant separation as we each resumed our own special journeys.

Great care was exercised in releasing a trigger fish and carrying it in the bottom of the kayak. Its powerful bony jaws, capable of mangling lures and hooks can also easily maim body parts. The reward however far overshadowed the risk as the ceviche left our mouths watering. It continued to be a day of caution as a barracuda with its long rows of razor sharp teeth was quickly liberated using a very long handled pair of pliers. Trapped in the seat of the kayak with this vicious hunter flopping at the end of my line, I felt particularly intimidated and vulnerable. On the beach the hazards continued as the feather light tip of a "jumping cholla" snared the end of one of my fingers.. The tubercle with many of its spines embedded around the fingernail hurt, however once it was removed by clamping it between two seashells and pulling, the sting faded. I felt fortunate I had not been more severely penalized for my carelessness.

Isla Coronados always dotted the horizon far to the north and Islas Monseffat, and Catalana, aided slightly by Los Candeleros off the southern tip of Isla Danzante, defined the view to the south. Occasionally seals or sea lions would surface near the boats, hunting their daily rations and then disappear. At night the sea was speckled a neon green from bioluminescence, revealing ever more definitively the richness of the Sea of Cortez. The kayaks and paddles left green vapor trails as evidence of their. passage. The rocky shoals provided homes for starfish, urchins, Sally Lightfoot crabs, and a host of other creatures. The wealth of the sea, so vividly described by Steinbeck's The Log from the Sea of Cortez always dominated our senses.

A Mexican hogfish, characterized by long silky purple streamers trailing from its fins, was our cuisine for the last night. Catching fish seemed to be a more natural act than using freeze dried preparations as first gulls and then vultures and ravens feasted on the carcass that remained. The company at our beach table was always most welcome. Again we watched the sun flooded western sky dim slowly before the rising moon drenched the landscape, changing all the daytime colors to various shades of silver gray, and displacing Orion from its ordained space after only a brief twilight appearance. We did not want to leave, and each of us pondered silently when we would return.

The last morning the sea was flat and serene. We paddled slowly, dragging out each minute as long as was reasonably possible without delaying the scheduled departure for home. The tips of a manta ray's broad wings twiddled the surface as it carried out a ritual unknown to us. Sensing our approach, it relaxed, and then stealthily slid into the deep. A long slender shape with a small horn-shaped mouth, probably a coronet fish, passed over the rocks beneath the boats as we were reluctantly dragged into Puerto Escondido. The activity on the dock broke our trance of several days. Soon the kayaks were secured to the top of the camper shell and the Nissan was grinding north. Each mile we relived the anticipation experienced on the southbound journey, and we each privately knew that someday, quite soon, we would return again to the magic of this special part of the Baja peninsula.

Dr. Stephen Schmidt lives in New Mexico